on the violin. Show the master that there is some cause for alarm, so
that he may not treat the matter as a trifle. I tell you, a stab from a
dagger could not be worse than one from the sharp point of an oboe."
At the name of Christlieb, Kummas had become attentive to what was said.
A ray of hope gleamed upon him, and he raised his head, awaiting, most
anxiously, the appearance of the speakers, who, in a moment or two
afterwards, reached the place where he was standing. He addressed them
in a voice struggling with emotion. "Kind sirs," he began, "for the
love of heaven, tell me where my son Christlieb Fundus is, and what is
the matter with him? Has he really run away? or is he sick?"
A glance at the old man was sufficient to determine Rupel to speak the
truth.
"If Christlieb is your child, then I will not disguise from you that he
has received an injury, and is lying very ill in his bed. Your arrival,
though not at the happiest time, is nevertheless fortunate."
"One word more," said Kummas, as Rupel and the doctor were hurrying
past;--"is my son really so wicked as the master affirms?"
"The Master!" repeated Rupel, surprised, for he supposed that the two
travellers were only on their way up.--"Your son has been always good
and well-behaved, and in a single day he could not become the very
reverse."
Kummas became less sad; as he would far rather his child were sick in
body, than perverse in mind. Malchen and he soon reached again the top
of the stairs, and were not long in seeing their favourite, whom they
found already under the hands of the doctor, and in a most dangerous
state. At this moment, neither of them thought of the mole on the left
temple, nor of the fine clothes which were strewn about the room. Kummas
and Malchen attended to all the wants of poor Balduin, who, unable to
speak, could neither thank them nor unravel the mystery. He now passed
through a severe school, which, however, became the means of his radical
cure. For three long days he was unable to swallow anything, in
consequence of his swollen throat. Afterwards, his medicine and a little
tea had to be taken in drops. He was helpless as a child, and had it
not been for his youthful strength, the care of the doctor, and the
unremitting watchfulness of the old man and Malchen, he could not have
recovered. He no longer refused their assistance, but gladly took from
the hand of Malchen any cooling draught she offered. Their constant
presence lessened the tediousness of the slow creeping hours. How could
he have remained insensible to so much love,--to the self-denial
exercised for his sake by two persons wholly unconnected with him! When
Balduin's sleepless eye, sometimes, during the night, fell on the old
man, who, overcome by sleep, was resting on his hard bed of straw, with
a thin cover over him,--when he heard the loud regular stroke of the
pendulum above his head, sounding as it seemed a death-knell, and saw by
the glimmering light of the feeble lamp the black walls of the
tower,--then came the elegant dwelling of his father, with all its
luxuries, before the eye of his mind. He thought of his gentle mother,
who had only been too indulgent to him, and whose heart, as well as that
of his affectionate father, he had made sad by his ingratitude. He
remembered the treachery and desertion of his three companions; and,
overcome by a deep sense of his former thoughtlessness and guilt, he
resolved from henceforth, to endeavour to be quite a different
character. Remorse had touched his heart, his eyes were opened, and he
prayed to God for forgiveness,--to that God who had long, by gentle and
gracious means, sought to lead him into paths of virtue, but who now had
seen it needful to teach him by affliction and adversity. Balduin,
subdued and humbled, now enjoyed the peace which is above all price; and
his bodily health amended with that of his mind.
*CHAPTER XIV.*
*THE REUNION.*
We often seek at a distance what is to be found quite at hand; and so it
happened with Balduin's father, the director of police, Mr. von Winsing,
who was searching for his runaway son in remote districts, while the
youth was only some miles distant from the capital. A newspaper, which
accidentally fell into his hands, made him hastily change his route.
This was the notice (already mentioned as being inserted in the public
papers) of the detention in prison of the two vagrants, dame Hicup and
the woman with the show-box, with an account of the circumstances
connected with their seizure. Only a matter of deep interest could have
induced the sorrowful father to give up for a time the search of his
son, as it was possible he might from what he had read obtain possession
of the other child so long lost to him. When he arrived at the small
town of Brixen, where the two women were imprisoned, he immediately went
to the magistrate and made the following deposition:--
"My dear wife, in the second year of our marriage, presented me with two
boys, fine healthy twins, and as like each other as two drops of water.
Except by a very small mole on the left cheek of our youngest born, it
was almost impossible to distinguish the one from the other. To our
great joy they grew in health and strength until they were nine months
old, when they were stolen from us in a manner as bold as it was
shameless. The grown-up son of the nurse who had charge of the infants
was a worthless fellow, and, in consequence of a serious crime he had
committed, I was obliged by the duties of my office to have him
arrested, and given over for punishment. His mother foolishly imagined
that the fate of her son rested with me, and wept and entreated me to
set him at liberty. As she failed in obtaining her desire by these
means, she meditated a plan which might, as she thought, enable her to
attain her object. The letter which she left behind stated that the
only way of again receiving the children was to free her son, and to
hold her as innocent. These were the only conditions on compliance with
which our infants would be restored to us. In addition, the most
fearful threats were used if we dared to send persons to find out her
place of hiding, or if employed any means whatever for that purpose. We
knew too well the unbending character of the woman; and as I had no
power to turn aside the course of justice, we feared for the lives of
our children. After mature reflection, I resolved to set out myself in
search of the woman, and to be very wary and cautious in my proceedings,
hoping that if I found her I might get my children by gentle means, or
if not, by force. Giving myself no rest either by night or day, it was
no wonder if one night I fell asleep in my carriage. But who can
describe my astonishment when, at my awaking at daybreak, I saw by the
grey light of morning, lying on the empty seat opposite, the youngest of
my sons, distinguished by the mole on his left cheek. How he had come
there, by whom brought, neither I nor the postilion could tell. So far
my search had been fruitless; and it was now necessary, in consequence
of this singular circumstance, to return home to my despairing wife.
Fifteen long years passed away without our being able to obtain the
slightest clue as to what had become of the other child. Permit me
then, sir, to have an interview with both prisoners, that I may gain
certain information of the life or death of my son. Indeed, I could
almost wish to hear of the latter; for if our Balduin, brought up with
such care, has caused us so much sorrow, how much worse may not our
eldest born have become, falling--as in all probability he would
do--into worthless hands."
"I am happy, my dear sir," replied the magistrate, "to have it in my
power to allay your apprehensions on that point. You would see from the
newspapers that the unfeeling dame Hicup, when she had put the one into
the post carriage, placed the other in a manger, from which it was taken
out by a poor fiddler, called Kummas, who adopted it. From inquiries we
directed to be made in the village where the old man lived, the village
of Gelenau, it was ascertained, both from the pastor and the
schoolmaster, that your son had become a clever and an excellent youth,
and that at present he was in the town of Waldau studying music with the
master of the band in that place. It is likewise said that his
foster-father, old Kummas, lately left the village, in order to go and
live in the neighbourhood of his foster-son, to whom he is very much
attached."
The two gentlemen now proceeded to visit the prisoners,--going, in the
first instance, to examine the nurse who had stolen them. The moment
this woman saw her former master enter the cell she became pale, and
turned away her head. As the time for deception, however, was now past,
with many tears she confessed what she had done.
"Hannah," said her master with much emotion, "how happy you might have
been in your old age had you remained faithful to your trust; for we
never would have seen the nurse of our children want for anything. But
tell me, how did your son reward you after he came from the house of
correction for the deed you had done for his sake?"
A painful expression passed over the face of the woman at this question;
and she answered, in a tone of bitterness, "For my love he misused me,
and deserted me."
"That is always the reward of the wicked," said the police director,
"may it be your only punishment. But why did you leave the children
with a stranger, rather than return them to their parents?"
"Hatred and dread of punishment," replied Hannah. "When I had wandered
with them on my back for five days in woods and solitary places, I was
unable to carry them any farther, so I determined to free myself of them
in a proper way. Besides, I thought that if I were caught and put in
prison, I might be the better able to make conditions by refusing to
tell the place where I had left them, unless leniently dealt with."
Dame Hicup, into whose cell they next went, complained bitterly of the
hardship of having been so long imprisoned, as she conceived that
instead of being punished in this fashion, she deserved a recompense, as
she had managed so well with the twins, and had been the means of
discovering the real thief. The director of police promised to get her
and her blind husband admission into a charitable institution, where
they might lead a comfortable life, with the exception of
brandy-drinking, as of that liquid they would find none. Mr. von
Winsing had now nothing to do but hasten to Waldau, there to seek his
son at the house of the _stadt-musikus_.
Reinhold, the son whom he expected to find there, was still in the
capital with his mother, and perfectly restored to health. The Lady von
Winsing had written to her husband relating the joyful tidings of having
found her eldest-born: but, in consequence of the director's change of
plan, the letter had not reached him. When Madame von Winsing, by a
letter from Brixen, learnt what had happened, and where her husband had
gone to, she resolved to give him a surprise by meeting him, along with
Reinhold, at Waldau; and therefore made preparations for doing so. The
chief thing to be done was to purchase a pair of kettle-drums, without
which Christlieb declared he dared not face his former master.
Almost at the same hour when Mr. Winsing left Brixen for Waldau, his
lady and Christlieb started from the capital for the same town.
Balduin, in the meanwhile, was so far recovered as to be able to walk on
to the gallery to breathe the pleasant air of spring.
The _stadt-musikus_, whose selfishness returned as his fears departed,
had this morning plainly told Kummas and Malchen that their presence was
no longer necessary, and that they must now look out for some other
lodging. He was, however, not a little surprised when Balduin told him
that he was not Christlieb, but the son of the police director at the
capital. Kummas and Malchen were not so much amazed, for they of late
had begun to have their doubts, when they remembered the mole on the
left cheek and the fine clothes. They did not regret what they had done
from love to the apparent Christlieb; but they were oppressed with
anxiety as to what had become of the real one. Without any hint from
the town-musician, they had resolved to depart whenever they were
assured that Balduin was not their Christlieb; and they immediately
prepared for their departure to seek for their dear lost one. In vain
Balduin entreated them first to go with him to see his parents, as soon
as the doctor thought him fit for the journey; nothing would keep them,
no reward induce them to delay. As Malchen was tying up their few poor
clothes, she whispered to Kummas, "Although Balduin certainly at first
treated us very ill, yet I cannot help liking him, in spite too of his
killing the poor starling; for he is so like Christlieb, and I think is
far more reasonable than he was."
"You may be right as to the last part of your speech," replied the old
man; "but not in the first. Master Balduin, with his pale face and sunk
eyes, is only like the moon; but my Christlieb, with his rosy cheeks, is
like the fiery sun; and even were that not the case, my Christlieb can
play on the violin, while this Balduin can only whine."
The door bell rang, and Balduin's father stepped in when the servant
opened. He seemed panting for breath; wiped the perspiration from his
forehead, and then said, "Where is the town-musician? Are the pupils
within?"
The maid-servant directed him to the small gallery where Dilling was
walking, as well as Balduin. In spite of the paleness and thinness of
Balduin (the effect of his illness), the police director instantly
recognised his son. But, in order not to alarm him, he remained for a
few moments looking at him. When, however, Balduin accidentally turned
fully round his face, Mr. Winsing could resist no longer, and, rushing
up to him with open arms, he exclaimed, "Yes; there can be no doubt! you
are my son Reinhold! behold in me your father, dear child, and embrace
me!"
Balduin had sunk on his knees before his deeply affected parent, and
said, "Father, forgive me! I have erred and done wrong; but I have been
grievously punished for my folly."
Here the _stadt-musikus_ looked rather embarrassed and fidgetty, while
the police director cried out in astonishment, "Are you not"----
"I am Balduin, your unworthy son, and not the gentle Christlieb, or
Reinhold, who attracts all hearts," said the repentant youth.
"But where, then, is the real Christlieb?" asked the gentleman, turning
to Mr. Dilling. "Was he not a pupil of yours, and his foster-father a
poor village musician?"
"Where he is I know not," replied the _stadt-musikus_. "Since the
breaking up of the ice he has disappeared, along with my kettle-drums."
"How dreadful!" exclaimed Mr. von Winsing. "Just at the moment when,
after a fifteen years' separation, I had hoped to embrace my child, to
hear that I may have lost him for ever."
At this moment the servant came and announced that a stranger wished to
see Mr. Dilling, who, glad to make his escape, hastened away. Balduin
meanwhile related to his father everything that had happened to him, and
all he had suffered.
The town-musician was most agreeably surprised when a man laden with two
superb kettle-drums, stood before him. "Master Christlieb Fundus sends
his respects," stammered out the man, "and sends you back your drums.
Not the old drums, to be sure, for they were lost in the river; but
speck and span new ones.--Master Christlieb begs you will excuse their
not having been sent sooner; but he has been long very ill." With these
words, the messenger put down the shining drums, with their snow-white
leather tops and elegant sticks, which the town musician most joyfully
received. His delight was augmented when the door again opened, and
Christlieb himself, followed by his mother, walked into the house, and
rushed into the arms of old Kummas, whom he encountered ready for his
departure.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed the old man, shedding tears of joy, while he pressed
his foster-son to his heart; "this is the real Christlieb! Rejoice with
me, for I have again found my Fundus!"
"Mother! dearest mother!" sobbed Christlieb, "this is my good
foster-father, who took me out of the manger, and carried me in the
violincello to his home."
The high-bred, beautiful lady most heartily embraced the honest
countryman, while Christlieb went on to say,--"Father Kummas, this is my
mother, the kindest-hearted person in all the world; and there is
Malchen," he continued, still more pleased, drawing the bashful girl
forward; "Malchen, the faithful friend, who brought me the cake when I
was in the dungeon, and who took care of my starling!"
"And here is your excellent father," said Madame von Winsing, hastening
towards her husband, who had just entered the room. "Oh! my dear
husband, what a son have we found in Reinhold!"
His father embraced the latter in a tumult of joy. "Seeing, however,
poor Balduin weeping in a corner, who did not presume to mingle with the
happy circle, Mr. von Winsing turned towards him and took him by the
hand to lead him to his mother.
"Dear wife," said the director, "this tower is an enchanted place! It
makes the sorrowful glad and the wicked good. Our Balduin has lately
had some lessons here, which have quite changed him. He is now worthy
of your affection."
Mr. Dilling had been all this time in a fever of anxiety to try his new
drums, and now he could resist no longer. Without being asked, he
began, by a splendid flourish on them, to play the sublime melody of--
"Now let us all thank God!"
And to this every one present responded with profound feelings of
gratitude.
THE END.
*THE WOOD-GATHERER*
One summer evening, a girl, barefoot and clad in a ragged frock, might
have been seen in a deep wood, gathering fuel. She was scarcely ten
years old, yet for a long time had been sent out by her parents, day
after day, to seek, as now, dry sticks, or, if it was spring-time,
rampions and wild hops, or, if it were summer, strawberries and
hillberries, and to offer these for sale from house to house.
When she had nothing to sell, she had to go about begging. Without
bringing something she dared not return home, if she wished to escape a
scolding, or even being beaten; for her parents were poor, and her
father a moody and passionate man.
It had not always been so; but since unproductive times and repeated
recurrence of sickness in his family had prevented him from advancing,
as he had hoped, in his trade--he was a shoemaker--he had, under a
godless dejection, given himself up to drinking, thereby scaring away
his last customers, and completing his domestic misery.
The mother, a capital wife, as one would say, but as little acquainted
with God and His Word as her husband, was thenceforth compelled to bear
singly the burden of supporting her family, and was accustomed to go out
and earn money by washing. For more than a year the sorely-smitten
family had been deprived even of this scanty means of subsistence, the
poor woman's uninterrupted exertions by day and by night having brought
on a severe illness, and laid her paralytic--lame, hand and foot--in
bed, surrounded by her raging husband, and the three half-naked and
starving children.
The eldest of the children was Mary, our wood-gatherer.
The little girl, as she is to be met to-day deep in the wood, has
collected a pretty large bundle of dry branches, but is weary from her
long wandering about the bushes, and lays herself down to rest on the
moss-grown roots of a tall, shady beech-tree.
And while she sits, it is as if the birds in the wood all found an
inward compassion with the poor child, and would, as far as lay in their
power, encourage, comfort, and cheer her.
Our little Mary thought within herself that she had never heard the
feathered songsters sing so sweetly as they were now doing in choirs on
the green twigs around her.
And it was indeed delightful to listen how the finch warbled here in
short, fresh lay, and the titmouse and sisken there sounded their tender
notes; and how, from the copse threaded by the brook, arose the
long-breathed farewell song of the nightingale; and, from the far
distance, the full melancholy trill of the blackbird floated touchingly
over.
The cuckoo, also, and the turtle-dove, gave their contribution to the
general concert; the ravens, also, in the neighbouring oak, to whom the
song is denied, appeared desirous of contributing their share to the
entertainment of the little maid, and fed their young before her eyes,
and the young ones stretched their necks out of the high nest, and
opened wide their bills. The squirrels frisked about, now here, now
there, and leaped from tree to tree; and many of the birds came close to
Mary's feet, and picked up worms, or a feather, or flock of moss, and
flew away with it to their nests.
Mary looked a long time at this joyous life almost with adoration; and,
in the still, lofty wood, her heart had a strange feeling, as if she
could, at the same time, laugh and weep. She had also her own thoughts,
glad and sorrowful, but more of the latter, and yet she did not herself
very well know what she really thought. At last she bent her head on her
breast, and the evening zephyrs sighed her asleep.
During the slumber she had a wonderful dream.
She dreamed that she was again in a deep lonely wood, and as she looked
up, see! there walked through the shades of the trees, clothed in a
shining white garment, a majestic form with a friendly countenance.
All the birds immediately gathered round the mysterious man, and hovered
about him with wonderful songs, the like of which she had never heard.
And from his full hands he strewed food of all kinds for the cheerful
singers, and the birds picked it up, and carried it to their nests, and
flew back singing still more heartily and beautifully than before.
And Mary heard the name of the gracious man distinctly repeated in every
chorus, and it seemed as if she had never heard so sweet and dear a
name. And Mary thought--"Oh, thou kind man, were I but one of these kind
birds of thine, and wert thou but to step once into our cottage as thou
enterest here!"
And as she thus thought, she was just on the point of rising to hasten
after him, and seize the hem of his garment, and say, "Not so, you come
to us also;" but then she awoke, and, alas! what she had heard and seen
was but a dream. She found herself alone in the dark wood, for the sun
had long ago gone down. By her side lay the bundle of sticks--nothing
more. Deep silence reigned around her, only broken by the rustling of
the evening wind among the leaves of the trees, and now and then the
solitary doleful sounds which were winged across from the distant
nightingales, and now and then a beetle humming in the air, or a
glow-worm shining amongst the shrubs.
Sorrowfully Mary rose up from her mossy seat, put her faggot on her
shoulders, and took the way home.
But the sensations kindled by the pleasant dream lived on in her heart,
and the image of the friendly man had impressed itself indelibly on her
mind.
If she could but recall his name! In her dream it was repeatedly and
distinctly pronounced in the songs of the birds, but at the moment of
awaking it had escaped, and, cast about as she might, it was not again
to be found.
This is not to be wondered at. All over Christendom there are still
houses like those of the heathens, where the name in which all salvation
is contained is unknown, or, if known, unpronounced.
Such a house that of the parents of this poor child unfortunately was.
Mary had never yet been in school. Father and mother, when admonished
of their duty, had always pretended that the child was too unwell to be
at the time sent to school; and the frequency with which their residence
in town had been changed, rendered it difficult for the authorities to
take proper oversight of the children.
Mary was now in her own street, walking silently on, trying and trying
whether the dear name which she had dreamed would not come back again.
With a friendly "Good evening, my child," a man in a black dress and
white bands placed himself beside her. He had just been dispensing
comfort at a dying bed.