SUSPENSE.
The sultry heat of summer was extremely oppressive in the plain
surrounding the quiet village of Blechow; the sky looked dark and
heavy, not that it was covered with clouds, but it was grey from the
heavy atmosphere, and although the sun was still high above the
horizon, his rays were of a dark blood-red colour. Deep stillness
prevailed. Almost all the young men had left the village; as soon as
the news came that the troops were concentrated at Goettingen they had
set out to join the army there, or to overtake it on its march. But the
stillness was the most complete in the old castle, where the president,
with gloomy wrinkles on his brow, paced up and down the great hall, and
gazed from time to time across the garden at the broad plain beyond. He
had obeyed the king's command, that all magistrates should remain at
their posts; he had, through the Landrostei, received a decree from the
ministry whereby the government of the country was delivered to the
Prussian Civil Commissioner, Herr von Hardenburg, and he had given up
all business to the Auditor von Bergfeld, saying, "Your knowledge is
quite sufficient to enable you to understand and execute all the orders
which may be issued by the government; do everything, and when you want
my signature bring me the papers. I will remain at my post, and will
sign them, since the king has so commanded; but do not consult me, for
I will hear nothing of all this misery, and my old heart, which is sad
enough already, shall not be pricked to death with pins. But if there
is any oppression which I could by any possibility avert, then tell me
the whole matter, and the Prussian Civil Commissioner shall hear old
Wendenstein's voice as plainly as the Hanoverian board have ever heard
it!" With that he left the office; he signed his name when needful, and
he seldom opened his lips after the foreign occupation was completed.
Madame von Wendenstein went silently and quietly about the house,--she
looked after the house keeping, and arranged everything as punctually
as ever,--but sometimes the old lady would pause suddenly, her dreamy
eyes fixed on the far-off distance, as if they sought to follow her
thoughts beyond the wood-encircled horizon,--then she would hastily
resume her occupation, and hurry restlessly through the well-known
rooms, and the more she ordered and arranged the more she seemed to
become mistress of her heavy trouble.
It was very quiet too in the Pfarrhaus. No one had left it, all went on
as usual, but the general depression seemed to weigh down the humble
roof, and even the roses in the garden hung their heads exhausted by
the burning heat of the sun.
The pastor had gone out, as was his custom, to visit some of his
people, for he did not consider the Sunday services his only duty, but
thought that he who would really be a shepherd and bishop of souls must
carry the word of God in friendly converse into the daily life of his
flock and know its joys and sorrows.
Helena sat at the window, and mechanically plied her needle, but her
eyes were often thoughtfully turned to the far distance, and her hands
sank wearily into her lap.
Candidate Behrmann sat opposite to her; he was as neatly dressed and as
smoothly brushed as ever, and his expressionless and composed
countenance looked happier and more cheerful than usual.
His sharp observing eyes followed the looks the young girl fixed on the
distant horizon, and that the languishing conversation might not
entirely fail, he said,--
"It is strange what a sultry oppression hangs over all nature; we feel
the actual weight of this thick heavy atmosphere."
"Our poor soldiers---what they must suffer from marching in this heat!"
cried Helena, sighing.
"In those days I feel how doubly happy I am," said the candidate, "when
I think of my peaceful and spiritual calling, and contrast it with the
useless and really reprehensible employment of the soldiers, and all
they must now undergo."
"Useless and reprehensible!" cried Helena, gazing at him with her great
eyes; "do you call it useless to fight for your king and your country?"
"Not according to the views of the world," he said sanctimoniously;
"all these people are doing their duty according to their lights; but
the king himself is reprehensible, and the sacrifices they make for him
are useless, for what will they gain? Oh! it is a nobler fight, and
more pleasing to God, to struggle with spiritual weapons against sin
and unbelief, and to benefit mankind--as your father does, Helena," he
added, "and as I hope to emulate him in doing."
"Certainly it is a nobler calling, beautiful and holy, but a soldier
also serves God when he fights on the side of right," said the young
girl warmly.
"Which side is right?" asked the candidate; "both sides call on the God
of battles, and very often what is evidently the wrong side conquers."
"For a soldier," cried Helena, "that side is the right which his duty
and the oath plighted to his sovereign calls upon him to defend."
"Certainly, certainly," said the candidate, as if agreeing with her;
"but women should feel greater interest in peaceful and beneficial
usefulness,--what help, for instance, can a soldier be to his wife and
children? at any moment he may be called away to do battle for the
great ones of the earth,--he gives his life for a cause for which he
does not care, and his family are left in need and misery."
"And they bear in their hearts the proud consciousness that he for whom
they weep is worthy to be called a hero," cried Helena with kindling
eyes.
The candidate gave his cousin a reproving look, and said, in a solemn
voice,--
"I believe the conflict in God's service has also its heroes."
"Certainly," said Helena, without embarrassment; "every calling has its
own round of duty to fulfil, and we," she added with a smile, "are here
to comfort and to help those who are wounded in the battle of life."
And again she dreamily turned her eyes to the distance. After a moment
she rose hastily.
"I think," she said, "the heat will be less oppressive out of doors. I
will walk to meet my father; he must now be returning." As she put on
her straw hat she asked, "Will you come with me, cousin?"
"With the greatest pleasure," he replied eagerly; and they left the
parsonage together, taking the road which led to the village.
"I have so greatly enjoyed my life here," said the candidate, after
they had walked for a short time in silence, "that I already quite
understand the charm of this quiet, peaceful seclusion, and I own
myself ready to forego all larger circles of society."
"You see," said Helena merrily, "a short time ago you shuddered at our
solitude, as I did at the restless, crowded city. At a time like this,"
she added, with a sigh, "it is hard to be so completely cut off from
the world; we literally hear nothing--what has happened to the army and
the king?" she said with energy. "Our poor sovereign!"
The candidate was silent.
"Really," he said, after a short pause, continuing his own flow of
thought, as if he had not heard his cousin's last words, "really one.
cannot feel solitary here. Your father's conversation, so simple, yet
so rich in thoughts, offers greater variety than many an assembly in
the great world; and your society, dear Helena," he added warmly.
She looked at him with astonishment. "My society," she interrupted,
with a smile, "cannot compensate for your friends in town; my
learning----"
"Your learning!" he exclaimed hastily; "is it learning that charms us
in a woman?"
"A certain amount must be needful," said she, half jokingly, "when
conversing with a learned man."
"Not for me," he cried. "Natural simplicity of heart and intellect has
a charm for me. A man wishes to form, to educate his wife, not to find
her opinions already fixed," he cried, his voice assuming a sudden
tenderness of expression.
Her eyes were raised to his for a moment, and then lowered. They walked
on for a time in silence.
"Helena," he said, "it is true that the idea of quiet, simple
usefulness in the country attracts me more and more; and it is also
true that your society has greatly influenced me."
She walked on in silence.
"When a man relinquishes the intellectual pleasures of the great
world," he added, "he naturally seeks some equivalent; and this
equivalent I find in my family, my home. I shall remain here to assist
your father in his spiritual office. I shall experience double
happiness in my labours, if my own heart finds a lovely flower to
reward my unassuming industry. Helena," he continued, with animation,
"shall you find no satisfaction in uniting with me to support and cheer
the evening of your father's life, and in assisting me in my holy
calling? Will you not stand at my side as a help-mate, such as your
mother was to your father?"
The young girl walked on, her eyes fixed on the ground. A deep sigh
heaved her breast.
"Cousin----"
"It does not become me, a servant of the Church," he interrupted, "to
speak to you in the manner and the tone in which a man of the world
might declare his love; pure and bright must be the flame which holds a
place in the heart of a minister. But such a flame my heart offers you,
Helena; and I ask you, plainly and candidly, will you accept what my
heart can give, and do you believe you can thus find the quiet
happiness of your life?"
She stood still, and looked at him calmly and honestly.
"Your words surprise me, cousin. I did not expect to hear this, and so
suddenly----"
"The relations between us must be made clear," he said. "For this
reason I have told you the feelings of my heart. A minister cannot woo
as a man of the world; you cannot be surprised at that, being yourself
the daughter of a minister."
"But consider," she said hesitatingly, "we scarcely know each other."
"Have you no confidence in me?" he asked. "Could you not accept me as
your support through life?"
She looked on the ground. A deep blush spread over her face.
"But one must also----"
"Well, what?" he asked, and with piercing glance he gazed at her
anxiously.
"Love," she whispered.
"And that you believe you could not feel for me?" he enquired.
Again she looked up at him. Again she sighed deeply, and her eyes were
for a moment turned dreamily to the distance. Then a slight, half
roguish smile came to her lips, and she whispered,--
"One cannot tell beforehand!"
"Beforehand?" he said, and a darker expression passed over his face.
"Cousin," she said, with sweetness and candour, as she held out her
hand to him, "your words mean well, and it is flattering to me that you
should think I can be anything to your life. Let me then tell you
honestly, I think you are mistaken. Perhaps," she added kindly, "it is
not needful to pursue this conversation, that has so surprised me, just
now. Give me time. I promise to think of what you have said; and when
we know each other better, I will tell you."
He looked down gloomily.
"Oh," he said bitterly, "your heart answers already; it does not
respond to the simple language of my feelings. I truly do not know how
to raise excitement and restless emotion. The servant of the Church
cannot hope to cause the fiery passion that a--young officer----"
She stood still. Her face was very pale, and her eyes were fixed upon
him with a proud look.
He stopped suddenly, as if displeased with himself, and his excited
features resumed their usual smooth and calm expression.
"Cousin," she said coldly, "I must beg you not to continue this
conversation now. Examine your own feelings, and give me time. My
father----"
"Your father's wishes are my own," he said.
She bent her head, and a melancholy look passed over her face.
"My father," she then said, "cannot wish me to make any promise without
examining my own heart."
"And you will tell me your decision, when you have made this
examination?"
"Yes," said she. "Now leave me, I beg."
A deep breath passed through his thin lips; he cast his eyes to the
ground, and walked by her silently and gravely.
"Here comes my father," cried Helena, and hastened to meet the pastor,
who was returning by a side road leading to some of the scattered
cottages of the village.
The candidate followed in silence.
"This is well," said the old gentlemen, "my children, that you come
together to meet me; it is better in these troubled times not to be
alone. Throughout the village there is sorrow and anxiety about the
absent, the more so that a rumour is flying through the country of a
most exciting nature."
"What is the rumour, papa?" cried Helena; "nothing disastrous?"
"Glorious, yet disastrous," said the pastor; "there has been a great
battle, so it is said from village to village, from house to house. Our
army has won a great victory; but much, much blood has been shed."
"Oh, how horrible!" cried Helena, with great emotion, as she folded her
hands. The candidate's quick eyes regarded her with curiosity; but she
did not remark it, her looks were fixed on space.
"People scarcely know which they feel," continued the pastor quietly,
"joy at the victory, or anxiety lost sons and brothers should have
fallen."
"How happy are those," said the candidate, "who have no relative in the
army; then there is no anxiety, no care."
"You have not, like myself, lived here for years," replied the pastor
gravely. "Every member of my flock is as dear to me as if he were my
relation. I feel each grief that affects them as if I myself were
smitten."
Helena involuntarily caught her father's hand with a hasty movement,
and pressed it to her lips. The old gentleman felt a tear upon his
hand. With a gentle smile, he said,--
"You too, my good child, feel for the sorrows of our friends. I know it
must be so; you have grown up amongst them."
Helena covered her face for a moment with her handkerchief and sobbed.
The candidate flashed an evil, malicious side glance upon her, whilst a
cold, scornful smile played around his lips.
"I am going to the president," said the pastor; "there they must have
the earliest reliable news, and they will be most anxious about the
lieutenant. Poor Madame von Wendenstein! Come with me to the castle,
children."
And they took the road to the hill upon which the old house stood
amidst high dark woods.
Helena took her father's arm, and involuntarily hastened her steps.
They climbed the hill and entered the hall by the open door. The great
oak chests stood there as still and solemn as ever, and the old
paintings looked down from their frames as gravely and quietly as if
there were no changes, no cares nor sorrows in the world of living men.
In the large garden drawing-room Herr von Wendenstein paced up and down
with measured step, Madame von Wendenstein sat in her accustomed place
before the large round table, and her daughters were beside her; all
was as usual, yet a heavy cloud of care weighed on each brow, on each
heart.
The president held out his hand to the pastor in silence, silently
Madame von Wendenstein greeted her visitors, and the young girls
embraced without speaking a word.
"A rumour is abroad of a great battle, and of a great victory," said
the pastor; "I hoped here to learn something reliable."
"I have had no news," said the president gloomily. "I only know what
has been brought from mouth to mouth; some part will be true; let us
hope the news of the victory may be confirmed."
He said nothing of the care and anxiety of his heart for the son who
was on the distant battle-field, but an affectionate and sympathizing
look flew from beneath his contracted brows towards his wife.
"What a wonderful thing the world is!" she said in a low tone, as she
shook her head. "In peaceful times, steam and the telegraph seemed to
have annihilated time and space, and news of the most unimportant
trifles flew from one end of the earth to the other; and now, when so
many hearts are tormented by restless anxiety, news travels slowly and
uncertainly from mouth to mouth, as in the days that are long passed
away."
"So it is with the proud achievements of human intellect," said the
pastor; "when the hand of God seizes the history of a nation, man grows
weak and powerless, and all the progress the world has made becomes as
nothing. But that it is God's hand must be our consolation, He has
power to raise up and to protect, He has power to heal the wounds His
hands have made."
With a pious look of resignation, Madame von Wendenstein listened to
the pastor's words, but tears trickled down her cheeks, and proved how
hard her heart found this anxious suspense.
"I have no news from the army," said the president, "but I have
received a letter from my son in Hanover. He tells me of the Prussian
government, and praises its order and punctuality highly," said the old
gentleman with some bitterness.
"Public men must be in great and painful difficulties in Hanover," said
the pastor; "there, political views are much more in the foreground
than here in the country, and it must be extremely hard to reconcile
the duties of a servant of Hanover with the necessities of the
situation."
"It appears as if the gentlemen in office found them easy to
reconcile," said the president gloomily. "It is certainly good that the
Prussian government should be excellent, prompt, and punctual, but it
would never come into my head in these days to feel any particular
enthusiasm about it. Well, youth is different to what it was in my
day."
The auditor Bergfeld entered the room with a hasty step and an excited
look.
"What news do you bring from Luechow?" cried the president, hastening
towards him: and all eyes were fixed on him in mute anxiety.
"It is true!" he cried; "there has been a battle--at Langensalza, and
our army is victorious!"
"Thank God!" cried the president; "and have they succeeded in pressing
on to the south?"
"Alas, no," said Bergfeld, mournfully, "the day after the battle our
brave soldiers were surrounded by overwhelming forces and obliged to
capitulate." The president gazed gloomily before him. "Is the king a
prisoner?" he asked. "No," said Bergfeld, "the king is free, the
capitulation is very honourable, the officers return home with their
arms and horses. But," he continued, "there are many wounded; in
Hanover committees have been formed, nourishment is wanted, they beg
for linen, for bread and meat."
"Everything in the house shall be packed up at once," cried the
president, energetically, "the wounded must have the best of
everything; my cellar shall be emptied."
Madame von Wendenstein had risen and approached her husband.
"Let me take the things," she said, imploringly. "Why?" cried the
president, "you can do no good, and if Karl comes back, it--"
"_If_ he comes back!" cried the old lady, bursting into tears.
"We shall soon hear news of him," said the president, "and until
then--"
The sound of voices was heard in the hall. Johann entered and said,
"Old Deyke is here; he wishes to speak to the president."
"Bring him in, bring him in!" cried the old gentleman, and the old
peasant Deyke came in amongst the excited group, looking as calm and
dignified as usual, but with a deep and gloomy gravity spread over his
sharp features.
"Well, dear Deyke," cried the president, "have you heard the news; do
you come to consult with us how to send in the quickest way all that
our brave soldiers need?"
"I have received a letter from my Fritz," said the peasant solemnly,
whilst he respectfully took the hand held out to him by the president.
"Well, and how does the brave young fellow get on? cried the old
gentleman.
"Has he seen my son?" asked Madame von Wendenstein, gazing at the
peasant with anxious eyes.
"He has found the lieutenant," he replied, laconically.
"And my son lives?" cried the poor lady with hesitation. She feared to
hear the answer which must touch the inmost string of her heart.
"He lives," said old Deyke. "I wish to say a couple of words to the
president alone," he stammered.
"No!" cried Madame von Wendenstein, vehemently, "no, not alone. Deyke,
you have some bad news, but I will hear it; I am strong enough to hear
anything, but I cannot bear suspense. I beg you," she continued,
looking affectionately at her husband, "to let me hear what he has to
tell."
The president looked undecided. The pastor came forward slowly.
"Permit your wife to hear the tidings, whatever they may be, my old
friend," he said, gravely and quietly. "Your son lives, that is the
first and most important point; whatever may be to come, cannot be too
hard for a true and pious heart, like our friend's, to bear."
Madame von Wendenstein looked gratefully at the clergyman.
Old Deyke slowly drew out a paper.
"The president will perhaps look at my son's letter?"
"Give it to me," said the pastor; "it belongs to God's servant, an old
friend of this house, to impart this message."
He took the paper and walked to the window, through which the last
light of the waning day entered the room.
Madame von Wendenstein with widely opened eyes hung on his lips. Helena
sat at the table with her head resting on her hand, calm and apparently
indifferent; her eyes were cast down; it seemed doubtful whether she
saw or heard anything passing around her.
Slowly the pastor read,--
"My dear Father,
"I write at once that you may have news of me, and, thank God, I am
well and cheerful; I fell in with the army at Langensalza, and enlisted
in the cuirassier guards, and took part in the great battle, and went
under a hot fire, but I came out safe and sound. We were victorious,
and took two cannon and many prisoners, but to-day we are surrounded by
superior numbers, and the generals have said we could not march. So the
king capitulated, and we are all coming home. My heart is almost broken
when I look at all our brave soldiers going back with the white staff
in their hands, and they don't look such cowardly creatures either.
"Now, dear father, I must tell you of Lieutenant von Wendenstein, with
whom I must remain, for he is badly wounded, and I cannot leave him
here alone. I found him on the battle-field and thought he was dead,
but, thank God, it was not so bad as that; and the doctor has extracted
the ball, and says he will live if he only has strength to hold out
through the fever. I am with him at the brewer Lohmeier's, a good man
though he is a Prussian, and the lieutenant is well cared for. My host
sends off this letter for me through an acquaintance in the field post.
Go at once to the president and tell him all, and have no anxiety about
me for I am all right.
"Your son,
"Fritz.
"Written the 28th July, 1866."
The pastor was silent.
The president came up to his wife, put his arm round her shoulders,
kissed her grey hair, and said,--
"He lives! my God, I thank thee!"
"And now I may go to him?" asked Madame von Wendenstein.
"And I?" cried her daughter.
"Yes," said the old gentleman, "and I wish I could go with you, but I
should be of no use there."
Helena rose; she walked slowly but with a firm step towards Madame von
Wendenstein and said, while her eyes shone brilliantly,--
"May I accompany you? If my father will permit it?"
"You, Helena?" cried the pastor.
"Our brave soldiers want nursing," said the young girl, looking firmly
at her father, "and you have taught me to help the suffering. Will you
not allow me at such a time as this to do my duty?"
The pastor looked kindly at his daughter. "Go, my child, and God be
with you;" and turning to Madame von Wendenstein, he added, "Will you
take my daughter under your protection?"
"With all my heart," cried the old lady, and folded the pastor's
daughter in her arms.
Candidate Behrmann had watched the whole of this scene in silence.
He bit his lips, when Helena announced her intention of accompanying
Madame von Wendenstein, and a pale ray shot from his eyes, but his face
immediately resumed its smooth smiling expression, he stepped forward
and said in a gentle voice,--
"I shall also beg permission, madame, to accompany you on your journey;
it will be desirable for you to have a male protector, and I think on
the site of the bloody battle-field spiritual consolation will be
needed and welcomed. I believe I can be more useful there than here,
where until I return my uncle can so well fulfil all the duties of his
sacred office alone."
He looked humbly and modestly at his uncle and the president, awaiting
their reply.
"That is a good and right thought, my dear nephew," said the pastor,
holding out his hand to him; "on yonder battle-field there is grave and
blessed work to be done, and I can get on here in the meantime quite
well alone."
The president was glad that the ladies should have a protector, and
Madame von Wendenstein thanked the candidate heartily for facilitating
her journey to her suffering son.
Helena had looked up, startled for a moment when her cousin said he
would accompany the ladies; then in silence, with downcast eyes, she
listened to the rest of the conversation, neither word nor look
betraying the least interest in it.
The greatest movement and activity suddenly began in the old castle.
Madame von Wendenstein hastened through the well-known rooms ordering
and arranging, here showing her daughters what must be packed in the
travelling trunks, there sorting out wine, sugar, and nourishment of
all kinds, then again giving the servants instructions as to what they
were to do in her absence: all the silent abstraction which had altered
the old lady during the last few days had vanished, with active step
and shining eyes she hurried about, and anyone so seeing her might have
thought she was preparing for some great festival.
Helena had returned to the Pfarrhaus with her father and the candidate
to make her rapid preparations for the journey, and not quite two hours
after the journey had been decided on the president's comfortable
carriage, with its well-bred powerful horses, stood before the large
hall door of the castle.
Madame von Wendenstein gave her husband a long and affectionate
embrace, it was the first time for years that they had been separated.
He laid his hand on her head and said, "God bless you! and bring you
back with our son!"
Old Deyke was there, and a crowd of villagers were there too, with
their wives and daughters, for the news had spread like wild-fire that
the president's wife and daughter were going to nurse the wounded
lieutenant, and that the pastor's daughter and the new candidate were
to accompany them. They all came to take leave, and Madame von
Wendenstein shook hands with all, and promised each to gain news of
this or that relative who was with the army. What the carriage could
still hold was taken up with love offerings that all had brought for
their relations, and every head was uncovered when at last the carriage
rolled away; but there was no shouting, no loud word was heard, and
they all went back quietly to their homes, in great anxiety as to what
the next few days must bring, whether the life or death of those dear
to them.
The president went quietly back into the castle with the pastor, and
the two old gentlemen sat together for a long time. They said but
little, and yet each found in these weary times consolation in
the society of the other. The president cast his eyes round the
drawing-room, which was as quiet and comfortable as ever, but when he
looked at the place where his wife usually sat, and thought of the
cheerful voices which used to sound through the room, and then turned
his thoughts to the distant town where his son lay threatened by death,
a mist came before his eyes, he pressed his eyelids together and a hot
drop fell on his hand. He stood up quickly, and walked several times up
and down the room.
The pastor arose.
"My honoured old friend," he said, "at such a moment as this a man like
yourself need not be ashamed of a tear! It is late, let us go to rest,
and these days will pass away!"
The president stood still, held out his hand to the pastor, and looked
at him through the blinding tears which ran down his cheeks.
"Pray to God," he said in a low voice, "to give me back my son."
The pastor went home. All was quiet in the castle and the darkness of
night brooded over it, but a light still burned in the president's
window, and the servants heard, even until morning dawned, the firm
regular step of their old master as he paced up and down in the lonely
castle.