who had now resumed his seat, "how it comes that my poor darling has
those strange fancies. Unfortunately I must reproach myself with having
caused this violent shock: The father of my poor little girl was an
Austrian officer. A few months after our marriage, I had to part with
him; his regiment was ordered to Italy, where the war was commencing.
Shortly afterwards news reached me that he had been amongst the first
victims of the bloody battle of Solferino. Since that time I have
always felt the greatest longing to visit the spot where my dear
husband found repose after his short career, and though no cross marks
his grave, at least to inhale the air in which his brave heart breathed
its last. Even my little girl expressed the same wish as she grew
older, and understood me when I told her of her father's death. Many
things deterred me from realizing this plan, particularly the fear that
the long journey might overfatigue, and agitate the child, who always
had a very excitable imagination, and a tender heart: and now I have to
suffer severely for having indulged my desire. If you had seen how
eagerly she listened to the words which I translated to her from the
account of the old serjeant, whom I found watching the monument on the
field of battle. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes glistened; her emotion
was far beyond her years. When we turned back she shivered, and in the
following night, complained of headache, and did not sleep for an
instant. She did not mention her father again till this moment, when
she mistook you for him, and fancied he was sitting at her bedside.
Perhaps it would have been better, had I remained where I was, but I
dreaded the Italian doctors, and did not believe the danger to be so
imminent. In my own carriage, for I had taken post-horses on leaving
the railway, I thought we could easily arrange a comfortable bed for
the child. The weather too was warm, and she herself eagerly desired to
be taken home. The storm reached us just at the worst part of the road;
and we were most thankful when we reached this inn. But what would have
become of us without your help?"
She turned from the gloomy and taciturn man to dry her tears. Then they
again sat silently opposite each other. He felt tempted to entreat her
to go on speaking. Here was something in her voice which soothed him,
and was as cooling balm to his feverish soul, but he saw that her
thoughts were again occupied with the child, and he had nothing to tell
her. He only gazed more earnestly at the young woman by the dim light
of the candle and of the moon. He remarked that her brow, and the shape
of her eyes which had a distinguished melancholy and gentle expression
in them, resembled those of his adoptive mother, who had so often
looked at him with thoughtful affection. Her figure was round and
supple, and every turn of her head and of her slender throat was full
of grace.
The abundant auburn hair hung negligently over her shoulders. All about
her showed the habits of one accustomed to wealth. Wealth ennobled by a
cultivated mind, and refined taste, but which had lost all charms for
her, in the danger which threatened her most precious treasure.
The door was now cautiously opened, and the farm-servant dragged in a
large tub filled with ice; then wiping the perspiration from his
forehead, he triumphantly pointed to the clock which showed that ten
minutes were still wanting to the stipulated hour, pocketed his well
earned money, and officiously asked if anything else was wanted. "No,
he could go to bed now," the doctor answered. He then tore a piece of
oiled silk from the lining of his travelling pouch, made a bag of it to
hold the ice, and showed the nurse how to lay it on the forehead
of the child. Her mistress interfered--"No," she said, "you must now
lie down, and rest, Josephine; you have not slept for thirty-six
hours."--"Neither, Madam, have you," observed the maid, "and I do not
need it so much as your honour, for at least I have swallowed a few
morsels of food."
"Do as I tell you," resumed the mother; "I well know how useless it
would be for me to attempt to sleep. Perhaps I may be able to take some
rest in the morning, if the night passes well."
"Allow me to feel your pulse, Madam," said the doctor, and then without
another word he suddenly left the room.
The two women looked after him in astonishment, and the maid, an
elderly fat woman, with a round face, strongly marked by the smallpox,
and good natured brown eyes, availed herself of his absence, to sing
the praises of their unknown deliverer, quite as eagerly as she had
previously abused him. "He had something so peculiar about him," she
remarked; "he appeared to be ill and yet kind heartedness was written
on every feature--and how cleverly he managed everything; how well he
supported our child's head, just as if he had been a nurse all the days
of his life. And then he is so very handsome and quite young, only now
and then when a stern expression comes over his face, he looks so grave
and gloomy, as if he had never laughed; and at other times he shuts his
eyes, as if he were in great pain, and wished to conceal it."
At this moment the subject of her remarks returned, carrying a large
glass of milk in his hand. He gave it to the lady as one would offer
some medicine to a child. "Drink this, Madam," he said; "it is new milk
and will do you good." "You require strength to fulfill the task you
have undertaken, and here nothing else is to be had. It would be very
beneficial to the child, if she could be induced to swallow a few
drops. Approach the glass to her lips, and persuade her to try it; you
have succeeded. We must do all we can to keep up her strength, so that
another attack may not overcome her. Now follow my advice, and lie down
on that bed; I will watch the child, and the maid also can well spare a
few hours more of sleep. When midnight has passed, I will awake you and
then the maid can lie down." She still objected. "Do as I tell you," he
said passionately, "or I will think that you never really felt the
confidence you showed me."
She turned towards the bed where the child, relieved by the ice
compresses, lay apparently asleep and stooping over its delicate little
face kissed its closed eyes. "I will obey you," she said, with a faint
smile, "if you promise to awake me, in case my child should grow
worse."
He silently pressed her hand and took her seat by the bedside, while
her maid helped her to lie down on the second bed, which stood in a
corner, after having removed a load of coverings.
When a quarter of an hour had passed, the faithful creature, softly
approaching the doctor, who sat absorbed in his own thoughts, stooped,
seized one of his hands, and before he could prevent it had pressed it
to her lips, whispering: "God be praised, she sleeps! Oh sir, you can
work marvels! For four nights, my mistress had not closed her eyes.
First the grief, and agitation before we reached that unfortunate
battle-field; and then, anxiety about her child. If you but knew what
an angel my mistress is. If I were to tell you all...."
"Leave that for another time," he interrupted; "you have nothing else to
do now, but to lie down, and not to stir till I call you. To-night you
are useless, and to-morrow you must be up early. Here are pillows, and
coverlets enough. Arrange a bed for yourself beside the stove; and now
good night. Don't contradict me. Do you wish to awake your mistress by
uselessly arguing the matter?"
The good woman obeyed with a timid humble look, pulled a feather-bed
into a corner of the room, and in a few minutes her regular breathing,
proved that she too had needed rest after the hardships of the last few
days.
A short while afterwards, the moon disappeared behind a cloud, and only
the faint reflex of the starry sky was to be seen, on that part of the
lake which could be overlooked from the room in which the lonely
watcher sat by the sick-bed. He now for the first time felt a desire to
take some food, and to quench his thirst. He drank the remainder of the
milk which still stood on the table. As he put down the glass he
fancied he saw the lady on the bed make a convulsive movement. He
approached her softly. In an uneasy dream, she had put both hands to
her eyes as if to wipe away tears; now she slept quietly, and her hands
slowly sank down again. Motionless he gazed on that fair face, on which
every dream was reflected as the shadows of dissolving clouds on the
calm surface of a lake; sorrow, anxiety, then hope! Now she smiled, and
the delicately chiselled lips parted, disclosing two rows of pearly
teeth. The next moment her brow darkened, an imploring look appeared on
her face; she stretched out both her hands and clasped them together;
he then remarked on one of her fingers, two wedding rings, and wondered
whether the second one belonged to the father of her child, or if some
other man were now in possession of that small hand. He was roused from
these thoughts by a moan from the little girl. He only arranged the
coverlet which had fallen on the ground and wrapped it round the small
feet of the young woman who had not taken off her boots. Then he
returned to his occupation of changing, every quarter of an hour, the
ice that had melted and now and then refreshing the parched lips of the
child with a few drops of water.
Towards midnight a violent wind arose on the lake, and the young man
shivered as the window was still open. He seized the first wrap which
he found among the luggage, and covered himself up with it. It was a
long soft burnouss lined with silk which belonged to the young woman.
He pulled the hood over his head; and a sweet scent was wafted from it;
as the silk touched his face a peculiar feeling of languor came over
him; he closed his eyes, but a confused maze of ideas passed through
his mind, and he could not sleep.
Suddenly his eyes opened with an expression of terror in them. He
started from his chair, and trembling violently, he stared at the lake.
Conspicuous on the dark surface of the water, something white glided
slowly; it had the shape of a veiled figure, and seemed to move towards
the house. The moon had appeared again, and lit up a faint streak of
mist which had strayed from the mountain tops, and was swept across the
lake. When it reached the current of wind that blew from the ravine, it
dissolved, and the surface of the water was as clear as before; but the
only one who had seen this airy apparition still stood as if rooted to
the ground and stared at the spot where it had disappeared. A cold
perspiration bathed his brow, his breath came shortly and quickly, and
his eyes, which started from their sockets, remained fixed on that
spot, as if he expected to see the vision appear again the next moment.
A hot little hand touched the clammy ones of the horror-stricken man.
"Is it you, Papa?" asked the little girl; and sat up in her bed. Two
small thin arms were stretched up to him and before he was aware of it,
the child clung to his neck and hid its burning face on his breast.
"Don't leave us again, Papa," she said, "or Mamma will cry again, and I
must die."
In an instant the nightmare which oppressed him, vanished. He clasped
the slender little figure in his arms, as if it were a protection
against the malignant powers. He held her so for some time, and while
the child caressed him, he felt the blood flow more calmly through his
veins. He kissed her little face, stroking her damp curls, asked: "What
is your name, my child." "Are you my Papa," she said, "and do not even
know that I am your own little Fan? Ah, yes, I know that they have shot
you, that is why you have forgotten me. Did it hurt you much?"
"To-morrow I will tell you all about it," he said, and gently laid her
back on her bed; "now, you must keep quiet, and not awake your Mamma."
The child obediently lay down, and closed her eyes, but she held fast
the hand of her faithful guardian, and now and then looked up at him
with a wondering but wide awake expression. He too stedfastly gazed on
the innocent face, as if fearing that were he to turn round, the
terrifying vision would again appear.
So he watched by the sick-bed till day dawned. When the bare rocky
peaks which rose above the lake, blushed in the first morning light,
sounds of life, broke the stillness of the house.
The farm-servant crept shoeless along the passage, and cautiously
peeping into the sick-room, pointed to the now empty wooden tub and
asked if another supply of ice were wanted. The doctor nodded his head,
and he disappeared. Then came the landlady and offered her ready
services, but Everhard declined them. The generosity of the strange
gentleman had worked wonders with the inmates of the house. Only the
coachman, who had not got over his intoxication of the previous day,
stumbled, cursing, and growling, with heavy boots, down the stairs, and
through the passage; so that the lady asked still half asleep, if it
were time to start. "Not yet," answered Everhard, "you can sleep on for
another hour." Then he rose hastily, and went out to prevent the noisy
fellow from again approaching the sick-room. When he returned after a
few minutes, he found the young mother seated at the bedside of her
child.
"Why are you up already?" he asked reproachfully. "Already?" she
replied, "you wish to put me to confusion. Have you not succeeded in
deceiving me, and taken my place through the whole of the night. Why
did you not let me share the night-watch with you?"
"Because I could easily dispense with sleep, which was most needful for
you. And then there was nothing to be done which required help. Be of
good cheer; we have every reason to be satisfied with this night."
"Then the danger is over! thanks be to heaven!"
"I cannot give you that certainty," he answered; "you have promised to
trust me, and can only do so, if I conceal nothing from you. But I can
give you the assurance that all the symptoms are as favourable as can
be expected in this illness. The inmates of the house are well disposed
towards us, and will do their best to help us."
A ray of pleasure brightened her pale face. "Oh! my friend," she
exclaimed, "if it were but possible!" She held out her hand to him, and
tears stood in her eyes.
He stooped to kiss her hand, but in reality to hide his emotion. "Could
you have believed me capable of forsaking you, before the child's life
was saved?" he asked. "Do not thank me, not imagine that I am
sacrificing anything by remaining here. I have already brought you the
greatest sacrifice I could offer, all the rest is a relief to me."
She looked up inquiringly. "I am keeping you from other duties?" she
asked.
"No," he answered gloomily; "ever since last year I have been an idle,
and restless man. Led by motives, which cannot interest you, I once
gave myself my word of honour, never to exercise my profession as a
doctor again. Yesterday, I broke this word for your sake. If you will
permit me to continue my attendance, you will free me from reproach,
and so we shall be of mutual service to each other."
After a pause during which he had felt the pulse of the child, he
resumed, "She now sleeps quietly; if you wish to apprize your friends
of your present abode, you have time to do so. The coachman, who is
meanwhile getting ready, will post your letter at the next station."
"I have no one, who would feel anxious at my non-appearance," said the
lady, and blushed slightly; "I live so very retired!"
"No one?" he repeated, with surprise, and involuntarily his eyes
fastened on the two rings.
She remarked his glance, and understood it instantly. "The second
ring," she said unconstrainedly, "is not the sign of a second marriage.
It belonged to my husband, who feeling death approaching, drew it from
his finger and begged a comrade of his to bring it to me. Since that
day, I have refused all solicitations to change my condition, and have
only withdrawn from my dear husband's family, because a near relation
of his, imagines that he has some claim to my hand. I have vowed to
live only for my child, and to the memory of the dead, and this vow is
sacred to me."
The nurse now awoke, and reluctantly sat up on her couch, but she
jumped up briskly, when she saw her mistress and the doctor already
actively employed, and hastened with great zeal to relieve them;
protesting that it was all the doctor's fault, as he had strictly
forbidden her to watch.
"Bathe the child," said Everhard; "I will now leave you for half an
hour; bathe the child as we did yesterday, and let it drink some milk
which you can now get fresh from the cow. And here comes a fresh supply
of ice. You see the attendance could nowhere be better than it is in
this desolate nook of the world. Fortunately an apothecary's shop is
not needed in this case. Good-bye; we shall soon meet again." He bowed
slightly and left the room. Then he walked down to the shore, loosened
one of the boats which were chained up in the shed, and with a few
powerful strokes launched the light bark into the open lake. The sun
had not yet risen above the surrounding heights, overgrown with dark
pines, and the calm and sultry air lay heavily on the dark surface of
the water, and oppressed the chest of the young man who was fatigued by
the sleepless night. He looked down into the depths below him and
noticed that close to the boat the water seemed transparent as crystal,
and nearly white, while the lake beyond, though the sky was bright and
clear, appeared like a black unfathomable chasm. He recollected what a
woodcutter had once told him, that the lake was bottomless--that its
waters sank deeper and deeper till at last they reached hell; and so
when the evil spirits there found their abode too hot for them, they
went to bathe in them.
He pulled in his oars and looked up at the nearly perpendicular shores
which were covered with dark fir-woods up to their very peaks. These
had exchanged the glow of early morning for a dull greyish tint. And
now the sun had burst forth with great power, and tried to gild the
ravine, which looked like a cauldron of dark iron. But only a dazzling
white light was reflected on the smooth surface of the lake. The dense
woods which surrounded it absorbed every ray of sunshine. No cheerful
light coloured and enlivened the dreary landscape. A small patch of
green grass, near the inn, on which a red-brown cow grazed, and the
blue smoke which curled up from the chimney were the only objects that
awakened the consoling thought, that even in this wilderness human
beings had found a home. An islet, covered with birch-trees, lay near
the opposite shore. Everhard rowed up to it, tied the bark to a post,
and stripped off his clothes to enjoy an early bath.
Suddenly the thought struck him, with what intention he had arrived
yesterday. He shuddered. It seemed to him as if his resolve would be
fulfilled, even against his will; as if he had pledged himself to that
perfidious depth, which would claim him for its own. One moment he felt
tempted to put on his clothes again, and to row back as fast as he
could, but ashamed of his weakness, he shook off these fancies and
boldly jumped into the water.
The cold Alpine waves closed round him like ice just melted by the sun,
and he had to exert all his knowledge of swimming, to keep his blood,
by continual movement, from congealing. When he stepped out of the
water, and leaning against the stem of a young birch, his feet buried
in the soft moss, dried himself briskly, he felt happier than he had
done for many a day. He looked towards the house. In the room, where
the child lay he could see some one moving near the window. The
distance was too great to distinguish the figure, still less the
features, yet it pleased to him to think that among the inmates of that
house, there were some who needed him, and had placed their hopes in
him.
Meanwhile the child in the sick-room raised herself in her bed, looked
searchingly round the room, and said: "Has Papa gone away? is he again
dead? I want him to sit beside me." Her mother kissed the child's
forehead and begged her to remain quiet. "That good gentleman is not
your Papa," she said; "you must not call him so. He is the doctor, who
will make you well again, if you are a good child, and do all he tells
you." "Not my Papa," repeated the little girl meditatively. She seemed
to relinquish her first idea with difficulty. "What is his name?" she
resumed. "Will he leave me?"
"Here he comes," said the fat nurse, who had tears in her eyes, on
hearing her darling speak calmly and sensibly, for the first time for
several days. "Just look Ma'am, how fast he rows, as if he were
impatient to get back to our child. Well, I call that a doctor! To-day
he looks even handsomer, than he did yesterday, with his fine black
beard and pale face. Only his eyes have a stern expression, that would
frighten one if he were not so kind."
They now saw him leap from the boat but he did not speak to them, as he
passed the door, and they heard him give some orders to the landlady. A
few minutes later he entered the sick-room, at once approached the bed
of the child, and talked kindly to it. This presence seemed to exercise
a sort of charm on the little girl. She breathed with more ease, and
closed her eyes at his persuasion.
The stillness in the sick-room was so great that they heard the splash
of the fish leaping in the water. After some time he rose, and
whispered, "She sleeps; the fever has abated. I hope she may be able to
rest for a few hours, and I will take care that no one disturbs her. I
will now lie down for a short while, till the chicken broth I have
ordered for our little patient, is ready.
"How can I ever express my thanks to you for all your kindness, and
solicitude," observed the child's mother with much emotion.
By not thanking me at all he replied almost gruffly, and left them.
When he entered his room, he found the letter he had written the night
before still lying on the table. The large red seal now, seemed
offensive to his eyes, yet he could not make up his mind to destroy it,
so he put it by, in his portfolio. He then threw himself on his bed,
and tried to sleep, but the thick coming thoughts, beset him like
buzzing flies. He fancied he heard the child's voice, and that of its
lovely mother, and raised himself on his bed to listen. At length after
much musing and reflection, he fell into an uneasy sleep disturbed by
dreams.
At noon, the landlady entered his room, and seeing him asleep, tried to
creep away noiselessly. But he was up in a moment, and inquiring if the
soup were ready, followed her into the kitchen. "Where is the broth?"
he asked, and approached the hearth whence a tempting odour arose from
the different pots and pans. The stupid maid who was stirring something
in one of them, let fall her wooden ladle in amazement, and stared
open-mouthed at the stranger as he lifted the lid of one of the pots,
and examined its contents with a critical eye. Then he asked for a
plate poured some of the chicken broth into it, and carefully took out
the herbs which floated on it.
When he turned to carry away the soup, he saw the young mother standing
at the entrance. "Is this right?" she asked with a charming smile,
"instead of sleeping I see you have turned cook."
"I only cook for my patients," he replied, "the care of preparing
dinner for the healthy, I leave to our hostess, who will do honour to
our confidence in her, and needs no help of mine. Is our patient still
asleep?"
"She awoke a moment since, and has just asked for you."
When he entered the sick-room, the child sat upright in her bed, and
greeted the doctor with a smile. Then she willingly swallowed a few
spoonfuls of the soup which he offered her. She did not appear to be
hungry however, but only to do it because he wished it. She listened
eagerly to all the doctor said. He told her that in the morning he had
watched the fish disport themselves in the lake, and promised her that
they would go and catch some of them when she could leave her bed.
After a while she again seemed to lose consciousness. Her blue eyes
partially closed, and the small head sank back on her pillows.
"Be of good cheer," said the doctor; "the progress is slow but sure.
Your maid must continue to change the ice frequently. Meanwhile we will
go and have dinner. It is ready."
"Leave me here with my child," she whispered. "No," he replied, curtly.
"You must breathe the fresh air. We do not want another patient, and
your pulse is much agitated. When we have dined, we will relieve the
nurse."
He walked on without another word, and she dared not oppose him. In the
shade before the house, close to the window of the sick-room, the cover
had been laid for two. Just as they came out, the landlady brought a
dish of fish, and placed them on the table, these were followed by a
roasted fowl. During the repast they hardly spoke a word to each other.
Both were lost in thought. Now and then, he would persuade her, not
only to take a few mouthfuls on her plate, but to eat them. "I shall be
offended," he said, gaily, "if you eat nothing. We doctors enjoy the
reputation of being great gourmands. I hope I have not disgraced my
profession in this instance?"