Joseph in the Snow, and The Clockmaker. In Three Volumes. Vol. I.

CHAPTER VIII.

WARM AND SNUG IN THE PARSONAGE.

Can there be such a thing as a holy feast for a woman like the Röttmännin? Can there exist a human being doomed one day to leave this world, without ever having felt the joyful sensation of being happy, or of having contributed to the happiness of others? That there are such persons, cannot fail to cast a dark shadow on the earth, and must prevent anyone feeling unalloyed gladness of heart.

These were the reflections floating in the mind of the Pastorin, as she sat at the window. Soon, however, she chased away all such shadows, and her soul became as bright as the morning of this joyous and holy festival, which is a ray emanating from eternity.

She arose and went through the house, like a gentle hushed spirit. The approaching feast day, and also the thought that her brother was with her, shed such lustre and gladness on her whole being, that everything seemed to smile on her; and while she prepared a good breakfast for her brother, who was sure to return very hungry from shooting, she looked at the ham, the butter, and eggs, with considerable complacency, as if grateful to them for possessing the excellent property of nourishing and strengthening man.

These articles of food could not speak, or make any observations in return; but the maid being pretty well aware that her mistress liked to talk of her brother, said, "What a handsome, grand gentleman your brother is, ma'am. When he arrived yesterday evening I really thought he was the Prince who drove through here last winter, on his way to shoot;" and the maid gave her own face a good rub with her apron, to make it look as well as possible. "I was so glad we happened to have killed a goose," added she, giving an affectionate look at the slaughtered victim, hanging outside the kitchen window.

Brother Edward returned home about ten o'clock. The Pastorin warned him that her husband was still asleep, and he placed his gun as gently in the corner as if it had been made of cotton. Her brother's good appetite pleased the Pastorin, who seated herself with her embroidery beside Edward, and told him the Pastor's adventures. He, in return, said he had shot nothing, for he felt quite sure he had got on the track of the wolf; but he lost all traces of the animal in a ravine, as he was afraid of venturing to descend into it alone. He had gone as far as the forest mill, and described with much enthusiasm the grand and striking aspect of the landscape, the waterfalls all frozen, and the rocks glittering like finely cut crystal. The more awe inspiring and imposing the young man delineated the scene without, the more snug and comfortable did the room appear within. And the brother and sister talked to each other with the same quiet ease with which the heat diffused itself through the room: the pendulum of the clock and the crackling of the wood in the stove were more audible than their voices. Gentle flakes of snow were falling slowly and quietly outside, fluttering in the air as if in play, making the room within seem even more comfortable than usual.

"I have still an adventure to relate to you," recommenced Edward.

"Won't you wait till my husband is awake, so that you may not have to tell it twice over?"

"No; I wish you alone to hear it, and you must promise me secresy. I was standing behind a bush, not far from the forest mill, on the watch, for I thought the wolf would be sure to appear again, when I saw two girls coming along the path. They stood still not far from my hiding-place, and one girl said, 'I will say good bye to you here; thank you for your kindness, my mother in Heaven will reward you for it. But it is all over; I cannot help myself. Oh! why are those days gone by, when a wicked woman could transform you into a raven? I wish I were that raven in the sky above our heads; then I could fly far away, then my misery would be over. See! the snow is melting where my tears fall on it; but nothing can melt a hard heart, and my father is entirely changed.' Her tears prevented her saying more, and her companion left her. The weeping girl turned back towards the mill; I could not resist advancing to meet her, but I almost regretted it when I saw such sorrow overclouding the young, fresh, blooming face. I would gladly have tried to console her, but I really did not know what to say; so I simply wished her good day. She looked at me, startled, and stood still for a moment in surprise, and then went on her way."

"That must have been the Forest Miller's Tony," said the Pastorin; "a good-hearted girl, as ever lived. She is to be betrothed to Adam, I hear."

"That would be too shameful!" exclaimed Edward, indignantly.

"I quite agree with you. Tony is the Forest Miller's only child. Her mother was an excellent woman: so long as she lived, the forest mill was the most highly respected house in the whole community, and the resort and refuge of all the poor. Little Tony went daily for four years to school, three or four miles off, and in winter she came on a donkey. A child like that, going daily alone for years through a valley, encircled by rocks and by the forest, cannot fail to become thoughtful and observant, if naturally of a quick and lively disposition; for there is much to see and hear of animal life in the forest, unknown to the world. Little Tony was a very quick child, and she was often to be heard telling her thoughts aloud, and singing songs in the forest. She has a most lovely voice. Two years ago her mother died, and the guardian appointed by her father is the innkeeper at Wenger, whose sister shortly after married the Forest Miller. From that hour the girl had never another happy moment; and her guardian being unluckily the brother of her stepmother, it comes to pass that Tony will be forced to marry Adam Röttmann."

Suddenly the Pastorin interrupted herself, saying, "I must surely have left the house door open, for I hear some one on the stairs."

"Hush! be quiet!" said she softly, opening the door. "Oh! it is you, Martina; come in, but tread softly, for the Herr Pastor is asleep. What message have you for me?"

"Leegart sent me here, to bring you these nightcaps."

"Why did she not come herself?"

"She is in our house, busy making a new jacket for my Joseph."

"You dress Joseph too smartly; you will spoil him," said the Pastorin.

"Leegart takes no payment from me," said Martina timidly, and, turning away suddenly, the red shawl in which she had wrapped her head fell back. The young man gazed earnestly at her pretty oval face, and large dark brown eyes. Martina felt that he was looking at her, and casting down her eyes blushed deeply, groping for the handle of the door in going out, as if she had been in the dark.

The Pastorin, however, followed her into the passage, and said, "You would like to know about the Röttmännin? The state of her health is as bad as that of her heart. She sent for the Herr Pastor last night, but she is not dangerously ill; far from it."

"God is my witness that I do not wish for her death," said Martina earnestly, laying both hands on her heart.

"I believe you. My husband had a severe struggle with her, but he persists in his determination never to marry Adam to any one but yourself. But I will tell you all about it another time," said the Pastorin, turning to re-enter the room.

But Martina said uneasily, "Oh! dear Madam, I cannot make out what is the matter with my Joseph for some days past; he speaks and thinks of nothing but his father. He insists on my talking of him till he goes to sleep, and in the morning his first words are always about his father. He has refused positively to go back to school any more, for they call him The Foal there, because his father's nickname in the village is The Horse."

The Pastorin could not help smiling, but she said, "I cannot stay with you at present: that was my youngest brother who has come to visit me. Pray be very strict with Joseph: the whole village spoils that child. Come to see me again during the holidays, and shut the outer door very gently."

Martina went homewards with slow and heavy steps, singing in a melancholy tone the lines that seemed to haunt her memory:

In the mean time the Pastorin returned into the sitting-room, when her brother Edward proved that he had a quick eye, not only for fine scenery, but also for pretty people, by expressing his sincere regret, that so lovely a creature should be doomed to pass her days in poverty and sorrow.

"But though she looks ill even now," said the Pastorin, "if you had seen her a year after her disgrace, she was so changed that it was scarcely possible to recognise her, she looked so deadly pale, and just like a dying person. It is said that a speech of Leegart's made her strive to bear her calamity with more courage. 'Don't go on grieving in that way,' said she, 'or people will say that Adam is quite right to forsake such a faded, emaciated creature.' This advice, and love for her boy, inspired Martina with new life."

While the Pastorin was talking to her brother, and listening to him, she was also listening to sounds in the adjacent room, for she suspected that the Pastor was now dressing; and, while doing so, he was humming the air that she had sung with Edward the evening before; so she quickly sat down at the piano, and sung once more, with her brother, Mozart's melody, "Joys and sorrows let us share."

The Pastor entered the room, smiling kindly. He must, however, have heard a good deal, even in his sleep, for in a few moments he said, "Lina, Martina has just been here, I do beg that my orders may be attended to, that she is not to be in the habit of coming here."

"You are generally so indulgent," ventured Edward to remark.

"Perhaps so; but that is quite compatible with sternness, when it is requisite. Those who have sinned may reform and repent, but the privilege of being at home in the Parsonage is one they ought no longer to enjoy. It would be destructive to all morality if sin were allowed, from false ideas of humanity, to remain unpunished."

The usually benevolent features of the Pastor assumed a stern, uncompromising air while uttering these words. But he quickly added, "Edward, give me one of your cigars."

The three once more sat pleasantly together.

CHAPTER IX.

BETROTHAL AND PLIGHT.

Mozart's harmonies were entirely ignored at the Röttmann's residence; indeed, for seven years past, ever since Martina had been in their service, no songs had ever been heard in that house. In all other respects, however, the good living went on as before: there was an everlasting roasting, boiling, and stewing; and the moment you approached the house such a rich greasy odour was perceptible that all who came from Röttmanshof seemed impregnated with lard and suet. It was said that the cause of this greasy smell, was the old lady pouring whole cansfull of spoiled lard on the road every year. She preferred its being thrown away to giving it to any poor person. There was very little stir of labour about the place, for a wood merchant has the advantage of his possessions growing while he is sleeping, and without any exertion on his part.

The house looked very singular in the midst of the snowy landscape. In order to protect it from the weather, it was covered with shingles on every side, painted bright red. To live in such a dwelling was like living in a furnace.

There was a great uproar this morning at Röttmannshof, and nothing is more repulsive than when a morning commences by incessant noise. What kind of people must they be who on rising from sleep, in the early freshness of morning, break out into angry discord and noisy strife, and persevere in them, as if there was no such thing on earth as sleep or quiet self-forgetfulness for man, enabling him to begin life afresh each morning?

If the old Röttmännin, even formerly, when she could still sleep, was in the habit of rising at early dawn, as if preparing each day a war of extermination, how much more unendurable now were her impatience and restlessness, when she could no longer sleep at all! From her sick bed she regulated everything with twofold severity, and it seemed quite inconceivable how she could continue to live on amid this perpetual irritation, and restless state of exasperation.

"I am quite well; I am resolved to go with you myself," said she. "I don't care if I die by the way, so that I only complete this affair. Go away, men; I am going to rise and dress properly. Now, this very morning, the matter shall be finally settled with the Forest Miller's Tony. What do you mean by standing so stupidly there, Adam? You ought to be thankful that I manage matters for you—I mean your father and I together; for in all your life you could do nothing for yourself, and you will remain a poor creature to the end of your days. If no one will undertake this Schilder-David and his family, I will show them their proper place."

She insisted on her husband and son dressing in their Sunday clothes, and they looked very imposing in their long coats without collars, and high, boots drawn up above the knees. These high boots are the uncontested right of the upper class of farmers: the peasants and day labourers, even to this day, wear shoes and short leather breeches, or long ones of coarse canvass. The Röttmännin, who had not left the house for a whole year, was all at once as active as a young girl. The sledge was brought to the door, feather beds were placed in it, and the parents drove with their son to the Forest Mill. A messenger preceded them to announce their arrival. The amazement was unbounded at the Forest Mill at the appearance of the Röttmännin herself. The miller's wife was especially gracious, and the daughter could not avoid being also polite, though her eyes were red from crying; in other respects she looked neat and pretty, and any man who sought her hand from affection, might well be proud of such a bride. Adam followed his parents mechanically into the room, as if without any will of his own; and at the same moment, when the flakes of snow were gently falling in the valley before the Pastor's house, pledges were finally exchanged, and Adam was betrothed to Tony.

It scarcely seemed as if a living hand were stretched out to receive a living one, when Adam clasped that of his bride, but he endeavoured to make the best of it, and swallowed long draughts of the good red wine that the Forest Miller placed on the table. They sat together feasting till the evening. Speidel Röttmann had the power of incessantly drinking, and as incessantly eating; and he continued throwing large morsels of meat, right and left, into the jaws of his huge mastiffs; and the snapping, and growling, and gobbling was wonderful to hear, every single bone being crunched up. To be able to drink wine, and more wine, and wine without end, is an advantage that men possess over animals. While Speidel Röttmann was placing glass after glass to his lips, he kept stroking the head of one of his great dogs, as if to say, drinking is my privilege, and not yours. They insisted on Adam remaining in the kitchen with his bride, who was preparing some hot mulled wine; and the two fathers drank merrily together, while their wives gossiped in a low tone.

When the fathers agreed that the affair with Martina would now be easily broken off, the Forest Miller laughed, and said, "Young people are become very prudish now-a-days."

"They have no sense whatever," rejoined Speidel Röttmann. "It is nearly seven years now that Adam has been plaguing both himself and us, on account of that stupid affair of his. In our youth, much we should have cared for any such matter." And the two old men clinked their glasses together.

The mulled wine came, and they drank each other's health, and emptied the tall glasses to the dregs, and refilled them, and laughed, and narrated all their youthful pranks and exploits; and the burden of their song was always, that the youth of the present day were good for nothing, and totally devoid of all life and spirit.

Adam was standing beside his betrothed bride in the kitchen. For a long time he did not speak, and at last he said, "I say, why did you agree to have me? don't you know how I am situated?"

Tony answered smiling, "I suppose since the world began, no one ever asked his betrothed such a question. But do you know, Adam, I am rather glad you have done so, for it is honest on your part, and a good beginning, if it be the will of God that we should live together, and it appears we must. You see, Adam, there is no hope of your getting Martina, and I am miserable, far more miserable than you can have the least idea of. So I thought to myself, we are both miserable, so perhaps we may lighten each other's burdens; and I am quite resolved to leave my stepmother, for I am always in her way; and you can't think what a person feels on seeing a stranger come to your own house and home, abusing everything she sees, no matter how good and handsome it may be. It vexes me to death to see her extravagance in the house, and my father gets no good from it; and even the cup that belonged to my mother, and was kept sacred, she actually gave to the farm servant, and she only did so because she knew that it would annoy me. I shall become cross and spiteful myself if I remain with her. My tongue is full of gall, and words come to my lips, and thoughts into my head, that are downright wicked. I often wish I were lying six feet under ground, and I would have done so long ago, had it not been for the good, kind Pastorin."

"I pity you," said Adam; "but as for me, though I still have my own mother, she is more bitter towards me than any stepmother. I do not like to say it, but I must. My Martina alone induced me to submit to such usage, and not to run away from it into the wide world. And now I am become an illtempered fellow; formerly I was only gruff and thoughtless. I would far rather that you were harsh, and bitter, and irritable, so that I could feel no compassion for you; in that case I would have behaved in such a way that you would have been forced to give me up. But now I don't know what to do; I pity you—yes, I pity you from the bottom of my heart; but don't forget how I am situated myself."

It was far from an agreeable conversation that the two held together, and no fond or kindly words passed between them, as the bride was preparing the mulled wine. She carried the jug into the next room, having previously poured out a glass for Adam. When she returned he drank her health, and when she gave him some more, and, taking some herself, made her glass ring against his, he said, "Upon my word, you are much prettier than I thought. After all, I ought not to complain at being forced to marry you: if it were not for one thing—one thing alone—I should be quite happy. If I had only seen you seven years ago, as I see you now, I might have been the most fortunate fellow in the world. But what am I saying? I feel a stab, as if a knife had pierced my heart. Have patience with me; I can say no more."

Adam sat down, and covered his eyes with his hands, and then muttered, "This is my idea, do you see? I wish to tell you something; but not a word of it to your parents or mine. Give me your hand, as a token that you will keep my secret."

The bride gave her hand to Adam, who clasped it warmly, and continued, "I had sent a message to my Martina, that on this very day I would come to see her. For nearly two years past I have been obliged to go to church in another village, for spies were always watching me, and for a whole year I have never been able to speak to my Martina and—my Joseph; so now I must keep my promise; and yet I would like to give you a parting kiss; but—I won't, I wont! no! it would be wrong until I am once more a free man."

"You are honest, and can speak to the purpose," said the bride, smiling; "and yet people say you are so sulky."

"Very few know anything about me. No one really understands me except my Martina. She sees me as I really am, and yet I said very little to her, or she to me, and yet we knew each other thoroughly: she was quick, and she saw that though I was one of the richest men in the country, yet I was the poorest in reality. But she shall tell you about it, for she can talk far better than I can. You don't know how clever she is, and so good hearted, and so cheerful, and so loveable, and—and"—

Adam suddenly checked himself. To whom was he saying all this? to his betrothed bride! and she was looking at him, as if trying to remind him where they where and what they were. Nothing was heard but the clinking of the old men's glasses in the next room, and the whispering of the two mothers. At last Adam said, "So I have your promise that you won't say a word to any one. And now I must leave you to go to my Martina——to Martina—and—to my—boy, in the village. I shall be back by the time the Christmas tree is lighted up, and then it will either be—or—. God bless you!"

Tony, rather astonished, watched Adam wrapping himself in his grey cloak, and putting on his fur cap; then seizing his thick knotted stick with its long sharp point, he swung it in the air. He looked very handsome, but a formidable fellow. He left the room hurriedly, and the bride remained quietly seated by the fire. After a time Speidel Röttmann came into the kitchen, and said, "What is going on here? The dogs are so restless, and are whining beside us. Where is Adam?"

"He is gone."

"Where?"

"I don't mean to tell you; but he is soon coming back."

"Really? I know well enough where he is gone. But not a word to my wife of this, nor to your father. Has he been long gone?"

"Only a few minutes."

"Slip into the next room, and fetch me my hat; but take care that nobody sees you, and on no account let the dogs out. But no—yes; go get my hat. Adam is a fool, and you are the best girl in the world."

The bride, glad to get away from Speidel Röttmann's hints, went and fetched his hat and stick; and the old man enjoined on her to say that he meant to return immediately. So away he went, placing his stick firmly on the ground each step he took, as he strode along. He takes good care of himself.

CHAPTER X.

A FATHER IN SEARCH OF HIS SON.

When Adam got into the open air, he felt as if he had suddenly awoke. "What has happened? Unless I choose, nothing has happened." He shivered, and the hand which had clasped Tony's was now so cold that he tried to warm it on the head of his pipe. There was no possibility of missing the way to the village, but attention was necessary; for there was a steep precipice overhanging the valley below, close to the road; the snow was rapidly falling in thick flakes, and Adam had not gone twenty paces when he looked like a moving snow man. He was obliged to keep a sharp look out, for he could see no path before him; but he was so well acquainted with every tree, and every rock hereabouts, that he had no difficulty in finding them out even in the snow. When he reached the rising ground whence the descent into the valley commences, and looking back, saw the lights shining so cheerily in the Forest Mill, he felt a strong inclination to go back there.

"She is a very pretty creature, and hundreds have done the same, and yet have lived gaily and happily with their wives:—turn back!"

But, in spite of these tempting thoughts, he went straight on down the hill, so the lights in the mill soon disappeared from his view; and now his heart felt lighter, and in the thickly falling snow he lifted his hand to Heaven and vowed—"I will go home no more. I would rather be a poor labourer, and earn my daily bread, than desert my Martina, and my child, my Joseph; it is two years since I have heard his voice—he must be very much grown, and able now to say 'Father, father'!"

Suddenly Adam stood still—a child's voice was calling "Father, father!" through the wood, and once more, quite distinctly, "Father!" "Oh! I must be mistaken. How could it be? That mulled wine has confused my senses."

Adam relit his pipe, which had gone out, and by its flash he saw that there were irregular traces of dog's paws in the snow. "What is it? A dog no doubt has lost his master, and is searching for him," But there were no marks of a man's foot to be seen. "What need I care? I want to get on."

Hush! what again? a man's voice shouts from the top of the hill—"Adam! Adam!"—"Am I dreaming? or is the world bewitched tonight?"

Adam grasped his huge stick more firmly in his hand. "Let them come, the whole array of sorcerers, or demons, if they like. I am not afraid, for my life is not less wicked than theirs; because, like a lazy, foolish fellow, I have yielded to others for so many years; and God forgive me for my folly in thinking that my mother might yield at last;—for supposing that an iron horseshoe could be softened;—and now I have submitted to be made a Christmas mummer, and allowed myself to be betrothed; but I will never marry Tony, never; and, in spite of the whole world, I am resolved to do as I choose. I will have my Martina and Joseph for my own. Come on there, demons and evil spirits! What is that? It is the dog whose traces I saw just now. Come here, dog, come along. He won't come. Good Heavens! it is the wolf we have been searching for. He barks hoarsely—he is coming nearer."

For an instant Adam's hair stood on end, then boldly rushing forwards, he shouted—"I'll soon do for you—there, and there!"

The wolf now discovered what fierce strokes a man can give who has been forced into a betrothal, especially when that man is Adam Röttmann. The wolf received the strokes due to the wicked world in general, on which Adam would gladly have hammered away for an hour, and even after the animal lay prostrate, Adam scarcely believed he was dead; for wolves are vastly cunning, and he continued his blows, till at last he cautiously turned the animal over with the spike of his staff, and saw his four feet sticking up in the air. As the wolf no longer showed the smallest signs of life, Adam said, with infinite composure—"There, you are pretty well done for!" Perspiration was streaming down his forehead; he had lost his pipe, which had fallen out of his mouth, and it was probably the sparks he had shook out that had frightened the wolf. Adam sought in every direction for his pipe, but it was nowhere to be seen; at last he gave it up, and seizing the wolf by the nape of the neck, he dragged it behind him the whole way. When he saw the lights in the village, he laughed, and thought—"How astonished all in the village will be, when I bring them the wolf beat to death by my cudgel, and what will my Joseph say? Yes, little fellow! you must respect your father for his strength." Adam had in reality heard his name called behind him; for his father had followed him, and shouted out "Adam!" Who knows whether in the blinding snow the old man has not lost his way? Was Adam right also, in thinking that he heard a child's voice in the wood calling out "Father"?

It was not long before the inhabitants of the Forest Mill discovered that both father and son had mysteriously gone away, and the Röttmännin knew well where they had gone to.

She raged most, however, against her husband, who, without saying a word to her, had gone in pursuit of his foolish son; he was sure to do something stupid, when he did not come to her for advice. Adam too was by no means spared, and she called him many names far from flattering, and not at all in accordance with bridal festivities. The miller's wife, however, was sharp enough to interpose, saying that the Röttmännin was only in jest, because she knew that in truth no honourable titles were more than they deserved; and both women looked up in surprise when the bride said—"All that I heard Adam say, while he was sitting here with me, was kind, and sensible, and judicious." The two women burst out laughing with one accord, and said she was quite right; the Röttmännin, patting the bride's shoulder, said that was the only true way to get round a man, for they ought to be under petticoat government; that men were good-for-nothing creatures, and that they were utterly useless till they had a good wife. She, however, said she made an exception in the case of her dear relative, the Forest Miller, who did not apparently appreciate this compliment; for he could only stammer when he tried to speak, and then coughed so violently that he nearly choked. The Forest Miller had committed a rash action in drinking fair with Speidel Röttmann, a competition no one had ever yet attempted without being punished for it.

His wife was very much concerned about him, and prevailed on him to go to bed; she then came back to the room, and said—"Heaven be praised! he is sleeping quietly; he ought to know that no one is a match for Röttmann in drinking."

Flattered by this compliment, the Röttmännin said—"Take care that with such a cough, he does not delay making his will."

"People say—God forgive me for repeating their malice!" said the miller's wife, "that the Röttmännin is a malicious woman. Can any one be kinder than she is, in thus taking charge of a lone widow?" and then, as if this misfortune had already occurred, she looked quite disconsolate, and began to rub her eyes; as this was, however, of no use, she clasped her hands, and, looking admiringly at the Röttmännin, continued—"And she thinks of my interests, and does not want her own precious son to inherit every thing."

The Röttmännin said she was obliged to her; but she was quite mistaken, for she had never meant anything of the kind. She admitted that her son deserved very little, but still she was not quite such a fool, as to wish to see money and land heaped on strangers, when it ought by right to come into her family.

The Röttmännin now urged very sharply, that a messenger should be sent after her husband and son. The head farmservant was summoned, but he declared that he would not go, and that, moreover, he knew none of the other servants would leave the house in such weather, and indeed he could not blame them for refusing; and, moreover, there was no need to fetch them back, for when these hardy Röttmanns once got into the wood they would only return of their own accord. The Röttmännin was very indignant, and begged that at least her sledge might be brought to the door, that she might be driven home; she would show both her husband and Adam who was master, when she was once in her own house again. But no one in the mill would drive her, and both the miller's wife, with the most civil speeches, and the bride with the most kind cordiality, pressed her to stay all night at the mill; saying that everything would look very different by daylight next morning, and Adam had promised to return before the Christmas tree was lighted. She added that the children of the servants at the mill had been waiting anxiously for some time to see the tree lit up, and to receive their presents. The Röttmannin and the miller's wife thought this a very good idea, and the former praised the bride exceedingly for her good nature, and insinuated that she had probably arranged some agreeable surprize with Adam.

CHAPTER XI.

THE VILLAGE CHURCH DESERTED.

"When a friend comes to visit me," said the Pastor, "I feel so happy; and do you know why? In the first place, I enjoy myself more; people may say what they will of the iniquity of the human heart, but the pleasant feeling caused by entertaining a friend, is deeply imprinted in every heart."

"And secondly?" asked Edward.

"In the second place," answered the Pastor, "when I have a guest, it is an excuse to myself not to go out. The world is come to me, I travel along the whole road with my visitor, so I earn the right to stay at home."

It was with an indescribable feeling of satisfaction that the Pastor said these words, after dinner, to his brother-in-law. The afternoon was not far advanced, and yet twilight was fast approaching. If the brother-in-law felt great reverence for the Pastor, that worthy man was extremely pleased with the cheerful, sanguine, yet prudent character of the young man. There are such youths still in the world; the miseries of ennui and discontent, and the feeling of being constantly bored, have not yet penetrated into every circle. Fresh youth once more blooms in the world—different from what we once were, but with the germs of a prosperous future. These were the Pastor's thoughts, while listening with satisfaction to the young man's conversation; the pleasure he experienced in looking at the handsome youth who had formerly been under his care, and more especially his ingenuous nature and good sentiments, produced in his heart the fondness of a father in the highest sense. "You must marry some one who can sing with you," said he to Edward; "it would be a pity to have a wife who could not make melody along with you."

They continued to converse on various subjects, and Edward remarked, that many young men formed an entirely false idea of the life of a farmer, and therefore were ruined, both in mind and body. Being the son of a councillor in a high position, he had himself suffered considerably from the consequences of false representations, till he learned from experience the necessity of taking a personal interest in agriculture: he was now steward on the property of a nobleman, but had just given up his situation, with a view to rent a farm, or to purchase a small property.

In the midst of this conversation, they heard some persons knocking off the snow from their shoes, at the house door. Three men were standing below, who presently came up: they were the churchwardens.

"Edward, come into the next room," said his sister, adding, "This is my brother, and this is Schilder-David, Herzbauer, and Wagner.

"Glad to see you, sir," said Schilder-David, shaking hands with Edward, "but we beg you will stay where you are, Frau Pastorin; we should like you and your brother too to hear what we have to say."

"Sit down," said the Pastor.

"Many thanks, but it is not necessary," said Schilder-David, who was evidently spokesman. "Herr Pastor, we wish to say in few words what we have heard in the village; who first brought the report, we don't know; but you have often, Herr Pastor, impressed on us the propriety, on hearing anything of a man that you would rather not believe, to go straight to him, and to put the question direct to himself; so, no offence, Herr Pastor, but is it true that you wish to leave us?"

"Yes."

For a time there was perfect stillness in the room, and at last Schilder-David began again.

"Well: now I believe it, Herr Pastor. Before you came we had a Pastor who disliked us, and whom we equally disliked—can anything be more dreadful? How can Christian love, faith, and piety flourish, when he who preaches the word of God, and he who hears it, have no mutually kind feeling? It would be sad indeed if this were to be once more the case; we know that there are some in the parish who vex the good heart of our Pastor; but Herr Pastor, the gracious Lord would have spared Sodom if even two just men had been found there, and you, Herr Pastor, persist in leaving us because there are two or three wicked men among us." Here Schilder-David paused, but as the Pastor made no reply, he continued:—

"Herr Pastor, it is no use our telling you how you have grown into all our hearts. If it is better for you to go elsewhere, we can but wish you happy wherever you may be; but every man, woman, and child, in this village, who ever met their Herr Pastor, feel as if they must give him some proof of gratitude and love; as if they could not let him pass with a simple good morning, or good evening: we heartily wish, Herr Pastor, that there may be the same kindly feeling towards you in the new place you are going to, and also that, if you persist in leaving us, you will at least endeavour to provide us with—I don't say such a man as yourself, for that we cannot hope for—but at all events with a good man."

"Thank you, thank you," said the Pastor, "I will do what lies in my power."

"No, no," said Herzbauer, "David has by no means said all we wanted: our greatest wish is that the Herr Pastor should stay among us, and not leave our village church deserted."

"I could not recall my application for another Cure, even if I wished to do so."

"Then we hope the Herr Pastor will excuse us for having troubled him," said Wagner, with a certain feeling of pride, that he also had made a little speech, and one by no means the least to the point.

The men left the room; the Pastorin however went down stairs with them, and comforted them by saying, that their persuasions might perhaps not be quite unavailing, and that she had nothing to do with her husband's resolution, which she thought he now regretted; perhaps to-morrow what they said might be more effectual, for he was very weary to day, having been summoned to Röttmanshof during the night, for nothing, and less than nothing.

"I did hear," said Schilder-David, "that they are all assembled at the Forest Mill this very day to betroth Adam to Tony. I was unwilling to believe it, but I do now, every word of it; the betrothal however they shall find of no use, for we are resolved never to give up our just claim."

The Pastorin returned into the room, where she found her husband and her brother still sitting together in silence: none of them spoke a single word. The evening bells rung out clear; indeed all the three bells, for the Holy Festival was being rung in, and there was a singular vibration too in the hearts of these three persons, though inaudible to any human ear. At length the Pastorin said: "I shall grieve when the time comes that I no longer hear these bells; what a multiplicity of events they have rung forth for us!"

The Pastor still sat in silence at the window, and at last said, as if speaking to himself: "The most trying thing is to resolve to leave what we are accustomed to; as I have at last made up my mind to do so, both in my own thoughts, and also to the knowledge of others, it would not do for me now to retract my determination: I will see you again shortly Edward."

So saying, the Pastor went into his study.

CHAPTER XII.

WHERE IS JOSEPH?

"Where is Joseph?" asked Schilder-David when he came home.

"He is not here."

"I sent him home however, when I went to speak to our Pastor."

"He is not come home."

"I daresay he is gone to see Häspele again; I will go and fetch him," said Martina rising from her chair.

"Don't fail to give him a good box on the ear, for running about alone in such an independent way," said David to his daughter as she was leaving the house.

Martina soon came back and said, "Joseph is neither at Häspele's nor in the workshop."

"Where on earth can that tiresome boy be? I will go and look for him myself."

The grandfather went out, and enquired for Joseph from house to house; no one knew anything of him; Schilder-David went home again, thinking that no doubt he should find the boy arrived before him.

"But where is Joseph?" said Martina to her father, when he entered the room on the ground floor, that served as a kitchen.

"He is sure to be here very soon," said the grandfather; going however through the whole house, and searching every corner of it; he called up to his workshop in the loft the name of Joseph, and felt quite startled by the hollow echo; he shoved aside presses, behind which neither man nor boy could have been hidden, and he even opened the cover of the watercourse, behind the house, forgetting that it was frozen over, and nobody could possibly fall into it. Just as he returned to the house he met Häspele, bringing home Joseph's new boots: he told him privately that he was looking for the boy, and that he was in great trouble lest something should have happened to the child; he did not know what, but he felt very uneasy about him.

"Did you look for him at the old Bugler's? I heard him blowing away, and beautifully too; at this moment, depend upon it, Joseph is with him; here are his boots, I will go and fetch the boy."

The worthy Häspele ran quickly down the village, to a stocking weaver's who was seated in his room, practising some new tunes on the French horn. It sounded very pretty through the stillness of the night, when a man's own footsteps were inaudible in the thick snow.

It was very natural that Joseph should prefer being with the old horn player, to sitting at home; but he was not there either. On his way, Häspele mentioned to his neighbours that he was in search of Joseph; no one had seen him, and nowhere was he to be found! Häspele returned to David with this distressing intelligence, and the latter said, "Keep quiet, and not a word before the women, or there will be a fine howling; stay here for a little, he has very probably hid himself, and perhaps intends to come here with the Three Holy Kings—I mean the masks, who go about on this evening—I daresay he thinks it would be fine fun; but I'll show him another sort of fun when I catch him."

David sat down again, and with apparent composure, whistled, and kept waving his hand in the air, as if in anticipation of the strokes of the birch rod he fully intended to administer to the little culprit.

"I will stay quietly where I am," said he, as if addressing himself; so he filled his pipe and went on smoking, muttering occasionally, what a good-for-nothing little scamp Joseph was, but he would take care he should be well punished for all the anxiety he had caused. David took up his Bible, and continued to read on from the place where he had stopped the day before; it was in the 2nd book of Samuel, 12th chapter, where King David mourns for his sick child. This did not contribute to tranquillize the reader, so he got up and went out and in, listening anxiously. The bells were all merrily ringing in the Festival—surely he must come soon now—but no one came. There was no longer a possibility of secresy; David went to every house in the village to the right, and Häspele the same to the left. They both met again at David's house. The procession of the Three Holy Kings passed along; Joseph was not with them; concealment was now out of the question.

"Martina, our Joseph has disappeared," said the grandfather, and Martina uttered a loud cry of grief, exclaiming:—

"This was why he woke me three times last night and asked; 'Mother, is it not yet light?' Joseph! Joseph! Joseph! where are you?" shouted she through the whole house, up the hill, and all along the village, in the garden, and among the fields.

"Oh! if he is lost, I shall die," said David; "I shall never hear the New Year rung in, and the tree I bought to make clock cases of, may be sawed up for my coffin, and I laid in it."

But Martina did not hear her father's lamentations, for she had rushed out of the house long since; David's neckcloth felt too tight, and he snatched it off, his face looking quite distorted, for he wished to suppress his tears, and yet could not. Suddenly he thought to himself, "Joseph must be in the church!" he hurried to the church, the door of which was open, as they were preparing it for midnight service. The schoolmaster was walking about alone, with a single candle, and placing quantities of lights on the altar.

"Joseph! Joseph! are you here?" cried David, on the threshold of the church; the sound vibrated loudly. The candle fell out of the schoolmaster's hand, and he answered, trembling, "There is no one here but myself—what is the matter?"

"You allowed the children to give him the nickname of 'The Foal,' so it is your fault that he is gone off, and is nowhere to be found," cried David, and hurried away. The schoolmaster was as much in the dark about this reproach, as he now was in the church, where, after much groping about, he at last found the wax taper.

The whole village collected together, and even the stocking weaver came with his French horn, which, however, he quickly put under his old military cloak, to prevent its getting wet. "I will blow the horn all through the village," said he, "and then he will come."

"No!" said one. "The old Röttmännin has no doubt caused him to be stolen, hoping to force you, Martina, to give up Adam, for this very afternoon he was betrothed to the Forest Miller's Tony; one of the miller's men was here, and told us all about it."

"Don't drive me out of my senses," cried Martina. "Joseph! Joseph! come! oh, come! your mother is calling you!"

While they were still standing clustered together, a strange looking little man was seen coming up the valley, hung all round and round with huge bundles protruding on every side. It was the hatter from the next town, bringing for the holidays, a collection of newly dressed three-cornered hats into the village.

"What is going on here?" asked the little man.

"We are looking for a child—Joseph—he has disappeared."

"How old is the child?"

"Six years old."

"I met a fine boy with a rosy face, and fair curly hair."

"Yes, yes, that must have been Joseph; for God's sake tell me where he is," said Martina, rushing up to the man so eagerly, that all his hats tumbled down into the snow.

"Gently, gently! I have not got him in my bundles. Below there, in the wood, I all at once met a boy; I asked him: 'What are you doing here alone, and night beginning to fall? where are you going to?' 'To meet my father, who is coming up this road; did you not see him?' 'What is your father like?' 'Big and strong.' 'I have not seen him—come home with me, child.' 'No, I am coming home with my father.' I took hold of the child, and tried to bring him with me by force, but he being wild and obstinate, gave me the slip, and darted off like a deer, and I heard him still calling, far into the wood, 'Father! father!'"

"That was certainly Joseph; for God's sake let us go after him."

"We will all go—all!"

"Stop!" said Schilder-David, coming forward; "hatter, will you go with us?"

"I cannot, for I am so weary, I can scarcely set one foot before the other; besides, it would be of no use, for it is more than an hour since I saw the child; I stopped for some time at the Meierhof; and who knows where the child may be now; I can tell you exactly where I met him—in the Otterswald Wood, close to the river, where the large spreading beech stands. It is the only very large tree there, and you all know it."

"Very well," said Schilder-David, striving to be composed; "I shall take good care to break a branch off that tree, to make Joseph remember it."

"No! no, you are not to beat him!" exclaimed Martina—she did not like to say, that this was the very same beech tree, where Adam had spoken to her for the first time; and perhaps her child might at that very moment be lying under it—frozen to death.

"It is night, and we can see nothing, and the snow is falling faster than ever," cried Häspele; "fetch torches, ring the alarm bell; we must ask the Pastor to let us do so; come straight to the Parsonage."

Martina, however, was taken home, and when she saw the boots on the table, she sobbed more than ever, saying: "Alas! how proud he was of them, and now his dear little feet are frozen—cold—dead!"

The women round Martina tried to comfort her, and one of them said, with the kindest intentions, that to be frozen to death was the easiest of all deaths; it was simply falling asleep, and never awaking.

"He would fall asleep on earth, to awake in Heaven," said the poor mother, weeping bitterly. "My Joseph prophesied it himself; he was too wise, too good, and went to meet his father. No, I will not die! when Adam goes to church with his bride, he shall hear my Joseph cry out from above, 'No!' and—he called 'father! father!' his father did not answer him; he did not know his voice—but day and night he will know it now. So long as he lives it will sound in his ears, that his child was frozen to death in his own wood; he need not go out and try to wrap him up now—too late—too late! his heart must be as hard as a stone! and there is the wooden horse my boy played with; it looks pitifully at me, though only wood; but the father is of wood too, he has no pity, he has killed his child. How often have I seen him holding out bread to his wooden horse! Oh! he had such a kind heart! oh! Joseph, Joseph!"

One of the women whispered to the other: "It would be a happy thing if he were only frozen to death, for a huge wolf is prowling about in the wood, and who knows if it has not torn the child to pieces." Though this was said in so low a voice, the ears of those who grieve are wonderfully acute; in the midst of her loud lamentations, Martina caught the words, and suddenly screamed out "The wolf, the wolf!" she clenched her hands and said, convulsively, "Oh! that I could strangle it with my own hands!" and looking at Leegart, she said, sobbing, "Oh! Leegart! Leegart! why do you sit sewing there at the darling's jacket, when the child is dead?"

"I did not hear a syllable; don't blame me; I heard nothing; you would not say a word; I asked three times, and no one answered. You know I have no superstition—nothing is so silly as to be superstitious; still there is no doubt of the fact, that so long as you go on either sewing or spinning for any one, that person cannot die. There was once a king——" and in the midst of all the distress and confusion, Leegart coolly related the story of Penelope and Ulysses, with some singular additions of her own; saying that Penelope had worked indefatigably at her web, but undid at night what she had done by day, and thus saved the life of her husband, who was in America.

Leegart was afraid, and not without cause, that in the agitation of the moment, her tale was not very distinctly heard; she acted, therefore, prudently, in proceeding with her story without pausing, or even looking up. When she was once seated, it was well known that she never left her chair till her time was up, and when she once began to tell a story, she went on steadily to the very end; indeed, if the house had taken fire, it was very doubtful whether she would have moved. We must hope, therefore, that the fire will be kind enough to wait till Leegart's hour for departure is come.

While Martina was lamenting with the women in the house, the whole troop of men, had arrived at the Parsonage, and Häspele offered to be spokesman. The children, too, begged hard to be allowed to go with the rest to look for Joseph, but their mothers began to cry and to hold them back, while the fathers shook them off impatiently, and scolded them soundly into the bargain. The decrepit old men, who had crept forth from their snug corners beside the stove, took the women and children home with them.

It looked like the vanguard of an army advancing on the foe—but where was the foe? There were some, however, who declared that it was utterly absurd to seek a child in the forest, in such a storm and in such blinding snow; it would be exactly like looking for a needle in a haystack. Häspele, however, called out, "Those who don't like to go with us can stay behind, there is no need to coax any one to go." Not one person left them. Häspele went up stairs and entreated the Pastor to allow the alarm bell to be rung. The Pastor was much distressed on hearing about Joseph, but said, he could not permit the alarm bell to be sounded, for it would terrify the neighbouring parishes without sufficient cause, and make them reluctant perhaps to give their assistance on some future occasion.

"It is good of you to go in such numbers to seek Joseph; I am glad to see it," said he in conclusion.

"There is not a single young healthy man in the village staying behind," said Häspele.

"I, however, am obliged to remain here," said the Pastor with a smile; "the Röttmännin occupied all my time last night, and I must be ready for midnight service in the church—but we will all pray for those who are in the forest."

"I will go instead of you," said his brother-in-law. "Who is your leader?"

"We have none; will you be so good as to be our conductor, Herr brother-in-law?"

All laughed, for Häspele, not knowing the young farmer's name, designated him simply as the Pastor's brother-in-law.

"My name is Brand," said Edward; "I know the path, for I was there to-day."

"The Pastorin's brother is going with us," was soon whispered into the street, and everyone was pleased. Häspele was right; with the exception of the sick and decrepit, every man in the village was present—they were all standing at the door with torches, iron spikes, ladders, axes, and long ropes.

"Is there any one here who can make a signal?" asked Edward. The stocking weaver drew his horn from under his cloak. The instrument did not shine brighter in the torchlight than the face of the stocking weaver, who had suddenly become so important a personage.

"Good! keep close to me. According to my ideas this is the best plan: the bugler is to go with me to the Reitersberg, where we will light a fire, and then let all disperse two and two; not one alone. Whoever finds Joseph, must either bring him to us on the Reitersberg, or at least any tidings of him. Three loud long blasts of the horn will be heard at intervals, so long as Joseph is not found; but as soon as we find him, three short notes will be sounded, and continued till we are all reassembled. But what would be still better; I have my gun with me, are there any others in the village?"

"Certainly there are."

"Then go and fetch several, and when Joseph is found, we will fire three consecutive shots. If we were not to do that, very possibly some of your good people might still be running about in the snow and cold, long after Joseph was found."

"He is right—a capital notion! Just like the brother of our Frau Pastorin."

The young farmer smiled, and continued: "One thing more: we have coverlets and mattrasses with us. Is there any dog in the village that knows Joseph?"

"They all know him, and love him. You know Joseph, don't you, Blitz?" said Häspele to a large dog at his heels.

The huge yellow dog answered by a loud bark, and a wag of his tail.

"Very well," exclaimed Edward, "let loose the dogs then."

"And we will hang lanterns round their necks, and round our own the bells of the cows, and those of our teams."

Every one had a fresh suggestion to make, so it was fortunate that the various opinions were concentrated into one by their leader.

"Now give us once more the signal, that we may all know it thoroughly," said Edward; and the stocking weaver blew his horn with all his might.

Scarcely had the sound died away, when Martina came running up and exclaimed: "Here are his clothes."

"Let the dogs smell the clothes," said Edward.

Martina would have been almost knocked down by the dogs who surrounded her, if Häspele had not had the sense to take the bundle from her.

"Call to the dogs,—'Seek Joseph'!" commanded Edward; "and now forward! march! Joseph is our battle cry."

"Halt!" shouted a deep powerful voice from the opposite side, "what is the matter?"

"Adam," cried Martina, rushing up to him, "what have you there? have you found our Joseph?"

"Our Joseph! what do you mean? This is the wolf that I killed with my cudgel."

"The wolf that tore our child to pieces," cried Martina, clenching her hands in agony, and staring down at the dead animal. Häspele, very properly, told Adam in few words what had occurred. Adam was still holding the animal by the neck, and now he shook the dead creature violently, and hurled it with superhuman strength far away over the ditch into the field. Then he said:—

"I make a solemn vow here, before you all, that whether our child is found or not, my Martina is mine for life or death. May God forgive me for having been so long a weak undecided, good-for-nothing fellow! but listen to me, men all. Each of you may strike me in the face if I do not take my Martina to my own house, even if father, mother, and the whole world are against it."

"For heaven's sake, don't talk of this just now," said Martina, hiding her face on Adam's breast, and bursting for the first time into tears; Adam laid his hand fondly on her head, his breast heaving with the thick sobs which closely followed each other. Never did any one see Adam weep but that once.

The whole assemblage, at a silent signal from Edward, had gone forward with their bells, dogs, and torches; Häspele alone stayed behind with the unhappy parents, and when Adam looked up, large tears were glittering in his eyes in the light of the torch. Adam, however, stood erect, and said energetically: "Come, Martina, we shall certainly find him. I cannot think that he is dead; I heard him calling in the wood; I could not believe that it was really a human voice, and yet it was the voice of my child."

"And how often he called you during the night, and you could not hear him!"

"If he is still alive, I will cherish henceforth every word of his."

"God grant it! Amen," said Häspele in a low voice, and went on before them with his torch; and the two followed him close together.