"The world is wretchedly small," exclaimed Mr. Hummel, to his confidant, "people always meet again. One who has been galloping, like you, should take care of himself; you are exhausted, and look greatly changed. Sit down on this log and rest yourself like a sensible man."
He pushed Gabriel down, buttoned his coat, and patted him on the cheek with his large hand.
"You must be in great need of refreshment, but the best we have here is a water-perch, and I do not like to treat you like a despicable New Zealander, who in the booths at a fair consumes five cents-worth of raw whitings. Take the last restorative of a Parisian traveler."
He forced him to take a piece of chocolate.
A few steps from them, at the bridge, stood the Prince with folded arms, looking at the water, which on the side of Rossau had spread itself over the meadows and low fields about the town. Rapidly did the expanse of water increase; on the nearest part of the new road, which had not yet been paved, puddles of water gleamed between the heaps of sand and the wheelbarrows of the workmen; the road projected like a dark strip out of the muddy flood. A few individuals were coming from Rossau; they waded through the thick mud of the road and supported themselves timidly by the smooth poles which supplied the place of the bridge-rails. For the water rushed violently against the beams instead of flowing deep under the arches, and the spectators on the Bielstein side called aloud to them to make haste. The Chamberlain hastened down to his silent master and looked anxiously in his face. He was followed by the Proprietor.
"If I could do as I wished, I would break these tottering planks with my own hands," he said, indignantly, to Mr. Hummel.
"The carriages are coming," called the people. The Sovereign's carriage with four horses drove at a rapid trot through the gate of Rossau. Beside the Sovereign sat the Lord High Steward. The former had during the wearisome journey been in a state of gloomy stupor; an occasional wild word, and a look of intense hatred, was all his intercourse with his companion.
The courtier had in vain endeavored to draw the Sovereign into quiet conversation. Even the consideration of the two servants sitting at the back of the open carriage could not restrain the Sovereign's mood. Exhausted by the secret strain of this journey the old gentleman sat, the attendant by his invalid, and his sharp eye watched every movement of his companion. When they drove out of the town into the open country, the Sovereign began, musingly:
"Did you recognize the horseman that overtook us in such haste?"
"He was a stranger to me," said the High Steward.
"He conveyed information of our arrival; they are prepared to receive us."
"Then he has done your Highness a service, for they would hardly have had any anticipation at the hunting-lodge of your Highness's important resolution."
"We are not yet at the end of our drama. Lord High Steward," said the Sovereign, tauntingly; "the art of foreseeing the future is lost. Even your Excellency does not understand that."
"I have always been satisfied with observing cautiously what surrounds me in the present, and I have thereby sometimes guarded myself from being disagreeably surprised by the future. If by any accident I should myself be prevented from carrying out my rôle in the drama of which your Highness speaks, I have taken care that others shall act my part."
The Sovereign threw himself back in his seat. The carriage went on through the mire, the horses floundered, and the coachman looked back doubtfully.
"Forward!" called out the Sovereign, in a sharp voice.
"The Hereditary Prince awaits your Highness at the bridge on foot," said the High Steward.
They went on at a good pace, the coachman with difficulty restraining his horses, who were frightened at the glittering expanse of water and the roar of the flood.
"Forward!" again commanded the Sovereign.
"Permit the coachman to stop, your Highness; the carriage cannot go further without danger."
"Do you fear danger, old man?" exclaimed the Sovereign, his face distorted with hatred. "Here we are both in the water--the same fate for us both, Lord High Steward. He is a bad servant who abandons his master."
"But I wish to restrain your Highness also," replied the High Steward.
"Forward!" cried the Sovereign again.
The coachman stopped.
"It is impossible, most gracious master," he said; "we can no longer go over the bridge."
The Sovereign jumped up in the carriage, and raised his stick against the coachman. The man, frightened, whipped his horses; they reared and sprang off to one side.
"Stop!" cried the High Steward.
The frightened lackeys readily jumped down, and held the horses. The High Steward opened the carriage door, and scrambled out.
"I beseech your Highness to alight."
The Sovereign sprang out, and, casting a look of vindictive hatred at him, hastened forward on foot. He stepped on the bridge, and the flood roared around him.
"Stay back, father," entreated the Hereditary Prince.
The father laughed, and advanced over the tottering planks; he had passed over the middle of the bridge and the deepest part of the stream; only a few steps more and his foot would touch the shore of Bielstein. At that moment there rose up near the bridge a bent figure, that cried out wildly to him:
"Welcome to our country, Gracious Lord; mercy for the poor beggar-woman. I bring you greeting from the fair-haired lady of the rock."
"Away with the crazy creature," exclaimed the Chamberlain.
The Sovereign gazed-fixedly at the wild figure; he tottered, and supported himself by the rails. The Hereditary Prince flew towards him; the father drew back with a shudder, lost his footing, and rolled down the side of the slippery planks into the flood.
There was a loud scream from the bystanders; the son sprang after him. The next moment half-a-dozen men were in the water--among the first, Gabriel, cautiously followed by Mr. Hummel. The gigantic form of the Proprietor towered above the stream; he had grasped the Sovereign, while Gabriel and Hummel seized the Prince. "The Sovereign lives," called out the Proprietor to the son, laying the unconscious man on the shore. The Hereditary Prince threw himself down by his father on the ground. The latter lay on the gravel road, the beggar-woman holding his head; he looked with glazed eyes before him, and did not recognize his kneeling son, nor the furrowed countenance of the stranger who bent over him. "He lives," repeated the Proprietor, in a low tone; "but his limbs cannot perform their office." On the other side of the water stood the High Steward. He called out to the Chamberlain in French, then hastened back with the carriage to Rossau, in order to reach a safer crossing. It was with difficulty that the carriage was brought back. Meanwhile, on the Bielstein side, a plank was torn off the half-destroyed bridge and the Sovereign laid upon it and carried to the Manor. The children of the Proprietor ran ahead and opened the door of the old house. In the hall stood Ilse, white as marble. She had been told by her brother that the Sovereign was saved from the water; he was approaching the house, to two generations of which he had been a curse and a terror. She stood in the entrance-hall no longer the Ilse of former days, but a wild Saxon woman who would hurl the curses of her gods on the head of the enemy of her race; her eyes glowed, and her hands closed convulsively. They carried the exhausted man up the steps. Then Ilse came to the threshold, and cried:
"Not in here."
So shrill was the command, that the bearers halted.
"Not into our house," she cried the second time, raising her hand threateningly.
The Sovereign heard the voice; he smiled, and nodded his head graciously.
"It is a Christian duty. Ilse," exclaimed the Proprietor.
"I am the Professor's wife," cried Ilse, passionately. "Our roof will fall upon that man's head."
"Remove your daughter," said the Hereditary Prince, in a low tone. "I demand admittance for the Sovereign of this country."
The Proprietor approached the steps and seized Ilse's arm. She tore herself away from him.
"You drive your daughter from your house, father," she exclaimed, beside herself. "If you are the servant of this man, I am not. There is no room for him and my husband at the same time. He comes to ruin us, and his presence brings a curse!"
She tore open the gate into the garden and fled under the trees, burst through the hedge, and hastened down into the valley; there she sprang upon the wooden bridge, from which she had shortly before driven the village people; the flood roared wildly beneath her, and the woodwork bent and groaned. A rent, a crack, and with a powerful spring she alighted on the rock on the other side; behind her the ruins of the bridge whirled down to the valley. She stood on the rocky prominence in front of the grotto, and raised her hands with a wild look to heaven. Her eldest brother came running behind her from the garden, and screamed when he saw the ruins of the bridge.
"I am separated from you," exclaimed Ilse. "Tell father, he need not care for me; the air is pure here; I am under the protection of the Lord, whom I serve; and my heart is light."
CHAPTER XLI.
IN THE CAVE.
The dark water gurgled and streamed through the valley; the reflection of the setting sun shone on the bay-windows of the old house; the wife of the Scholar stood alone beneath the rock overhanging the entrance to the cave. Where once the wives of the ancient Saxons listened to the rustling of the forest-trees, and where the wife of the hunted robber hurled stones on his pursuers, now stood the fugitive daughter of the Manor on the Rock, looking down on the wild surging of the water, and up to the house where her husband's foe was resting in the arm-chair of her father. Her breast still heaved convulsively, but she looked kindly on the brown rock which spread its protecting vault above her. Below her roared the wild, destructive flood, while around her the diminutive life of nature carelessly played. The dragon-flies chased one another over the water, the bees hummed about the herbs of the sloping hill, and the wood-birds chanted their evening-carols. She seated herself on the stone bench, and struggled for peaceful thoughts; she folded her hands and bent her head; and the storm within her bosom spent itself in the tears that flowed from her eyes.
"I will not think of myself, but only of those I love. The little ones will inquire after me when they go to bed; to-night they will not hear the stories of the city that I used to tell them, to put them to sleep. They were all wet after their fishing, and in the confusion no one will think of putting dry stockings on them. In thinking of other things I have forgotten to care for them. The youngest persists in wishing to become a professor. My child, you do not know what it is you wish. How much must you learn, and what a change will come over you! For the work which life accomplishes in us is immeasurable. When I formerly sat here near my father, I believed, in my simplicity, that the higher the office, the more noble were the men, and the most exalted of all the best, and that all that was important on earth was done by great and refined minds. And when the two scholars came, and I talked about books with Felix for the first time, I still imagined that everything in print must be indubitable truth, and every one who wrote, a thoroughly learned man. Many think thus childishly. But I have been an obstinate thing, and have vehemently opposed myself to others, even to my husband, who stood highest in my opinion."
She looked with a sad smile before her, but immediately afterwards bent her head, and again the tears poured from her eyes.
She heard the call of her brother from the garden.
"Holloa, Ilse! are you there? The strangers are still in the house; they are making a sedan chair for the invalid; he is to be taken to the ranger's lodge. Father is busy sending out messengers. The bridge at Rossau has also been carried away by the water; we cannot get to the town, and no one can come from the town to us. We feel very anxious about your getting back to us."
"Do not mind about me, Hans," said Ilse; "tell the girls they must not be so engrossed with the strangers as to forget our dear guest. Greet the children for me; they must not come to the edge of the water to bid me good night, for the bank is slippery."
Ilse placed herself at the entrance of the cave and looked all about. Early that morning she had seated herself here, and when the water began to rise high, she had hastened over the wooden bridge to warn her brothers and sisters. Her work still lay on the bench, together with a book that had been given her by the Pastor when she was a girl. It was the life of the holy Elizabeth, written by one of the most zealous ecclesiastics of her church.
"When I first read about you," she thought, "Saint Ilse of the Wartburg, my distinguished namesake, your life touched me, and all that you did and that was told of you appeared to me as an example for myself. You were a pious, sensible, and amiable woman, and united to a worthy husband. Then the longing for higher honor in his knightly order, and martial fame, made him blind to the nearest duty of his life, and he left you and the people of his home, and went to the wars in the far-off land of Italy. Two long years he wandered and fought, and finally returned, weary and worn. But he found not his beloved wife as he had left her. In the solitude that surrounded you, you had yearned for your husband, and your overpowering sorrow had brought you to ponder upon the great mysteries of life; your own life had been full of longing, and for this you had become a pious penitent. You wore a garment of hair, and scourged your back; you bowed your head and thoughts before an intolerant priest. You did what was not right nor seemly; to please your God, you laid the leper in the bed of your dear husband. In your over-strained piety you lost your warm heart and the modesty of womanhood; you were canonized by the clergy; but you, poor woman, in your striving for what they called the grace of God, had sacrificed human feelings and duties. It is not good, Ilse, that man and wife separate without great necessity."
"When people act harshly towards those they love, they do so because some wrong has been done them or because they fancy themselves offended. But why should you care for invalid strangers on the couch that your husband had forsaken? I fear me, blessed Elizabeth, that it was the spite of offended love, that it was secret revenge for having so hopelessly longed for your husband. Your history is no good teaching for us, but rather a warning. My sweet old friend Penelope, the poor heathen woman, was far more human than you and a far better wife than you. She wept night after night for her loved husband, and when he finally returned, she threw her arms about him for his having recognized the secret signs of the nuptial couch."
Again a voice sounded from the other side of the water.
"Do you hear me, Ilse?" cried her father, from the other bank.
"I hear you," answered Ilse, raising herself.
"The strangers are going away," said the father; "the invalid is so weak that he cannot injure others; you are, in truth, separated from us. It is becoming dark, and there is no prospect of being able to repair the bridge over the water before night. Go along the valley on your side over the hill to Rossau, and there remain with some one of our acquaintances until morning. It is a long way round, but you may reach it before night."
"I will remain here, father," Ilse called back; "the evening is mild, and it is only a few hours till morning."
"I cannot bear, Ilse, that my wilful child should sleep beneath the rocks in the very sight of her home."
"Do not mind about me. I have the moon and the stars over me; you know that I do not fear the dwarfs of the cave, nor on my mountain the power of man."
The twilight of evening fell on the deep valley, and the mist rose from the water; it floated slowly from tree to tree, it undulated and rolled its long, dusky veil between Ilse and her father's house. The trunks of the trees and the roof of the house disappeared, and the grotto seemed to hover in clouds of air separated from the earth amidst indistinct shadows, which hung round the entrance of the rock and fluttered at Ilse's feet, then collected together and dissolved.
Ilse sat on the bench at the entrance, her hands folded over her knees, appearing in her light dress, like a fairy woman of olden times, a ruler of the floating shadows. She gazed along her side of the shore on the mountain-path that led from Rossau.
The distant steps of a wanderer sounded through the damp fog. Ilse took hold of the moist stone. Something moved on the ground near her, and glided indistinctly forward--perhaps it was a night-swallow or owl.
"It is he," said Ilse, softly. She rose slowly, she trembled, and supported herself against the rock.
The figure of a man stepped out of the white mist; he stopped astonished when he saw a woman standing there.
"Ilse!" called out a clear voice.
"I await you here," she answered, in a low tone. "Stop there, Felix. You find not your wife as you left her. Another has coveted that which is yours; a poisonous breath has passed over me; words have been said to me which no honest woman ought to hear, and I have been looked upon as a bought slave."
"You have escaped from the enemy."
"I have, and therefore am here; but I am no longer in the eyes of others what I once was. You had a wife free from all taint; she who now stands before you is evilly talked of, both on account of father and son."
"The noise of tongues dies away like the surging of the water beneath your feet. It signifies little what others think when we have done what is satisfactory to our own consciences."
"I am glad that you do not care for the talk of others. But I am not quite so proud and independent as I was. I conceal my sorrow, but I feel it always. I am lowered in my own eyes, and, I fear, Felix, in yours also; for I have brought on my own misfortune--I have been too frank with strangers, and given them a right over me."
"You have been brought up to trust in those who hold high positions. Who can give up loyal trust without pain?"
"I have been awakened, Felix. Now answer me," she continued, with agitation, "how do you return to me?"
"As a weary, erring man, who seeks the heart of his wife and her forgiveness."
"What has your wife to forgive, Felix?" she again asked.
"That my eyes were blinded, and that I forgot my first duties to follow a vain chase."
"Is that all, Felix? Have you brought me back your heart, unchanged to me as it was before?"
"Dear Ilse," exclaimed her husband, embracing her.
"I hear your tones of love," she exclaimed, passionately, throwing her arms round his neck. She led him into the grotto, stroked the drops of water out of his damp hair, and kissed him. "I have you, my beloved one; I cling firmly to you, and no power shall ever again separate me from you. Sit here, you long-suffering man; I hold you fast. Let me hear all the trouble you have gone through."
The Scholar held his wife in his arms, and related all. He felt her tremble when he told her his adventures.
"Indignant anger and terror impelled me along the road to Rossau after the Sovereign," he said, concluding his account, "and the delay for change of horses seemed insupportable to me. In the town I found a crush of vehicles worse than on a market-day; before the inn a confused noise of wheels, and the cries of men, drovers, and court-lackeys, who could not cross the water. In the city I learned from strangers that the foe of our happiness had been overtaken by a fate which pursued him to the water. We have done with him, and are free. They called out to me that the bridge on the way to you was broken. I sprang out of the carriage in order to seek the footpath over the hills and the road behind the garden. Then the dog of our landlord ran past me, and a coachman from our city came up to me and stated that he had brought Fritz and Laura to the town, but that they had gone further down the stream in order to find a crossing. You may believe that I would not wait."
"I knew that you would seek this path," said Ilse. "To-day you are come to me--to me alone; you belong only to me; you are given to me anew, betrothed to me for the second time. The habitations of men around us have disappeared; we stand alone in the wild cave of the dwarfs. You, my Felix, to whom the whole world belongs, who understand all the secrets of life, who know the past and divine the future--you have nothing now for a shelter but this cleft of the rock, and no covering but the kerchief of poor Anna for your weary limbs. The rock is still warm, and I will strew the grass of our hills as a couch for you. You have nothing, my hero in the wilderness, but the rocks and herbs, and your Ilse by your side."
The stillness of night reigns about; the stream rushes gently around the roots of the brambles; and the white mists hang like a thick curtain over the cave. Dusky phantoms glide along the valley; they hover, in long white dresses, past the rocky entrance, down into the open country, where a fresh breath of air dissolves them. High above, the moon spreads its white, glimmering tent, woven of rays of light and watery vapors; and the old juggler laughs merrily over the valley and down upon the rocky grotto. As the delusive moonlight harasses mortals by its unreal halo, so do they harass themselves by the pictures of their own fancy, in love and hate, in good and bad humor; their life passes away whilst they are thinking of their duty and err in doing it, whilst they seek truth and dream in seeking it. The spirit flies high, and the heart beats warm, but the hobgoblin of fancy works incessantly amidst the reality of life; the cleverest deceive themself, and the best are disappointed by their own zeal. Sleep in peace, Ilse. Thou sittest upon thy low stone bench and boldest in thy lap the head of thy husband. Even in this hour of bliss, thou feelest the sorrow that came to him and thee, and a gentle sigh sounds through the cavern like the movement of a moth's wings against the walls of rock. Sleep in peace. For thou hast lived, in the weeks gone by, through that which for all future time will be a gain to thee. Thou hast learned to seek in the depths of thy own life judgment and firm resolve. It would not be fitting. Ilse, that the lightly-woven tale of that which thou hast suffered, should separately bring up the lofty questions of eternal moment that thou hast raised--thy doubts and thy fierce battles of conscience. That were a too heavy burden for our frail bark. Yet as the mariner at sea, his eye fixed upon things below, recognizes in the waters beneath the reflection of the clouds of heaven, so will thy attainment of freedom, Ilse, be seen in the reflection of thy thoughts, in thy countenance, thy manner, and thy conduct.
Slumber in peace, you children of light! Many of your hopes have been deceived, and much innocent trust has been destroyed by rough reality. The forms of a past time--forms that you have borne reverentially in your hearts--have laid a real hold on your life; for what a man thinks, and what a man dreams, becomes a power over him. What once has entered in the soul continues to work actively in it, exalting and impelling it onward, debasing and destroying it. About you, too, a game of fantastic dreams has played. If at times it has given you pain, it has still not impaired the power of your life, for the roots of your happiness lie as deep as it is granted man, that transitory flower, to rest in the soil of earth. Slumber in peace under the roof of the wild rock; the warm air of the grotto breathes round your couch, and the ancient vaulting of the roof spreads protectingly over your weary eyes! Around you the forest sleeps and dreams; the old inhabitants of the rock sit at the entrance of the cave. I know not whether they are the elves in whom Ilse does not believe, or the old friends of the scholar, the little goat-footed Pans, who blow their sylvan songs on their reed pipes. They hold their fingers to their mouth, and blow so gently in their pipe that it sounds sometimes like the rushing of the water or the soft sigh of a sleeping bird.
CHAPTER XLII.
TOBIAS BACHHUBER.
Ilse gently touched the head of her husband. Felix opened his eyes, threw his arms round his wife, and for a moment looked in confusion at the wild scene about him. The mist hovered like a white curtain before the opening of the cave; the first dawn of morning cast a glow on the jagged projections of the dark vault; the redbreast sang, and the blackbird piped; the pure light of day was approaching.
"Do you not hear something?" whispered Ilse.
"The birds singing, and the water rushing."
"But under us, within the rock, some strange power is at work. It stirs and groans."
"It is some animal from the wood," said the Professor; "a fox or a rabbit."
The noise about their seat became louder; something was pushing against the stone bench; it was working and sighing like a man who carries a heavy burden.
"Look," whispered Ilse, "it is coming out; it is slipping round our feet. There sits the strange thing; it has shining eyes and a glittering cloak."
The Professor supported himself on his hand and looked at the dark spot, where a small figure sat with hairy face, its body covered with a stiff, glittering garment.
They both looked motionless at the figure.
"Now do you believe in the spirits of this place?" asked her husband, in a low tone.
"I am afraid, Felix; I distinctly see the gold of the dress, and I see a small beard and a horrible face."
She raised herself.
"Are you the Dwarf-King, Alberich," asked the Professor, "and is the Nibelungen treasure concealed here?"
"It is the red dog," cried Ilse, "he has a coat on."
The Professor jumped up; the dog crouched whining before his feet. The Scholar bent down, felt a strange material round the body of the dog, and took off the covering; he stepped to the entrance and held it up in the dawning light. It was old rotten stuff, woven with golden thread. The dog, freed from his burden, rushed out of the cave with a growl. The Professor gazed long on the torn tissue, let the rag fall, and said gravely:
"Ilse, I am at the goal of my long search. These are the remains of a priestly vestment. The dog has drawn this out of some hole into which he has crept; the treasure of the monk lies in this grotto. But I have done with my hopes. A few days ago this discovery would have intoxicated me, now so dark a remembrance is attached to it that the pleasure that I might have had in what is concealed in these depths has almost all vanished."
There were loud voices on the opposite bank. Hans hallooed again through the mist; he greeted his sister and Felix who now came out from the cave on the broad rock, with the joyful news--"The water has fallen." The other brothers and sisters rushed after him and came close to the water shouting and screaming. Franz brought a sandwich in a paper, and declared his intention of throwing this breakfast over to them, that they might not starve. The children contended against this decision, and eagerly devised a plan of throwing over a piece of twine on a ball and attaching the sandwich to it. Life on the estate had again resumed its ordinary routine.
"Has Fritz come?" asked the Professor, across the stream.
"They are still at Rossau," called out Hans. "The bridge has been repaired; Mr. Hummel is up, and has gone down there."
The father also came, followed by a troop of laborers, who brought beams and planks. The men went into the water and drove a support into the soft ground, upon which they laid several slender tree-trunks across the water; the Professor caught the rope which was thrown to him. After a few hours' work a small bridge was erected. The Proprietor was the first who passed over to his children, and the men exchanged a grave greeting.
"If the men have an hour's time to spare during the day," said the Professor, "they may do one last work for me here. The hiding-place of the monks was in this cave."
In the meantime Mr. Hummel was descending with rapid steps towards Rossau. The carpenters were still working at the bridge. He cast a searching look on the spot where he had caught hold of the young Prince in the water and murmured:
"He went down like a cannon-ball. This nation has no capacity for the sea either in its upper or lower classes,--in this whole neighborhood they have not so much as a boat. Twenty years ago there was one here, it is said, but it has been cut up to boil coffee. The best thanks that one can give to this Bielstein man for the disturbance that we have occasioned him, will be to send him a boat to keep among his bundles of straw."
With these thoughts he entered the door of the Dragon; there he went up to the sleepy landlord and asked:
"Where is the young couple that arrived yesterday evening?"
"They are up stairs, I suppose," returned the latter, indifferently; "their bill is to be paid yet, if you will know."
As he was about to ascend to the upper floor, he heard a cry of joy.
"Father, my father!" exclaimed Laura, rushing down the stairs; she threw her arms round his neck, and gave vent to such warm expressions of tenderness and sorrow that Mr. Hummel at once became gracious.
"Vagrants!" he exclaimed; "have I caught you? Wait! you shall pay dearly for this escapade."
The Doctor also rushed headlong down stairs, and greeted Mr. Hummel with outbursts of joy.
"Your carriage will bring the things after us; we will go on ahead," ordered Mr. Hummel. "How did your Don Juan behave?" he asked, in a low tone, of his daughter.
"Father, he took care of me like an angel, and sat on a chair the whole night before my door. It was terrible, father."
"And how does the affair please you? So romantic! It calls forth superb feelings, and one thereby escapes the almond-cake and the unseasoned jokes of the comic actor."
But Laura pressed up to her father, and looked imploringly at him, till Mr. Hummel said:
"So it has been a cure? Then I will joyfully pay the bill of the Dragon."
They walked out of the door together.
"How did she behave on the way?" he asked the Doctor, confidentially.
"She was charming," he exclaimed, pressing the arm of the father, "but in an anxious state of mind; I was sent up on the coach-box four times that repentance overcame her."
"What, and did you climb up?" asked Mr. Hummel, indignantly.
"It gave me pleasure to see that she was so deeply affected by the unusual nature of the journey."
"'It gives me pleasure that my poodle should go into the water,' said the flea, and was drowned," returned Mr. Hummel, mockingly. "Why did you not look calmly on the anxiety of my child? It would have saved you many a bond if you had been firm with her the first day."
"But she was not yet my wife," said the Doctor.
"O, it was tolerant mischievousness, was it?" replied the father, "may you bide your time."
When they approached the courtyard, the daughter hanging on the arm of her father--which she would not let go--he began:
"Not a word to-day, now, about this abominable elopement. I have hushed up your thoughtless folly before the people here, and thrown a mantle over it, that you may be able to open your eyes; you are announced and expected as quiet travelers. We shall remain here together to-day; to-morrow I shall speak to you, in my office of father, a last word concerning your romance."
At the door the wanderers were joyfully welcomed by their friends. The Professor and the Doctor embraced each other.
"You come just in time, Fritz; the adventure which we began here years ago will conclude to-day. The treasure of Brother Tobias is discovered."
After some hours the whole party started for the cave; the laborers followed with iron crows and levers.
The Proprietor examined the block of stone at the back of the cave. At the bottom on one side he saw a hole, the same through which the dog had crawled.
"This opening is new," he exclaimed; "it was closed by a stone which has fallen in."
The large stone bench was with some exertion rolled away, and an opening wide enough for a man to creep in without difficulty became perceptible. The lights were lowered into it, and showed a continuation of the cave sloping downwards, which went many yards further into the mountain. It was a desolate space. In the time of the monks it had undoubtedly been dry, but was no longer so. Roots of trees had driven the crevices of the rock asunder, or the strata had sunk, owing to the penetration of the damp. Thus an entrance had been given to water and animals, and there was a confused mass of litter from the wood and bones. The workmen cleared it with their tools, and the spectators sat and stood by, full of curiosity. The Professor, in spite of his composure, kept as close to the spot as he could. But the Doctor could not long bear to look on. He took off his coat and descended into the opening. Mouldy pieces of thick cloth were brought up; probably the treasure had been conveyed in a large bag to its place of concealment. Then came altar covers and ecclesiastical robes.
There was a cry of joy, and the Doctor handed out a book. The face of the Professor was suffused with color as he took it. It was a missal on parchment. He gave it to the Proprietor, who now looked on with great interest. The Doctor handed out a second book; all pressed near. The Professor sat on the ground and read. It was a manuscript of St. Augustine in a deplorable condition.
"Two!" he said, and his voice sounded hoarse from inward emotion.
"The Doctor handed a third book, again spiritual Latin hymns with notes. The fourth, a Latin Psalter. The Professor held out his hand, and it trembled.
"Is there more?" he exclaimed.
The Doctor's voice sounded hollow from the cave.
"There is nothing more."
"Look carefully," said the Professor, with faltering voice.
"Here is the last," cried the Doctor, handing out small square board, "and here another."
They were two book-covers of solid wood, the outside ornamented with carved ivory. The Professor perceived at once from the style of the figures that it was Byzantine work of the latest Roman period--the figure of an Emperor on a throne, and over him an angel with a halo.
"A large quarto of the fifth or sixth century. It is the cover of the manuscript, Fritz; where is the text?"
"There is no text to be found," again replied the sepulchral voice of the Doctor.
"Take the lantern and throw the light everywhere."
The Doctor took the second lantern in. He felt with his hand and pickaxe all round in every corner of the rock. He threw the last blade of straw out, and the last remnant of the bag. There was nothing of the manuscript to be seen--not a page, not a letter.
The Professor looked at the cover.
"They have torn it out," he said, in a faint voice; "probably the monks took the Roman Emperor in ivory for a saint."
He held the cover to the light. On the inner side of one of the pieces, amidst dust and decay, might be read, in old monkish writing, the words:
"THE TRAVELS OF THE SILENT MAN."
The silent man was now drawn from his hiding-place. But he spoke not: his mouth remained mute for ever.
"Our dream is at an end," said the Professor, composedly. "The monks have torn out the text from the cover, and left it behind; there was no more room for the manuscript in the crowded bag. The treasure is lost to science. Our hand touches what was once the cover of the manuscript, and we cannot help having the bitter feeling of sorrow for what is irreparable, the same as if it had passed away in our sight. But we return to the light in possession of our faculties, and must do our duty in making available to our generation, and those who come after us, what remains."
"Was this genius called Bachhuber?" exclaimed Mr. Hummel; "judging from appearances, he was an ass."
The Proprietor laid his hand on the shoulder of his son-in-law.
"After all, you learned men have been in the right," he said, "Close the opening by the stone bench again," he said, addressing the laborers; "the cave shall remain as it was."
The party returned silently to the old house. The boys carried the books, the girls the bundles of torn monks' dresses, and made plans for drawing out the gold threads for themselves. The Professor kept the cover of the lost manuscript.
As they entered the house there was a sound of horse's feet on the other side. The Proprietor went to the door. The old Chief Forester drew in his black horse.
"I have ridden in haste through the farm to bring you news. Everything with us is topsy-turvy. We have Court Officials and Ministers, and doctors are fetched from every quarter. My people have all been sent out, and I myself have come to Rossau to order a courier. I fear his Serene Highness is very low; he knows no one. The Hereditary Prince is now awaiting the arrival of the Court physician; as soon as he gives permission the party will start for the capital. All these terrible things are owing to the unfortunate additions to my quiet dwelling. One thing more, while it occurs to me--your son-in-law is searching for old papers and books. There are some chests at our place containing such lumber of ancient times, when the ranger's lodge was still a royal shooting-box. Over the door, from under the plaster, one can discover a foreign word, solitudini, which means, they say, 'in solitude.' The chests are rotten: in the course of the building they have been moved from their place. When things become quieter with us the Professor will, perhaps, look over them."
"Then here is the Castle Solitude, with the genuine chests of the official," exclaimed the Professor. "I shall never go to that house."
The Doctor seized his hat, and spoke in a low tone to Laura and the Proprietor.
"I beg leave of absence for to-day," he said, going out.
He did not return till evening.
"In the chest there are accounts for repairs to the monastic buildings and for the estate at the end of the seventeenth century; there are, besides, some volumes of Corneille. The vicar who went to America is related to the Chief Forester."
"We have been led astray," said the Professor, calmly. "It is well that every doubt has disappeared."
"But," replied the Doctor, "there is still no proof that the old manuscript is destroyed. It is yet possible that it may come to light somewhere in fragments. Who knows but there may be strips on the back of some books?"
"On the books which the Swede has written in characters of fire at Rossau," replied the Professor, with a sad smile. "It is well, Fritz, that the tormenting spirits are forever banished."
Early on the morning of the following day a line of carriages left the ranger's lodge; the first was closely curtained--it was the prostrate Sovereign, guarded by his physicians. Before starting, the Hereditary Prince beckoned the Chief Forester to his carriage:
"Is there any other way to Rossau than that by the manor-house through the Bielstein estate?"
"Over the ridge through the wood," replied the Chief Forester; "but it is a roundabout way."
"We will take the road through the wood," commanded the Hereditary Prince. On the way he said to his attendant: "I expect from you, Weidegg, that, should occasion present itself, you will show considerate attention to the people who dwell in that house. I am the son of the sick Sovereign to whom a voice refused reception there. I shall, therefore, never again cross the threshold of that house; and I wish that you never again mention the name of that woman in my presence."
The sad procession passed close by the spot where once the lightning had struck the pine-tree. The carriages moved at a slow pace along the ridge of hills upon the forest-road.
"Drive on ahead," said the Prince; "I will walk a short distance alone."
He stepped to the edge of the hill; the early dawn tinged the dark bushes of heather with a golden green. From that same height, where once a merry party had rested, the Prince looked down on Bielstein, which stood out in the white morning mist, on the roof and balconies of the old house. Long he stood motionless; the bell sounded from the village church through the mountain air; he bent his head till the last echoes of the melancholy tones passed away; then he stretched his hand greetingly towards the manor, turned quickly back, and went along the forest-road.
The cocks crowed in the farmyard at Bielstein, the sparrows twittered in the vine arbor, and the people were preparing for the day's work. Then Mr. Hummel knocked three times with his ponderous fist at the door of the room in which his daughter slept.
"Get up, eloper," he shouted, "if you still wish to take leave of your forsaken father."
There was a noise in the room and a prattering of slippers, and Laura's head peeped through the opening in the door.
"Father, you are not going to leave us!" she said pleadingly.
"You have left me," replied Mr. Hummel; "we must have a few final words together. Dress yourself properly, and you shall accompany me down the hill. I will wait for you in the hall."
He had to wait some time for his daughter, and paced impatiently up and down, looking at his watch.
"Gabriel," he said to the servant, who came up to him in his best attire, "much misfortune arises from women's long hair. It is on that account that they never can be ready at the right time; this is their privilege by which they vex us, and it is on that account that they maintain they are the weaker sex. Order and punctuality will never be obtained unless all womankind have their pig-tails cut off on one day."
Laura glided down the stairs, clung to her father's arm, and stroked his cheeks with her little hand.
"Come into the garden, my little actress," he said; "I must speak to you alone for a few minutes. You have succeeded in eloping, you have gone through the scandal,--in what state of mind are you now?"
"Uneasy, dear father," said Laura, dejectedly. "I know that it was a folly, and Ilse says so too."
"Then it must be so," replied Mr. Hummel, dryly. "What is now to become of you?"
"Whatever you wish, father," said Laura. "Fritz and I are of opinion that we must follow your wishes unconditionally. I have by my folly lost all right of expressing a wish; if I could still venture to make a request," she said, timidly, "I should like to remain here for a short time."
"Then you wish to get rid of your seducer?"
"He is going back to his parents, and we will wait, my father, until he has an appointment at the University: he has prospects."
"Indeed," said Mr. Hummel, shaking his head. "All that would have been very sensible before the elopement; now it is too late. Your banns have been published in church, now, three times."
"The people would not have it otherwise," continued Mr. Hummel. "When it was known that you had eloped, the clergy could not avoid publishing the banns; you had not been long out of the gate when this calamity took place."
Laura stood terrified, and a burning red suffused her cheeks. The bells of the little church by the wood below sounded. Mr. Hummel took a paper out of his pocket.
"Here are those cursed old godmother's gloves; I wish at last to get rid of the trash. Here you have your dowry, I can give you nothing more; put them on quickly, that people may at least observe by your hands that this is a festive day for you. When it comes to the business of the wedding-ring you can easily take them off."
"Father," cried Laura, wringing her hands.
"You could not bear the idea of a wedding-cake," said Mr. Hummel, "so you must do without a wedding-dress, and many other things. These dramatic attitudes would have been very suitable before the elopement, now you must be married without question either immediately, or not at all. Do you think that one goes out into the world for a joke?"
"My mother!" exclaimed Laura, and the tears rolled from her eyes.
"You chose to run away from your mother, and if your father, out of consideration for these strangers, had not come, you would have had to do the business alone. You wished to escape from our homely, simple feelings."
Laura laid hold of a tree with trembling hands, and looked imploringly at her father.
"You are not so bold as I thought. Now the timid hare in you comes to light."
Laura threw herself on her father's breast and sobbed; he stroked her curls.
"Little Hummel," he said, kindly, "there must be punishment, and it is not severe; I am satisfied that you should marry him. He is a worthy man; I have observed that; and if it is for your happiness, I shall easily get on with him, but you must not immediately begin to hum and buzz if I sometimes bristle up in my way. I wish, too, that you should marry him to-day, that is now the best course for all parties. You may exercise your bridal feelings later and go through your emotions as you like. Be brave, now, my child, the others are waiting, and we must not delay them. Are you ready?"
Laura wept, but a soft "Yes" was heard.
"Then we will awake the bridegroom," said Mr. Hummel. "I believe the sacrificial lamb sleeps without any foreboding of his fate."
He left his daughter, hastened to the Doctor's door, and looked into the room. Fritz lay fast asleep. Mr. Hummel seized the boots which were standing before the door and bumped them down beside the bed.
"Good morning, Don Juan," he shouted; "have the kindness to get immediately into this leather. These are your bridal boots. My daughter Laura begs you to make haste, and the clergyman is impatient."
The Doctor sprang out of his bed.
"Are you in earnest?" he asked.
"Terribly in earnest," said Hummel.
He did not have to wait long for the Doctor. He entered the garden where Laura was still sitting alone in the bower, uneasy, like an imprisoned bird that does not venture to leave its cage. Mr. Hummel led the Doctor up to her.
"There, you have her," he said solemnly. "It is a fine morning, just like that when I set out as a boy. To-day I send my child into the world, and that is another kind of feeling. I do not object to it if you live happily together, till first your children run away from you into the world, and then the grandchildren: for man is like a bird, he takes pains and collects the bits of straw together for his home, but the young brood do not care for the nest of the parents. Thus the old raven must now sit alone and find few who will be vexed with his croaking. Take my stubborn girl, dear Fritz, and do not let her have too much of her own will. I have watched you for some time, and I will tell you something in confidence: ever since the affair of the cat's-paws it occurred to me, that in the end you would be no bad husband for this Hummel. That you are called Hahn is, after all, only a misfortune." He kissed them both right heartily. "Now come, runaways, for the others are expecting you."
Mr. Hummel walked before his children to the house; he opened the door of the sitting-room where the whole family were assembled. Laura flew to Ilse, and concealed her hot face on the breast of her friend. The latter took the bridal wreath, which her sisters had brought, and placed it on Laura's head. Gabriel opened the door. Years before the Doctor had drawn his friend from the bramble bush against the wall into the church; now he walked into the little village church hand in hand with his love, and again the children strewed flowers. When the clergymen joined the hands of the bridal pair. Ilse also clasped the hand of her husband.
"Your mother is wanting," said Hummel, to the bride, when she embraced him after the wedding; "and the Doctor's family also. But you are citizen's children, and however exalted your feelings may be you must accommodate yourself to our customs. You will go from here back to your native town. There your mothers will keep the after-nuptials, and you, runaway, shall not escape the bad poetry. You must excuse me if I am not at home on that day; I have to make a business journey, and it is not suitable to marry one's child twice in a week." He then said, in a low tone to his daughter: "between ourselves, I do not wish to peck of the same wedding-cake with the Hahn family. You are not to live with me, nor in the house over the way:--that has been advised by our friends, and I think it quite right. After the marriage feast you may travel for some weeks, and then return to your own home."
"The bridal journey you will make alone," said the Professor; "not with us. Ilse and I have determined, after a short rest, to return to the city. I have some months of the vacation still before me which I shall endeavour to make of use to a select circle of students. Among books we shall again find what we lost among strangers,--peace with ourselves, and peace with those about us."