The Lost Manuscript: A Novel

CHAPTER XI.

SPITEHAHN.

Raven-black night brooded over the hostile houses. The world looked like a great coal-pit in which the lights had been extinguished. The wind howled through the trees of the park. A rustling of leaves and crackling of branches was heard. Nothing was to be seen but a monstrous black curtain that concealed the neighboring woods and a black-tented roof which was spread over the houses. The streets of the city were empty. All who loved their beds had long been lying therein, and whoever possessed a nightcap had now pulled it over his ears. Every human sound was silenced; the striking of the tower-clock was interrupted by the stormy winds, and each tone was driven hither and thither, that no one could count the midnight hour. But around the house of Mr. Hummel the yelping dogs pursued their wild career in the courtyard, undaunted by storm or darkness; and when the wind blew like a bugle-horn between the houses, the pack dispelled sleep from men by their clamor and din.

"This night suits them well," thought Gabriel, in his room. "This is just the weather for them." At last he slept, and dreamt that the two dogs opened the door of his room, placed themselves on two chairs before his bed and alternately snapped their pocket pistols at him.

As he was lying in this unquiet sleep, there was a knock at his door.

"Get up, Gabriel!" called out the old porter from the factory; "an accident has happened."

"Through the dogs," exclaimed Gabriel, springing out of bed.

"Some one must have broken in," cried the man again, through the door, "the dogs are lying on the ground."

Gabriel, alarmed, put on his boots and hastened into the yard, which was dimly lighted by the dawn. There lay the two poor watch-dogs on the ground, with no other sign of life than helpless writhing. Gabriel ran to the warehouse, examined the door and windows, and then the house; every shutter was closed, and no sign of disturbance could be discovered. When he returned, Mr. Hummel was standing before the prostrate dogs.

"Gabriel, a dastardly deed has been perpetrated here. Something has been done to the dogs. Let them both lie there; an investigation must be made. I will send for the police."

"Indeed?" answered Gabriel; "compassion should come first, then the police. Perhaps something may yet be done for the poor brutes."

He took the two animals, carried them to the light, and examined their condition.

"The black one is done for," he said, compassionately. "The red one has still some life in him."

"Go to the veterinary surgeon, Klaus," exclaimed Mr. Hummel, "and ask him to do me the favor to get up at once; he shall be remunerated. This case must be put into the morning paper. I require satisfaction before the magistracy and town council.--Gabriel," he continued, in angry excitement, "the dogs of citizens are being murdered: it is the work of low malice, but I am not the man to put up with such assassins. They shall be made an example of, Gabriel."

Meanwhile Gabriel stroked the fur of the red dog, which rolled its eyes wildly under its shaggy brow and stretched out its paws piteously.

At last the veterinary surgeon came. He found the whole family assembled in the court. Mrs. Hummel, still in her night-dress, brought him a cup of coffee, while drinking which he sympathized with them, and then began the examination. The verdict of the expert pointed to poisoning. The dissection showed that a little dumpling with arsenic had been eaten, and, what vexed Mr. Hummel still more, there were glass splinters besides. For the red dog there was a doubtful prospect of recovery.

It was a gloomy morning for the Hummel family. Before breakfast Mr. Hummel sat down to his writing table and wrote out an advertisement for the daily paper, in which ten dollars reward was offered to any one who would make known the name of the malignant poisoner of his dog. The ten dollars were underlined with three dashes. Then he went to his window and looked savagely upon the haunts of his opponent and on the Chinese temple which had been the occasion of this new disturbance. Finally he began to pace up and down the room, turning to his wife as he passed and muttering:

"I have not the slightest doubt about the matter--not the slightest doubt."

"I do not understand you," answered his wife, who on this trying morning was taking a second breakfast; "and I do not understand how you can be so positive in this matter. It is true, there is something about those people that has always been repugnant to us, and it may be a misfortune to have such neighbors. But you have no right to assume that they have poisoned the dogs. I cannot think that such an idea could have entered into the head of Mrs. Hahn. I admit that she is an ordinary woman. Moreover, the doctor says it was dumplings; which points to a woman as the guilty person. But when our red dog was caught running off with the snipe they were going to have for dinner, she sent me back the dog with her compliments, saying she thought it was not good behavior in him, as he had eaten three of the birds. That was civil, and I can find no murderous intention in it. And he surely does not look as if he would do anything to our dogs at midnight."

"He is a treacherous fellow," growled Mr. Hummel; "but you have always had your own opinion about those people. He has played the hypocrite toward me from the very first day, when he stood by his pile of bricks before these windows and turned his back upon me. I have always allowed myself to be persuaded by you women to treat him as a neighbor, with greetings and civil speeches; and I have always been silent when you have carried on your idle gossip with the woman over there."

"Our idle gossip, Henry," exclaimed the wife, setting down her coffee-cup with a clatter; "I must beg of you not to forget the respect that is due to me."

"Well, well, I meant no slight," Mr. Hummel hastened to add, hoping to allay the storm which he had inopportunely brought upon himself.

"What you meant, you, of course, know. I take it as I heard it. But it shows little feeling in you, Mr. Hummel, for the sake of a dead dog to treat your wife and daughter as idle gossips."

This disagreement added still more to the gloom and ill-humor of the morning, but did not in any way advance the discovery of the culprit. It was in vain that the mistress of the house, in order to divert her husband's suspicions from the Hahn family, raised many other conjectures, and, with Laura's help, tried to throw the blame on their own employés or the watchman, and that she at last suggested even the shop-porter over the way as the possible evil-doer. Alas! the reputation of the dogs was so dreadful that the Hummel family could more easily count the few people who did not wish evil to the dogs, than the many whose wish and interest it was to see the monsters at the bottom of Cocytus. The news ran like wildfire through the streets, a crowd gathered around the fruit-woman at the corner, and people spoke of the evil deed everywhere, pitilessly, hostilely, and maliciously. Even among those in the streets who tried to show outward signs of sympathy, the prevailing feeling was hardly concealed. It is true there were some sympathisers. First Mrs. Knips, the washerwoman, with voluble indignation; then even Knips the younger ventured pityingly into the neighborhood of the house--he was clerk in the hostile business, having gone over to the enemy, but never ceased to show respect to his former instructor on all occasions, and to pay unacceptable homage to Miss Laura. At last the comedian of the theatre, whom they generally invited on Sundays, came, and related many amusing stories. But even these few faithful adherents were suspected by some of the household. Gabriel distrusted the Knips family, while Laura detested the clerk, and the comedian, formerly a welcome guest, had, some evenings before, in passing by, inconsiderately expressed to a companion, that it would be a praiseworthy deed to remove these dogs from the stage of life. Now this unhappy suggestion was repeated to the mistress of the house, and it lay heavy on her heart. For fifteen years she had accepted this man's homage with pleasure, shown him much friendliness, and given him enthusiastic applause at the theatre, not to speak of the Sunday dinners and preserves. But now when the gentleman lowered his head sympathisingly and expressed his horror and indignation at the deed, his face, from the long habit of comic action, lengthened itself so hypocritically, that Mrs. Hummel suddenly fancied she saw a devil grinning out of the features of the once esteemed man. Her sharp remarks about Judases frightened in turn the comedian, revealing to him the danger of losing his best house of entertainment, and the more dolorous he felt, the more equivocal became his expression.

During all these occurrences the Hahn family kept quiet in the background. They displayed no signs of undue pleasure, and no unnatural sympathy came from the silent walls. But at mid-day, when Mrs. Hummel went to refresh herself a little in the air, she met her neighbor; and Mrs. Hahn, who since the garden scene had felt herself in the wrong, stopped and expressed her regret in a friendly way that Mrs. Hummel had experienced such an unpleasant accident. But the hostile feeling and suspicion of her husband echoed in the answer. Mrs. Hummel spoke coldly, and both separated with a feeling of animosity.

Meanwhile Laura sat at her writing-table, and noted down in her private journal the events of the day, and with a light heart she concluded with these lines:

This prophecy contained about as much truth as if, after the first skirmish of the siege of Troy, Cassandra had noted it down in Hector's album. It was confuted by the endless horrors of the future.

Spitehahn at all events was not gone; his life was saved. But the night's treachery had exercised a sorrowful influence on the creature, both body and soul. He had never been beautiful. But now his body was thin, his head swelled, and his shaggy coat bristly. The glass splinters which the skillful doctor had removed from his stomach seemed to have gotten somehow into his hairs, so that they started bristling from his body like a bottle-brush; his curly tail became bare, only at the end did there remain a tuft of hair, like a bent cork-screw with a cork at the end. He no longer wagged his tail; his yelping ceased; night and day he roved about silently; only occasionally a low, significant growl was heard. He came back to life, but all softer feelings were dead in him; he became averse to human beings, and fostered dark suspicions in his soul; all attachment and fidelity ceased; instead of which he evinced a lurking malice and general vindictiveness. Yet Mr. Hummel did not mind this change; the dog was the victim of unheard-of wickedness, which had been intended for the injury of himself, the proprietor of the house; and had he been ten times more hideous and savage to human beings, Mr. Hummel would still have made a pet of him. He stroked him, and did not take it amiss when the dog showed his gratitude by snapping at the fingers of his master.

Whilst the flames of just irritation still shot forth from this new firebrand of the family peace, Fritz returned from his vacation. His mother immediately related to him all the events of the last few weeks--the bell-ringing, the dogs, the new hostility.

"It was well that you were away. Were the beds at the inns comfortable? They are so careless nowadays of strangers. I hope that in the country, where they rear geese, people show more care. You must talk to your father about this new quarrel, and do what you can to restore peace."

Fritz listened silently to his mother's account, and said soothingly:

"You know it is not the first time. It will pass over."

This news did not contribute to increase the cheerfulness of the Doctor. Sadly he looked from his room on the neighboring house and the windows of his friend. In a short time a new household would be established there; might not then his friendship with the Professor be affected by the disturbances which of old existed between the two houses? He then began to arrange the notes that he had collected on his journey. But today the footprints of the grotto gave him an uncomfortable feeling, and the tales of the wild hunters made him think of Ilse's wise words, "It is all superstition." He put away his papers, seized his hat, and went out, meditating, and not exactly gaily disposed, into the park. When he saw Laura Hummel a few steps before him on the same path, he turned aside, in order not to meet any one from the hostile house.

Laura was carrying a little basket of fruit to her godmother. The old lady resided in her summer house in an adjacent village, and a shady footpath through the park led to it. It was lonely at this hour in the wood, and the birds alone saw how free from care was the smile that played around the little mouth of the agile girl, and how full of glee were the beautiful deep blue eyes that peered into the thicket. But although Laura seemed to hasten, she stopped frequently. First it occurred to her that the leaves of the copper beech would look well in her brown felt hat: she broke off a branch, took off her hat, and stuck the leaves on it; and in order to give herself the pleasure of looking at it, she held her hat in her hand and put a gauze handkerchief over her head for protection against the rays of the sun. She admired the chequered light thrown by the sun on the road. Then a squirrel ran across the path, scrambled quick as lightning up a tree and hid itself in the branches; Laura looked up and perceived its beautiful bushy tail through the foliage, and fancied herself on the top of the tree, in the midst of the foliage and fruit, swinging on a branch, then leaping from bough to bough, and finally taking a walk--high in the air, on the tops of the trees--over the fluttering leaves as though upon green hills.

When she came near the water that flowed on the other side of the path, she perceived that a large number of frogs, sitting in the sun on the bank, sprang into the water with great leaps, as if by word of command. She ran up to them and saw with astonishment that in the water, they had a different appearance; they were not at all so clumsy; they went along like little gentlemen with big stomachs and thick necks, but with long legs which struck out vigorously. Then when a large frog steered up to her and popped his head out of the water, she drew back and laughed at herself. Thus she passed through the wood, herself a butterfly, and at peace with all the world.

But her fate pursued her. Spitehahn, from his usual place on the stone steps, had watched her movements from under the wild hairs that hung over his head whisker-like, he kept her in view, got up at last and trotted silently behind her, undisturbed by the rays of the sun, the basket of fruit, or the red handkerchief of his young mistress. Between the town and the village the road ascended from the valley and its trees to a bare plain, on which the soldiery of the town sometimes manœuvred, and where in peaceful hours a shepherd pastured his flock. The path ran obliquely over the open plain to the village. Laura stopped on the height at times to admire the distant sheep and the brown shepherd, who looked very picturesque with his large hat and crook. She had already passed the flock when she heard a barking and threatening cry behind her; turning round she saw the peaceful community in wild uproar. The sheep scattered in all directions--some running away frightened, others huddled together in a ditch; the shepherd's dogs barked, and the shepherd and his boy ran with raised sticks around the disturbed flock. While Laura was looking astonished at the tumult, the shepherd and his boy rushed up to her, followed by two large dogs. She felt herself seized by a rough man's hand; she saw the angry face of the shepherd, and his stick was brandished close before her eyes.

"Your dog has dispersed my flock. I demand punishment and compensation."

Frightened and pale as death, Laura sought for her purse; she could scarcely find words to say, "I have no dog; let me go, good shepherd."

But the man shook her arm roughly. Two gigantic black dogs sprang upon her and snapped at her handkerchief.

"It is your dog; I know the red rascal," cried the shepherd.

This was quite true, for Spitehahn had also observed the flock of sheep and devised his dire plan. Suddenly, with a hoarse yell, he sprang on a sheep and bit it severely in the leg. Then followed the flight of the flock, rushing together in a heap--Spitehahn in the midst of them, barking, scratching and biting, the brute sped along a dry ditch to the left, and finally down the slope to the wood into the thickest copse. At length he trotted home in safety, showing his teeth, and leaving his young mistress trembling beneath the hand of the shepherd, who was still brandishing his stick over her.

"Let go of the young lady," called out the angry voice of a man. Fritz Hahn sprang forward, pushed back the arm of the shepherd, and caught Laura, fainting, in his arms.

The interposition of a third party drew from the shepherd new complaints, at the conclusion of which he again, in a flaming passion, endeavored to lay hold of the girl, and threatened to set his dogs at the Doctor. But Fritz, deeply roused, exclaimed, "Keep your dogs back, and behave yourself like a man, or I will have you punished. If the dog injured your flock, adequate compensation shall be made. I am ready to be security to you or to the owner of these sheep."

Thus he spoke, holding Laura firmly in his arms; her head lay upon his shoulders, and the red handkerchief hung over his waistcoat down to his breast. "Compose yourself, dear Miss," he said, with tender anxiety.

Laura raised her head and looked fearfully on the countenance which, excited with tenderness and sympathy, bent over her, and she perceived her situation with alarm. Fearful fate! He again, for the third time, the inevitable friend and preserver! She extricated herself from him, and said, in a faint voice, "I thank you, Doctor, I can walk alone now."

"No, I cannot leave you thus," cried Fritz, and again began to negotiate with the shepherd, who meanwhile had fetched the two victims of the murderous dog, and laid them down as proofs of the ill deed. Fritz put his hand into his pocket and handed the shepherd a part of the money promised as compensation, gave him his name, and settled a future meeting with the man, who, after the appearance of the money, became more calm.

"I pray you take my arm," he said, turning chivalrously to Laura.

"I cannot accept that," replied the girl, quite confused, and thinking of the existing hostility.

"It is only my duty as a man," said Fritz, soothingly. "You are too exhausted to go alone."

"Then I beg of you to take me to my godmother; she lives near here."

Fritz took the little basket from her, collected the fruit that had fallen out, and then conducted her to the village.

"I should not have been so much afraid of the man," said Laura, "but the black dogs were so fearful."

She took his arm hesitatingly; for now, when the fright had passed, she felt the painfulness of her situation, and was alas! conscience-smitten. For early in the day she had thought the travelling toilet of the Doctor, as she saw him return home, unendurable; but Fritz was not a man who could long be considered unendurable. He was now full of tender feelings and care for her, endeavored to spare her every roughness on the road, stretching out his foot in going along to put the little stones out of the way. He began an indifferent conversation about her godmother, which obliged her to talk, and brought other thoughts into her head. It happened besides, that he himself highly esteemed the lady in question. Indeed, she had once, when he was a schoolboy, given him a cherry-cake and he had in return composed a poem on her birthday. At the word poem Laura was astounded. In that house, too! Could they write poetry? But then the Doctor spoke very slightingly of the elevating creations of happier hours, and when she asked him:

"Have you really written poetry?"

He answered, laughingly, "Only for home use, like every one."

Then she felt much depressed by his cold disregard of the muse. There certainly was a difference between one style of verse and another; at Hahn's they only wrote about cherry-cakes. But immediately afterwards she blamed herself for her unbecoming thoughts towards her benefactor. So she turned in a friendly way to him and spoke of the pleasure she had found just before in watching the squirrels of the wood. She had once bought one of a boy in the streets and had set it free, and the little animal had twice sprung from the trees upon her shoulders; and she had at last run away with tears in her eyes, that it might remain in the woods. Now, when she saw a squirrel, it always appeared as if it belonged to her; and she undoubtedly deceived herself; but the squirrels seemed to be of the same opinion with regard to her. This story led to the remarkable discovery that the Doctor had had a similar experience with a small owl, and he imitated the way in which the owl nodded its head when he brought in its food; and in doing so his spectacles looked so much like owl's eyes that Laura could not help laughing.

Conversing in this way they arrived at her godmother's house. Fritz relinquished Laura's arm and wished to take his leave. She remained standing on the threshold with her hand on the latch and said, in an embarrassed tone:

"Will you not come in, at least for a moment, as you know my godmother?"

"With pleasure," replied the Doctor.

Her godmother was sitting in her summer cottage, which was somewhat smaller, damper, and less pleasant than her lodging in the town. When the children of the hostile houses entered together--first Laura, still pale and solemn, behind her the Doctor with an equally serious countenance--the good lady was so astonished that she sat staring on the sofa and could only bring out the words:

"What do I see? Is it possible? You two children together!"

This exclamation dispelled the magic which for a moment had bound the young souls to each other. Laura went coldly up to her godmother and related how the Doctor had accidently come up at the time of her distress. But the Doctor explained that he had only wished to bring the young lady safely to her; then he inquired after the health of the old lady and took his leave.

While her godmother was applying restoratives and determining that Laura should return home another way under the care of her maid-servant, the Doctor went back with light steps to the wood. His frame of mind was entirely changed and a smile frequently passed over his countenance. The thought was constantly recurring to him how the girl had rested in his arms. He had felt her bosom against his; her hair had touched his cheeks and he had gazed on her white neck. The worthy youth blushed at the thought and hastened his steps. In one thing at least the Professor was not wrong--a woman is, after all, very different from the ideal that a man derives from the study of human life and the history of the world. It certainly seemed to the Doctor now that there was something very attractive in wavy locks, rosy cheeks and a beautiful form. He admitted that this discovery was not new, but he had not hitherto felt its value with such distinctness. It had been so touching when she recovered from her swoon, opened her eyes and withdrew herself bashfully from his arms. Also his having defended her so valiantly filled him with cheerful pride. He stopped on the field of battle and laughed out right heartily. Then he went along the same road by which Laura had come from the wood. He looked along the ground as if he could discover the traces of her little feet upon the gravel, and he enjoyed the brightness and warmth of the air, the alluring song of the birds, the fluttering of the dragon-flies, with as light a heart as his pretty neighbor had done shortly before. Then the recollection of his friend came across him. He thought, with satisfaction, of the agitations of the Professor's mind and the commotion which Thusnelda had brought into it. The result had had a droll effect upon the Professor. His friend had been very comical in the pathos of his rising passion. Such a firm, earnest being contrasted curiously with the whimsical attacks which fate makes on the life of earth-born creatures. When he came to the last bush in which rustled one of the little grasshoppers, whose chirping he had often heard in times of anxiety, he spoke out gaily, "Even these have their turn, first the sheep, then the grasshoppers." He began singing half aloud a certain old song in which the grasshoppers were asked to go away and no longer to burden his spirit. Thus he returned home from his walk in right cheerful frame of mind, like a man of the world.

"Henry," began Mrs. Hummel, in the afternoon, solemnly to her husband, "compose yourself to listen to a terrible story. I conjure you to remain calm and avoid a scene, and take pains to overcome your aversion. And, above all, consider our feelings."

She then related to him the misfortune that had occurred.

"As to the dog," replied Mr. Hummel, emphatically, "it has not been clearly shown that it was our dog. The testimony of the shepherd does not satisfy me; I know this fellow and require an impartial witness. There are so many strange dogs running about the city nowadays that the safety of the community is endangered, and I have often said it is a disgrace to our police. But if it should be our dog, I cannot see anything particularly wrong about it. If the sheep stretched out its leg to him and he bit it a little, that is its own affair and there is nothing to be said about it. As to what further concerns the shepherd, I know his master--so that is my affair. Finally, with regard to the young man across the way that is your affair. I do not wish to visit on him the evil conduct of his parents, but I must say once for all that I will have nothing to do with the people opposite."

"I must call your attention to the fact, Mr. Hummel," interposed his wife, "that the Doctor has already paid money to the shepherd."

"Money for my child? That I will not tolerate," exclaimed Mr. Hummel. "How much did he pay?"

"But father----" said Laura imploringly.

"Can you expect," exclaimed Mrs. Hummel, reproachfully, "that your daughter, in danger of death, should count the groschens that her rescuer paid for her?"

"That's just like a woman," grumbled the master of the house; "you have no head for business. Can you not incidentally ask him? The shepherd I take upon myself, but shall not trouble myself about the Doctor. Only this I tell you. The affair must be shortly settled and our relations with that house must remain as before. All I ask is to go on smoothly. I intend to take no notice of these Hahns."

After this decision he left the ladies to their feelings.

"Your father is right," said Mrs. Hummel, "to leave the principal matter to us. With his harsh disposition thanks would come very ungraciously."

"Mother," said Laura, entreatingly, "you have more tact than I. Can you not go over there?"

"My child," answered Mrs. Hummel, clearing her throat, "that is not easy. This unfortunate occurrence of the dogs has left us women too much at variance. No, as you are the principal person now concerned, you must go over there yourself."

"I cannot visit the Doctor," exclaimed Laura alarmed.

"That is not necessary," said Mrs. Hummel, soothingly. "There is one advantage our neighborhood possesses--we are able to see from our windows when the men go out. You may then rush over to the mother and address your thanks for the son to her. You are very judicious, my child, and will know how to act."

Thereupon Laura took her seat at the window, not well pleased to sit as watcher upon her neighbors; this lying in wait was repugnant to her. At last the Doctor appeared on the threshold; he looked the same as usual; there was nothing chivalrous to be seen in him; his figure was slender and he was of middle height--Laura liked tall people. He had an intellectual countenance, but it was concealed by his large spectacles, which gave him a pedantic appearance; when he did smile his face became quite handsome, but his usual serious expression was not becoming to him. Fritz disappeared round the corner and Laura put on her hat with a heavy heart and went into the hostile house, which she had never yet entered. Dorchen, who was not in the secret, looked astonished at the visit, but with quick intuition connected it with the return of the Doctor and announced, of her own accord, that neither of the gentlemen were at home, but that Mrs. Hahn was in the garden.

Mrs. Hahn was sitting in the Chinese temple. Both women stood opposite each other with a feeling of embarrassment; both thought at the same time of their last conversation and to both the recollection was painful. But with Mrs. Hahn the danger to which Laura had been exposed at once overcame this natural nervousness. "Ah, you poor young lady!" she began, but while overflowing with compassion, with delicate tact she drew away from the Chinese building, feeling that it was not an appropriate place for this visit and invited her to sit on a little bench in front of the white Muse. This was the pleasantest spot about the house; here the orange tree smiled upon its donor, and Laura could bring herself into a grateful mood. She told her neighbor how deeply she felt indebted to the Doctor, and she begged her to say this to her son, because she herself in the confusion had not properly fulfilled this duty. She then entered into the necessary business about the bad shepherd. Good Mrs. Hahn was pleased with her thanks and in a motherly way begged Laura to take off her hat for a little while, as it was warm in the garden. But Laura did not take off her hat. She expressed in fitting terms her pleasure in the garden, said how beautifully it bloomed, and heard with satisfaction of the splendid orange tree which had been sent anonymously to Mr. Hahn, the fruit of which was sweet, for Mr. Hahn had celebrated the return of his son by an artistic drink, for which he had taken the first fruit of the little tree.

It was altogether a diplomatic visit, not extended unnecessarily; and Laura was glad when, on departing, she had repeated her compliments and thanks to the Doctor.

In Laura's secret record, also, the events of this day were very shortly disposed of. Even an observation she had begun on the happiness of the lonely dwellers in the wood remained unfinished. How was it, Laura?--you, who write down everything; who, when an insect or a sparrow hops in at the window, burst forth into verse! Here was an event influencing your whole life--danger, unconsciousness in the arms of a stranger, who, in spite of his learned aspect, is a handsome youth! This would be the time to depict and indulge in fancy dreams. Capricious girl, why does this adventure lie like a dead stone in the fantastic landscape that surrounds thee? Is it with thee as with the traveler, who, weary of the Alpine scenery, looks below him and wonders that this marvelous nature so little impresses him, till gradually, but perhaps not for years, the scenes pursue him, waking or dreaming, and draw him anew to the mountains? Or has the nearness of the wicked animal who occasioned the outrage impeded the flight of your soaring wings? There he lies before your threshold, red and ragged, licking his lips.

CHAPTER XII.

THE DEPARTURE FROM THE ESTATE.

Autumn had come. The trees about the house had assumed their colored dress of decay. White webs hung over the stubble, and the dew drops lay upon them till the wind tore the woven fabrics away and bore them from field and valley into the blue distance. A happy pair went hand in hand about the place. This year the fall of the leaf did not affect the Professor, for a new spring had begun in his life; and his happiness was written in his countenance in characters which might be read by the most unlearned.

Ilse was betrothed. Modestly she bore the invisible crown which, according to the opinion of the household and neighborhood, now encircled her head. There were still hours in which she could scarcely believe in her happiness. When she rose early from her bed, and heard the trailing of the plough, or when she stood in the dairy amidst the clattering of the milk pails, her future appeared like a dream. But in the evening, when she was sitting near her beloved one, listening to his words and conversing on subjects serious and trifling, she would lay her hand gently on his arm in order to assure herself that he belonged to her, and that she was thenceforth to enter into the life in which his spirit moved.

The marriage was to take place before the winter, and before the lectures began at the University. For the Professor had petitioned against a long engagement and the father had yielded.

"I would gladly have kept Ilse with me over the winter. Clara must assume a portion of her duties, and the guidance of her sister would have been a great help to her. But it is better for you that it should be otherwise. You, my son, have sought the hand of my daughter after a short acquaintance, and the sooner Ilse accustoms herself to the life of the city, the better it will be for you both; and I think it would be easier for her in the winter."

It was a time of happy excitement, and the necessity of providing for the new household brought down the feelings of the betrothed from their state of exaltation to earthly things.

The Professor made a journey to the University. He went first to his friend.

"Wish me joy," he exclaimed; "have confidence in her and me."

The Doctor embraced him and never left his side during his stay. He accompanied him in all his shopping expeditions and assisted him in the arrangement of the rooms. Gabriel, who, from the visit of the country gentleman, had anticipated coming events, and who had become doubtful of his own indispensability, felt proud when the Professor said to him:

"Between you and me things are to remain as they were. Do your best to make yourself useful to my wife."

Then came Mr. Hummel. In the name of the family he extended his congratulations, and of his own accord offered the use of two rooms in his house which he himself did not occupy. But Laura was more anxious than all the rest about the new inmate. She burst forth in verse thus:

When the Professor begged of her and her mother to receive his future wife with friendliness and help her in her arrangements, and when he added to Laura that he hoped she would be on a friendly footing with his bride, he did not guess how much happiness he had given that young heart, which felt an unquiet longing to attach itself devotedly to some one. The indefinite descriptions which he gave concerning the character of his intended made a very vague impression which to Laura became a frame in which she daily depicted new faces.

Meanwhile the women were occupied in the old house preparing Ilse's outfit. The approaching marriage of her sister had transformed Clara into a young lady; she helped and gave good advice, and in everything showed herself clever and practical. Ilse spoke of this in terms of praise one evening to her father and then threw her arms around his neck and burst into tears. The father's mouth quivered; he did not answer, but he held his daughter close to his heart. It fortunately happened that the last weeks before their separation were full of work and distraction. There was yet much to be done in the household and the father would not permit the betrothed couple to omit a single visit to his acquaintances in the neighborhood.

One of the first was to the family of Rollmaus. Ilse in a special letter had informed Mrs. Rollmaus of her betrothal; and this had created great excitement. Mrs. Rollmaus burst forth into a stream of triumph; but Mr. Rollmaus saddled his horse and rode to Bielstein, but not to the house. He inquired for the Proprietor at the gate of the court-yard and rode to meet him in the field. There he took him aside and began his congratulations with this short question:

"What is he worth?"

The question was answered numerically, and he seemed satisfied. For he turned his horse round, trotted up to the house and extended his congratulations to Ilse and her betrothed, whom he now looked upon as her equal, and this time he pressingly repeated his invitation to call. After his return, he said to his wife:

"I could have wished a better match for Ilse, but the man is not so bad after all."

"Rollmaus," replied the wife, "I hope you will behave properly on this occasion."

"What do you mean?" asked the Crown Inspector.

"You must propose the health of the betrothed couple at dinner, when they come."

The husband muttered a suppressed growl. "But I'll have none of your oratorical trash and sentiment; I will have nothing to do with that."

"The eloquence must be in the introduction," said Mrs. Rollmaus; "and if you will not do it, I will undertake it myself. You may merely propose the health."

The house of Rollmaus displayed its finest table linen and dinner service for the visit, and Mrs. Rollmaus showed not only a good heart but good cooking. After the first course she clinked her glass and began excitedly:

"Dear Ilse, as Mr. Rollmaus in proposing your health will express himself shortly and laconically, I take the occasion to mention beforehand that as old friends of your parents, we wish you joy from the bottom of our hearts. And as we have lived together as good neighbors, sympathizing both in misfortune and when there was an agreeable addition to the family, and as we have often rendered each other mutual assistance in household matters, it is very sad for us to think that you are going to leave our country. Yet we rejoice that you are going to a city where intellect and higher aims are appreciated. I will not be voluminous, therefore I beg of you both to remember us with true friendship."

She put her handkerchief to her eyes and Mr. Rollmaus expressed the family feeling generally, in four words:

"Health to the couple."

At departing Mrs. Rollmaus wept a little and begged the Proprietor to permit them to be at the marriage, though no other guests were to be present.

There was to be still another distraction. The Sovereign wished to stop on the way to his hunting castle and take breakfast in the old house.

"It is well. Ilse, that you are with us," said her father.

"But one does not know at all what such a person is accustomed to," rejoined Ilse, between pleasure and anxiety.

"His own cook will come over from the Forester's house; he will help. Only see to it that he finds something in the kitchen."

It was a day of busy preparation, and the children, the housekeeper and the workwomen sat among heaps of branches and autumn flowers, twining wreaths and garlands.

"Spare nothing," said Ilse to the old gardener; "he is the beloved father of our country. We, his children, bring him our flowers as a tribute."

Hans, with the help of the Professor, arranged immense emblems and monograms of dahlias.

The evening before the hunt the purveyor and cook, with their attendants, arrived. The purveyor begged leave to set the table in the garden. "The Sovereign will be accompanied by the necessary servants; the rest of the waiting may be done by the waiting-maids of the house. Country customs please his Highness."

On the morning of the chase the Proprietor rode in his best clothes to Rossau to receive the Sovereign, and the children thronged round the windows of the upper story, spying along the highway like bandits. Shortly before midday the carriage came up the hill and stopped at the door of the house. The Proprietor and Forester, who were riding on each side of the royal carriage, dismounted. The Sovereign descended with his suite, greeting them as he crossed the threshold. He was of advanced age and middle height; had a small delicate face, from which could be seen that in youth he had been considered a handsome man, with two intelligent eyes, beneath which were many small wrinkles. Ilse entered the hall and the Proprietor introduced his daughter in his simple way. The Sovereign greeted Ilse graciously with a few sentences and favored the Professor, who was presented to him as bridegroom of the daughter, with some attention; whereupon the Professor was invited by the master of the hounds to join the party at breakfast. The Sovereign stepped into the garden directly, praised the house and the landscape and recollected having been here with his father as a boy of fourteen.

Breakfast passed off admirably. The Sovereign asked questions of the Proprietor, that evinced a great interest in the condition of the country. When they arose from the table, he approached the Professor, asked various particular questions about the University, and knew the names of several of his colleagues. The answers and general demeanor of the Scholar induced him to prolong the conversation. He told him that he himself was somewhat of a collector. He had brought ancient coins and other antiques from Italy and any increase in his collection gave him much pleasure. And he was pleased to find that the Professor was already acquainted with several of the more important ones.

When the Sovereign, in conclusion, asked the Professor, whether he belonged to this country, Felix answered that accident had brought him there. It suddenly occurred to him that this was an opportunity, which might never recur, of making known to the highest power in the country the fate of the lost manuscript, and thereby, perhaps, gaining an order for further research in the residence. He began his account. The Sovereign listened with evident excitement. While cross-questioning him about it, he drew him further from the company and seemed so entirely engrossed in the affair as to forget the hunting. The master of the hounds, at least, looked at his watch often and spoke to the Proprietor of the interest, which the Sovereign seemed to take in his son-in-law. At last his Highness closed the conversation:--

"I thank you for your communication. I value the confidence which you have shown me. If I can be of any use to you in this matter apply directly to me; and should you happen to come into my neighborhood, let me know. It would give me pleasure to see you again."

When the Sovereign passed through the hall to the carriage he stopped and looked round. The master of the hounds gave the Proprietor a hint. Ilse was called and again made her obeisance, and the Sovereign in a few words thanked her for her hospitable reception. Before the carriage had disappeared from the farm-buildings the Sovereign again looked back to the house, and this civility was fully appreciated.

"He turned quite round," said one of the laborer's wives, who had placed herself with the working people near the evergreen arch by the barns.

All were contented and rejoiced in the graciousness and civility which had been given and received in good part. Ilse praised the Sovereign's attendants, who had made everything so easy; and the judicious questions of the ruler had pleased the Professor much. When the Proprietor returned in the evening, he related how well the chase had gone off, and that the Sovereign had spoken most kindly to him and had wished him joy of his son-in-law before everybody.

The last day that the maiden was to pass in her father's house came. She went with her sister Clara down to the village, stood by the window of the poor Lazarus, stopped at every house and committed the poor and sick to the care of her sister. Then she sat a long time with the Pastor in his study. The old man held his dear child by the hand and would not let her go. On departing, he gave her the old Bible which his wife had used.

"I meant to take it with me to my last abode," he said, "but it will be better preserved in your hands."

When Ilse returned she seated herself in her room and the maids and workwomen of the house entered one after another. She took leave of each of them separately and spoke to them once more of what each had most at heart, gave comfort and good advice, and a small keepsake from her little store. In the evening she sat between her father and lover. The tutor had taught the children some verses; Clara brought the bridal wreath, and the little brother appeared as a guardian angel; but when he began his speech he burst out sobbing, concealed his head in Ilse's lap and would not be comforted.

When at bed-time they had all left. Ilse for the last time sat in her chair in the sitting room. When her father prepared to retire, she handed him a candle. The father put it down and paced up and down without speaking. At last he began:

"Your room, Ilse, shall remain unchanged. Should you return to us you shall find it as you left it. No one can replace you here. No one can be what you have been to your brothers, sisters, and to your father. I give you up with sorrow to enter upon a life which is unknown to us both. Good night, my beloved child. Heaven's blessing upon you. God guard your noble heart. Be brave. Ilse, for life is full of trials."

He drew her to him and she wept quietly on his breast.

The following day the morning sun shone through the windows of the old wooden church upon the place before the altar. Again Ilse's head was surrounded by a heavenly radiance and the countenance of the man into whose hand the old pastor laid that of his favorite beamed with happiness. The children of the house and the workwomen of the farm strewed flowers. Ilse, with her wreath and veil, stepped over the last flowers of the garden, looking heavenward. From the arms of her father and sisters, amid the loudly expressed blessings of Mrs. Rollmaus and the gently-murmured prayer of the old Pastor, her husband helped her into the carriage. Another hurrah from the people, one more glance at the old home, and Ilse pressed the hand of her husband and clung closely to him.