In the large garden drawing-room Herr von Wendenstein paced up and down with measured step, Madame von Wendenstein sat in her accustomed place before the large round table, and her daughters were beside her; all was as usual, yet a heavy cloud of care weighed on each brow, on each heart.

The president held out his hand to the pastor in silence, silently Madame von Wendenstein greeted her visitors, and the young girls embraced without speaking a word.

"A rumour is abroad of a great battle, and of a great victory," said the pastor; "I hoped here to learn something reliable."

"I have had no news," said the president gloomily. "I only know what has been brought from mouth to mouth; some part will be true; let us hope the news of the victory may be confirmed."

He said nothing of the care and anxiety of his heart for the son who was on the distant battle-field, but an affectionate and sympathizing look flew from beneath his contracted brows towards his wife.

"What a wonderful thing the world is!" she said in a low tone, as she shook her head. "In peaceful times, steam and the telegraph seemed to have annihilated time and s.p.a.ce, and news of the most unimportant trifles flew from one end of the earth to the other; and now, when so many hearts are tormented by restless anxiety, news travels slowly and uncertainly from mouth to mouth, as in the days that are long pa.s.sed away."

"So it is with the proud achievements of human intellect," said the pastor; "when the hand of G.o.d seizes the history of a nation, man grows weak and powerless, and all the progress the world has made becomes as nothing. But that it is G.o.d's hand must be our consolation, He has power to raise up and to protect, He has power to heal the wounds His hands have made."

With a pious look of resignation, Madame von Wendenstein listened to the pastor's words, but tears trickled down her cheeks, and proved how hard her heart found this anxious suspense.

"I have no news from the army," said the president, "but I have received a letter from my son in Hanover. He tells me of the Prussian government, and praises its order and punctuality highly," said the old gentleman with some bitterness.

"Public men must be in great and painful difficulties in Hanover," said the pastor; "there, political views are much more in the foreground than here in the country, and it must be extremely hard to reconcile the duties of a servant of Hanover with the necessities of the situation."

"It appears as if the gentlemen in office found them easy to reconcile," said the president gloomily. "It is certainly good that the Prussian government should be excellent, prompt, and punctual, but it would never come into my head in these days to feel any particular enthusiasm about it. Well, youth is different to what it was in my day."

The auditor Bergfeld entered the room with a hasty step and an excited look.

"What news do you bring from Luchow?" cried the president, hastening towards him: and all eyes were fixed on him in mute anxiety.

"It is true!" he cried; "there has been a battle--at Langensalza, and our army is victorious!"

"Thank G.o.d!" cried the president; "and have they succeeded in pressing on to the south?"

"Alas, no," said Bergfeld, mournfully, "the day after the battle our brave soldiers were surrounded by overwhelming forces and obliged to capitulate." The president gazed gloomily before him. "Is the king a prisoner?" he asked. "No," said Bergfeld, "the king is free, the capitulation is very honourable, the officers return home with their arms and horses. But," he continued, "there are many wounded; in Hanover committees have been formed, nourishment is wanted, they beg for linen, for bread and meat."

"Everything in the house shall be packed up at once," cried the president, energetically, "the wounded must have the best of everything; my cellar shall be emptied."

Madame von Wendenstein had risen and approached her husband.

"Let me take the things," she said, imploringly. "Why?" cried the president, "you can do no good, and if Karl comes back, it--"

"_If_ he comes back!" cried the old lady, bursting into tears.

"We shall soon hear news of him," said the president, "and until then--"

The sound of voices was heard in the hall. Johann entered and said, "Old Deyke is here; he wishes to speak to the president."

"Bring him in, bring him in!" cried the old gentleman, and the old peasant Deyke came in amongst the excited group, looking as calm and dignified as usual, but with a deep and gloomy gravity spread over his sharp features.

"Well, dear Deyke," cried the president, "have you heard the news; do you come to consult with us how to send in the quickest way all that our brave soldiers need?"

"I have received a letter from my Fritz," said the peasant solemnly, whilst he respectfully took the hand held out to him by the president.

"Well, and how does the brave young fellow get on? cried the old gentleman.

"Has he seen my son?" asked Madame von Wendenstein, gazing at the peasant with anxious eyes.

"He has found the lieutenant," he replied, laconically.

"And my son lives?" cried the poor lady with hesitation. She feared to hear the answer which must touch the inmost string of her heart.

"He lives," said old Deyke. "I wish to say a couple of words to the president alone," he stammered.

"No!" cried Madame von Wendenstein, vehemently, "no, not alone. Deyke, you have some bad news, but I will hear it; I am strong enough to hear anything, but I cannot bear suspense. I beg you," she continued, looking affectionately at her husband, "to let me hear what he has to tell."

The president looked undecided. The pastor came forward slowly.

"Permit your wife to hear the tidings, whatever they may be, my old friend," he said, gravely and quietly. "Your son lives, that is the first and most important point; whatever may be to come, cannot be too hard for a true and pious heart, like our friend's, to bear."

Madame von Wendenstein looked gratefully at the clergyman.

Old Deyke slowly drew out a paper.

"The president will perhaps look at my son's letter?"

"Give it to me," said the pastor; "it belongs to G.o.d's servant, an old friend of this house, to impart this message."

He took the paper and walked to the window, through which the last light of the waning day entered the room.

Madame von Wendenstein with widely opened eyes hung on his lips. Helena sat at the table with her head resting on her hand, calm and apparently indifferent; her eyes were cast down; it seemed doubtful whether she saw or heard anything pa.s.sing around her.

Slowly the pastor read,--

"My dear Father,

"I write at once that you may have news of me, and, thank G.o.d, I am well and cheerful; I fell in with the army at Langensalza, and enlisted in the cuira.s.sier guards, and took part in the great battle, and went under a hot fire, but I came out safe and sound. We were victorious, and took two cannon and many prisoners, but to-day we are surrounded by superior numbers, and the generals have said we could not march. So the king capitulated, and we are all coming home. My heart is almost broken when I look at all our brave soldiers going back with the white staff in their hands, and they don't look such cowardly creatures either.

"Now, dear father, I must tell you of Lieutenant von Wendenstein, with whom I must remain, for he is badly wounded, and I cannot leave him here alone. I found him on the battle-field and thought he was dead, but, thank G.o.d, it was not so bad as that; and the doctor has extracted the ball, and says he will live if he only has strength to hold out through the fever. I am with him at the brewer Lohmeier's, a good man though he is a Prussian, and the lieutenant is well cared for. My host sends off this letter for me through an acquaintance in the field post.

Go at once to the president and tell him all, and have no anxiety about me for I am all right.

"Your son,

"Fritz.

"Written the 28th July, 1866."

The pastor was silent.

The president came up to his wife, put his arm round her shoulders, kissed her grey hair, and said,--

"He lives! my G.o.d, I thank thee!"