"There is very little to relate about her; she lives a quiet but busy life; ready to lend her aid to any family in sorrow or in need; she talks very little, and is devoted with the most tender love to her father, and he repays her by the love he shows towards little Joseph."

"And the father of the boy, Adam? what of him?"

"He also lives very retired, and, as I told you, he is almost kept a prisoner at home by his parents. He makes no resistance, and seems to think he has made all the reparation in his power, by uniformly declaring that, if he is not allowed to marry Martina, he will never marry at all. The parents anxiously strive to induce Martina to give him up. Very tempting offers have been made to her, and very respectable wooers have come forward, whom old Rottmann has offered to provide with a good sum of money, but she will not for a moment listen to such proposals, and her invariable answer is, 'I could easily get a good husband, but my Joseph can get no other father than Adam, even if he wished it.' A cousin of Martina's, a shoemaker, who is very well off, and a bachelor, appears resolved not to marry until he is quite sure that Martina will not have him. He is called in the village Haspele, and indeed I do not know his real name. On festival nights he helps the girls to wind off the yarn that they have spun, on hasps, and therefore he has got the nickname of Haspele. He is a goodnatured creature, and every year consecutively, plays the part of the carnival Merryandrew. Wherever he goes, the whole year through, people expect him to play the buffoon, which he is quite willing to do; his appearance and manners are so droll, that it is scarcely possible to know when he is in jest, or when in earnest; particularly as he has a very red nose, which looks just as if it was painted. He is sincerely attached to Martina, who has also a great regard for him, but only the kind of liking that all the other girls in the village have; she will never marry him; indeed, no one thinks that any one would marry Haspele.----G.o.d be praised!" said the Pastorin, breaking off her story, "my husband must be by this time under shelter of the Rottmanns' roof, if no accident has occurred--and G.o.d forbid there should! It would be the most precious Christmas boon to me, the most cheering commemoration of this holy season, if my husband could soften the Rottmannin's hard heart; her husband, Speidel-Rottmann, would soon come round then: in that case I think there is little doubt, that we should remain here, and gladly too. For it was the sad story of Martina and Adam which at last turned the scale, and made my husband resolve to quit this parish.

These hard hearted Rottmanner are never at rest, and have at last contrived that everything should be prepared tomorrow for the betrothal of Adam with Tony, the daughter of the Forest Miller. She lately had a young stepmother placed over her, and is resolved to leave home, no matter whither. She is the only girl of respectable family who would accept Adam. The Forest Miller and Rottmann, these two families are the most highly respected; or what is the same thing nearly, the richest, in the whole district. I must say that, for my part, I could not bear to see Adam go to church with the Forest Miller's Tony. It is hard on my husband to stand in his pulpit, and to pour out his inmost heart before his congregation, and to preach faith, and piety, and goodness, and to know, that there are people sitting even in the best pews in the church, whom he can't help seeing, and to whom all he says appears but empty words.

"Listen! the watchman is calling twelve. Otto is certainly arrived by this time, and I feel sure he will do good. Come, let us go to rest also."

CHAPTER V.

A DAY OF TROUBLE.

The whole night through, Martina continued as restless as if she knew by intuition that, at this very time, a kind and honest heart had revived the sad story of her life. She was full of impatience, and felt as if she must rush out into the world, in order suddenly to change the whole course of her life--as if it were in her power to accomplish this! The c.o.c.ks crowed more loudly, and occasionally a cow was heard lowing, and a dog barking. Surely day would soon dawn now.

Martina rose, and lighted the stove, and made a good fire on the hearth besides. She was anxious that the soup for breakfast should be particularly good today, for the sempstress, Leegart, was to arrive early, as little Joseph was to get a new green jacket of Manchester cloth. A slate was lying on the table, on which little Joseph had on the previous evening drawn a gigantic figure of a man, formidable to be seen, and yet the child had said "Look! that is my father." Martina could not help thinking this strange, as she rubbed out the figure. She wished she could as easily efface from the child's memory what she had told him the night before when he was going to sleep, about his father, and that he was to come this very day; that was probably why the child during the night had called out three times, "Is it morning yet?"

Martina gazed long at the blazing fire, and half unconsciously sung:--

Faithful love my bosom fills,-- Can true love ever fade?

Oh! what a smile that heart must wear That never was betrayed!

I cannot brook the heedless gaze Of them that haunt the busy mart; And tears come welling to my eyes, Up from the fountains of my heart.

When Martina, with the pitcher in her hand, opened the door, a strong blast of bitter cold wind rushed in; so she wrapped herself more closely: in the red shawl, with which she had covered her head and her throat, and went along to the well. The day was biting cold, and the water pipes all frozen; indeed there was no water left unfrozen, except in the deep well close to the church. A crowd of women and girls were standing round the well, and when the pitchers were too full, so that the water ran over, there was a great outcry, for the water froze so quickly that it made the ground like slippery ice. The early sun peeped forth for a minute into the valley, but apparently the sight did not please him, for he quickly disappeared again behind the clouds. The fields and meadows were glittering brightly with morning h.o.a.rfrost, a chilling sight; for everything freezes quickly when without a sheltering cover of snow. A thick surface of snow, however, lay on the hills.

"G.o.d be praised; you will see that these clouds will bring honest snow at last, today!"

"A blessing for the fields, for it is a sorrow to see them so yellow."

"We have always. .h.i.therto had snow at Christmas, and sledging at the New Year--" this was the kind of talk round the well. The words of the speakers issued like vapoury clouds from their lips.

"Is it true?" said an elderly woman to Martina when she joined them, "Is it true that our pastor was called to your mother-in-law's last night?"

"I think," said another, "that Rottmann would have no objection to saw up the tree that killed Vincent, and to make a coffin of it for his tigress."

"A very good thing if she were to take herself off, and then you would get your Adam."

"And then we should have a quiet Rottmannin instead of a fierce one."

"If I were you, I would pray the old woman to death. The tailor of Knuslingen knows a prayer, by which you can pray a person to death."

"No, no; you must curse them to death."

This was the discursive talk that went round. Martina, who had filled her pitcher with water, and lifted it on her head, only replied, "Don't speak in so G.o.dless a way, remember that tonight is Christmas Eve."

She went slowly homewards, as if the words, that still sounded in her ears, made her linger behind, and she shivered when it occurred to her that perhaps little Joseph had a presentiment of what was going on so far from him, and that this had made him so restless. She had inwardly reproached Adam with not suffering as she did, and at that very hour, he was perhaps enduring the most severe trial that can befall any human being--that of seeing the person you love best on earth draw their last breath with bitter hatred in their soul.

The group of women standing round the well seemed to be in no hurry, for some were leaning on their full pitchers, and some had placed them on their heads, but all were talking of Martina.

"Martina would gladly go to the parsonage today."

"She is a strange creature. Old Rottmann offered her two thousand guilders if she would give up all claims for her boy on his father, but she refused at once."

"And old Schilder-David refuses also."

"Good morning, Haspele," said some one hastily; "what are your hens doing? are they all safe and sound?"

"Is it true that you have a long-legged bird that crows in Spanish? Can you understand him?"

This was the mode of greeting to the only man who came to the well with a pitcher. It was Haspele. He wore a grey knitted jacket, and had a coloured nightcap on his head, from underneath which a jovial, merry face was seen, full of fun and good humour.

"Martina was here a few minutes ago; she is sure to come back soon,"

said one of the women, as she went away.

Haspele smiled his thanks, but was obliged to wait till all the women had filled their pitchers, which he did willingly, and was even goodnatured enough to help the others. Just as he had finished drawing water for himself, Martina returned, on which they mutually a.s.sisted each other, and walked a considerable way together, for Haspele was obliged to pa.s.s Martina's house, in order to reach his own. So, as they went along, Martina informed her companion that the Pastor had been summoned on the preceding night to the Rottmannin, and was not yet come home. She could not resist expressing her hope, that the Pastor might possibly succeed in softening the old woman's hard heart; but Haspele said, "Oh, do not think so. Sooner would the wolf now prowling about our woods come to my room and allow me to chain him up, as I do my goat, than the fierce Rottmannin give way. I told you already all that occurred, when I took home a new pair of boots eight days ago to Adam, and I gave you a message, that he would certainly come to see you today. I myself believe the report, which is, that you intend to set him free." Martina made no answer, but she suddenly stopped before the door of her house, and said, "Look, here comes our Pastor home."

On the opposite side of the river, for Martina's house was on this side of the ferry, a sledge was slowly driven along the high road. A man was seated beside the driver, closely wrapped in a fur cloak, and a fur cap drawn very forward over his face. The driver was comfortably smoking, and made a friendly sign with his whip to Martina, as they pa.s.sed. It was one of Rottmann's farm-servants whom she knew. She returned the greeting by waving her hand, and went into the house, while Haspele also went homewards.

Just as Martina was about to shut the door, a female voice exclaimed, "Leave it open, for I want to come in too."

"Good morning, Leegart; it is so good of you to come so early," said Martina; and the sempstress, who, in spite of its being winter, wore slippers with high heels, helped to put aside the water cans, for which service Martina thanked her cordially. Leegart would not have done this for most people; any one whom she a.s.sisted in any matter unconnected with her work, might well be very proud; she considered it indeed, quite an especial favour to come at all the very day before Christmas, for she was much in request among all the women in the neighbourhood, and wherever she went to work, she was held in high respect. This feeling was evident now, from the manner in which Martina threw open the house door as wide as possible, for her to enter; she received, however, but a cool welcome within doors, for little Joseph exclaimed: "Woe's me, Leegart!"

CHAPTER VI.

HOW A VILLAGE PASTOR WAS SUMMONED TO COURT.

The Pastor's wife had been standing a long time at the window, looking earnestly through the panes of gla.s.s; the road was only to be seen from a corner window, the view from the others being intercepted by the sharp gables of a projecting barn, which a peasant, from the wish to annoy a former pastor, had built on the spot; adding an unusually high roof, to block out all view from the Parsonage. Now that there was a clergyman whom they all liked, the barn unluckily could not be removed.

The Pastor's wife was not able to see very far even from the un.o.bstructed window, for this was one of those days, when twilight seems to prevail from one night to another; the sun shone dimly, like a watery yellow ball, through the thick clouds which now overspread the whole landscape. When the Pastorin saw the sledge close to the house she nodded, but did not open the window, standing still as if fixed to the spot. She would gladly have run down to welcome her husband, but she knew that he disliked any public display of emotion or excitement; he was of a shy and simple nature, and shrunk from all eager welcomes or agitated leave takings.

She sent the maid down however instantly, who quickly pressing the latch opened the house door. In order to do something, the Pastorin once more arranged the cups and the bread, though all was in perfect readiness; she took up her husband's well warmed slippers, lying beside the stove, and turned them the reverse way; she took the kettle with boiling water off the stove, and poured in fresh water. A pleasant warmth was diffused through the room, for people who live on the mountains understand this art.

"Good morning, Lina," said the Pastor, as he at last entered the room, "G.o.d be praised, indeed, that I have got home again!" He unfastened his fur cloak, and, as it was heavy, his wife a.s.sisted him.

"Is Edward still asleep?"

"No; he is gone out shooting. I sent him to meet you. Did you not see him?"

"No."

The atmosphere of the room seemed too stifling for the Pastor, for he opened the window, stood beside it for a few minutes, and then said: "It was lucky that you did not know about the wolf, prowling about in the wood, that all the people are in search of; perhaps you might have imagined that the monster would swallow me up."

"Come, sit down and warm yourself," answered his wife, pouring him out a cup of hot coffee. "I will hold the cup for you; I see that your fingers are so stiff from cold, that you can't take it yourself.