Swallow only a couple of mouthfuls at first. What was the cause of your being sent for, in the middle of the night, to that fierce old woman, the Rottmannin? No, no; first drink your coffee, and you can answer me at your leisure. I can wait."

"Lina," said the Pastor, a singular smile stealing over his face, "Lina, you may well be proud. I must be one of the most agreeable companions in the world. Ah! this coffee is capital. Only think, Lina!

it was just one o'clock, for I heard it strike on the Wenger clock when I arrived at Rottmannshof. My reception there was rather noisy, for I was greeted by such an uproarious welcome, that I could really scarcely get out of the sledge. The good people had unchained all the watch-dogs during the night, saying it was not at all necessary to tie them up when the Pastor was coming; the worthy souls really entertaining the strange superst.i.tion, that the word of G.o.d is a sure defence against vicious dogs, even in the dark. It was some time, therefore, before I could make my way into the house, as all the dogs were first obliged to be shut up in their kennels. Give me another cup of coffee, Lina, it is so good--"

"Well, and what then?" said his wife.

The Pastor looked at her with a smile, and continued--

"The snow in that country comes up to the knees, but it has at least one good property; that of being clean, though it does wet one to the skin in the most remarkable manner. I luckily did not stumble over the huge logs in the yard, hidden in the snow, and the puddles were so obliging as to be frozen over. 'Where is your master?' said I. 'He is in bed.' 'Is he dangerously ill also?' 'No, he is asleep.' 'Really! I am summoned to his dying wife, and the husband is comfortably sleeping:' a very easy going, pleasant world this is, thought I: well, I went straight to the sick woman's room--'G.o.d be praised! Herr Pastor, that you are come at last.' What! that is not surely the voice of a woman at the point of death? I asked why I had been summoned in the middle of the night. 'Oh! my good Herr Pastor,' said the Rottmannin, 'you are so kind, so very kind, and have the art of conversing and instructing so delightfully, that the very sight of you is reviving, and makes me entirely forget my dangerous state. Here have I been lying for seven nights, scarcely able to close my eyes, and I can't tell you how bored and tired I am. I thought the time would never pa.s.s, so I just sent for you. You are so good natured, Herr Pastor, I thought you would sit and talk to me for a while and amuse me--my husband must on no account hear that I sent for you, I am not at all in his good graces at present; he goes from home as often as he can, and even when he stays with me, he scarcely says one word; I believe he would have been very glad if I had died long ago, and as for my only child, Adam, he seems scarcely to know that I am in the world. Oh! Herr Pastor! any one obliged as I am to lie here day and night, in this solitary house, unable to do anything, would feel, like me, every day that pa.s.ses to be an eternity, and every night even worse. If my Vincent were still alive he would have watched by me day and night; he would have nursed me in a way in which no other human being ever can. So my good kind Pastor, sit down here and talk to me. Would you like a gla.s.s of good Wachhold brandy? it will warm you, you must take it, and shall positively not refuse. Katy, take down that long-necked green bottle from the shelf, the one farthest back, and give a gla.s.s of brandy to the Pastor.' What do you think were my feelings, Lina, when I heard the woman so coolly pouring forth all these fluent speeches?"

"I should have had great difficulty in refraining from very hard words to such a bold evil creature. Quite too bad! To drag you out of your own house, on a cold December night, over snowy mountains."

"And a wolf wandering about, too," said the Pastor, indignantly.

"Don't talk about a wolf," rejoined Lina hastily, "this Rottmannin is the most ferocious wolf of all. I hope you gave her your opinion."

"a.s.suredly I did--may I be a little vain between ourselves? I must say then, that never in my life was I better pleased with myself. I own I could scarcely help laughing at her cool impertinence, and her childish want of consideration, for children are just so; they only think of themselves, and not of the sacrifices they exact from others. Say what you will, there is a certain degree of simplicity in the selfishness of the Rottmannin; she thinks only of herself and never of others. Of course I did not fail to tell her that it was rather an arbitrary proceeding, so coolly to dispose of a person's night's rest, and that I did not even feel flattered by her esteeming my conversation so highly, and sending a court equipage for me, commanding me to appear at court.

Still, as I was actually there and had lost my night's sleep, I conversed with her, and tried to amuse her, so far as my powers permitted, and she took her share in the conversation, relating to me various anecdotes of good and evil; but she evidently preferred the latter, her chief delight being in detailing all sorts of bad actions, to prove the wickedness of the world, and she always wound up by saying:--'Before I die, there is one favour I ask of G.o.d; which is to give me some sign as to Vincent's murderers, that they may be all hanged and burned, even supposing half the village were included.' You know that when she begins on this subject, she is full of vindictive projects; and yet I have pretty good proof that she had no great love for Vincent while he was alive. Now, however, she speaks of him with the most enthusiastic fondness, and as if all her love were buried in his grave, for no heart is so entirely evil that it does not seek some valid reason for such bitterness; striving to prove that it had been devoted to some particular object, for whose sake all else is to be disregarded. I tried to appeal to her conscience by saying, that it was certainly permitted to love the dead, but that nothing more could be done to benefit them, whereas a great deal might be done for the living; and that she ought, at last, to yield about the affair of Adam and Martina, I depicted to her the delight she would take in her grandson; I tried to persuade her, that in reality she had sent for me on this very account, but felt a certain reluctance to own this honestly to me, but--I do believe a wolf must be lurking very near there--the Rottmannin broke out into a loud howl, that she could only have learned from a wolf; it really made me shudder with horror, and I thought to myself, she will die on the spot, for sure am I that her rage will choke her; she clutched the wall in her fury, and scratched it with her nails, and at last sank back; however she very soon started up again, and exclaimed: 'I thank G.o.d that I am still alive, and I trust He will spare my life for many a year to come, that, even if I cannot leave my bed, I may still have strength to cry out and to protest, and with my last breath I will cry out and protest, that never, never shall that miserable beggar's daughter, who herself led my Adam astray, become the mistress of this house. Why, in these days, are there no longer men to be found, to send out of the world such a wretched creature, and her child into the bargain? Pretty clergymen we have now! all lazy, good-for-nothing black coats; they have no longer the fear of G.o.d before their eyes, for here is a Pastor who actually recommends a reward for sin and wickedness. Martina ought rather to stand at the church door, with a wreath of straw on her head, to do public penance. But here she shall never come; no! not if a thousand such--such hypocritical parsons were to pretend they had a message from Heaven; and if they were to wring my neck for it, my last cry would be, she shan't come here--she shan't come here: I will not suffer it, and this very day I will take care to settle that point.'

"The father and son having been startled out of their sleep by the savage scream of the Rottmannin, now hurried into the room, and the old man spoke to me just as if I had intruded myself of my own accord into his house, and begged me distinctly to understand that he would not allow his wife to be tormented, let Schilder-David send whom he would.

Adam stood with clasped hands and looked beseechingly at me. I had no idea that the young man could look so gentle and anxious. I felt as if I were one of those doomed men who, in legends, are summoned by demons to do them a service. What a world this is! Are these the very men to whom, for ten long years past, I have been anxiously preaching the Gospel? Every word that I would fain have said seemed to freeze on my lips. I only desired that the sledge might be instantly got ready to take me home, but they paid no attention to me. At last Adam said, 'I will drive you home myself, Herr Pastor. Pray forgive all that has occurred.'

"'No!' exclaimed his mother, violently, 'he shan't go with you.

Christopher, hold him fast; he is quite capable of marrying his good-for-nothing mistress on the spot.'--The father desired Adam to stay at home, and he made a vow to his wife--laying his hand on the Bible that I had left open--(it made me shudder to see the man make such a vow on this holy book)--as a token that he would faithfully perform it--that this very day he would see Adam's betrothal completed with the Forest Miller's Tony.

"I scarcely remember how I got out of the house; I called the servant who had fetched me and told him that I would walk on, and that he was to follow me as soon as possible with the sledge. Morning was just beginning to dawn as I went down the hill and through the forest, and I felt as if I were flying from a cavern where demons dwelt. I don't think that I lost my way, but the wolf met me; the animal stood still for a moment, looked at me as if uncertain what to do, and then trotted off quietly into the wood. I cannot deny that I was trembling from head to foot, and never in my life did I feel so paralyzed from terror as at that instant; besides it was frightfully cold, and I was very foolish to walk on alone. There was no sign of the servant and the sledge. I thought it very possible that those hard hearted creatures would prevent his coming at all, and make me go home on foot; I retraced my steps a short way, and anger and bitterness made me feel actually quite warm--not far from the farm I met the servant, driving along in no hurry, and luckily I found the flask of Kirsch in my pocket, that you made me take with me. I cannot tell you all the thoughts that pa.s.sed through my mind during the hour when I was driving home, in a half-waking state. Both King Solomon and Sirach have described a wicked woman very impressively; I could furnish them with very lively additions to their delineation--but, my precious Lina, of what value would be either goodness, or the love of a fellow creature, without being tested by wicked men? Still I cannot but rejoice that I have decided on leaving this district. I shall soon enter my fiftieth year, so I require less severe work; I have had hard enough toil in the days of my youth, and even if I lose my present and my future Cure also, by persisting in my resolution, I am quite determined never to marry Adam to any one but Martina."

Drawing a deep breath, and dashing away the tears in her eyes, the Pastorin said:--

"Yes, I do indeed think it will be a very good thing that we should go to another country where men are more civilized, and will also do more justice to your merits."

"Do not forget, however," said the Pastor, "that, although we have often much boorishness to contend against, still we have many very worthy persons here also. In our new destination we shall be sure to find both good and bad, and work enough--but now I must say I am dreadfully tired--I can see no one till eleven o'clock--I must go to rest, so try to keep all as quiet as possible. Good night, or rather good morning! When I rise, I shall feel as if a whole year had elapsed, since the nocturnal visit to the Rottmanns."

The Pastor went to his bedroom, which was cleverly heated, by the parlour stove being placed in the wall between the rooms. Soon all was as still in the house as if it were midnight.

Lina glided about on tip-toe, and she hung a green cloth over the bird-cage, to silence the bird; and, for the second time to day, she gave a liberal breakfast to those unfortunate beggars, waiting outside, the sparrows and goldfinches. The wind speedily dispersed the crumbs she scattered on the window-sill--the hungry little creatures seemed however to find plenty of food, and at last flew away as quietly as if they had known that the Pastor's sleep was not to be disturbed. The Pastorin sat at the window with her work in her hand, and made anxious signs to any one approaching the house to be quiet; presently she saw the most pleasing of all sights in the country--the letter-carrier coming up to the house, and ran down quickly to meet him at the door to prevent his ringing, receiving from him several packets of letters from relatives and friends in the capital. She would not open any of the letters, for she wished that her husband should be with her when she read them, and that they should enjoy all the pleasant news together.

None of the letters were however directed to her, and one bore the seal of the Consistorial President.

CHAPTER VII.

THE HOME OF SCHILDER-DAVID.

"Woe's me, Leegart!" had been the exclamation of little Joseph as that good woman entered, for which want of civility his grandfather gave him a hearty box on the ear. The boy began to cry and his grandfather to scold, and Martina both to scold and to cry; for David would not even allow her to soothe the boy by a single kind word. And Leegart said, in a sensible tone of voice, though certainly with rather a nasal tw.a.n.g--"It is really too bad to meet with such a welcome! I ought to go away again immediately: it is enough to make one superst.i.tious; but whatever we do, let us at all events avoid superst.i.tion! Nothing in the world is so dreadful; for people plague themselves perpetually about things they do not see, and I am sure we have all plague enough with the things we do see; so I shall stay where I am. Good morning, Joseph!

Say 'good morning' to me, prettily. There--now shake hands!"

"The boy slept very badly last night, and does not know what he is saying," said Martina, in order to excuse the child.

"Make no apology to me, and let us say no more about it," said Leegart, placing on the table, in formidable array, a solid pincushion, consisting of a heavy brick covered with cloth, a pair of scissors with a large and a small handle, and a smaller pair, a stock of pins and needles, and a tiny wax taper. She thereby took possession of the house for the day, and regulated it accordingly from her throne; for she never rose again from her seat till she went away late at night.

Before, however, she settled in her place for the day, she went into the next room, and returned shorn of her upper petticoat, for she was never seen in the street without being very neatly dressed; but she was anxious not to spoil her best gown by sitting on it. When she came into the room again, she pushed the table into a comfortable corner, seated herself, and Martina placed a footstool under her feet; and now Leegart gave her orders in few and distinct words, and commenced by saying, "Martina, get breakfast."

Martina brought in the oatmeal porridge, and placed it on the table.

Joseph said grace; and out of his stock of prayers, he selected on this occasion the shortest--"May G.o.d give food to all poor children on earth. Amen." Joseph had dried his tears, and was seated between his grandfather and grandmother; and, after grace was said, all were as quiet as possible at table--each helped himself with his own spoon out of the dish, and there were no disputes as to precedence.

The room was perfectly clean and tidy, though small and poor. Above the stove, just over the substantial old easy chair, there was a large nail, with a bra.s.s head, stuck in the wall, on which once upon a time, Martina's certificate of confirmation had hung--but nothing hung from it now. Martina always avoided looking at it, and David had given strict orders that the nail was not to be removed.

The head of the house, Schilder-David, was a man advanced in years, but it was difficult to know his exact age. His hair was thick, closely cropped, and snow white; but his face, encircled by a snowy beard, had rather a youthful appearance, especially his deep blue eyes and dark eyebrows, which appeared not to harmonize with the rest of his features. His wife was tall and slender, but very little of her face was visible, for she invariably wrapped her head in thick handkerchiefs, and when she did speak, the sounds she uttered were apparently brought forth with such difficulty, that it was evident she did not hear even her own voice. The sempstress Leegart was a delicate, pale, rather superior-looking person, somewhat advanced in life, but still preserving traces of extreme beauty: moreover, her manner was always gentle and polite. Her black cloth jacket was only fastened at the throat, and open down to the waist, so that a white kerchief and still whiter skin were visible. Those who did not know the fact could scarcely perceive that she occasionally took a sly pinch, for she never showed her snuff-box, and took a pinch so neatly and quickly that it was almost imperceptible. It was difficult to believe that little Joseph was only just six years old, for he might easily be supposed three years older at least: his limbs were strong and finely formed--what the country-people here call a well grown lad; his hair was fair and curly, to which his marked eyebrows and dark eyes--his mother's eyes--formed a singular contrast. Little Joseph was in fact, the central point of the family, and this was evident by the extreme confusion his strange welcome to Leegart had caused.

There was little said during the meal, but Leegart mentioned that the Pastor had been sent for on the preceding night to the Rottmannin.

"We never speak of such a person here," said Schilder-David, giving a significant glance at Leegart and then at Joseph.

They all rose from table. Joseph's measure was taken for his jacket, and then the outlines drawn with white chalk on the green cloth, and Leegart's huge shears cut out the cloth on the table with a strange snapping sound.

"Stay at home to-day--the mill-stream is frozen over," said David to Joseph, and went into his work-shop, which was part.i.tioned off a loft above the saw-mill. There was here a turning lathe with a strap attached to a cylinder, and this was fastened to the spring-wheel of the mill below; and the water power that impelled the large machine turned also the smaller one, at which David constructed his wooden watch dials and clock cases.

Little Joseph was standing apart, as if in disgrace, when his grandfather, contrary to his usual custom, went out alone. Usually he took Joseph with him; and the boy supplied his furnace with chips, and brought him rough pieces of wood for his work, taking away those that were finished and arranging them in good order. His mother took the boy with her into the kitchen, and there she asked him, "Joseph, what ails you to-day? Why did you exclaim so uncivilly, 'Woe's me, Leegart!'? she is so kind to you, and your G.o.dmother besides, and is making you a pretty new jacket."

Not a word from Joseph.

A child can scarcely remember what he said a few minutes previously, and can never recall the train of his ideas, and consequently cannot explain them. The words of children are like the songs of birds, devoid of rhythm, and yet emanating from a hidden life within.

After a pause, Joseph began of his own accord to say, "Mother, is not my father to be here to-day? You told me so."

"Yes, he will be here. He is sure to come, I think," answered Martina, with a deep sigh. Now she understood why Joseph had been so disappointed on seeing Leegart. No doubt, when she threw open the door, Joseph expected to see his father; so he had called out, "Woe's me, Leegart!" simply because it was another person, and not his father.

Joseph went on talking, and saying he knew his father would take him on his horse, and probably give him one of his own.

Martina anxiously endeavoured to divert the child's thoughts from his father, but she could not succeed. In the depression of her heart, she had too often made Adam a topic of conversation, and had frequently spoken her inmost thoughts to the boy, whose dawning intellect and thoughts were entirely concentrated on his father. He had formed the most singular ideas about him, and was perpetually asking why his grandmother persisted in plaguing his father, and preventing his coming home to them.

"Which way will my father come to-day?" asked Joseph.

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do know, and you must tell me," said little Joseph, beginning to whimper; and his mother, drawing him closer to her, said, "Hush, hush! no one must overhear us. If you are quite good and quiet, I will tell you presently."

The boy checked his sobs, and his mother began to tell him what pretty presents he was to get at Christmas, and asked him if there was anything he particularly wished for. The boy cared for nothing but a horse: people had told him that his father had fourteen horses in his stable. All attempts to distract his attention were vain; his thoughts were entirely concentrated on his father; and he repeated, "Tell me, which way will he come to day?"

The mother said in a subdued tone, "You must not tell a living creature one syllable about your father coming here to-day. Give me your hand on it; not one word to any human being."

The boy gave his mother his hand, and stared at her, his large eyes still swimming in tears. Martina said no more, for she thought she had pacified the child. But presently, with the most obstinate pertinacity, he began again, "Which way will he come? tell me!"

"There are several roads, but I think he will come through the valley and the wood. But now not another word; you are not to plague me any more. Go and fetch some fir chips from the workshop."

The boy went out to fetch the wood, and the mother thought, with quiet satisfaction, "He will one day be a true man: when he wants a thing he will never rest till he gets it."

She then went with the boy into the sitting-room, but Leegart said, "Send away Joseph, for we can't talk before the child."