CHAPTER VI.

"I HAVE LIVED AND LOVED."

"SO we will hang up the Polichinello that thy dear father sent thee from afar, little Loisl; for who knows but thou and Heinrich, and I, thy mother, may see him yet before the eve of Christmas, and while the snow is on the ground. We will keep the tree here, near the window, and should he come not, we will light it afresh every night that it may shine a welcome to the dear father, and keep our hearts alive with hope."

This is what I heard my dear mistress say when it wanted yet a week to Christmas in the year 1871, and the master, her husband, was still there with the Crown Prince before Paris along with his regiment. He was ober-lieutenant, one of many going to fight against France, and ever since the beginning, till after Sedan, after Domremy, after Metz, had been with his men in the camp, and wherever there was much danger always in the front. It was wonder to me how I had come to learn all about the war and the campaign, but girl as I was (Lisba is but a child even now, my dear mistress would say), I also had one dear to me--with the Red Prince and the army before Orleans.

Herr postmaster Schwartz--ah! he came to talk to my mistress and to bring letters to her from her brave husband, and I was sewing, or busy in the room, and heard all--as he would stay in the kitchen on his way out and tell us all about it--Bertha and me; and once he handed me a letter.

Oh! how my hand trembled as I took it; how the Herr postmaster looked at me through his horn spectacles and watched me, for he knew the writing!

it was his son's, the writing of Franz. And I felt the blood rush up hot to my face, and the tears blind me as I placed in my bodice the little letter that I dare not open while there were questioning eyes to ask: "What is he to thee, Lisba, and what says he?"

Bertha knew. Bertha was yet more of a child than I, for she was two years younger, but old was she in sentiment, and too often we would talk together far into the night, but in whispers lest we should wake the little ones, for Bertha slept next the great nursery, where our mistress had also made her bed, and I would steal into her room to pore over the map that the Herr postmaster had drawn with his pencil in the kitchen to show where our armies had been, and where the cruel battles were fought.

In Alsace and to Lorraine, by Neiderbronn, at Weissenburg, at Woerth, at Saarbruck, at Metz, at Sedan, "where," said Herr postmaster, "we have received the sword of the Emperor Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, who is now our prisoner in the Palace of the Habichtswald."

Then--ah! me, to think that they should be taken to the end of the world--right into France, to Donchery, to Chalons. As near as Strasbourg, as far as Rheims, and then on to Paris--or near it--at the place called Nogent-sur-Marne; that is where our dear master, the ober-lieutenant, was with the army of the Crown Prince; and we grieved and waited, for he had had a wound, we heard, though now he was healed.

And the fighting went on, though hundreds of our brave men of the troops--the landwehr, the reserve--were hurt, or maimed, or killed. And many women wept over their knitting or their spinning; and the coming of the holy Christmas time brought not peace, though the Herr postmaster said the hungry war was now nearly over, but its jaws were not yet done clinking, and would yet gnash many to death.

Franz! ah! he was with the Red Prince at Orleans, where they had fought the French army of the Loire. Nor did Franz go alone, for there went with him his best friend, his dutz bruder, Hofer, from Esmansdorff, whither Franz had gone three years before to follow his trade of cask-cooper and wheelwright, and there met Hofer, whose family were of the Tyrolese Protestants that came from Zitterthal to find a refuge in our land.

He came to Saueichenwald, to our village, this Hofer--a dark well-looking man--not fair like Franz, nor with his broad chest and clear blue eyes--but tall and quick, with crisp curling hair, and long fingers. I have told him that he had hawk's eyes, for he could see the birds on the trees, and if he had pleased, could have shot them with his rifle, so far was his sight, so true his aim; but he hated to kill or hurt any living thing, and loved best to play the fiddle when he was not at work in his tan-yard. Yet now, he too was gone to the war, and was in the midst of the slaying and burning. When first he came home with Franz to Saueichenwald, I was afraid, for though I loved him not, but loved Franz only, his eyes were ever fixed on me, and he came often to the homestead; even when Franz came not he would be there in the yellow sunshine of the autumn evening by the gate that led to the apple orchard, or at the wicket, where Bertha and I used to stand after coming from the dairy or the hen-house; nor was he unwelcome to the master, who wondered at his shooting and leaping with a pole; nor to the dear mistress, for whom he brought a work-box, all of beautifully carved wood; nor to the little ones, Loisl and Heinrich, to whom he played the fiddle, and whom he taught to dance or showed how the chamois is hunted.

Often when I have stood with Bertha--for we always went together--at the gate, he would come with his keen bright laugh and hawk's eyes, and leap the wall that inclosed the dairy yard. Franz, too, had noticed how he sought us, and one red evening when we were crossing the orchard, and Hofer walked between us with an arm about each, Franz came in by the old path from the wood on the other side, and stood there looking still and grieved. Laughing ever, Hofer carried us both in to where Franz stood, and with his long arms still about us caught him with a hand on each wrist, and so stood we, two girls in the midst of two men's encircling arms.

"Hof, is it that thou lov'st Lisba?" said Frank sternly; "if so, thou doest not well."

"I both love her and do well, my brother," replied Hofer. "I love her because I love thee, and in mine eyes she is thy wife. See thou then,"

and he held up his long right hand, "I am no brawler; but he who would do her ill or move his tongue against her would have to reckon with me as much as with thee, for she is thine and I am thine too, as thou art mine, or what means the dagger scar in our arms that we both know of?"

Then taking me by the hand he leads me to Franz and kisses me gently on the forehead, and even while I am putting the face of Franz from mine I see that Hofer has stooped to kiss the poor child Bertha also, whose hand is in his, but whose face is bowed down and red as the wild berry.

If I am a child, as my dear mistress says, then is Bertha but an infant, and cannot know of love that should turn her cheek to flame and bring bright tears into her eyes.

Ah me!--that evening--how we stood and watched the sun go down till the night came, and with a dark blue shutter left only a long crevice where the fire shone through; how we wandered back hand in hand, and parted with a hasty "good-night" when we heard the church clock chime; and that is not long ago, though it seems to have gone so far back; for next day came the tidings of a levy for the army--men were wanted. Not one by one, but altogether, the young and then the middle-aged were called out to fight in France or to guard the frontier, and we--we were left (the dear mistress said "we")--to wait and weep, and with only the Herr postmaster, the father of Franz, to bring us news, and read to us the stories of the battles, and bring to the dear mistress her letters. For I had one letter and no more; and that told me that Franz and Hofer had met in the same army of the Red Prince and were comrades, but not in the same corps; but that once they came near together on the field, and in the thick of the fight Franz had struck down a man's arm uplifted to kill his brother.

It is easy to see how I came to learn so much of the war, and of the places where it raged, for old Schwartz was proud of his knowledge, and read to us and drew maps, and we had nothing else to talk about. The village was very still, and people from the nearest town talked only of the war and of those who had left them. Ours is a quiet place with romantic scenes around it, and but just beyond the shadow of the giant mountain Riesengebirge. We can see the blue profile of the Schneekoppe; and there are those--the old ones--who still talk of the legends of Rubezahl, the counter of turnips (the mountain spirit), who took all kinds of disguises to punish avarice and cruelty, and to reward honesty and help the poor. Among the poor went our dear mistress now, or they came to her for sympathy; she who, like themselves, like all of us, except brotherless young ones such as Bertha, grieved for a lover, or a husband, or a brother, gone to the war. It was not likely to be a merry Christmastide in Germanland, except that the news of victory, or of fortresses taken, came and stirred the slow blood of the people who were left. But we longed and prayed for peace--we women did at all events--and with some there was scarcely heart to trim and deck the Christmas-tree; to tell the children to prepare for the visit of the Christ Kindlein on Christmas Eve, who would bring good gifts to the good, but would leave the naughty to Pelsnichol to come and whip them with his great birch. In some villages like ours an old man disguised with a long beard and gown, and a great bag, would go about at Christmastide to the houses where the people had expected him, and would carry the gifts to the children, and would show others who were naughty the birch, and give them nothing. But we had no Pelsnichol at our house, only sweet talk about the child Christ, and the gifts of the wise men, and of the love that should be among little ones--the love and the heart-giving.

So the tree was decked, and placed in the window ready to light on Christmas Eve, in the hope that it might be a sign of love and welcome.

And we were on the watch all day, and every night Bertha would go out and sit upon the wall, looking out towards the road to the town, until the light was no more seen in the belfry of the church, and the clock chimed supper-time. I told not our dear mistress of this, for was it not for Franz and the dear master that the child kept watch?--but I went not myself to that outlook, though my heart stood still every time Bertha returned, with her head bent down, and had seen no one coming. She had a presentiment or fancy, she said, that the wanderer would return after nightfall. I knew not,--I began to tell lies to myself that I cared not,--and for this reason; I had long feared that the Herr postmaster liked not me to be loved by his son; for behold he was postmaster, and had been a builder of organs, and the dear master was G.o.dfather to Franz, while I--well, I had nothing, but the dear mistress was my G.o.dmother, and my father had been pastor of a village, and had taught me some things before he died.

We are now but a few days to Christmas, when one night the old man comes in with a letter for the dear mistress, at which she first sobs and turns white, and then laughs and turns red. The dear master is wounded, but is at the frontier, whither he had been sent, staying till he is strong enough to come home; "but there," he writes, "I have had the luck to fall into the hands of a good nurse, an old acquaintance, who will bring me home."

"Ah! ha! that he could already come home," sighs the mistress.

"Loisl--Heinrich, thy dear father may yet be here before the tree is lighted; and brings with him a nurse--who can she be, think'st thou, Lisba?"

"I know not, unless it be one of the deaconesses who go to the hospitals; but is it not possible, dear lady, that it is a comrade, a surgeon of the army, an ambulance officer?"

"It is Hofer," cried Bertha, who was standing at the door of the big kitchen, where we were listening to such parts of the letter as the mistress pleased to read to us.

"Hofer! the la.s.s has gone silly!" cries the Herr postmaster. "Hofer and Franz are fighting with the army of the Loire, as the French call it, and are who knows where. I have a letter here that reached me yesterday, written some days ago, where Franz says--let me read it:"

(Here the old man pulls on his horn spectacles and opens a thin sheet of paper.)

"Franz says:--'We are in quarters here at a tavern, but it has few customers, and we are obliged to seek for what we need. It is, in fact, almost an empty house, dismantled, half burnt, and with a good many shot holes. Still we keep up our spirits. We have begun to hold our Christmas already, for we have a long table and a few chairs, and somebody last night found a great milk-pan in the half-ruined dairy of the inn, and, having on hand a few bottles of very good red wine, we made a fine bowl of _grog-au-vin_, with the aid of a wood fire and an old saucepan. In came Hofer and gave us a toast and a song, and then they called on me, and I gave them the old _Lied_, that thou hast so often played, and for a toast, 'Fifine.' If Fifine had been there she would have been lying on my shoulder, but since I rescued her from the teasing of a big drum-major she has grown shy and doesn't like company; and though she would soon be a pet with most of our men, keeps her love for me alone, and would be a very charming companion if I had time to devote to her pretty ways.' So you see Franz and Hofer are in France," says the old man, taking off his spectacles.

My heart has grown cold and heavy all in a moment, and I have to lean on the back of a chair for support.

"Who, then, is Fifine?" I ask, under my breath.

"Aha!" cries the Herr postmaster, "who, indeed? but what is it to thee?

I now, his father, might well ask; but there it is, no sooner does a young honest fellow go out of Germany than he is thrown into the company of these cats of Frenchwomen, and then--but I must say good-night.

Good-night, madam. Good-night, girls."

So he is gone, and the dear mistress and I look in each other's face, and both cry "Oh!" but say no more.

So I go not to watch by the wall; but Bertha goes, and still she says it is Hofer will bring the dear master home. The child, we say, is gone silly with sitting on the wall in the cold, for sometimes she will come in without her cloak; but yet we have not the heart to forbid her going thither.

One, two, three, four days, and it is the blessed eve. We are all so still, and our hearts are heavy, so we go about softly, as though some one were sick or dead, when it is but our own hearts, or hopes, or fancies, that seem dead. The dear little ones are quiet now, for we are in the small room by the window, and as the last chime of sundown sounds from the church, the candles on the Christmas-tree are lighted, and shine on the pretty gifts that hang upon the branches. The dear mother hugs the children to her heart; outside the twinkle and beaming of the candles makes a short track of light upon the snow; the signal is all a-glow. Will the wanderer return to-night? Where is Bertha? What is this white-armed, loose-haired figure, flying up the path? Her hand is on the door-latch, and as she stands there, wan and panting, she cries, "They come! they come! The ox-wagon is now upon the hill. I saw it coming through the snow, and the lantern shone upon the epaulette and the b.u.t.tons." She speaks and is gone, and we, the dear mistress and I, go to the kitchen, where I stand, with a heart of lead and hands of ice.

There is a tramp of feet, a shout, the door bursts open--the dear mistress is in her husband's arms--the little ones are clinging to him.

"Take care of my leg, darlings," he says; "the bone has not grown too strong just yet, and I doubt if ever I shall bend the knee again. As to Franz here, he, as you see, has his arm in a sling yet. He caught me up in the wood, me and Hofer. Ah! that dear Hofer, he was in hospital, just getting over a sabre cut in the cheek when I was taken there, and he has been my good nurse ever since."

I am standing still, with downcast eyes, and there stands Franz staring at me, with his one arm ready to take me to his heart.

"And where is Fifine?" say I, bursting into tears.

"Fifine--ah! I was near forgetting her," and he plunges his one hand into the deep pocket of his military coat and pulls out a creature which climbs to his shoulder, and there sits purring--a white fluffy cat with pink eyes.

"Why, you little fool," cries old Herr postmaster as he comes behind me and lifts me within reach of Franz, "didn't I say it was a cat of a French woman?"

There is a light quick stride at the door--a loud jodel--a bright laugh--and Hofer stoops his tall body and looks round. A cloud comes over his face almost before he has greeted the dear mistress, and kissed me on the cheek. "Where is Bertha?" he asks, and before we can answer him he has darted out again, and we have scarcely lost the sound of his rapid step before he is back among us, bearing the poor child in his arms. We chafe her hands and feet, and warm and comfort her. Dear Bertha, she had been so faithful watching there by the wall, and Hofer had stopped behind to help up a fallen horse, and when he came not she fainted and fell with cold and fear. But now we are all together in the great kitchen, and supper is getting ready, and wine is on the table, and the dear master and mistress are with their little ones at the Christmas-tree, that makes a path of glory on the outer snow.

"Bertha, thou surely hast the second sight," says the old postmaster as he looks at her. The colour comes again rose-red into her cheek as Hofer draws her closer to his side.

"Yes," says she, "it is love that gives it. One has second sight when one thinks no longer of one's self but of another."

It was Sat.u.r.day afternoon, and our week's work was nearly over. On Monday the great fancy fair was to be held, and the side-table in Miss Grantley's pleasant parlour was covered with samples of all kinds of needle-work, in lace, wool, crewel, applique, and on linen, satin, velvet, silk, and cloth. There were handscreens, water-colour sketches, embroidery, bead-work, and all kinds of dainty knick-knacks, and we still had the finishing touches to put to some of our presents--still had a few completing st.i.tches to put to some of the plainer articles, which were to make the back ground for the stall where Miss Grantley was to be saleswoman.

When we came into the parlour she was not there. Sat.u.r.day was a holiday, so there had been no school in the morning, and we had gone on purpose to finish our week's work for the fancy fair.

We had scarcely taken off our hats, and indeed most of us had stepped outside the window into the garden when she came into the room. There was a singularly radiant eager look in her face, her eyes shone bright as though they had been washed with glad tears, and as she kissed us one by one there was more than the usual impressiveness, or what the French would call _effusion_ in her manner. Annie Bowers looked at her with a quick inquiring glance, but said nothing. Marian Cooper, who had grown as tall as Miss Grantley was herself, held her hand tight, and spoke in a low tone, but loud enough for us all to hear as we had cl.u.s.tered round. "What story have you to tell us this evening, Miss Grantley?

Something has happened. Is it a love story, dear? Are you going to tell us that you have promised to be married?"

"No, indeed, I am not, for no such promise has been given; and there is no love story of which I am the heroine, I a.s.sure you. For all that, I have had a letter from a gentleman--a letter from my brother in Australia--which may alter my plans for the future. My dear girls, my dear friends and companions, I think you know that you are all very dear to me, and I believe you love me too a little; but of course in a few months at farthest most of you will leave me. You will have given up school, but not, I hope, given up reading and as much work and study as will keep you a good and useful place in the world. It is most likely that some of you will be married before I am, for I shall remain here for some time, and until I find a successor to take the school, and then I intend to go to the other side of the world. Whether Mrs. Parmigan will go with me I don't know. What I do know, and the only thing I can think about at this moment, is the real sorrow I shall have in parting with you all. But we should have to part in any case. The world of new duties and of new interests would be opening to you even if I remained here and grew old as the governess of Barton Vale. I should always rejoice to hear of your happiness and sympathize with you in trouble; but you would not be likely to be in a position to seek either my sympathy or my counsel, for others would have the greater right and the closer communion. But believe me, pray believe me when I tell you, that as the next six months go by I shall dread our parting, though more than half of you seven girls will have left me before that time arrives. Now, my dears, let us have tea, and then I will read you my brother's letter, for you are all my dear friends--my very closest friends to-night; and that letter shall be my story. It's more of a man's story than a girl's, but it is nearly all about a girl for all that."

It was not a very quiet tea-table, for we were all excited and talking fast, as though that was the best way to keep from crying. It was not till we had discussed Miss Grantley's intended voyage and made out quite a romantic future for her that she opened her brother's letter, that we might, as she said, hear what kind of fellow he was.