PART III.

CHAPTER I.

THE STRENGTH OF WEAKNESS.

On the morning of the day that drove Ernestine from her peaceful but brief refuge, Herr Leonhardt slept unusually late. His wife, who did not wish to waken him, looked anxiously at the old cuckoo clock, that pointed to half past six. It was very natural that the old man should be tired, after the trying occurrences of the previous day. Frau Brigitta had never seen him so agitated. He had shed bitter tears upon his return home,--tears from those poor eyes! Every drop had fallen scalding hot upon his faithful wife's heart. Those amongst whom he had lived for half a century as a steadfast, self-sacrificing friend and teacher, had taken up stones to stone him,--had forgotten all that they owed him,--it broke the heart of the weary old man.

Frau Leonhardt sat upon the bench by the stove. She folded her kind, fat hands, and wondered how any one could grieve the man who was to her the very ideal of honour and worth! The door in the clock opened, and out hopped the cuckoo, flapped his wings, called "cuckoo" seven times, and then disappeared, slamming the door behind him as if he were greatly irritated at finding nothing astir as yet. Frau Leonhardt arose,--the old man must be called now, for the children came to school at eight.

She ascended the ladder-like staircase to their upper story, which was under the roof of the cottage, and softly entered the bedroom. Herr Leonhardt lay with his face turned to the wall.

"Are you asleep?" asked Frau Leonhardt.

"What is it? what is the matter?" cried her husband alarmed. "Is it really on fire?"

"Why, you are dreaming,--it is time to get up,--the children will be here!"

"But, my dear wife, it is still night. What are you doing up so early?"

"Night?" and Frau Leonhardt smiled. "Why, how sleepy you are!--it is broad daylight--seven o'clock."

"Broad daylight!" cried the old man in a strange tone of voice. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, then rubbed them again and stared at the bright sunbeams, but not an eyelash quivered. He was very pale.

"How are you, dear husband?" asked his wife anxiously.

"Well, well, mother dear, only a little tired still," he said in an uncertain voice. "Go down now and get the coffee ready. I will come soon!"

"Can I not help you? you are trembling so; you must have fever!" cried Frau Brigitta.

"Oh, no, I am quite well,--go down now, I pray you."

She obeyed, hard as it was for her, and below-stairs she could not help weeping, she knew not why. She prepared the coffee, and listened with a beating heart for Bernhard's step upon the stairs. Then, after twenty minutes, that seemed to her an eternity, she heard him coming with a slow, uncertain tread. Some great misfortune seemed upon its way to her. How strange!--he felt for the door before opening it. He must be very sick. She ran towards him, but his look rea.s.sured her. He was pale indeed, but his expression was as calm and gentle as ever. He laid his hand upon her arm. "Well, dear wife, now let us breakfast. I have kept you waiting for me!"

"Oh, yes, I waited," said Frau Brigitta, leading him to the table.

"Have you any appet.i.te? Do you feel any better?"

"Oh, yes, but pour out the coffee for me, my dear. I am still somewhat fatigued."

"That I will." And the old woman poured the coffee into his cup. "Here is the milk." And she placed the pitcher near his hand.

Herr Leonhardt took it carefully, and touched the edge of his cup with his hand, that he might not pour in too much; but, in spite of his care, he spilt the hot milk upon his fingers. He said nothing, but secretly wiped it off and slowly put his cup to his lips. His wife laid a piece of bread upon his plate, and this also he ate slowly.

"Is it not good?" asked Brigitta.

"Certainly it is," he replied, "but pray eat your own breakfast." And he listened to be sure that she did so. Then, when he had drank his coffee, he felt for the table before he put down his cup.

His wife looked at him with anxiety. "Bernhard, I think your eyes are worse again to-day."

"I think they are," he replied quietly. "Have you breakfasted?"

"Yes, I have finished."

"Well, come then and sit here beside me. I want to tell you something.

Give me your hand, my dear wife, and listen quietly to what I have to say."

Frau Brigitta looked at him wonderingly, and her heart beat so quickly--she knew not why--that it almost took away her breath.

Herr Leonhardt stroked her hand, and spoke with the tenderness with which one speaks to a child. "During all these eighteen years that I have been such a care to you, and in all the thirty years of our marriage, you have never caused me an hour of suffering, and I have done what I could to aid and support you. You have borne bravely all our common misfortunes, followed our first children to the grave with me, and comforted me when I was overcome by despair. Do not let your courage fail you now, for I must give you pain. I cannot help it. Try, as you always have done, to spare me the pang of seeing you sink under it. Promise me this!"

"For Heaven's sake, my husband, speak! I will promise you everything!"

"What we have so long feared, dear wife, has at last come upon us!" He drew her nearer to him. "This morning when I awoke there was no daylight for me!"

A dull, half-suppressed moan was heard at these words; then silence ensued. The old woman's hands slipped from her husband's,--he put his own out towards her, but she was not at his side. She had sunk down from her seat and buried her face in her arms, that he might not hear her sob.

"Mother, where are you?" he asked after a little while.

She embraced his knees and hid her streaming eyes in his lap. "Oh, my poor, kind husband,--blind! Oh G.o.d! Those dear, dear eyes!" And then her grief would not be controlled, and she lay at his feet, sobbing loudly.

Herr Leonhardt gently raised her until her head rested upon his shoulder, and then waited until the first outbreak should be past. He too had had moments this morning that none but his G.o.d might witness.

He could not ask his wife to do what had been impossible for himself.

At last he said softly and tenderly, "Brigitta, you have been everything to me that a wife can be to her husband. I have always thought there was nothing left for you to do, and yet in your old age our loving Father has filled up the measure of your self-sacrifice and laid upon you a heavier burden than any you have yet had to bear. He has taken from me the power to support you, and calls upon you, a weary, aged pilgrim, to be your husband's staff upon his path to the grave. It seems very hard,--but, dear Brigitta, when G.o.d calls, what should we answer?"

"Lord, here am I!" said his wife, and the resignation and cheerful submission in her voice were truly wonderful. She embraced her aged husband, and her tears flowed more gently as she said, "I will guide and support you, and never be weary."

"Thanks, dear heart. And now be calm, for my sake! Think how much worse it would have been if you had found me this morning dead in my bed!"

"Oh, a thousand times worse!"

"Then do not let us rebel because G.o.d has taken from me one of the five senses, with which He endows us that we may enjoy the glory of His universe, he has still left me four. If I can no longer see your dear face, I can still hear your gentle voice of comfort and feel you by my side; and although I cannot see the sun, I can still warm myself in its beams,--I can inhale the fragrance of the flowers that it calls into life,--enjoy the fruits that it ripens. I can hear the songs of the birds, and with them praise my Creator from the depths of my soul. How much he has left me! We will not be like thankless beggars, showing our grat.i.tude for benefits by complaining that they are not great enough. I have seen the sunlight for sixty-eight years. Shall I complain because, just before my entrance into eternal light, G.o.d darkens my eyes, as we do a child's when we lead it up to a brilliant Christmas-tree? I will bear the bandage patiently, and try to prepare my soul for the glories awaiting it. Let us but remember all this, dear wife, and we shall not be sad any longer."

The old man ceased. His darkened eyes were radiant with light from within, the reflection of those heavenly beams of which in spirit he had a foresight.

His wife had listened to him with folded hands, and her simple nature was elevated and refined by thus witnessing his lofty resignation. The peaceful silence that reigned in the room was too sacred to be broken by any sounds of earthly sorrow. Her eyes were tearless as she gazed upon the n.o.ble face of the man who was all in all to her, and she waited humbly for further words from him. At last the only words escaped her lips that she could utter in her present frame of mind.

"And our son?" she asked softly.

An expression of pain flitted across his features. "That is the hardest to bear,--our poor son! G.o.d give him strength, as He once gave me strength when I was forced to leave the University and become a schoolmaster. I told him a short time ago what the physicians said. I did not tell you, for I wanted to spare you as long as I could. He sent me a reply by return of mail, which you shall hear, now that I have nothing to conceal from you. You shall read it, and be glad that you have such a son."

"My good boy!"

"He will give up his studies and take my place here, so that we need never come to want."