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CHAPTER XVII

"I knew it! I felt it must come!" cried Walpurga when Franz brought the news of Irma's illness. "I knew she'd never come back!" she repeated again and again, weeping, wringing her hands, and praying by turns.

"That won't help any," said Hansei, laying his hand on her shoulder. "Get up; you're not like this at other times. Come, may be it isn't so bad after all; and even if it should be, this is no time to cry and weep; we must do all that can be done."

"What can I do? What shall I do?" said Walpurga, turning her tearful face to Hansei.

He helped her up and said:

"Franz says there's a doctor up there, who has a medicine chest with him. And now let's eat something and then go up to her."

"Oh dear Lord, I can't walk three steps; I feel as if my limbs were broken."

"Then you'd better stay here and I'll go up."

"Would you leave me here alone? What am I to do, then?"

"I don't know what. Go to bed; perhaps you can sleep."

"I don't want to go to bed; I don't want to sleep; I don't want anything. I'll go along, too, and, if I die on the way, I can't help it."

"Don't talk so! you wrong me and the children when you do," Hansei was about to say, but he made a rapid movement, as if to repress the words. "There's no need of saying that," thought he; "when women, filled with pity for themselves, begin to complain of their lot, they don't know what they say."

Hansei brought his wife her best clothes, for she was so agitated that she scarcely knew where they were, or how to put them on. Hansei proved quite a clever valet.

"Now you must put your shoes on yourself," said he, at last.

Walpurga could not help smiling through her tears. It was not until then that she perceived how kindly and faithfully he had helped her, and, with a bright voice, she said: "Yes, so I can; you've helped me, and now I feel that I can walk."

Hansei had the meal brought in and, after placing his mountain staff, his hunting-bag and his hat in readiness, he sat down to eat. Walpurga was also obliged to sit down, although she ate but little. One of Hansei's great virtues was that he could eat heartily at any time. He did full justice to the meal, and his manner seemed to say that when one has satisfied his hunger, he is better prepared for any undertaking.

Before leaving, he cut off a large piece of bread and put it in his pocket.

The children were consigned to the care of the upper servant, and one of the laboring women was also charged to remain in the house. Hansei and his wife started for the meadow.

They had already gone some distance, when Burgei came running after them, crying: "I want to go along; I want to go to Cousin Irmgard."

There was no help for it. They were obliged to take the child with them, for they were afraid to let her go back alone and neither of them cared to take her back.

"You're a naughty child, a very naughty child! And now I've got to carry you, a big girl like you," said Walpurga, taking the child in her arms. Hansei nodded, with a pleased air. It was well the child was with them, for then his wife, who was apt to go off into extremes, would not become so violent if the worst should happen.

Walpurga, who had at first thought that she could not walk alone, now carried the child and stepped out bravely.

"Let Burgei walk for a while, and when she gets tired again. I'll carry her," said Hansei.

As long as the path was wide enough, the child walked between its parents, and when it grew narrower, they let her run on ahead. When they found that they could get on but slowly, on account of the child, Hansei took her up in his arms, where she soon fell asleep.

Walpurga then softly whispered to Hansei:

"I must tell you now who our Irmgard is."

"And I tell you I don't want to know. She must tell me herself, if she lives; and if she's dead, you can tell me then, just as well."

"Dead!" cried Walpurga, "Do you know more than I do? Did Franz tell you anything in secret?"

"Franz told me nothing but what you've heard."

"But why do you talk about death in that way?"

"Because one who's very sick can easily die. But do be calm."

"Yes, yes; I hardly know that we are in the woods, and I feel as if I couldn't see a thing. Stop a moment! There's a doctor up there. He knows her, and others who know her will come, too. The man who came to see us the other day is her brother, and now they'll go and take our Irmgard away with them."

"If she's in her right mind, and wants to go of her own free will, we can't say anything against it," said Hansei, "but this I do say, and no one will move me from it. As long as she's so sick that she can't say what she wants, I won't let them do a thing to her. I'm Hansei, and I'm her protector; nothing shall happen to her-All I ask of you, is to stand by me and not interfere. You know when I say a thing, I mean it."

"Yes, yes, you're right!" said Walpurga. Hansei's resolute words seemed to infuse her with new strength, for she went up the steep mountain path without the slightest difficulty. It almost seemed as if Hansei had been carrying her as well as the child. Moved by this thought, she suddenly said:

"Do you remember when you once wanted to carry me, at home by the lake? Oh, dear me, it seems as if we must have been very different beings then, for we knew nothing at all of the world."

"We're none the worse off, for knowing and having some of it!" replied Hansei, in a loud voice, and awakening the child. "There, now; run along again," said he to Burgei.

They rested for a little while. Hansei remembered the piece of bread that he had put in his pocket and, cutting off a bit of it, he said while pointing toward the valley with his knife: "Our brook runs down through there, and it's only an hour's distance from here to the little town where Stasi lives."

"Only an hour from here?" exclaimed Walpurga.

"Then I'll walk over there. She's the best, the only help. You go on with the child, straight up to the hut. I'll soon follow you by way of the town, and I'll bring something good with me."

"Wife! Have you gone mad? Don't make me crazy, too. Do you want to run off, when you're so near the dying one?"

"Then I must tell you. The queen is down there and she alone can help her. God be with you, Hansei, and with you too, Burgei. I'll soon follow after you."

Away she ran, through the forest, along the stream, and toward the town.

"Where's mother? Mother! mother!" cried the child.

"Be quiet!" said Hansei. "Mother has another child down there, and he's a prince and will send you golden clothes."

"Is it an enchanted prince that mother is going to free from a spell?" asked the child.

"Yes, he's enchanted," said Hansei, endeavoring to quiet her.

"But what was he changed into?" asked the child.

"Into a cuckoo; but not another word now; be quiet."

Filled with strange thoughts, the father and child went up the mountain. Hansei could not understand how, at such a moment, his wife could leave her friend and go to the queen-. Perhaps they were bound together in some way? He shook his head. Matters that he could not disentangle, he always put away from him. The only thing was to see what could be done for the sick one; that was the most important matter. He squared his shoulders and was ready, if the physician thought well of it, to carry Irmgard in his arms, all the way down to the farm.

The child ran along, looking about it with wondering eyes. "He's calling! he's calling!" whispered she. "My mother will free you."

A cuckoo was really crying in the wood, through which the noonday sun was gleaming. His cry was sometimes near and then more distant, and at last, uttering his peculiar note, he flew over the travelers' heads.

Hansei, with the child, at last reached the shepherd's hut, where the uncle and Gundel, with sorrowful countenances, came forward to meet him.

"She's still alive, but she can't last long," said the uncle, wiping away his tears with his sleeve. "The doctor won't let any of us go in to her. But where's Walpurga?"

"She'll soon be here," replied Hansei. It was all he could do to keep off the cows, who knew their master and came up to him, as was their wont, in order to get a handful of salt. But he had forgotten to bring it with him, and all the salt they had up here was in the room that no one was permitted to enter.

Hansei ordered the cowboy to drive the cows off for some distance, so that the sick one might not hear the sound of the bells. That was all he could do for Irma.

He sat down sadly on the bench before the hut, and taking up a piece of carved wood which lay on the ground, he looked at it as carefully as if it were marble and turned it again and again. He sat there for a long time. Then he put Burgei in Gundel's charge, and, hoping to meet his wife, went out alone along the road that led toward the little town. But it was long before she came. He went further into the forest, and was vexed, as he always was whenever he came up here, to think of yonder fine trees that were his own property, but which could not be felled, because no one could get up to the rocks on which they were. A chattering magpie, sitting on the high branches of a beautiful pine, seemed to be making sport of him. After he had again and again passed his hand over his face, Hansei became conscious of the thoughts that had engaged him in the midst of all this trouble. There was nothing wrong in it-he was sure of that; but this was not the time to think of such things, and, as if the trouble were now dawning on him for the first time, he was overwhelmed with grief.

He turned back and went toward the hut. The doctor was just coming out.

"You are the freehold farmer, I suppose?"

"Yes; and you're the doctor?"

"Yes."

"How is she?"

"I don't think she will die before evening."

Hansei's eyes filled with tears.

The uncle asked Gunther to allow him to fetch out the little kid. He granted his request. Stepping softly, he brought it out, gave it something to drink and, carrying it back again, placed it at the sick girl's feet.

"She opened her eyes and nodded to me, but she didn't say a word; and then she closed her eyes again," said the uncle.

Hansei begged that he might be permitted to see Irmgard once more. He was allowed to look through the crevice in the shutter. When Gunther again returned to the sick-room, Hansei, weeping as if his heart would break, walked out along the road that led toward the town.

"Uncle's right: she's become like an angel," said he to himself.

The calf that was born on the first day that they had come up to the shepherd's hut seemed conscious of its special claims on Hansei. In spite of all he could do it kept running after him for salt. Hansei succeeded in satisfying it, by giving it the last morsel of bread that he had about him.

When he reached the woods, he was obliged to sit down; and there he wept and would, now and then, look about him as if bewildered. How could it be possible that the sun was still shining, the cuckoo crying, and the hawk screaming, while she who was up there was breathing her last-

What could Walpurga want of the queen? "Her place is up there," thought he to himself, again and again.

CHAPTER XVIII

Following the course of the brook, Walpurga had hurried down the mountain-side. She soon saw the little town and the farmhouse, on the roof of which a bright flag was fluttering.

Walpurga sat down on a rock by the stream, to recover her breath and rest for a few moments. A cuckoo flew over her head and up the mountain.

"That's a bad beginning," said she to herself.

She walked on toward the dairy-farm. Looking through the iron railing, she saw a boy playing about the garden. His hair fell over his shoulders, in long, fair curls.

He wore a light dress and a hat with a feather. She felt as if her heart must burst and, with convulsive grip, she held fast to one of the iron rails of the fence in order to support herself. Then she walked on toward the garden-gate.

"Frau von Gerloff-the prince-my child! my child!" she cried, while she rushed toward the prince and, kneeling down in the grass, kissed and embraced him.

The boy screamed.

"Oh, that's his voice!" cried Walpurga.

Startled for a moment, Frau von Gerloff stood there as if rooted to the spot. Then she approached and ordered Walpurga away. The servants also advanced and ordered her to go. The prince nestled against Frau von Gerloff, as if to hide himself.

Walpurga was still kneeling in the grass, and could not rise.

"He don't know me any more, and I'm his nurse!" she cried, looking around confusedly at those about her. Her voice seemed to exert an influence on the child. It turned its face toward her. It was flushed with red and a tear still hung on his eyelashes, although his face was wreathed in smiles.

"God greet you!" said he. He had been taught this expression, on account of their sojourn in the country.

"He can say 'God greet you'-oh, he can speak! Dear me, he can speak! Now just say, 'Walpurga,' child. Can you say, 'Walpurga'?"

"Walpurga," repeated the child.

The queen approached, attended by Countess Brinkenstein and Paula. Walpurga was about to hasten toward her, but the queen motioned her away, and ordered Frau von Gerloff to remove the prince. The prince was led out of the garden, but he looked back at Walpurga, who nodded to him and quite forgot that she was in the presence of the queen, until the latter said:

"You have thrust yourself in here. You must certainly be aware that we did not desire to see you, and you know why."

"I don't want to defend myself now. I've come for something else," urged poor Walpurga.

"What is it?" asked the queen.

Breathing heavily, and with frequent pauses, Walpurga hurriedly said:

"Your Majesty, one may be looked upon as wicked, or may not be looked upon at all, and yet be honest. You and I are both of us in good health and can settle that some other time. But I have a few words to tell you-quite alone. Dear queen! for mercy's sake! – you'll be glad of it to your dying hour. Dear queen, you must die as well as the rest of us-I beg you, for pity's sake, listen to me alone, only for one minute! Send the others away, there's no time to lose!"

The queen motioned Countess Brinkenstein and Paula to withdraw. She was alone with Walpurga, and the latter, with throbbing heart, said:

"Irma lives!"

"What do you say?"

"She's dying; perhaps she's dead by this time!"

"I don't understand you. Are you mad?"

"No, dear queen. Sit down here on this seat. You're trembling all over. I've been awkward about it, but I couldn't help it. But it doesn't matter about me, now. Do with me what you choose-Irma lives-perhaps only this day, perhaps not even that long. Dear queen, you must go with me. You must go to her. It's all that's left her on earth-A single word-a hand-"

Countess Brinkenstein and Paula, who saw that the queen was leaning back, as pale as death, hurried to her assistance. As soon as she heard the rustling of their dresses, she raised herself and said:

"Walpurga, repeat what you have just told me."

Walpurga repeated that Irma was still alive, and added that she had been concealed with her for nearly four years, and that Gunther was now with her.

The two ladies seemed dumb with surprise, but Walpurga again turned to the queen and exclaimed:

"For God's sake, don't lose a minute! Come with me. Stasi, who once turned a prayer for the queen to me, lives in there. Dear queen, if you can't forgive others, how can they still pray for you? Just think how you felt in that solemn night, dear queen. Stand up, put all else away from you and hold fast to your good heart alone! Dear queen-"

"Do not annoy her majesty," said Countess Brinkenstein, interrupting her.

But Walpurga continued:

"Your Majesty, when you die, neither court ladies, nor anything else can help you. Leave all behind you, for one short hour of your life! Come with me alone, and ask me nothing more. She'll be dead before night. This very day, you can perform a good deed which will last for ever."

"I will-I must go to her!" said the queen, rising from her seat and walking toward the house. Her step was quick, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Your Majesty," said Countess Brinkenstein, remonstrating, "the gracious king is out riding, and will be at the waterfall at dinner-time. Will Your Majesty not wait until then?"

"No," replied the queen, in a determined voice, as if the question had interrupted a train of thought. "I desire," said she, "to be permitted to act upon my own responsibility."

"Your Majesty, there is no carriage-road to the mountain meadow," mildly added Countess Brinkenstein.

"But there's a bridle-path almost all the way up to the cottage," replied Walpurga. "And there's Stasi's husband; he's a forester and knows all the roads; I'll call him."

She hurried to the inspector's office and brought him out with her. He confirmed her statement that they could drive for a good distance, and that then they could ride.

The queen ordered him to precede them with saddle-horses. She retired to her apartments, and soon afterward, accompanied by Paula, Sixtus, and Walpurga, drove up the mountain. Two lackeys were sitting upon the rumble.

The betrothed of the man who had once loved Irma, and the wife of him whose love Irma had returned, sat side by side, hurrying to her death-bed. It was not until they were well on their way that they regained their composure.

There was but little that Walpurga could tell them about Irma's simple life, and she, therefore, made so much the more of the uncle's account of how Irma had traveled to the capital with him, in disguise, and how, at the summer palace, she had once more beheld the queen and the prince. Her recital was frequently interrupted by tears, while she went on to tell them how Irma had nursed her dying mother, and how her mother, who had known all, had, on her death-bed, given Irma her blessing.

The queen held her handkerchief to her eyes and silently extended her hand to Walpurga.

The more Walpurga told them, the more pure and exalted did Irma appear. Turning to Paula, the queen said:

"That is life in death-it must have required inconceivable courage."

"There are saints even in our days," replied Paula. "All that olden times knew of the great, the beautiful and the true, still exists in the world, even though it be scattered and hidden from view."

In the depth of her sorrow, the queen's eye beamed with conscious delight at the thought that, although Gunther was no longer with her, that which was best in him was now beside her in his child.

Walpurga was again obliged to tell them of that morning by the lake. And then she went on to speak of Irma's beautiful work, but she soon noticed that the queen was not listening, and stopped.

They drove on in silence.

They reached the end of the carriage road, and now continued the journey on horseback.

Soon after the queen's departure, the king and Bronnen returned from the chase. They felt refreshed and invigorated by the sport, and the king inquired whether the queen had already repaired to the waterfall, for she had expressed a desire to sketch there.

For the first time in her life. Countess Brinkenstein was so embarrassed that she almost lost her presence of mind. She, of course, felt a proper sympathy for Irma, but as long as she had lived in concealment she should have died in concealment. Why should she thus agitate them all anew? She shook her head in deprecation of this eccentric being who, long after one had mourned and forgotten her, was not even decently dead.

With faltering voice, she informed the king of what had happened, and scarcely ventured to tell him that on her own responsibility, and contrary to all court regulations, the queen had gone away, attended by no one but Paula and privy councilor Sixtus.

For some moments, the king neither moved nor uttered a word, but stood there with his eyes bent on the ground. The very earth at his feet seemed to tremble. Everything seemed unsteady as if in an earthquake, and terrors and despair overwhelmed him.

All that he had experienced, during long years of suffering and expiation, now rose before him again. He had striven and wrestled and made sacrifices, and no one had thanked him for all this; least of all his own heart, for he was burdened with guilt and yet anxious to do good, and forced to acknowledge, in all humility, that the power to do good was yet left him.

Trembling with agitation, he pressed his clenched hand against his brow. His cheeks burned, while his limbs shook with a feverish chill. God be thanked, she still lives! The guilt of death is lifted from my soul; and she, too, will see what I have suffered, and what I have become-

During the last few moments, he had lived the secret torments of past years over again. He now looked about him, as if emerging from another world. There had been no earthquake; the trees, the houses, the mountains still stood in their old places. He looked at Bronnen and, offering his icy cold hand, whispered almost inaudibly:

"And so the presentiment that you expressed at the hunting-seat, is true."

His voice was thick. He ordered fresh saddle-horses and a second carriage to be sent after him.

A few moments later, Bronnen and he were following in the wake of the queen.