"That is sad," exclaimed Ilse.
"Yes, it is fearful. And it is difficult to understand how any one could endure life, burdened by such despair. The joyful satisfaction of belonging to a nation of growing vigor was not then the lot of either heathen or Christian. It is the highest and most indestructible happiness of man to have confidence in that which exists, and to look with hope to the future. And such is our life now. Much that is weak, corrupt, and perishable surrounds us. But with it all there is growing up an endless abundance of youthful vigor. The root and the trunk of our popular life are sound. Everywhere do we find sincerity in family-life, respect for morals and law, sturdy and solid labor, everywhere energetic activity. In many thousands we find the consciousness that they are increasing the national strength, and in millions that are still far behind them the feeling that they also are laboring to contribute to our civilization. This is our pleasure and glory in modern times, and helps to make us valiant and proud. We well know, indeed, that the joyful feeling of this possession may also be saddened; for temporary disturbances come to every nation in the course of its development. But its progress and prosperity of thriving cannot be thwarted, nor its career hindered, so long as these securities of power and soundness exist. It is this that gives happiness to him whose vocation it is to investigate the past, for he looks down from the salubrious air of the heights into the darkness beneath him."
Ilse gazed on him with wonder and admiration, but he bent over the sheaves which were between them and continued with enthusiasm:
"Each one of us derives the judgment and habit of mind with which he regards the great relations of the world, from the sphere of his own personal experience. Look about you. Here at the laughing summer landscape, yonder at the busy workingmen, and then at that which lies nearest your heart-at your own home and the circle in which you have grown to womanhood. How gentle the light, how warm the hearts, how wise and good and true the minds that surround you! And think what an inestimable gain it is for me, to see this, and to enjoy it-enjoy it by your side. And when, poring over my books, I hereafter shall vividly feel how valiant and noble, how sturdy and true is the life of my countrymen about me, I shall evermore in my inmost heart pay, for that, a tribute of thankfulness to you."
He stretched out his hand across the sheaves; Ilse seized it, and clasped it between hers. A warm tear fell upon it. She looked at him with her moistened eyes, while a world of happiness lay in her countenance. Gradually a bright glow suffused her cheeks, she rose, and a look full of devoted tenderness fell upon him; then she walked hastily away from him adown the meadow.
The Professor remained leaning against the sheaves. The meadow-larks on the tips of the ears of grain over his head warbled joyfully. He pressed his cheek against the stack which half concealed him; thus, in happy forgetfulness, he watched the girl descending toward the distant laborers.
When he raised his eyes his friend was standing by him; he beheld a countenance which quivered with inward sympathy, and heard the gentle question:
"What will come of it?"
"Husband and wife," said the Professor decidedly; he pressed his friend's hands, and strode across the fields to the songs of the larks which greeted him from every sheaf.
Fritz was alone. The word had been spoken. A new and awful fate overshadowed the life of his friend. So this was to be the end of it? Thusnelda, instead of Tacitus! Fritz felt alas! that the social custom of marriage might be a very venerable institution. It was inevitable that most men pass through the uprooting struggle which is the consequence of a change in the mutual relations of life. He could not think of his friend amid his books, with his colleagues, and this woman. He felt painfully that his relation to the Professor must be changed by it. But he did not think long of himself, but anxiously worried about his rash friend; and not less about her who had so dangerously impressed the soul of the other. The faithful rash friend looked angrily upon the surrounding stubble and straw, and he clenched his fists against the deceased Bachhuber; against the valley of Rossau; nay, even against the immediate cause of this mischievous confusion-against the manuscript of Tacitus.
CHAPTER IX.
ILSE
Since the death of her mother Ilse had lived an unvaried home life. Though then scarcely grown up, she had taken charge of the household. Spring and autumn came and went. One year rolled over her head like another. Her father and sisters, the estate, the laborers, and the poor of the valley-these formed her life. More than once a suitor, a sturdy, worthy proprietor of the neighborhood, had asked her hand in marriage. But she felt contented with her home, and she knew that her father wished her to remain with him. In the evening, when the active man rested on the sofa, and the children were sent to bed she sat silently by him with her embroidery, or talked over the small occurrences of the day-the illness of a laborer, the damage done by a hail storm or the name of the new milch cow. It was a lonely country. Much of it was woodland. Most of the estates were small. There were no rich neighbors. And the father, who had worked his way by his energy until he became an opulent man, had no inclination for society life, nor had his daughter. On Sunday the Pastor came to dinner, and then the father's farm-inspectors remained and related the little gossip of the neighborhood over their coffee; the children, who, during the week, were under the charge of a tutor, amused themselves in the garden and fields. When Ilse had a leisure hour she seated herself in her own little sitting-room with a book out of her father's small library-a novel by Walter Scott, a tale by Hauff, or a volume of Schiller.
But now a profusion of thoughts, images, and feeling had been awakened in her mind by this stranger. Much that she had hitherto looked upon with indifference in the outer world now became interesting to her. Like fire-works which unexpectedly shoot up, illuminating particular spots in the landscape with their colored light, his conversation threw a fascinating light, now here and now there, on a life that was strange to her. When he spoke, when his words, copious and choice, flowed from his innermost heart-she bent her head as in a dream, then fixed her eyes on his face. She felt a respect commingled with fear for a human mind that soared so loftily and firmly above the earth. He spoke of the past as intimately as of the present; he knew how to explain the secret thoughts of men who had lived a thousand years ago. Ah! she felt the glory and greatness of human learning to be the merit and greatness of the man who sat opposite to her. The intellectual labor of the centuries appeared to her as a supernatural being which proclaimed from a human mouth things unheard of in her home.
But it was not learning alone. When she looked up at him, she saw beaming eyes, a kindly expression about the eloquent lips, and she felt herself irresistibly attracted by the warmth of the man's nature. Then she sat opposite to him as a quiet listener. But when she entered her room, she knelt down and covered her face with her hands. In this solitude she saw him before her and offered him homage.
Thus she awoke to a new life. It was a state of pure enthusiasm, of unselfish rapture, such as a man knows not and only a woman can experience, – which comes only to a pure, innocent heart when the greatest crisis of earthly existence visits a sensitive soul in the bloom of life.
She saw also that her father was partially under the same magical influence. At dinner, which used to be so silent, conversation now flowed as from a living spring; in the evening, when formerly he used to sit wearily over the newspaper, many things were now discussed, and there were frequent disputes which lasted late into the night. Her father, when he took his bedroom candle from the table, was always in cheerful humor; and more than once he repeated to himself, pacing up and down, sentences that had been uttered by his guest. "He is, in his way, a fine man," he said; "in all things stable and sound; one always knows how to take him."
Occasionally she was alarmed at the Professor's opinions. The two friends, indeed, avoided what might wound the deep faith of their gentle hearer, but in the conversation of the Professor there sometimes seemed to lie hidden a different conception of venerated doctrines and of human duties; and yet, what he maintained was so noble and good that she could not guard herself against it by her own reasoning.
He was often vehement in his expressions; when he condemned a thing he did it in forcible language, and sometimes became so vehement that the Doctor and even her father withdrew from the contest. She thought then that he was different from almost all men-prouder, nobler, and more decided. When he expected much of others, as is natural to one who has lived in closer intercourse with the ideal world than with real life, it alarmed her to think in what light she must appear to him. But, on the other hand, this same man was ready to acknowledge everything that was good, and he rejoiced like a child when he learned that any one had shown himself brave and energetic.
He was a serious man, and yet he had become a favorite with the children, even more than the Doctor. They confided their little secrets to him, he visited them in their nursery, and gave them advice according to his youthful recollections, as to how they should make a large paper kite; he himself painted the eyes and the mustache, and cut the tassels for the tail. It was a joyful day when the kite rose from the stubble-field for the first time. Then, when evening came, he sat down, surrounded by the children, like the partridge amongst her young. Franz climbed up the arm-chair and played with his hair; one of the bigger ones sat on each knee. Then riddles were propounded and stories told. And when Ilse heard how he repeated and taught small rhymes to the children, her heart swelled with joy that such a mind should hold such intimate intercourse with simple children. And she watched his countenance and saw a child-like expression light up the features of the man, laughing and happy; and she imagined him as a little boy, sitting on his mother's lap. Happy mother!
Then came the hour among the sheaves, the learned discourse which began with Tacitus and ended with a silent acknowledgment of love. The blessed cheerfulness of his countenance, the trembling sound of his voice, had torn away the veil that concealed her own agitated feelings. She now knew that she loved him deeply and eternally, and she had a conviction that he felt just as she did. He, who was so greatly her superior, had condescended to her; she had felt his warm breath and the quick pressure of his hand. As she passed through the field, a glow suffused her cheeks; the earth and heaven, fields and sun-lit wood, floated before her like luminous clouds. With winged feet she hastened down into the woody plain, where the foliage enveloped her. Now she felt herself alone. She unconsciously grasped a slender birch tree, which shook beneath her convulsive grasp, until its leaves fell in a shower around her. She raised her hands to the golden light of the heavens and threw herself down on the mossy ground. Her bosom heaved and panted violently and she trembled with inward excitement. Love had descended from heaven upon the young woman, taking possession of her body and soul with its irresistible power.
Thus she lay a long time. Butterflies played about her hair. A little lizard crept over her hand. The white tips of the wild flowers and the branches of the hazel bent over her, as if these little children of nature wished to veil the deep emotions of the sister who had come to them in the happiest moment of her life.
At last she rose upon her knees, clasped her hands together, and thanked and prayed to God for him.
She became more collected and went into the open valley, no longer the quiet girl she was formerly. Her own life and what surrounded her shone in new colors, and she viewed the world with new feelings. She understood the language of the pair of swallows that circled round her, and with twittering tones passed by her swift as arrows. It was the rapturous joy of life which impelled the little bodies so swiftly through the air, and the birds greeted her with a sisterly song of jubilee. She answered the greeting of the laborers who were going home from the fields, and she looked at one of the women who had been binding the sheaves, and knew exactly what was the state of her feelings. This woman also had, as a maiden, loved a strange lad; it had been a long and unhappy attachment, attended by much sorrow; but now she was comforted going with him to her home, and when she spoke to her mistress she looked proudly on her companion, and Ilse felt how happy was the poor weary woman. When Ilse entered the farm-yard, and heard the voices of the maids who had waited for her in vain, and the impatient lowing of the cattle, which sounded like a reproach on the loitering mistress, she shook her head gently, as if the admonition was no longer for her, but for another.
When she again passed from the farm buildings into the golden evening light, with fleet steps and elevated head, she perceived with astonishment her father standing by his horse ready to mount, and with him, in quiet conversation, the Doctor, and he whom at this moment she felt a difficulty in encountering. She approached hesitatingly.
"Where have you been lingering. Ilse?" cried the Proprietor. "I must be off," and looking at the agitated countenance of his daughter, he added: "It is nothing of importance. A letter from the invalid forester calls me to his house. One of the Court people has arrived, and I can guess what is wanted of me. I hope to be back at night."
He nodded to the Doctor. "We shall see each other again before your departure."
So saying, he trotted away, and Ilse was thankful in her heart for the incident which made it easier for her to speak with composure to the friends. She walked with them on the road along which her father had ridden, and endeavored to conceal her disquiet by talking on indifferent subjects. She spoke of the hunting castle in the wood, and of the solitude in which the gray-headed forester dwelt among the beech-trees of the forest. But the conversation did not flow; each of those noble hearts was powerfully touched. The Professor and Ilse avoided looking at each other, and the friend could not succeed, by jocose talk, in drawing the lovers down to the small things of life.
Ilse suddenly pointed with her hand to a narrow pass on one side, from which many dark heads were emerging.
"Look! There are the Indians of Mrs. Rollmaus."
A crowd of wild figures came on with quick step, one behind the other. In front a powerful man in a brown smock-frock and shabby hat, with a stout stick in his hand; behind him some young men, then women with little children on their backs; all around and about the troop ran half-naked boys and girls. Most of the strangers were bare-headed, and without shoes. Their long black hair hung about their brown faces, and their wild eyes, even from afar, shone covetously on the walking party.
"When the autumn comes, these people sometimes wander through our country. They are jugglers, going to the fair. But for some years they have not ventured into the neighborhood of our estate."
The troop approached; there was a wild rush out of the gang, and in a moment the friends were surrounded by ten or twelve dusky figures, who pressed on them with passionate gestures, loud cries, and outstretched hands-men, women, and children, in tumultuous confusion. The friends looked with astonishment on their piercing eyes and vehement movements, and on the children, who stamped with their feet, and clawed the strangers with their hands like madmen.
"Back, you wild creatures," cried Ilse, pushing herself through the throng, and placing herself before the friends. "Back with you. Who is the chief of this band?" she repeated with anger, raising her arm commandingly.
The noise was silenced and a brown gypsy woman, not smaller than Ilse, with shining hair arranged in braids and a colored handkerchief about her head, came out from the band, and stretched her hands toward Ilse.
"My children beg," she said; "they hunger and thirst."
It was a large face with sharp features, in which traces of former beauty were visible. With head bent forward, she stood before the young lady, and her sparkling eyes passed peeringly from one countenance to the other.
"We have money only for the men who work for us," answered Ilse, coldly. "For strangers who are thirsty, there is our spring; and to those who are hungry we give bread. You will get nothing more at our house."
Again dozens of arms were raised and again the wild crowd pressed nearer. The gypsy woman drove them back by a call in a foreign tongue.
"We wish to work, Mademoiselle," she said, in fluent German, with a foreign accent; "the men mend old utensils, and we drive away rats and mice from the walls; and if you have a sick horse, we will cure it speedily."
Ilse shook her head negatively. "We do not need your help; where is your pass?"
"We have none," said the woman; "we came from foreign parts," and she pointed to where the sun rises.
"And where will you rest to-night?" asked Ilse.
"We do not know; the sun is going down and my people are weary and barefooted," replied the gypsy woman.
"You must not rest near the farm nor near the village houses. The bread you will receive at the gate of the farm-yard; you may send some one there to fetch it. If you light a fire in any of our fields, take care not to go too near the sheaves; we shall look after you. Let none of you stroll about the estate or into the village to tell fortunes to people, for we do not permit it."
"We do not tell fortunes," answered the woman, touching a small black cross which she wore around her neck. "None here below know the future, nor do we."
Ilse bent her head reverently.
"Well said," said she. "According to the meaning which seems conveyed in your words, you do not remind me in vain of the communion which exists between us. Come to the gate yourself, mother, and await me there; if you need anything for your little ones, I will endeavor to help you."
"We have a sick child, my pretty young lady, and the boys are in want of clothes," begged the gypsy woman. "I will come, and my people shall do as you wish."
She gave a sign, and the wild troop tramped obediently along the side-road that led to the village. The friends looked with curiosity after the band.
"That such a scene should be possible in this country I could never have believed," cried the Doctor.
"They were formerly quite a nuisance to us," replied Ilse, with indifference; "they are seldom about, now. My father keeps strict order, and that they know right well. But we must go back to the farm-yard, for there can be no harm in caution with this thievish race."
They hastened back to the farm-yard. The Doctor lamented heartily that his intended journey prevented him from obtaining information from the strangers respecting the secrets of their language.
Ilse called the Inspector, and the intelligence that there were gypsies in the neighborhood flew like wildfire over the farm. The stables were guarded, the poultry and families of fatted pigs were put in the charge of stout maids, and the shepherds and ploughmen received orders to keep watch at night. Ilse called the children and gave them their supper, but found it difficult to control their excitement. The youngest were given over to Mademoiselle, and under strong protest and many tears were consigned to the secure protection of their beds. Then Ilse collected old gowns and linen, gave a maid two huge loaves, and prepared to go to the gate of the farm-yard, where the gypsy woman was to await her. The Doctor, in his joy about the strangers, had cast off all anxiety concerning his friend.
"Allow us to witness the interview with the sibyl," he begged.
They found the gypsy woman sitting in the dusk before the gate. Near her was a half-grown maiden, with brilliant eyes and long tresses, but scanty dress. The woman rose and received with a distinguished air the bounty which Ilse handed to her.
"Blessings on you, young lady," she exclaimed, "and may all the happiness that you now wish be your portion. You have a face that promises good fortune. Blessings on your golden hair and your blue eyes. I thank you," she concluded, bending her head. "Will not the gentlemen also give my little girl a keepsake?" The wild beauty held out her hand. "Her face is burnt by the sun; be kind to the poor dark girl," begged the old one, looking furtively round.
The Professor shook his head. The Doctor got out his purse and placed a piece of gold in the hand of the woman.
"Have you given up fortune-telling?" he asked laughingly.
"Misfortune visits those who prophesy and those who ask," replied the gypsy woman. "Let the gentleman be on his guard against all that barks and scratches, for there is mischief in store for him from dogs and cats."
Ilse and the Professor laughed. Meanwhile the eyes of the gypsy woman peered restlessly into the bushes.
"We cannot tell fortunes," she continued. "We have no power over the future. And we make mistakes, like others. But we see much, my beautiful lady. And though you do not desire it, yet will I tell it you. The gentleman near you seeks a treasure, and he will find it. But he must take care lest he lose it. And you, proud lady, will be dear to a man that wears a crown, and you shall have the choice to become a queen. The choice and the torment," she added in a lower tone, and her eyes again wandered unquietly about.
"Away with you," cried Ilse, indignantly; "such gossip does not agree with your professions."
"We know nothing," murmured the gypsy woman humbly, grasping the talisman at her neck. "We have only our thoughts, and our thoughts are idle or true, according to a more powerful will. Farewell, my pretty lady," she cried out impressively, and strode with her companion into the darkness.
"How proudly she walks away," exclaimed the Doctor. "I have much respect for the clever woman. She would not tell fortunes, but she could not help recommending herself by a bit of secret knowledge."
"She has long ago learnt all about us from the laborers," replied Ilse, laughing.
"Where have they pitched their camp?" asked the Doctor, with curiosity.
"Probably beyond the village," answered Ilse. "You may see their fires in the valley. These strangers do not like people to come near their camp and see what they have for supper."
They descended slowly into the valley and remained standing on the border of the brook, not far from the garden. All around them the darkness of the evening lay on bush and meadow. The old house stood out on the rock, gloomy under the twilight gray of the heavens. At their feet the water murmured and the leaves of the trees were agitated by the night wind. Silently did the three look upon the vanishing shadows of the landscape. The valley alongside the village lay invisible in the deep gloom of the night. Not one lighted window was to be seen.
"They have disappeared silently like the bats, which are even now flying through the air," said the Doctor.
But the others did not answer. They were no longer thinking of the gypsies.
Then through the still evening a low moan was heard. Ilse started and listened. Again the same weak tone.
"The children!" cried Ilse, in dismay, and rushed toward the hedge which divided the meadow from the orchard. Much alarmed she shook the closed gate, then broke through the hedge, and sprang like a lioness past the espaliers. The friends hastened after her, but could not overtake her. A bright light shone among the trees before her and something moved as she flew on. Two men rose from the ground; one encountered her, but Ilse threw back the arm which was raised to strike her, so that the man reeled and fell back over the weeping children who lay on the grass. Felix, who was behind Ilse, sprang forward and seized the man, while the Doctor the next moment struggled with another, who glided like an eel from under his hands and disappeared in the darkness. Meanwhile the first robber struck at the arm of the Professor with his knife, wrenched himself away from the hand which held him, and in the next moment broke through the hedge. One heard the crackling of the branches, and then all was quiet again.
"They live!" cried Ilse, kneeling on the ground, with panting breath, and embracing the little ones, who now uttered piteous cries. It was Riekchen, in her night-dress, and Franz, also nearly stripped. The children had escaped from the eyes of Mademoiselle and the protection of the bedroom, and slipped into the garden, to see the fire of the gypsies, of which they had heard their sister speak. They had fallen into the hands of some of the fellows belonging to the band, who were looking out for something to steal, and had been robbed of their clothes.
Ilse took the screaming children in her arms, and in vain did the friends try to relieve her of the burden. Silently she hastened with them into the house, rushed into the room, and, still holding them fast, knelt down by them before the sofa, and the friends heard her suppressed sobs. But it was only for a few moments that she lost her self-control. She rose, and looked at the servants, who thronged terrified into the room.
"No harm has happened to the children," she exclaimed. "Go where you have to keep watch and send one of the overseers to me."
The Inspector immediately came.
"A robbery has been committed on our estate," said Ilse, "and those who perpetrated it should be handed over to the law. I request you to seize their camp."
"Their fire is in the ravine behind the village," Replied the Inspector; "one may see the flame and smoke from the upper story. But, Miss Ilse-I say it unwillingly-would it not be more prudent to let the rogues escape? A large portion of the harvest still lies in sheaves; they may set it on fire in the night, out of revenge, or perhaps venture something still worse, in order to free their people."
"No," exclaimed Ilse; "do not hesitate-do not delay. Whether the vagabonds injure us or not will be decided by a higher will. We must do our duty. The crime demands punishment, and the master of this estate is in the position of guardian of the law."
"Let us be quick," said the Professor; "we will accompany you."
"Well, so be it," replied the Inspector, after consideration; "the farm bailiff shall remain here and we others will seek the band at the fire."
He hastened out. The Doctor seized a knobbed stick that was in the corner of the room. "That will suffice for me," he said, laughing, to his friend. "I consider myself bound to show some forbearance toward these thievish associates of my studies, who have not quite forgotten their old tongue." As he was on the point of leaving the room he stopped: "But you must remain behind, for you are bleeding."
Some drops of blood fell from the sleeve of the Professor.
The countenance of the maiden became white as the door against which she leant. "For our sake," she murmured faintly. Suddenly she hastened up to the Professor and bent down to kiss his hand. Felix restrained her.
"It is not worth speaking of Miss Ilse," he exclaimed. "I can move my arm."
The Doctor compelled him to take off his coat and Ilse flew for a bandage.
Fritz examined the wound with the composure of an old duellist. "It is a slight prick in the muscles of the under part of the arm," he said, comforting Ilse; "a little sticking-plaster will be sufficient."
The Professor put on his coat again and seized his hat. "Let us start," he said.
"Oh, no; remain with us," begged Ilse hastening after him.
The Professor looked at her anxious countenance, shook her heartily by the hand and left the room with his friend.
The hasty tread of the men had died away. Ilse went alone through all the rooms in the house. Doors and windows were closed. Hans watched at the door opening into the court-yard, his father's sword in his hand. And the housemaids overlooked the court-yard and garden from the upper floor. Ilse entered the nursery, where the two little ones, surrounded by Mademoiselle and their brothers and sisters, were sitting in their beds and struggling between their last tears and their sleep. Ilse kissed the tired little ones, laid them down on their pillows, then she hastened out into the yard and listened, now in the direction in which the band lay, now on the other side, where the clatter of horses' hoofs might announce the arrival of her father. All was quiet. The maids from above called to her that the fire of the gypsies was extinguished, and she again hastened up and down, listening anxiously and looking up to the starry heaven.
What a day! A few hours before raised above the cares of earth, and now by a hostile hand dragged back into terror and anxiety! Was this to be a foreboding of her future life? Were the golden doors only opened to be closed again discordantly and a poor soul to be thrown back upon hopeless aspirations? The deceiver had prophesied of one who might wear a crown. Yes, in the realm in which he ruled as king there was a blessed serenity and happy peace. Ah, if it might be permitted to compare the joys of earth with those of heaven, such learning and power of thought gave a foretaste of eternal glory. For thus did the spirits of those who had here been good and wise soar, surrounded by light, in pure clearness of vision, and speak smilingly and happily to one another of all that had been upon earth; the most secret things would be revealed to them, and all that was most deeply veiled become apparent, and they would know that all the pains and sorrows of earth proceeded from eternal goodness and wisdom. And he who here trod this earth, a serene heaven in his heart, he had been wounded in the arm by a wandering vagabond for her sake; and from love for her he had again gone out into the fearful night, and she was troubled with endless anguish on his account. "Protect him, all-merciful God," she prayed, "and help me out of this darkness; give me strength, and enlighten my mind that I may become worthy of the man who beholds Thy countenance in past times, and among people that have passed away."