The mother, proud of the accomplishments of her daughter, after her confirmation, prepared an upper room for her, looking out upon the trees of the park; and Laura fitted up her little home like a fairy castle, with ivy-vines, a little flower-table, and a beautiful ink-stand of china on which shepherds and shepherdesses were sitting side by side. There she passed her pleasantest hours with her pen and paper, writing her diary in secret.
She also partook of the aversion of her parents for the neighboring family. Even as a little child she had passed poutingly before the door of that house; never had her foot crossed its threshold, and when good Mrs. Hahn once asked her to shake hands, it was long before she could make up her mind to take her hand out of her apron pocket. Of the inhabitants of the neighboring house the one most annoying to her was young Fritz Hahn. She seldom associated with him, but unfortunately she was always in some embarrassment which enabled Fritz Hahn to act the part of her protector. Before she went to school, the eldest son of Mrs. Knips, already quite a big fellow, who painted fine pictures and birthday cards, and sold them to people in the neighborhood, wished to compel her to give the money she held in her hand for a devil's head which he had painted, and which no one in the street would have; he treated her so roughly and so ill, that contrary to her wont, she became frightened and gave him her pennies, and weeping, held the horrible picture in her hand. Fritz Hahn happened to come that way, inquired what had taken place, and when she complained to him of Knips's violent conduct, he grew so indignant that she became frightened about him. He set upon the lad, who was his school-fellow and in a class above him, and began to thrash him on the spot, while the younger Knips looked on laughing, with his hands in his pocket. Fritz pushed the naughty boy against the wall and compelled him to give up the money and take back his devil. But this meeting did not help to make her like Fritz any the better. She could not bear him, because already as an undergraduate he wore spectacles, and always looked so serious. And when she came from school, and he went with his portfolio to the lecture, she always endeavored to avoid him.
On another occasion they happened to meet. She was among the first girls in the Institute; the oldest Knips was already Magister, and the younger apprentice in her father's business, and Fritz Hahn had just become a doctor. She had rowed herself between the trees in the park till the boat struck a snag and her oar fell into the water. As she was bending down to recover it, she also lost her hat and parasol. Laura, in her embarrassment, looked to the shore for help. Again it so happened that Fritz Hahn was passing, lost in thought. He heard the faint cry which had escaped her, jumped into the muddy water, fished up the hat and parasol, and drew the boat to the shore. Here he offered Laura his hand and helped her on to dry ground. Laura undoubtedly owed him thanks, and he had also treated her with respect and called her Miss. But then he looked very ridiculous, he bowed so awkwardly, and he stared at her so fixedly through his glasses. And when she afterwards learned that he had caught a terrible cold from his jump into the swamp, she became indignant, both at herself and at him, because she had screamed when there was no danger, and he had rushed to her aid with such useless chivalry. She could have helped herself, and now the Hahns would think she owed them no end of thanks.
On this point she might have been at ease, for Fritz had quietly changed his clothes and dried them in his room.
But indeed it was quite natural that the two hostile children should avoid each other, for Fritz was of quite a different nature. He also was an only child, and had been brought up tenderly by a kind-hearted father and a too anxious mother. He was, from his earliest childhood, quiet and self-possessed, unassuming and studious. In his home he had created for himself a little world of his own where he indulged in out-of-the-way studies. Whilst around him was the merry hum of life, he pored over Sanskrit characters, and investigated the relations between the wild spirits that hovered over the Teutoburger battle, and the gods of the Veda, who floated over palm-woods and bamboos in the hot valley of the Ganges. He also was the pride and joy of his family; his mother never failed to bring him his cup of coffee every morning; then she seated herself opposite him with her bunch of keys, and looked silently at him while he ate his breakfast, scolded him gently for working so late the previous night, and told him that she could not sleep quietly till she heard him push back his chair and place his boots before the door to be cleaned. After breakfast, Fritz went to his father to bid him good morning, and he knew that it gave his father pleasure when he walked with him for a few minutes in the garden, observing the growth of his favorite flowers, and when, above all, he approved of his garden projects. This was the only point on which Mr. Hahn was sometimes at variance with his son; and, as he could not refute his son's arguments, nor restrain his own strong aesthetic inclinations, he adopted methods which are often resorted to by greater politicians-he secretly prepared his projects, and surprised his son with the execution of them.
Amidst this tranquil life, intercourse with the Professor was the greatest pleasure of the day to our young scholar; it elevated him and made him happy. He had, while yet a student, heard the first course of lectures given by Felix Werner at the University. A friendship had gradually arisen, such as is perhaps only possible among highly-cultivated, sound men of learning. Fritz became the devoted confidant of the inexhaustible activity of his friend. Every investigation of the Professor, with its results, was imparted to him, even to the most minute details, and the pleasure of every new discovery was shared by the neighbors. Thus the best portion of their life was passed together. Fritz, indeed, as the younger, was more a receiver than giver; but it was just this that made the relation so firm and deep. This intercourse was not without occasional differences, as is natural with scholars; for both were hasty in judgment; both were very exacting in the requirements which they made on themselves and others, and both were easily excited. But such differences were soon settled, and only served to increase the loving consideration with which they treated each other.
Through this friendship the bitter relations between the two houses were somewhat mitigated. Even Mr. Hummel could not help showing some respect for the Doctor, as his highly-honored tenant paid such striking marks of distinction to the son of the enemy. For Mr. Hummel's respect for his tenant was unbounded. He heard that the Professor was quite celebrated in his specialty, and he was inclined to value earthly fame when, as in this case, there was profit in it. Besides, the Professor was a most excellent tenant. He never protested against any rule which Mr. Hummel, as chief magistrate of the house, prescribed. He had once asked the advice of Mr. Hummel concerning the investment of some capital. He possessed neither dog nor cat, gave no parties, and did not sing with his window open, nor play bravura pieces on the piano. But the main point was, that he showed to Mrs. Hummel and Laura, whenever he met them, the most chivalrous politeness, which well became the learned gentleman. Mrs. Hummel was enchanted with her tenant; and Mr. Hummel always deemed it expedient not to mention his intention of raising the rent to his family, because he foresaw a general remonstrance from the ladies.
Now the hobgoblin who ran to and fro between both houses, throwing stones in the way, and making sport of men, had tried also to excite these two noble souls against each other. But his attempt was a miserable failure; these worthy men were not disposed to dance to his discordant pipes.
Early the following morning, Gabriel took a letter from his master to the Doctor. As he passed the hostile threshold, Dorchen, the servant of the Hahn family, hastily came toward him with a letter from her young master to the Professor. The messengers exchanged letters, and the two friends read them at the same moment.
The Professor wrote: -
"My dear friend-Do not be angry with me because I have again been vehement; the cause of it was as absurd as possible. I must honestly tell you that what put me out was your having so unconditionally refused to edit with me a Latin text. For the possibility of finding the lost manuscript, which we in our pleasant dreams assumed for some minutes, was the more enticing to me, because it opened the prospect of an employment in common to us both. And if I wish to draw you within the narrow circle of my studies, you may take for granted that it is not only from personal feeling, but far more from the wish of my heart to avail myself of your ability for the branch of learning to which I confine myself."
Fritz, on the other hand, wrote: -
"My very dear friend-I feel most painfully that my irritability yesterday spoilt for us both a charming evening. But do not think that I mean to dispute your right to reproach me for the prolixity and want of system in my labors. It was just because what you said touched a cord, the secret dissonance of which I have myself sometimes felt, that I for a moment lost my equanimity. You are certainly right in much that you said, only I beg you to believe that my refusal to undertake a great work in conjunction with you was neither selfishness nor want of friendship. I am convinced that I ought not to abandon the work I have undertaken, even though too extensive for my powers; least of all exchange it for a new circle of interests, in which my deficient knowledge would be a burden to you."
After the reception of these letters both were somewhat more at ease. But certain expressions in them made some further explanation necessary to both, so they set to work and wrote again to each other, shortly and pithily, as became thoughtful men. The Professor answered: "I thank you from my heart, my dear Fritz, for your letter; but I must repeat that you always estimate your own worth too low, and this is all that I can reproach you with."
Fritz replied: "How deeply touched I feel by your friendship at this moment! This only will I say, that among the many things I have to learn from you, there is nothing I need more than your modesty; and when you speak of your knowledge so comprehensive and fertile in results, as being limited, be not angry if I strive after the same modesty with regard to my work."
After sending the letter, the Professor, still disquieted, went to his lecture, and was conscious that his mind wandered during his discourse. Fritz hastened to the library, and diligently collected all the referenced which he could find respecting the Manor of Bielstein. At midday, on their return home, each of them read the second letter of his friend: then the Professor frequently looked at the clock, and when it struck three he hastily put on his hat and went with great strides across the street to the hostile house. As he laid hold of the door-knob of the Doctor's room, he felt a counter pressure from within. Pushing the door open, he found Fritz standing before him, also with his hat on, intending to visit him. Without saying a word the two friends embraced each other.
"I bring you good tidings from the book-seller," began the Professor.
"And I of the old Manor," exclaimed Fritz.
"Listen," said the Professor. "The book-seller bought the monk's book of a retail-dealer who travels about the country collecting curiosities and old books. The man was brought into my presence; he had himself bought the little book in the town of Rossau, at an auction of the effects of a cloth-maker, together with an old cupboard and some carved stools. It is at least possible that the remarks in cipher at the end, which evade unpracticed eyes, may never, after the death of the friar, have excited observation nor caused investigation. Perhaps there may still be preserved in some church-record at Rossau an account of the life and death of the monk Tobias Bachhuber."
"Possibly," assented Fritz, much pleased. "A congregation of his persuasion still exists. But Manor Bielstein lies at a distance of half an hour from the town of Rossau, on a woody height-see, here is the map. It formerly belonged to the ruling sovereign, but in the last century it passed into private hands; the buildings, however, remain. It is represented on this map as an old chateau, at present the residence of a Mr. Bauer. My father also knows about the house; he has seen it from the high road on his journeys, and describes it as a long stretch of buildings, with balconies and a high roof."
"The threads interweave themselves into a satisfactory web," said the Professor, complacently.
"Stop a moment," cried the Doctor, eagerly. "The traditions of this province have been collected by one of our friends. The man is trustworthy. Let us see whether he has recorded any reminiscences of the neighborhood of Rossau." He hastily opened and looked into a book, and then gazed speechless at his friend.
The Professor seized the volume and read this short notice: "It is said that in the olden times the monks in the neighborhood of Bielstein walled up a great treasure in the manor-house."
Again did a vision of the old, mysterious manuscript arise before the eyes of the friends so distinctly that it might be seized.
"It is certainly not impossible that the manuscript may yet lie concealed," remarked the Professor, at last, with assumed composure. "Instances of similar discoveries are not lacking. It is not long since that a ceiling of a room in the old house of the proprietor of my home was broken through; it was a double ceiling, and the empty space contained a number of records and papers concerning the ownership, and some old jewels. The treasure had been concealed in the time of the great war, and no one for a century had heeded the lowly ceiling of the little room."
"Naturally," exclaimed Fritz, rubbing his hands. "And within the facing of old chimneys empty spaces are sometimes found. A brother of my mother's found, on rebuilding his house, in such a place a pot full of coins." He drew out his purse. "Here is one of them, a beautiful Swedish dollar; my uncle gave it to me at my confirmation as a luck-penny, and I have carried it in my purse ever since. I have often struggled against the temptation to spend it."
The Professor closely examined the head of Gustavus Adolphus, as if he had been a neighbor of the concealed Tacitus, and would convey information concerning the lost book in its inscription. "It is true," he said, reflectively, "if the house is on a height, even the cellars may be dry."
"Undoubtedly," answered the Doctor. "Often, too, the thick walls were built double, and the intervening space filled with rubbish. In such a case it would be easy, through a small opening, to make a hollow space in the inside of the wall."
"But now," began the Professor, rising, "the question arises, what are we to do? For the knowledge of such a thing, whether it be of great or little importance, imposes upon the investigator the duty of doing all that is possible to promote the discovery. And this duty we must fulfill promptly and completely."
"If you impart this record to the public, you will allow the prospect of discovering the manuscript to pass out of your own hands."
"In this business, every personal consideration must be dismissed," said the Professor, decisively.
"And if you now make known the cloister-record you have found," continued the Doctor, "who can answer for it, that the nimble activity of some antiquary, or some foreigner, may not prevent all further investigations? In such a case the treasure, even if found, would be lost, not only to you, but also to our country and to science."
"That, at least, must not be," cried the Professor.
"And besides, even if you apply to the government of the province, it is very doubtful whether they will render you any assistance," replied the Doctor, triumphantly.
"I do not think of committing the matter to strangers and officials," answered the Professor. "We have a person in the neighborhood whose good fortune and acuteness in tracing out rarities is wonderful. I have a mind to tell Magister Knips of the manuscript; he may lay aside his proof-sheets for a few days, travel for us to Rossau, and there examine the ground."
The Doctor jumped up. "That will never do. Knips is not the man to trust with such a secret."
"I have always found him trustworthy," replied the Professor. "He is wonderfully skillful and well-informed."
"To me it would appear a desecration of this fine discovery, to employ such a man," answered Fritz, "and I would never consent to it."
"In that case," cried the Professor, "I have made up my mind. The vacation is at hand; I will go myself to the old house. And as you, my friend, intended to travel for a few days, you must accompany me; we shall go together. Here is my hand on it."
"With all my heart," cried the Doctor, clasping his friend's hand. "We will penetrate into the manor-house, and summon the spirits which hover over the treasure."
"We will first come to an understanding with the owner of the house. Then we shall see what is to be done. Meanwhile let us keep the affair secret."
"That is right," assented Fritz; and the friends descended, well satisfied, into the garden of Mr. Hahn, and, pausing for a few moments beneath the White Muse, they consulted with regard to the opening of the campaign.
The imagination of the Scholar was fast pent up by his methodical train of thought; but in the depths of his soul there was a rich and abundant stream from the secret source of all beauty and energy. Now a hole had been torn in the dam, and the flood poured itself joyfully over the seed. Ever did the wish for the mysterious manuscript return to him. He saw before him the opening in the wall, and the first glimmer of light falling on the grey books in the hollow; he saw the treasure in his hands as he drew it out, and would not part with it till he had deciphered the illegible pages. Blessed spirit of Brother Tobias Bachhuber, if thou shouldst spend any of thy holiday-time in heaven in coming back to our poor earth, and if then at night thou glidest through the rooms of the old manor, guarding thy treasure and scaring inquisitive meddlers, pray, nod kindly to the man who now approaches to bring thy secret to the light of day, for truly he seeks not honor nor gain for himself, but he conjures you, in the name of all that is good, to assist a well-meaning man.
CHAPTER III.
A FOOL'S ERRAND
Whoever on a certain sunny harvest-morning in August had looked down from the heights in the direction of Rossau, would have observed an object moving along the road between the meadows that extended to the gates of the city. On closer observation two travelers might be perceived, one taller than the other, both wearing light summer clothes, the freshness of which had been sullied by the stormy rain of the last few days. They had both leather traveling-bags, which hung by straps from their shoulders; the taller one wore a broad-brimmed felt hat, the shorter one a straw hat.
The travelers were evidently strangers, for they stopped at times to observe and enjoy the view of the valley and hills, which is seldom the custom with people born in the country. The district had not yet been discovered by pleasure-seekers; there were no smooth paths in the woods for the thin boots of towns-folk; even the carriage road was not a work of art, the water lay in the tracks made by the wheels; the sheep-bells and the axe of the wood-cutter only were heard by the dwellers of the neighborhood, who were working in the fields or passing on their way to their work. And yet the country was not without charm; the woody hills were marked in bold outlines, a stone-quarry might be seen between the fields in the plain, or the head of a rock jutted out from amongst the trees. From the hills on the horizon a small brook wound its course to the distant river, bordered by strips of meadow, behind which the arable land ran up to the woody heights. The lovely landscape looked bright in the morning sunshine.
In the low country in front of the travelers rose to view, surrounded by hills, the village of Rossau, a little country-town with two massive church towers and dark-tiled roofs, which projected above the walls of the place like the backs of a herd of cattle that had crowded together for protection against a pack of wolves.
The strangers looked from their high position with warm interest on the chimneys and towers behind the old discolored and patched walls that lay before them. In that place had once been preserved a treasure, which, if found again, would interest the whole civilized world and excite hundreds to intellectual labor. The landscape looked exactly like other German landscapes, and the village was exactly like other German villages; and yet there was an attraction about the place that inspired a joyful hope in the travelers. Was it the globe-like ornament that crowned the stout old tower? or was it the arch of the gate which just veiled from the travelers in alluring darkness the entrance to the town? or the stillness of the empty valley, in which the place lay without suburbs and outhouses, as the towns are portrayed on old maps? or the herds of cattle that went out of the gate into the open space, and bounded merrily on the pasture ground? or was it perhaps the keen morning air which blew about the temples of the wanderers? Both felt that something remarkable and promising hovered over the valley in which, as searchers of the past, they were entering.
"Imagine the landscape as it once appeared to the eye," began the Professor; "the forest, in olden times, encircled the town more closely; the hills seemed higher, the valley deeper; the monastery then lay, with the dwellings of its dependants, as in a deep basin. There, to the south, where the country sharply rises, the monks had their vineyards. Gradually the houses of the town drew about the monastery. Take from those towers beyond us the caps that were placed upon them a century ago, give them back their old pinnacles, place here and there a turret on the walls, and you have an ideal, wondrously beautiful picture of mediaeval days."
"And upon the same road that leads us thither, a learned monk once strode with his precious manuscripts towards the quiet valley; there to teach his companions, or to shield himself, perhaps, from powerful enemies," the Doctor said, with enthusiasm.
The travelers passed by the pasture ground; the herdsmen looked with indifference at the strangers; but the cows placed themselves by the edge of the ditch and stared, while the young ones of the herd bellowed at them inquiringly. They went through the dark arch of the gate and looked curiously along the streets. It was a poor little town, the main street alone was paved, and that badly. Not far from the gate the sloping beam of a well projected high in the air, and from it hung along pole with a bucket attached. Few people were to be seen, those who were not working in the houses were occupied in the field; for the straws which stuck in the stone crevices of the arch of the gate showed that harvest wagons were carrying the fruits of the fields to the farm-yards of the citizens. Near many of the houses there were open wooden doors, through which one could look into the yard and barns, and over the dung heap on which small fowls were pecking. The last century had altered the place but little, and the low houses still stood with their gables to the front. Instead of the coats of arms, there projected into the street the signs of artisans, carved in tin or wood, and painted-such as a large wooden boot; a griffin, holding enormous shears in its hand; or a rampant lion, that extended a bretzel; or, as the most beautiful masterpiece of all, a regular hexagon of colored glass panes.
"Much has been retained of mediæval times here," said the Professor.
The friends came to the market-place, an irregular space, the little houses of which were adorned with bright paint. There on an insignificant building prominently stood a red dragon with a curled tail, carved out of a board, and supported in the air on an iron pole. Upon it was painted, in ill-formed letters; "The Dragon Inn."
"See," said Fritz, pointing to the dragon, "the fancy of the artist has carved him with a pike's head and thick teeth. The dragon is the oldest treasure-preserver of our legends. It is remarkable how firmly the recollection of this legendary animal everywhere clings to the people. Probably this sign-board originates from some tradition of the place."
They ascended the white stone steps into the house, utterly unconscious that they had long been watched by sharp eyes. A citizen, who was taking his morning draught, exclaimed to the stout host, "Who can these be? They do not look like commercial travelers; perhaps one of them is the new parson from Kirchdorf."
"Parsons don't look like that," said the inn-keeper, decidedly, who knew men better; "they are strangers on foot, no carriage and no luggage."
The strangers entered, placed themselves at a red-painted table, and ordered breakfast. "A beautiful country, mine host," began the Professor; "magnificent trees in your forests."
"Yes," answered the host.
"A wealthy neighborhood, apparently," continued the Professor.
"People complain that they do not earn enough," replied the host.
"How many clergy have you in the place?"
"Two," said the host, more politely. "But the old pastor is dead; meanwhile, there is a candidate here."
"Is the other pastor at home?"
"I do not know," said the landlord.
"Have you a court of justice here?"
"We have a Justice of the Peace; he is now here-court is in session to-day."
"Was there not in former times a monastery in the city?" said the Doctor, taking up the examination.
The citizen and the landlord looked at each other. "That is long since," replied the master of the inn.
"Does not the Manor of Bielstein lie in the neighborhood?" inquired Fritz.
Again the citizen and the landlord looked significantly at each other.
"It lies somewhere here in the neighborhood," answered the landlord, with reserve.
"How long does it take to go to the manor?" asked the Professor, irritated by the short answers of the man.
"Do you wish to go there?" inquired the landlord. "Do you know the owner?"
"No," answered the Professor.
"Have you any business with him?"
"That is our affair," answered the Professor, curtly.
"The road leads through the wood, and takes half an hour-you cannot miss it;" and the landlord abruptly closed the conversation and left the room. The citizen followed him.
"We have not learnt much," said the Doctor, laughing. "I hope the pastor and magistrate will be more communicative."
"We will go direct to the place," said the Professor, with decision.
Meanwhile the landlord and the citizen consulted together. "Whatever the strangers may be," repeated the citizen, "they are not ecclesiastics, and they did not seem to care for the magistrate. Did you remark how they inquired about the monastery and the Manor?" The landlord nodded. "I will tell you my suspicion," continued the citizen, eagerly; "they have not come here for nothing; they are after something."
"What can that be?" asked the landlord, pondering.
"They are disguised Jesuits; that's what they look like to me."
"Well, if they intend to seek a quarrel with the people at the Manor, they will find their match."
"I am on my way now to the Inspector on business; I will give him a hint."
"Do not meddle with what does not concern you," said the landlord, warningly. But the citizen only held the boots he carried, tighter under his arm, and drove round the corner.
Our two friends left, disgusted with the lack of courtesy they encountered at the Dragon. They inquired the way to the manor of an old woman at the opposite gate of the city. Behind the town the path rose from the gravel bed of the brook to the woody height. They entered a clearing of underbrush, from which, here and there, rose up high oaks. The rain of the last evening still hung in drops on the leaves-the deep green of summer glistened in the sun's rays-the song of birds and the tapping of the woodpecker above broke the stillness.
"This puts one in different frame of mind," exclaimed the Doctor, cheerfully.
"It requires very little to call forth new melodies in a well-strung heart, if fate has not played on it with too rough a hand. The bark of a few trees covered with hoary moss, a handful of blossoms on the turf, and a few notes from the throats of birds, are sufficient," replied the philosophic Professor. "Hark! that is no greeting of nature to the wanderer," added he, listening attentively, as the sound of distant voices chanting a choral, fell softly on his ear. The sound appeared to come from above the trees.
"Let us go higher up," exclaimed the Doctor, "to the mysterious place where old church-hymns murmur through the oaks."
They ascended the hill some hundred steps, and found themselves on an open terrace, one side of which was surrounded by trees. In the clearing stood a small wooden church surrounded by a graveyard; some distance beyond on a massive extent of rock rose a great old building, the roof of which was broken by many pointed gables.
"How all harmonizes!" exclaimed the Professor, looking curiously over the little church up to the Manor-house.
A funeral chant was heard more clearly from the church. "Let us go in," said the Doctor, pointing to the open door.
"To my mind it is more seemly to remain without," answered the Professor; "it is repulsive to me to intrude either on the pleasures or sorrows of strangers. The hymn is finished; now comes the pastor's little discourse."