CHAPTER XVIII.
FOR THE SAKE OF THE CHILD.
Night had followed morning, and morning turned into night, on this day like the previous one. The worthy Pastor required to exercise all his quiet self command, not to give way to the most feverish feelings of distress and anxiety; but just in the same way that he had resisted allowing the alarm bell to be rung except in the greatest extremity, so he now restrained his own feelings. He stood long looking out of the window. In the dead of night the ticking of the pendulum of the church clock was distinctly heard, and the heart of the anxious Pastor vibrated in unison with the swinging pendulum. He had learned the difficult art, in the midst of all the heartfelt sorrow and uneasiness he so keenly felt, to maintain the most perfect outward composure, and to subdue every symptom of passion: even the noblest of all—that of sympathy for others.
While all those who had remained behind in the village forced themselves to go to work, or sought to divert their thoughts by conversing with each other, and keeping themselves awake by sharing their uneasiness, the Pastor sat alone in his room, looking out of the window, apparently without emotion or noticing any object—and yet his inward agitation and excitement were great. The villagers, well acquainted with this habit of his, declared that at such moments the Pastor preached a silent sermon to himself; the Pastorin, however, had confided to her father, and to no one else in the world, that on these occasions the Pastor was composing poems, so tender and so aërial that solid words were too substantial for them, and he was content to breathe out his words and thoughts, though he neither wished nor tried to preserve them, by writing down his conceptions. Thus, when the poor child was found frozen to death, in the neighbouring village of Wenger, he had repeated, almost unconsciously, aloud, the words that are now inscribed on his tomb, and they had no little difficulty in persuading him to allow them to be written down, and sent to his brother clergyman at Wenger. Often, however, it was a poem, a deep thought from the kindred soul of another, or a melody of his favourite master, Mozart, that the Pastor repeated to himself at such hours, with all sorts of imaginary variations; and when he had held this silent intercourse with himself—the Pastorin called this his supernatural existence—he then went forth into the world, with a kind and consoling word for every one who needed it, and a degree of holiness an faith, strength and power, visible to all men. Thus he sat on this evening absorbed in a reverie.
The strokes of the clock were heard striking slowly from the church tower, proclaiming on hour after another; they go on striking, by day and by night, in joy or in sorrow—they sound on, and on, and loudly say: "Another space of time gone for ever—lost in Eternity!"
"We have found him," was the cry he suddenly heard in the streets, as the sound of a horn rung through the silent night, and the Pastor went out to welcome back his brother-in-law.
When they were again in the sitting-room, Edward told how Joseph had been found in the Forest Mill, with Adam's betrothed bride, Tony, He did not stop to describe minutely the fierce rage of the ungovernable Röttmännin, he spoke with enthusiasm of the kind honest sympathy shown by all the villagers:—
"These men," said he, "possess nothing but their lives, and their sound limbs, to enable them to struggle on through life, and yet with the utmost decision and confidence, as if it could not be otherwise, they, every one, exposed themselves to danger in order to save a lost child; this proved to me, dear brother, that your heart lived in all these men—you were at home, and yet they all came with us. I cannot but think that it must be a severe trial to you to leave such people."
The Pastor answered nothing; neither in assent or dissent, and the Pastorin asked:—
"So the Forest Miller's Tony has given up Adam? Heaven be praised for that! She has a pure and true heart, and is sure to do well in the world. Why did you not bring her with you to the village? I wish you had brought her here to me, Edward. She stands in great need of some one to interpose between her and her stepmother, and also the fierce old Röttmännin."
Edward did not say a syllable, but he breathed hard; in the mean time the Paster rejoined:—
"Don't be uneasy about Tony, she is wood of a fine and solid grain, and we cannot avert from others the consequences of their own actions, either for good or evil. They who have courage enough to do a deed, have also courage enough to endure its consequences, and ought to have it."
Edward looked up more cheerfully, but his cheeks glowed, and his sister, on seeing this, said:—"You are quite feverish—do go and lie down, and I will bring you a cup of tea when you are in bed."
Edward was very reluctant to follow this advice, and yet he felt quite dizzy; he had gone through more than he cared at this moment to confess. There was a knock at the door:—
"Come in," cried the Pastorin, but as there was an evident hesitation in doing so, she opened the door herself, and in came Speidel-Röttmann, Schilder-David and his wife, and, behind them, Adam and Martina.
"Herr Pastor," said Schilder-David, stepping forward, "God has helped us wonderfully; we hope you will give us further aid, and speedily too, that all things may be done in order."
"What do you wish me to do?"
"Speak yourself;" and David drew back, jogging Speidel-Röttmann's arm.
"What I want," began the latter, repeatedly stroking his closely cropped head with his hand, as if wishing to give a token of respect by pulling off an imaginary hat—"What I want, and I have not a word to say against it, is that the Herr Pastor should marry Adam to Martina this afternoon."
"Oh! that is delightful!" exclaimed the Pastorin, while Adam came forward, holding Martina's hand, and said—
"Yes, Herr Pastor, we earnestly beg you will."
"Yes, we humbly beg it," repeated Martina, in a low voice.
"Gently, gently," said the Pastor, in an authoritative tone, "you two young people, follow me to my room."
He went first, and the two followed him.
"Sit down," said the Pastor, when they were in his study—then he continued: "Adam, probably because you are the richest man in all the country, and can help yourself out of a full purse, without even thinking. What will it cost? you may imagine that whatever you choose can be done at once; you are proud of your strength, because you can knock down a horse, or kill a wolf with your stick: do you suppose that you are, therefore, entitled to imagine that where you are concerned, there are no laws or sacred injunctions, that cannot be abrogated when you wish it?"—
The Pastor paused, and Adam began—
"Herr Pastor! no one in the world knows me as I really am—neither my father, nor my mother—no one but my Martina. You, Herr Pastor, do know something of me; but not everything. What you have just said is very true; I have been a wild fellow; always ready to hit every man—a word and a blow; and I fear it is true, that I had not, hitherto, entirely subdued this wild fellow within me; but, Herr Pastor, he is now down for ever, and you and my Martina ... only give me some penance to perform; I will submit cheerfully, for I deserve it. Desire me to hack off my fingers, that I may become as weak as a child, and I will not shrink from it."
Adam's emotion was so great that he could not say another word, and the Pastor resumed—
"The law is, that you must be proclaimed three Sundays following."
"Is it not enough that the perils of my child made my blood run cold in my veins? Tell me what to do, Herr Pastor, and I will do it."
"Oh! Herr Pastor," entreated Martina; "have we not been punished severely enough? Have we not repented long enough?"
"No! you conducted yourself very properly during your long trial, but your sin was no light one. It shall never be said that those who once set the law at defiance, shall do the same now."
"If we cannot help ourselves, we must submit, I suppose," said Adam. Martina could not speak for tears. The Pastor let her remain for a time quiet, and then said:—
"Come with me to the next room."
"Is it all arranged?" asked the Pastorin.
Adam and Martina shook their heads, and Speidel-Röttmann came forward and said, "Herr Pastor, is it on account of the banns?"
"Yes, yes," answered Adam.
"If that is all," said Speidel-Röttmann with an air of importance, "Herr Pastor, I am willing to pay the fine it will cost."
"Truly, if rich farmers could smooth all obstacles with their money, there would be little difficulty for them in this world; but, Master Röttmann, there are some things which even your ten horses could not move from the spot. Has your wife given her consent?"
"Häspele declares she has," interrupted Edward. "He will be here presently."
Adam hurried away and brought Häspele back with him; he came in a great fright, and when the Pastor appealed to his conscience to say whether the Röttmännin had really given her consent, he said at length, after biting his lips till the blood came, "No, she did not."
"Very well then," said the Pastor; "I will on my own responsibility undertake to marry you, even without the Röttmännin's consent; but now I have something to say to you. Neither your pride, Adam, nor your humility—and I believe in your sincerity, and hope I shall have reason to do so henceforth—nor your swaggering, Speidel-Röttmann, as to paying the fine, but——"
"For the sake of little Joseph," the Pastorin could not help saying: "you give in on account of the boy. He is a precocious child. What would he think, if he heard that the banns of his parents were only published now? What battles he would have with his companions, and who knows what poisonous drops might fall into his heart, and what evil might be produced by them hereafter?"
"Exactly so," said the Pastor; "the child is now asleep, and utterly unconscious of all the perplexities and disorders of this wicked world; he has been in danger of death, and miraculously saved in search of his father, who proved himself a weak person, in spite of his strength; and his grandfather, who hitherto believed that everything could be purchased with money. So for little Joseph's sake I will marry you this night."
Martina rushed up to the Pastor, and knelt down and kissed his hand; Adam would evidently have gladly done the same, but in spite of his humility he could not quite bring himself to kneel yet; he only laid his hand on Martina's head, as if to testify that she was kneeling for him also.
All was still in the room, and the Pastor ended by saying, "We shall see each other again in church," and then went into his study. The Parsonage soon resumed its usual quiet aspect, but even before the wedding party left it, the news ran like wildfire from house to house in the village. "Adam and Martina are to be married to-night. Leegart said they would beforehand."