CHAPTER XX.
DAYLIGHT.
It was a happy waking hour to all next morning, every eye shone brightly, and each saluted his neighbour gaily, saying, "Good morning! beautiful weather!" while in truth the most beautiful atmosphere was within their own hearts. The sun above was certainly most brilliant, and the snow covered hills and trees glittered in the rays of the morning light; but the best of all was, that there was something to gladden all hearts of a less changeable nature than the weather: a child had been saved, and parents and grandparents made happy; a delightful wedding had taken place, though there had been neither baking nor roasting, nor clattering of plates and dishes. And how admirably and faithfully did the Pastor expound the truth! What a sad thing it was that he persisted in leaving them, when they would gladly have kept him for ever!
In the attic in Schilder-David's house, Adam and Martina were standing by the bed of little Joseph, who was still fast asleep, though a bright streak of sunshine, as wide as the little garret window could admit, shone right on the face of the boy. There was an expression of saucy petulance on the features of the child; his head was thrown back, his lips curled and half opened, and his clenched fist lay close to his rosy cheek.
"I will wake him; it is time," said Martina.
"Do let him sleep on, to oblige me. I am just the same when I have undergone any great excitement, I could sleep on for three days and nights without stirring. How pretty a child looks asleep! I never saw him asleep before." Thus talked Adam and Martina, and looked fondly at their child.
Adam felt as if there was not room for him in the attic. He sat down on Martina's trunk, and, in such a gentle voice that it appeared to proceed from some one else, begged her to stand out of the light, that he might see Joseph, distinctly.
"I will remain here till he wakes," said he; and Martina told him again and again, how Joseph on the preceding night had called out "Is it not yet morning?" At the sound of these words the boy turned and moved restlessly, but continued sleeping.
His mother now, however, bent over him, and called out to him in a clear, ringing voice, "Mother, is it not yet light? The light is come, Joseph! wake up. Your father is here."
Joseph now looked up with a face of surprise and curiosity, but he began to cry bitterly from terror, when the gigantic form of his father stood upright in the small attic; he probably appeared to the child like some monstrous apparition in a dream, and when the large figure interposed like a gloomy cloud, between the bed and the sunlight, the attic seemed almost as dark as night. Martina had no little trouble in pacifying the boy. Adam was obliged to leave the room till Joseph was dressed, and during the few minutes that he was standing outside the attic, while the mother was soothing the child, feelings of remorse for his past transgression again smote him—but only for a moment; he was Adam Röttmann still, who could and would be master of all; he was angry with the boy, who did not seem to care for him, nor to clasp him round the neck as he expected; he was resolved to teach him by stern discipline, and that this very day, he must love and honour him as his father.
When Joseph came out of the room he ran down stairs quickly, past Adam.
"The boy must be taught differently; this is not proper conduct towards his father," said Adam to Martina, indignantly.
She, however, begged him to think how much the boy must love him, to go in search of him through the snow, and at night, so fearlessly; as yet, however, the child was naturally shy, and his father still a stranger to him. Adam must try to win the love of his boy by gentleness and kindness, and not suppose he could do this by force.
"You are right, quite right," said Adam, and he went down the narrow stairs with such a heavy tread that the small house shook. Joseph was in the room below, seated on Schilder-David's knee, and Adam called to the boy, "You are to get a present from me to-day; what would you like? Tell me."
The boy did not come, but knit his brows, and looked at his father with a shy glance. He left his grandfather, but did not go to his father; he was staring with astonishment at the nail on the wall over the stove, for there hung a written document framed. Long before daylight, Schilder-David had replaced there Martina's Confirmation Certificate. A bright gleam of sunshine lighted up the text, which was: Revelations 3rd chapter, 11th verse. "Hold that fast which thou hast, that no man take thy crown."
In another house in the village, however, there was weeping and wailing, and that too in the best of all. In the Parsonage the maid sat in the kitchen, crying bitterly: "The fine fat goose, which was to have been roasted this very day, and it was the very thing for such a welcome guest: such a lovely bird, and so well frozen by hanging outside the window! and now in all the confusion last night, it has been stolen. I am sure it ought to choke those who were so wicked as to steal from the Pastor; and how like an angel he spoke to them, and thanked them for what they had done—and now they play him such a trick as this! He ought to bring it into his sermon today, and preach to them on an appropriate text; and the first man that coughs, has stolen the goose, I will go through the whole village, to spy out who has got my goose. I will find out whether the fox, the wolf, a dog, a weasel, or a raven has stolen it; but more likely far some wicked wretch, intending to roast it. I am resolved to get it back; we have really nothing for dinner to-day." These, and many other lamentations were poured forth amid bitter tears, and scolding, and execrations, by the maid in the kitchen, till at last the Pastor came into the kitchen, saying, "What is going on here?" The fact was duly detailed to him, and, as a proof of her assertion, the maid pointed out the empty hook on which the goose had hung outside the window.
"The hook is still there, but the goose is gone," said the girl, sobbing, and laying hold of the hook, as if she thought it the very thing to hang the thief upon. Brother Edward also came in, and the maid begged him to oblige her by looking at the hook. The Pastor turning to his brother-in-law, said, "It is often thus; just the very last delicate morsel, carefully cherished, falls on the floor, when it is actually stuck on your fork."
"And you are positively making a jest of it!" said the Pastorin to her husband; "you men never seem to have any idea of the great difficulty of preparing a good dinner in the country, and how pleasant it is when all is prepared; and it seemed quite a happy chance that my mother sent me some chesnuts."
"I am not making a jest of it; on the contrary, it is very annoying to me."
"The greatest annoyance to you is, assuredly, that any person here is capable of being a thief. They cannot, however, enjoy the fruits of their theft, I feel sure," interrupted Edward.
"By no means: I am so material in my nature, that I should have liked excessively to have myself enjoyed a fine, well browned, crisp, roast goose;—and as for the thief? If the goose had been stolen from any one else, the man would have equally been a thief, but it would vex me less than now, when I have lost my own goose and the giblets too."
"We have still got the giblets," said the maid, in a soothing tone. They all laughed, and at that moment the letter carrier came up the stair. He brought the country newspaper. The Pastor hastily looked over the clerical intelligence, and there, sure enough, he saw that the living in Odenwald, for which he had applied, had been given away to another clergyman, a much younger man, and one of the new fashioned stiff necked species.
"You see here is another empty hook," said the Pastor, giving the newspaper to his wife, and pointing out the paragraph to her.
Along with the newspaper was a letter from their uncle, the President, announcing the appointment of another to the living, but that there was great anxiety to induce our Pastor to take a charge in the Capital.
"I shall refuse, and remain here," said the Pastor, abruptly.
The cook of the Parsonage, who went to the inn in order to buy some meat to replace the missing goose, had two pieces of news to spread abroad which had no great connexion certainly, but which she mixed up together in the most singular manner: the stolen goose, and the Pastor staying in the village.
The bells rung out in soft melodious peals in the bright light; this ringing on Christmas-day is appropriately termed a "lullaby." When the Pastor again entered the church he found the villagers assembled, and crowded together from the door of the Parsonage all the way to the church, and they all saluted their Pastor kindly, in token of their gratitude and joy, that he was now to remain till the day of his death in this parish.
While the organ sounded in the church, a figure, closely muffled in a cloak, glided past the kitchen of the Vicarage, and unexpectedly a fat goose was once more suspended by its legs on the hook outside the window. Was it the stolen one or another? was it the thief restoring what he had taken, or some good hearted person replacing it by another? This could never be ascertained. The cook declared that she knew how to shut her eyes, that she had neither recognized the person, nor did she wish to do so. She was, however, so overjoyed, that she hurried to the vestry, to tell the Pastor that there was no occasion for him to preach about the stolen goose, for it was come back. She did not venture to go into the vestry, and went home again. "He is too sensible a man," said she, "to preach about a goose," and there she was perfectly right.
Little Joseph went to church with his parents, holding a hand of each; he looked curiously at the people he met, but said nothing, only clinging close to his father. At the church door the parents dismissed Joseph to join his schoolfellows, and themselves separated—one joining the women, and the other the men—in their different parts of the church; but the two were now united, the same building containing them, and their voices harmonizing together. The singing was not so perfect as usual, for the best singer was wanting, who had often with his deep bass notes helped the schoolmaster out of a difficulty. Häspele failed the choir, for he was so hoarse that he could not speak a word, far less sing.
When little Joseph joined his comrades, some of them asked him—"Do you know what you are called now?"
"Joseph Röttmann, just as I always was."
"No, Joseph in the Snow, that's your new name," and they persevere in calling him by that name to this day.
In the course of the afternoon many healths were drank in the inn to the worthy Pastor, and also to "Joseph in the Snow," and each had much to tell of all that had occurred during the night. The terror would have been a hundredfold increased, had they known all the steepness of the rocks and precipices. It seemed a much greater wonder that no one had been injured, than even little Joseph having made his way straight to the Forest Mill through so many perils. Schilder-David was at home, dressed in his Sunday clothes, seated before his large Bible, carefully reading its precious words—running his finger along the lines as a guide—from where he had left off two evenings before. Schilder-David lived out his life in his usual quiet fashion, constantly reading his Bible from beginning to end. There had been a wonderful combination of mercies for him, and all had turned out for the best.
At noon a messenger came into the village, and declared that there was a corpse lying in the Forest Mill.
"The Röttmännin!" exclaimed all.
"No! the Forest Miller himself; it seems he must have died last night, but it was only discovered to-day. There is no doubt that he killed himself by trying to drink as hard as Speidel-Röttmann, and I hear nothing could be more horrible than to hear the Röttmännin, who tried to wake him at night to come to her aid, scolding and cursing. It was a dead man she was raging at."
All shuddered, and certainly the death of the Forest Miller was much deplored, but he ought to have died at some other time, for now people spoke less of Joseph's rescue, and more of the Forest Miller's sudden death.
No one was more horrorstruck by this sudden death than Leegart; it showed that she did know more than other people: she can by her wishes, wish the death of a man. She had incautiously wished that there should be poison in all the spices he bought from the grocer, and in all the wine from Rössler's Inn. A shudder of pleasure and awe crept through her veins, that she should be endowed with such miraculous gifts. She dared not venture to leave the house; every one must be well aware of what she had done, and she sincerely regretted it; she had not really intended the man's death. I will take good care, vowed she to herself, never to do anything of the kind again; I wish nothing but good to the whole world, and even to the Röttmännin herself. At last she ventured to go to Martina, and said privately to her in the attic: "I beg you will, in a quiet way, take care that none of the women to whom I was talking yesterday repeat what I wished with regard to the Forest Miller. Men are apt to be vastly superstitious, and might at last actually believe, that I knew more than other people; but I don't wish to have this reputation." Leegart was only half pleased, when Martina assured her that no one thought about the matter, and that the world was not so silly as to believe in such things. Leegart thought to herself: "Martina is very stupid, but I am thankful if I alone have the gift of knowing what is to come to pass in the world." She shrunk from every evil thought, that had ever hitherto passed through her mind with regard to others, or was yet to pass. It was a dreadful responsibility to possess such a gift, and to be able to influence the fate of others just as she chose. Whenever the women came to pay her a visit Leegart never failed to repeat: "I mean well to the whole world; no one can have better intentions than I have. I wish every one, without a single exception, all that is good."
No one understood what Leegart meant, but all agreed in saying—
"Yes, indeed, you were always kind to everybody."
"And do you know what I am going to say?" exclaimed Leegart, with sparkling eyes, "I say nothing but this: the Parsonage, and Tony of the Forest Mill. Remember that I said it—I say no more."
Soon after the news came of the miller's death, the Pastor and his wife, escorted by Edward, drove to the Forest Mill; and it was fortunate they did so, for they found Tony in a perfect agony of grief and remorse, for she had gone through so much that was dreadful since yesterday, and she continually blamed herself, that in studying the welfare of others she had forgotten her father.
Tony welcomed the Pastorin as a guardian angel, and she became more composed when she promised to stay with her. Edward begged she would give him something to do for her; Tony looked at him intently, and drew close to the Pastorin.
The newly made widow at the mill howled and lamented horribly, and when the Pastor addressed her she scarcely listened to him, but stared incessantly at Tony, as if she would have poisoned her by her glances. The martyr was now free, and her tormentor was forced to quit the house a beggar.
Let people contend against it as they will: Leegart must positively have known something!
Tony went to the Parsonage at the new year, and continued to reside their during her year of mourning. By degrees she revived from her deep sorrow, and looked quite as pretty as she did before, only her beauty had become far more refined.
At midsummer large additions were made to the Forest Mill, and Edward often came to visit his sister, and he never was at the Parsonage without going to the Forest Mill, and seeing that all the arrangements, and instructions were properly carried out.
Leegart often went to the Parsonage to work there, and might have told a great deal about the harmony and good feeling that prevailed between the Pastorin and Tony; the latter being most thankful to be instructed by the Pastorin in all matters. But Leegart had made a firm resolution to speak very little in future; it was only at Röttmannshof, where the young Röttmännin now lived, that she poured forth her heart. Nowhere was Leegart more at home, than at Röttmannshof, and she often said: "Nothing can be more delightful than to see that great strong Adam, carrying his little daughter about in his arms, and playing with her; no one could have believed that he was so handy and clever."
When Leegart had made the first short frock for the little girl, and a very pretty bright pink one it was, Adam, when he had the child in his arms, was not a little proud of having taught her, when any one asked, "Where is your pretty frock?" to lift up the frock to shew her finery.
Leegart was in a state of never ending awe and wonder at Adam's gentle ways, and Martina could not resist saying, "He often says that he had no enjoyment of little Joseph's infant years, so he is resolved to make up for it now. Nothing makes him happier."
The fierce old Röttmännin had long since passed away. She would not allow it, but the horrible manner in which she had raged at and cursed the dead miller, constantly recurred to her thoughts. She sent for a lawyer, and desired him to prepare a document, to be laid before the Consistorial Court, declaring the marriage of Martina and Adam to be null and void; she, however, never saw the end of this lawsuit, for she died before the snow was fully melted, through which Joseph had gone to meet his father.
When the Pastor now stands in the pulpit he sees beneath him, in the front row, two fine looking young men, who are the best of friends—Adam Röttmann and the young Forest Miller, Edward, who has married Tony.
"Joseph in the Snow" lives in winter in the village with Schilder-David, in order that he may be near school; he is a fine well informed lad.
Häspele always maintains that a boy who ran such risks, and was the means of effecting such a happy and strange revolution, cannot fail to become a remarkable man.
Leegart, however, invariably adds, "Whatever you do, pray don't prophesy; it is such a frightful responsibility." She knows the future fate of "Joseph in the Snow," but she wisely keeps it to herself.
END OF 'JOSEPH IN THE SNOW.'
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