CHAPTER XLIV.
The tavern of Löbel Pinkus was thoroughly searched, the secret stores in the next house brought to light, and several stolen goods of new and old date being therein found, the tavern-keeper himself was sent to prison. Among the things thus discovered was the baron's empty casket, and, in the secret door of a locked-up press, the missing notes of hand, and both the deeds of mortgage. In Itzig's house a document was found, by which Pinkus declared Veitel possessor of the first mortgage of twenty thousand. Pinkus's obdurate nature being a good deal softened by the search, he confessed what he had no longer any interest in denying, that he, had been commissioned by Veitel to pay the money to the baron, and that the sum only amounted to about ten thousand dollars; so the baron recovered his claim to the half of the first mortgage. Pinkus was sentenced to long imprisonment. The mysterious tavern was given up; and Tinkeles, who had, immediately upon Veitel's death, demanded his second hundred dollars from Anton, carried his bundle and his caftan to another retreat. His friendly feelings for the firm of T. O. Schröter had been so quickened by the late occurrences, that they had to be on their guard, and to decline some weighty commercial transactions on which he was most anxious that they should enter with him. The natural consequence of their shyness was to impress Tinkeles with their wisdom, and he continued to frequent the counting-house, without, by any further audacious speculations, hazarding its favor. Pinkus's house was sold to a worthy dyer, and blue and black wool were seen hanging down from the gallery over which Veitel's haggard form had so often leaned.
After long discussions with the attorney and the humbled Ehrenthals, Anton received the notes of hand and the last mortgage in return for payment of twenty thousand dollars.
Meanwhile the sale of the family property came on. A purchaser sought out Anton even before the term, and arrangements were made which more than insured the covering of all mortgages.
The day after the term Anton wrote to the baroness, inclosing the baron's notes of hand. He sealed up the letter with the cheerful feeling that out of all the wreck and ruin he had saved for Lenore a dowry of about thirty thousand dollars.
The white snow again lay heavy on the Polish castle, and the crows left the print of their feet on its roof. Winter's holiday robes were spread over wood and field, the earth was hushed in deepest slumber, no sheep-dog barked in the meadows, the farming implements were all laid by, and yet there was life and animation on the estate, and workmen were busy in the second story with foot-rule and saw. The ground was uneven in the farm-yard, for the foundation of a new building had been dug; and in the rooms around, and even out in the sunshine, workmen from the town—- joiners, wheelwrights, and cabinet-makers—were busily employed. They whistled cheerily at their work, and the yellow shavings flew far and wide. New energies, in short, are visible in all directions, and when spring comes, a colony of laborers will spread over the country, and force the long-dormant soil to yield the fruits of industry.
Father Sturm sat in his warm room; hammering away.
Opposite him, in the only cushioned chair, reclined the blind baron, staff in hand, listening intently.
"You must be tired, Sturm," said the baron.
"Nay," cried the giant, "my hands are as strong as ever, and this is only a small barrel for rain-water—mere child's work."
"He once hid in a little barrel," said the baron to himself. "He was a delicate child. His nurse had put him in to bathe him, and he had bent his back and knees in such a way that he could not get out. I was obliged to have the hoops knocked off to extricate my boy from his prison."
The giant cleared his throat. "Were they iron hoops?" he asked, sympathizingly.
"It was my son," said the baron, his features quivering.
"Yes," whispered Sturm, "he was stately; he was a handsome man; it was a pleasure to hear his sword rattle; and to see how he twisted his little beard." Alas! how often he had said this before to the blind father.
"It was the will of Heaven!" said the baron, folding his hands.
"It was," repeated old Sturm. "Our Lord God chose to take him when at his best. That was an honor; and no man could leave the world more beautifully. It was for his parents and his fatherland that he put on his coat with epaulettes, and he was victorious, and driving those Poles before him, when the Lord called out his name and enrolled him in his own guard."
"But I must remain behind," said the baron.
"And I rejoice that I, too, have seen our young master," continued Sturm, more fluently; "for you know that he was our young master then. You trusted my Karl with the whole management of the farm, and so it was an honor for me to be able to show that I trusted your son."
"It was wrong of him to borrow money from you," said the baron, shaking his head. And this he said, because he had often heard old Sturm's comforting reply, and longed to hear it again.
The giant laid his tool aside, ran his hand through his hair, and tried to look very bold as he began, in a light-hearted tone, "Do you know, sir, that one must make allowance for a young gentleman? Youth will be wild. Many have to borrow money in their young days, particularly when they wear such a beautiful coat, with silver fringe upon it. We were no niggards either, baron," he continued, deprecatingly, gently tapping the blind man's knee with his tool. "And the young officer was very polite, and I believe that he was somewhat bashful. And when I gave him the money, I could see how sorry he was to want it. I gave it him all the more readily. Then, when I helped him into the drosky, and he leaned out of the carriage, I can assure you he was much moved, and reached out both of his little hands to clasp my fist, and shake it once more. And while he was sitting there, the light fell on his face—a sweet, kind face it was, something like yours, and still more like the baroness, as far as I have been able to see her."
The blind man, too, stretched out his hands to grasp the porter's fist. Sturm pushed his bench forward, took the baron's hands in his right one, and stroked them with his left. Both sat silent, side by side.
At last the baron began with broken voice to say, "You were the last who showed kindness to my Eugene. I thank you for it from my inmost heart. An unfortunate, broken-down man thanks you. So long as I live I shall implore the blessing of the Most High on your head. My son will never support my feeble footsteps in my old age, but Heaven has preserved a good son to you. All the blessings that I wished for my poor Eugene, I now pray to God may be the portion of your Karl."
Sturm wiped his eyes, and then clasped the baron's hands again. The two fathers sat together in silence, till, with a sigh, the baron rose. Sturm carefully took his arm, and led him through yard and meadow to the castle terrace; for there is a road now up to the tower—a road with a stone parapet, and the door can be reached by carriages and on foot. Sturm rings the bell, the baron's valet hurries down, and leads his master up the steps, for Father Sturm still finds a staircase hard work.
Meanwhile a carriage stops in the farm-yard. Karl respectfully hurries from his room, and the new proprietor jumps down.
"Good-day, sergeant," cried Fink; "how goes it in the castle and on the farm? How are the Fräulein and the baroness?"
"All right," reported Karl, "only the baroness is very feeble. We have been expecting you for a week past. The family have been daily asking whether there were any tidings of you."
"I was detained," said Fink; "and perhaps I should not be back now, but that, since this fall of snow, there is no judging of land. I have bought Dobrowitz."
"Zounds!" cried Karl, in delight.
"Capital ground," continued Fink; "five hundred acres of wood, in which the manure lies nearly a foot deep. In the Polish hole close by, which they call a town, the Jews thronged like ants when they heard that henceforth our spurs would jingle daily over their market-place. I say, bailiff, you will be delighted when you see the new property. I have a great mind to send you over there next spring. But what have you there—a letter from Anton? Let's have it." He hastily tore it open. "Is the Fräulein in the castle?"
"Yes, Herr von Fink."
"Very well. A messenger goes this evening to Neudorf;" and with rapid step he hurried into the house.
Lenore sat in her room sewing, with a good deal of cut-out linen round her. She diligently passed her needle through the stiff cloth, sometimes stretching the seam on her knee, smoothing it with her thimble, and looking doubtfully to see whether each individual stitch was small and even. Then that rapid footstep was heard in the passage, and springing up, she convulsively pressed her work together. But she composed herself by a mighty effort, and sat down again to her task. He knocked at her door. A deep blush spread slowly over her face, and her "Come in" hardly reached her guest's ear. As Fink entered, he glanced with some curiosity around the plainly-furnished room, which had a few chalk drawings by Lenore on the walls, but nothing else except absolutely necessary furniture. Even the little panther-skin sofa was gone.
When Fink bowed before her, she inquired in a tone of indifference, "Have you been detained by any thing unpleasant? We were all uneasy about you."
"A property that I have bought interfered with my return. I come now in all haste to report myself to my mistress, and, at the same time, I bring a packet which Anton has sent for the baroness. If she feels sufficiently well to see me, will you prepare her to do so?"
Lenore took the letter. "I will go immediately to my mother; pray excuse me;" and, slightly bending, she tried to pass him.
Fink waved her back, and said jokingly, "I find you most housewifely busy with needle and scissors. Who is the happy one for whom you are sewing those wedge-shaped pieces together?"
Lenore blushed again. "Gentlemen must not inquire into the mysteries of feminine work," said she.
"I know, however, that the thimble did not usually stand high in your favor," said Fink, good-humoredly. "Is it necessary, dear lady, that you should ruin your eyes?"
"Yes, Herr von Fink," returned Lenore, firmly, "it is, and it will be necessary."
"Oh ho!" cried Fink, shaking his head, and comfortably leaning against the back of a chair. "Do you suppose, then, that I have not long ago remarked your secret campaigns with needle and scissors, and also your grave face, and the magnificent bearing you assume toward me, naughty boy that I am? Where is the panther-sofa? Where is the brotherly frankness that I have a right to expect after our understanding? You have kept very imperfectly to our agreement. I see plainly that my good friend is inclined to give me up, and withdraw with the best grace possible; but permit me to remark that this will hardly avail you. You will not get rid of me."
"Be generous, Herr von Fink," cried Lenore, in extreme excitement. "Do not make what I have to do still harder. Yes, I am preparing to part from this place—to part from you."
"You refuse, then, to remain with me?" said Fink, with a frowning brow. "Very well; I shall return, and implore till I am heard. If you run away, I shall run after you; and if you cut off your beautiful hair and fly to a convent, I'll leap the walls and fetch you out. Have I not wooed you as the adventurer in the fairy tales does the king's daughter? To win you, proud Lenore, I have turned sand into grass, and transformed myself into a respectable farmer. Therefore, beloved mistress, be reasonable, and do not torment me by maidenly caprices."
"Oh, respect such caprices," cried Lenore, bursting into tears. "In the solitude of these last weeks I have wrestled hourly with my sorrow. I am a poor girl, whose duty it is to live for her afflicted parent. The dower that I should bring you would be sickness, gloom, and poverty."
"You are mistaken," replied Fink, earnestly. "Our friend has provided for you. He has hunted two rascals into the water, and has paid your father's debts. The baron has a nice little fortune remaining; and I can tell your perverse ladyship you are no bad match after all, if you lay any stress upon that. The letter you hold upsets all your philosophy."
Lenore looked at the envelope and threw the letter away.
"No," cried she, beside herself. "When, shattered by sorrow, I lay upon your breast, you then told me I was to get stronger; and every day I feel that, when I come into contact with you, I have no strength, no opinion, no will of my own. Whatever you say appears to me right, and I forget how I thought before. What you require I must needs do, unresisting as a slave. The woman who goes through life at your side should be your equal in intellect and power, and should feel reliant in her own province; but I am an uncultivated, helpless girl. In my foolish love I let it appear that I could do for your sake what no woman should. You find nothing in me to respect. You would kiss me and—endure me." Lenore's hand clenched, and her eyes flashed as she spoke.
"Does it then repent you so much that for my sake you sent a bullet into that villain's shoulder?" said Fink. "What I now see looks less like love than hatred."
"I hate you?" cried the poor girl, hiding her face with her hands.
He took her hands, drew her to him, and pressed a kiss upon her lips. "Trust me, Lenore."
"Leave me! leave me!" cried Lenore, struggling; but her lips were pressed to his, and her arms twined around him; and, looking into his face with a passionate expression of love and fear, she gradually sank down at his feet.
Thoroughly moved, Fink stooped and raised her. "Mine you are, and I hold you fast," cried he. "With rifle and bullet I have bought your stormy heart. In the same breath you tell me sweet things and bitter. What, then, am I such a despot that a noble-minded woman should fear to come under my yoke? Just as you are, Lenore—resolute, bold, a little passionate devil—just so will I have you remain. We have been companions in arms, and so we shall continue to be. The day may return when we shall both raise our guns to our cheeks, and the people about us need natures more disposed to give than to take a blow. Were you not my heart's desire, were you a man, I should like to have you for my life's companion; so, Lenore, you will be to me not only a beloved wife, but a courageous friend, the confidante of all my plans, my best and truest comrade."
Lenore shook her head, but she clung to him firmly. "I ought to be your housewife," sighed she.
Fink caressingly stroked back her hair and kissed her burning brow. "Be content, sweetheart," said he, tenderly, "and make up your mind to it. We have been together in a fire strong enough to bring love to maturity, and we know each other thoroughly. Between ourselves, we shall have many a storm in our house. I am no easy-going companion, at least for a woman, and you will very soon find that will of yours again, the loss of which you are now lamenting. Be at rest, darling, you shall be as headstrong as of yore; you need not distress yourself on that account; so you may prepare for a few storms, but for hearty love and a merry life as well. I will have you laugh again, Lenore. You will have no need to make my shirts, and, if you don't like account-keeping, why, let it alone; and if you do sometimes give your boys a box on the ear, it will do our brood no harm. I think you will give yourself to me."
Lenore was silent, but she clung closer to his breast. Fink drew her away. "Come to our mother!" cried he.
Both bent over the bed of the invalid. A brightness passed over the pale face of the baroness as she laid her hands on Fink's head and gave him her blessing.
"She is still a child," said she. "It remains with you, my son, to make a good woman of her."
She sent her children out of the room. "Go to your father; bring him to me, and leave us alone together."
When the baron sat by the side of his wife, she drew his hand to her lips and whispered, "Let me thank you, Oscar, to-day, for many years of happiness—for all your love."
"Poor wife!" murmured the blind man.
"What you have done and suffered," continued the baroness, "you have done and suffered for me and my son, and we both leave you behind in a joyless world. You were not to have the happiness of transferring an inheritance; you are the last to bear the name of Rothsattel."
The baron groaned.
"But the reputation we leave behind will be spotless as was your whole life till two hours of despair." She placed the bundle of notes of hand in the blind man's grasp; then, having torn each one up, she rang the bell, and told the servant to put them piece by piece into the stove. The flames leaped up and threw a red light over the room till the last was consumed. The evening closed in, and the baron lay on the sick lady's bed, and hid his face in the pillows, while she held her hands folded over him, and her lips moved in prayer.
In the early morning light the ravens and jackdaws fluttered over the snowy roof; their black wings hovered a while above the tower; then, with loud cries, they broke away to the wood, to announce to their feathered race that the castle walls contained a bride and a corpse. The pale lady from a foreign land has died in the night, and the blind man who is lying in his daughter's arms has but one consolation, that of knowing that he shall soon follow her to her endless rest. And the ill-omened birds scream out to the winds that the old Slavonic curse has fallen on the castle, and the doom has lighted on the foreign settlers too.
But little cares the man who now holds sway within the castle walls whether a raven croak or a lark sing, and if a curse lie on his property, he will laughingly blow it away. His life will be a ceaseless and successful conflict with the dark influences around, and from the Slavonic castle will come out a band of noble boys, and a new German race, strong and enduring in mind and body, will overspread the land—a race of colonists and conquerors.
In a few cordial lines Fink announced to his friend his own betrothal and the death of the baroness. A sealed note to Sabine was inclosed in the envelope.
It was evening when the postman brought the letter to Anton's room. Long did he sit pondering its contents; at length he took up the note to Sabine, and hurried to the front part of the house.
He found the merchant in his study, and gave him the letter.
The merchant immediately called in Sabine. "Fink is betrothed; here is his announcement."
Sabine clasped her hands in delight, and was hurrying off to Anton, but she stopped with a blush, took her note to the lamp, and opened it. There could not have been much in it, for she read it in an instant, and, though she tried hard to look grave, could not suppress a smile. At another time Anton would have watched her mood with passionate interest; to-day he scarcely heeded it.
"You will spend the evening with us, dear Wohlfart?" said the merchant.
Anton replied, "I was going to ask you to spare me a few moments. I have something to say to you." He looked uneasily at Sabine.
"Let her hear it. Remain, Sabine," said the merchant to his sister, who was just going to slip away; "you are good friends; Mr. Wohlfart will not object to your presence. Speak, my friend; what can I do for you?"
Anton bit his lips and looked again at the beloved form that leaned with downcast eyes against the door. "May I inquire, Mr. Schröter," he at length began, "whether you have found the situation for which you kindly promised to look out?"
Sabine moved uneasily, and the merchant looked up in amazement. "I believe I shall soon have something to offer you; but is there any great hurry about it, dear Wohlfart?"
"There is," replied Anton, gravely. "I have not a day to lose. My relations to the Rothsattel family are now entirely closed, and the fearful events with which I have been connected during the last weeks have affected my health. I yearn for repose. Regular employment in some foreign city, where nothing will remind me of the past, is, however, positively essential to me."
Again Sabine moved, but a look from her brother kept her back.
"And could you not find that repose which I too wish for you here with us?" inquired the merchant.
"No," replied Anton, in a faint voice; "I beg you not to be offended if I leave you to-day."
"Leave us!" cried the merchant. "I see no reason for such haste. You can recruit here; the ladies must take better care of you than hitherto. Wohlfart complains of you, Sabine. He looks pale and worn. You and our cousin must not allow that."
Sabine did not answer a word.
"I must go, Mr. Schröter," said Anton, decidedly. "To-morrow I set out."
"And will you not at least tell your friends the reason of so hasty a departure?" said the merchant, gravely.
"You know the reason. I have done with my past. Hitherto I have ill provided for my future; for I am about to seek and win, in some subordinate situation, the confidence and good opinion of strangers. I have become, too, very poor in friends. I must separate for years from all I love. I have some cause to feel alone, and since I must needs begin life again, it is best to do so as soon as possible, for every day that I spend here is fruitless, and only makes my strength less, the necessary parting harder." He spoke in deep emotion, his voice trembling, but he did not lose his self-control. Then going up to Sabine, he took her hand. "In this last hour I tell you, in the presence of your brother, what it can not offend you to hear, for you have known it long. Parting from you pains me more than I can say. Farewell!" And now he fairly broke down, and turned to the window.
After a pause the merchant said, "Your sudden departure, dear Wohlfart, will be inconvenient to my sister as well as to me. Sabine was anxious to request such a service from you as a merchant's sister is likely to require. I, too, wish very much that you should not refuse her. Sabine begs that you will look over some papers for her. It will be no great task."
Anton turned, and made a deprecating gesture.
"Before you decide, listen to a fact that you have probably not known before," continued the merchant. "Ever since my father's death, Sabine has secretly been my partner, and her advice and opinion has decided matters in our counting-house oftener than you think. She, too, has been your principal, dear Wohlfart." He made a sign to his sister, and left the room.
Anton looked in amazement at the principal in white muslin, with black braided hair. For years, then, he had served and obeyed the youthful figure which now blushingly approached him.
"Yes, Wohlfart," said Sabine, timidly, "I, too, have had a small hold upon your life. And how proud I was of it! Even those Christmas-boxes you used to receive, I knew of them; and it was my sugar and coffee that the little Anton drank. When your worthy father came to us and asked for a situation for you, it was I who persuaded my brother to take you; for Traugott asked me about it, he himself objecting, and thinking you were too old. But I begged for you, and from that time my brother always called you my apprentice. It was I who promised your father to take care of you here. I was but an inexperienced child myself, and the confidence of a stranger enchanted me. Your father, good old gentleman, would not wear, while with us, the velvet cap that peeped out of his pocket, till I drew it out and put it on his white curls; and then I wondered whether my apprentice would have such beautiful curls too. And when you came, and all were pleased with you, and my brother pronounced you the best of all his clerks, I was as proud of you as your good father could have been."
Anton leaned on the desk, and hid his face with his hands.
"And that day when Fink insulted you, and again after that boating excursion, I was angry with him, not only for his presumption, but because he had taken my true apprentice into danger; and because I always felt that you belonged a little to me, I begged my brother to take you with him on that dangerous journey. It was for me, too, Wohlfart, that you toiled in that foreign land; and when you stood by the loaded wagons, amid fire and clash of arms that fearful night, they were my goods that you were saving; and so, my friend, I come to you now in the character of a merchant, and pray you to do me a service. You shall look over an account for me."
"I will," said Anton, turning away, "but not at this moment."
Sabine went to a book-case, and laid out two books, with gilt leaves and green morocco binding, on the desk. Then taking Anton by the hand, she said, in a trembling voice, "Please come and look at my Debit and Credit." She opened the first volume. Beneath all manner of skillful flourishes stood the words, "With God—Private Ledger of T. O. Schröter."
Anton started back. "It is the private book of the firm," cried he. "This is a mistake."
"It is no mistake," said Sabine. "I want you to look over it."
"Impossible!" cried Anton. "Neither you nor your brother can seriously wish this. God forbid that any one should venture to do so but the heads of the concern. So long as a firm lasts, these pages are for no human eyes but those of its head, and after that of the next heir. He who reads this book knows what no stranger should—nay, as far as this book goes, the most intimate friend is a stranger. Neither as merchant nor as upright man can I comply with your wish."
Sabine held his hand fast. "But do look at it, Wohlfart; look at least at its title." She pointed out its cover. "Here you have T. O. Schröter." Then turning over the pages, "There are few empty columns here; the book ends with the last year." Then opening the second volume, she said, "This book is empty, but here we find another firm; look at least at its title."
Anton read, "With God—Private Ledger of T. O. Schröter and Company."
Sabine pressed his hand, and said gently, and as with entreaty, "And you are to be the new partner, my friend."
Anton stood motionless; but his heart beat wildly, and his face flushed up brightly. Sabine still held his hand. He saw her face near his, and, light as a breath, her lips touched his. He flung his arms around her, and the two happy lovers were clasped in speechless embrace.
The door opened, and the merchant appeared. "Hold fast the runaway!" cried he. "Yes, Anton, I have wished this for years. Since that time when you knelt by my bed and bound up my wound in a foreign land, I have cherished the hope of uniting you forever to our life. When you left us, I was angry at seeing my hope baffled. Now then, enthusiast, we have you safe—safe in our private book and in our arms." He drew the lovers to him.
"You have chosen a poor partner," cried Anton, on his new brother's breast.
"Not so, my brother. Sabine has shown herself a judicious merchant. Neither wealth nor position have any value for the individual or the community without the healthy energy which keeps the dead metal in life-producing action. You bring into the business the courage of youth and the wisdom of experience. Welcome to our house and to our hearts!"
Radiant with joy, Sabine held both the hands of her betrothed: "I have been hardly able to bear seeing you so silent and so sad. Every day when you rose from the dinner-table I used to feel that I must fly after you, and tell you before that you belonged to us. You blind one, you never found out what was passing within me, and Lenore's betrothed has known it all!"
"He!" exclaimed Anton. "I never spoke of you to him."
"Look here!" cried Sabine, taking Fink's note from her pocket. There was nothing in it but the words, "Hearty friendship, best wishes, Mrs. Sister-in-law."
Again Anton caught his beloved in his arms.
Deck thyself out, old house! rejoice, discreet cousin! dance, ye friendly house-sprites on the shadowy floor! The poetic dreams that the boy Anton nursed in his early home, beneath the prayers for blessings of his worthy parents, were honorable dreams, and here is their fulfillment. That which allured and unsettled, and diverted him from his life-purpose, he has with manly heart overcome.
The old diary, of his life is at an end, and henceforth, ye gracious house-sprites, in your private book will be inscribed, "With God, his future career of Debit and Credit."
THE END.