Gold Elsie

by E. Marlitt

"No."

"Well, it was long ago, and perhaps I am the only one who now knows anything about it, but it shall not be lost, for remembrance is all the gratitude that posterity can show for a brave action,—so now you shall hear the story, and then you can tell it again.

"About two hundred years ago,—you see we can trace back a considerable pedigree,—the only pity is that we have no idea who the mother of our race was,—if you should ever be asked any questions concerning her by the Baroness Lessen, or others, you can answer with confidence that we suspect her to have been either Augusta von Blasewitz,—for the story dates from the thirty years' war,—or a vivandiere: perhaps she was a good, honest woman, who clung to her husband through all the hardships of the war, although I cannot forgive her for forsaking her child,—well, then, about two hundred years ago, as the wife of the huntsman Ferber opened her door in the morning—the very door that now shuts upon my home—she saw a little child lying upon the threshold. She clapped the door to again in a great hurry, for the forest was then swarming with gypsies, and she thought it would prove to be one of their dirty brats. But her husband was more of a Christian, and took the child in. It was scarcely a day old. A paper was pinned upon its breast, stating that the child was born in holy wedlock, that he had been baptized by the name of Hans, and that whoever would take care of him should receive further revelations concerning him at some future day. Hidden in the child's dress was found a purse containing some money. The huntsman's wife was a good woman, and when she heard the child was born of Christian parents, and was probably the son of some honest soldier who had left it here that it might not be exposed to the dangers of the war, she took it to her heart and brought it up with her own little girl as if they had been brother and sister. It was well for him that she did so, for no one ever heard another word about his relatives. His foster-father afterwards adopted him, and, to make his happiness complete, he married his foster-sister. He, as well as his son and grandson, lived where I live now, as foresters to the Gnadewitzes, and they all died there. My grandfather was the first who left this place with his master for one of the estates in Silesia. As a boy, I was much disappointed that some countess mother did not turn up in the end who should recognize the foundling as her son, stolen from her by the malice of an enemy, and bear him home in triumph to her castle. Later in life I learned to endure the want of this romantic termination to the story with a good grace, as I considered that in such case my own appearance here would have been very dubious, and my honest name pleased me too much to wish it changed for any other; but imagine my sensations when I stood for the first time upon the threshold where the little foundling had passed the most helpless moment of his life, when, deserted by his natural parents, sympathy had not yet supplied their place. The worn stone is undoubtedly the same upon which the child lay, and as long as I live here or have anything to do with the place, it shall never be removed."

Suddenly the forester leaned forward and pointed through the boughs, for they had entered the wood.

"Do you see that white spot?" he asked.

The white spot was the cap of Sabina, who was sitting at the door of the Lodge waiting for them. When she saw the carriage, she rose quickly, shook the contents of her apron, which proved to be a quantity of forget-me-nots, into a basket, and came to assist Elizabeth to alight.

The horse trotted, neighing, behind the house, where he was awaited and received with a caressing pat. Hector laid himself down upon the ground, wagging his tail contentedly, and the doves and sparrows, which the noise of the arrival had frightened away, returned and hopped fearlessly about upon the green painted bench and table under the linden, where, as the little rogues well knew, the forester was in the habit of taking his morning and evening meals. He went into the house for a moment that he might exchange his uniform for the more comfortable garment worn at home, and soon returned, pipe and newspaper in hand, to the linden, where Sabina soon began to lay the table.

"'Tis a fact, it's a silly piece of Sunday work for such an old woman as I am," said the housekeeper, laughing, as she passed Elizabeth, who, sitting upon the stone step which now possessed such an interest for her, continued the weaving of the wreath which Sabina had begun. "But I have been used to such work from my youth. I have two little black pictures up in my room, likenesses of my blessed father and mother; they certainly deserve that I should honour them and hold them in loving remembrance, so I hang fresh flowers around them every Sunday, as long as there is a blossom to be had. A couple of children from Lindhof bring me fresh ones every Sunday, and to-day they brought me so many that there is enough for a wreath for Gold Elsie; if she puts it in a dish of water it will keep fresh all through the week."

Elizabeth sat a long time this evening with her uncle. A flood of memories came rushing over his mind, called forth by his narration of the old story of two hundred years before. He recalled many a wish, plan, and aspiration of his youth, which now provoked only a smiling sigh of sympathetic pity,—they had all vanished before the actual, like dust before the wind. He talked them over now, as one who, standing upon the land, hears the dash of the breakers afar that cannot reach him. Sometimes he would make some witty attack, in the midst of his recollections, upon Elizabeth, who would parry his thrusts and retort merrily.

Meanwhile a light arose behind the trees, which had blended undistinguishably with the dark heavens, but which now stood out in strong relief against the bright background. Single rays shot like silver arrows between interlacing boughs, and lay motionless like oases of light upon the dim meadow, until at last the moon arose, large and victorious, above the tops of the trees, and its full lustre flooded the landscape. The gentle breeze of evening had long since folded its wings,—you could have counted the shadows of the linden leaves upon the moonlit earth, so distinct and motionless they lay. All the clearer was heard the gurgle of the little fountain in the court-yard of the Lodge, and the low, indefinite murmur from the woods, which Elizabeth called "the sleepy rain" of the forest.