"Arrest the servant."
"Arrest the servant."
It was this message which was received by the coroner, while Bucholz, all unconscious of the danger which threatened him, was relating the circumstances that had occurred the night before.
Mr. Craw communicated to no one the contents of the message he had received, and the investigation was continued as though nothing had occurred to disturb the regularity of the proceedings thus begun.
Mr. Olmstead, however, determined to allow nothing to interfere with the proper carrying out of the theory which his mind had formed, and taking the next train, he returned to South Norwalk, arriving there before Bucholz had finished his statement.
When he entered the room he found that Bucholz had not been arrested as yet, and so, instead of having this done, he resolved to place an officer in charge of him, thus preventing any attempt to escape, should such be made, and depriving him practically of the services of legal counsel.
Mr. Olmstead conducted the proceedings before the coroner, and his questioning of the various witnesses soon developed the theory he had formed, and those who were present listened with surprise as the assumption of Bucholz's guilty participation in the murder of his master was gradually unfolded.
Yet under the searching examination that followed, Bucholz never flinched; he seemed oblivious of the fact that he was suspected, and told his story in an emotionless manner, and with an innocent expression of countenance that was convincing to most of those who listened to his recital.
No person ever appeared more innocent under such trying circumstances than did this man, and but for a slight flush that now and then appeared upon his face, one would have been at a loss to discover any evidence of feeling upon his part, which would show that he was alive to the position which he then occupied.
His bearing at the investigation made him many friends who were very outspoken in their defense of Bucholz, and their belief in his entire innocence. Mr. Olmstead, however, was resolute, and Bucholz returned to the house upon the conclusion of the testimony for that day, in charge of an officer of the law, who was instructed to treat him kindly, but under no circumstances to allow him out of his sight, and the further investigation was deferred until the following week.
CHAPTER VI.
The Miser's Wealth.—Over Fifty Thousand Dollars Stolen from the Murdered Man.—A Strange Financial Transaction.—A Verdict, and the Arrest of Bucholz.
Meantime there existed a necessity for some action in regard to the effects of which Henry Schulte was possessed at the time of his death, and two reputable gentlemen of South Norwalk were duly authorized to act as administrators of his estate, and to perform such necessary duties as were required in the matter.
From an examination of his papers it was discovered that his only living relatives consisted of a brother and his family, who resided near Dortmund, Westphalia, in Prussia, and that they too were apparently wealthy and extensive land-owners in the vicinity of that place.
To this brother the information was immediately telegraphed of the old gentleman's death, and the inquiry was made as to the disposition of the body. To this inquiry the following reply was received:
"To the Mayor of South Norwalk:"I beg of you to see that the body of my brother is properly forwarded to Barop, near Dortmund, so as to insure its safe arrival. I further request that you inform me at once whether his effects have been secured, and how much has been found of the large amount of specie which he took with him from here? Have they found the murderer of my brother?Signed, "Fredrick W. Schulte."
"To the Mayor of South Norwalk:
"I beg of you to see that the body of my brother is properly forwarded to Barop, near Dortmund, so as to insure its safe arrival. I further request that you inform me at once whether his effects have been secured, and how much has been found of the large amount of specie which he took with him from here? Have they found the murderer of my brother?
Signed, "Fredrick W. Schulte."
Had those who knew the previous history of Henry Schulte expected to have received any expression of sorrow for the death of the old gentleman, they were doomed to be disappointed, and the telegram itself fully dissipated any such idea. The man was dead, and the heirs were claiming their inheritance—that was all.
Shortly after this a representative of the German Consul at New York arrived, and, presenting his authority, at once proceeded to take charge of the remains, and to make the arrangements necessary towards having them sent to Europe.
The iron box which had proved such an object of interest to the residents of South Norwalk, was opened at the bank, and to the surprise of many, was found to contain valuable securities and investments which represented nearly a quarter of a million of dollars.
It was at first supposed that the murderers had been foiled in their attempt to rob as well as to murder, or that they had been frightened off before they had accomplished their purpose of plunder. The finding of twenty thousand dollars upon his person seemed to be convincing proof that no robbery had been committed, and the friends of Bucholz, who were numerous, pointed to this fact as significantly establishing his innocence.
Indeed, many people wondered at the action of the State's attorney, and doubtfully shook their heads as they thought of the meager evidence that existed to connect Bucholz with the crime. A further examination of the accounts of the murdered man, however, disclosed the startling fact that a sum of money aggregating to over fifty thousand dollars had disappeared, and, as he was supposed to have carried this amount upon his person, it must have been taken from him on the night of the murder.
Here, then, was food for speculation. The man had been killed, and robbery had undoubtedly been the incentive. Who could have committed the deed and so successfully have escaped suspicion and detection?
Could it have been William Bucholz?
Of a certainty the opportunity had been afforded him, and he could have struck the old man down with no one near to tell the story. But if, in the silence of that lonely evening, his hand had dealt the fatal blow, where was the instrument with which the deed was committed? If he had rifled the dead man's pockets and had taken from him his greedily hoarded wealth, where was it now secured, or what disposition had he made of it?
From the time that he had fallen fainting upon the floor of the farm-house kitchen, until the present, he was not known to have been alone.
Tearful in his grief for the death of his master, his voice had been the first that suggested the necessity for going in search of him. He was seen to go to the place where he usually kept his pistol, and prepare himself for defense in accompanying Samuel Waring.
He had stood sorrowfully beside that prostrate form as the hand of the neighbor had been laid upon the stilled and silent heart, and life had been pronounced extinct. He had journeyed with Sammy Waring to the village to give the alarm and to notify the coroner, and on his return his arms had assisted in carrying the unconscious burden to the house. Could a murderer, fresh from his bloody work, have done this?
From that evening officers had been in charge of the premises. Bucholz, nervous, and physically worn out, had retired with Sammy Waring, and had not left the house during the evening. If he had committed this deed he must have the money, but the house was thoroughly searched, and no trace of this money was discovered.
His bearing upon the inquest had been such that scarcely any one present was disposed to believe in his guilty participation in the foul crime, or that he had any knowledge of the circumstances, save such as he had previously related.
Where then was this large sum of money which had so mysteriously disappeared?
A stack of straw that stood beside the barn—the barn had been thoroughly searched before—was purchased by an enterprising and ambitious officer in charge of Bucholz, and although he did not own a horse, he had the stack removed, the ground surrounding it diligently searched, in the vague hope that something would be discovered hidden beneath it.
But thus far, speculation, search and inquiry had availed nothing, and as the crowd gathered at the station, and the sealed casket that contained the body of the murdered man was placed upon the train to begin its journey to the far distant home which he had left but a short time before, many thought that with its departure there had also disappeared all possibility of discovering his assassin, and penetrating into the deep mystery which surrounded his death.
An important discovery was, however, made at this time, which changed the current of affairs, and seemed for a time to react against the innocence of the man against whom suspicion attached.
In the village there resided an individual named Paul Herscher, who was the proprietor of the saloon in which the deceased and his servant had taken their drink of beer, after leaving the train upon the night of the murder.
During the residence of Mr. Schulte at Roton Hill, Bucholz and Paul Herscher had become intimate acquaintances, and Bucholz had stated upon his examination that during the month of the previous October he had loaned to Paul the sum of two hundred dollars. That the servant of so parsimonious a man should have been possessed of such a sum of money seemed very doubtful, and inquiries were started with the view of ascertaining the facts of the case.
The investigation was still going on, and Paul was called as a witness. His story went far towards disturbing the implicit confidence in Bucholz's innocence, and caused a reaction of feeling in the minds of many, which, while it did not confirm them in a belief in his guilt, at least made them doubtful of his entire ignorance of the crime.
Paul Herscher stated that on the morning after the murder Bucholz had entered his saloon, and calling him into an adjoining room, had placed in his hands a roll of bills, saying at the same time, in German:
"Here is two hundred dollars of my money. I want you to keep it until I make my report to the coroner.If anybody asks you about it, tell them I gave it to you some time ago."
Here was an attempt to deceive somebody, and, although Paul had retained this money for several days, without mentioning the fact of its existence, his revelation had its effect. Upon comparing the notes, all of which were marked with a peculiar arrangement of numbers, and by the hand of the deceased, they were found to correspond with a list found among the papers of Henry Schulte, and then in the custody of his administrators.
To this charge, however, Bucholz gave a free, full and, so far as outward demeanor was concerned, truthful explanation, which, while it failed to fully satisfy the minds of those who heard it, served to make them less confident of his duplicity or his guilt.
He acknowledged the statements made by Paul Herscher to be true, but stated in explanation that he received the money from Mr. Schulte on their way home on the evening of the murder, in payment of a debt due him, and that, fearing he might be suspected, he had gone to Paul, and handing him the money, had requested him, if inquiries were instituted, to confirm the statement which he had then made.
That this statement seemed of a doubtful character was recognized by every one, and that a full examination into the truthfulness of his assertions was required was admitted by all; and, after other testimony, not, however, of a character implicating him in the murder, was heard, the State's attorney pressed for such a verdict as would result in holding Bucholz over for a trial.
After a long deliberation, in which every portion of the evidence was considered by the jury, which had listened intently to its relation, they returned the following verdict:
"That John Henry Schulte came to his death from wounds inflicted with some unknown instrument, in the hands of some person or persons known to William Bucholz, and we do find that said William Bucholz has a guilty knowledge of said crime."
This announcement occasioned great surprise among the people assembled; but to none, perhaps, was the result more unexpected than to William Bucholz himself. He stood in a dazed, uncertain manner for a few moments, and then, uttering a smothered groan, sank heavily in his seat.
The officers of the law advanced and laid their hands upon his shoulder; and, scarcely knowing what he did, and without uttering a word, he arose and followed them from the building. He was placed upon the train to Bridgeport, and before nightfall the iron doors of a prison closed upon him, and he found himself a prisoner to be placed on trial for his life."
The officers of the law advanced and laid their hands upon his shoulders--
"The officers of the law advanced and laid their hands upon his shoulders"—
CHAPTER VII.
Bucholz in Prison.—Extravagant Habits and Suspicious Expenditures.—The German Consul Interests Himself.—Bucholz committed.
Sorrowful looks followed the young man as he was conducted away, and frequent words of sympathy and hope were expressed as he passed through the throng on his way to the depot, but he heeded them not. A dull, heavy pain was gnawing at his heart, and a stupor seemed to have settled over his senses. The figures around him appeared like the moving specters in a horrible dream, while a black cloud of despair seemed to envelop him.
He followed the officers meekly, and obeyed their orders in a mechanical manner, that showed too plainly that his mind was wandering from the scenes about him. He looked helplessly around, and did not appear to realize the situation in which he was so suddenly and unexpectedly placed.
He experienced the pangs of hunger, and felt as though food was necessary to stop the dreadful pain which had taken possession of him, but he made no sign, and from the jury-room to the prison he uttered not a word.
It was only when he found himself in the presence of the officials of the prison, whose gloomy walls now surrounded him, that he recovered his equanimity, and when he was ordered to surrender the contents of his clothing, or submit to a search, his eyes flashed with indignation, and the tears that welled up into them dropped upon his pallid cheek.
With a Herculean effort, however, he recovered his strong calmness, and drawing up his erect figure he submitted in silence to the necessary preparations for his being conducted to a cell.
But as the door of the cell clanged to, shutting him in, and the noise reverberated through the dimly-lighted corridors, he clutched wildly at the bars, and with a paroxysm of frenzy seemed as though he would rend them from their fastenings; then, realizing how fruitless were his efforts, he sank upon the narrow bed in a state of stupefying despair.
The pangs of hunger were forgotten now, he could not have partaken of the choicest viands that could have been placed before him, and alone and friendless he fed upon the bitterness of his own thoughts.
In vain did he attempt to close his eyes to the dreadful surroundings, and to clear his confused mind of the horrible visions that appalled him. The dark cloud gathered about him, and he could discover no avenue of escape.
The night was long and terrible, and the throbbing of his brain seemed to measure the minutes as they slowly dragged on, relieved only at intervals by the steady tramp of the keepers, as they went their customary rounds. The lamp from the corridor glowed with an unearthly light upon his haggard face and burning eyes, while his mind restlessly flitted from thought to thought, in the vain attempt of seeking some faint relief from the shadows that surrounded him.
All through the weary watches of the night he walked his narrow cell, miserable and sleepless. Hour after hour went by, but there came no drooping of the heavy lids, betokening the long-looked-for approach of sleep. At length, when the darkness of the night began to flee away and the gray dawn was breaking without, but ere any ray had penetrated the gloom of his comfortless apartment, he threw himself upon the bed, weary, worn and heart-sick—there stole over his senses forgetfulness of his surroundings, and he slept.
The body, worn and insensible, lay upon the narrow couch, but the mind, that wonderful and mysterious agency, was still busy—he dreamed and muttered in his dreaming thoughts.
Oh, for the power to look within, and to know through what scenes he is passing now!
Leaving the young man in the distressing position of a suspected criminal, and deprived of his liberty, let us retrace our steps, and gather up some links in the chain of the testimony against him, which were procured during the days that intervened between the night of the murder and the day of his commitment.
It will be remembered that he had been placed in charge of two officers of South Norwalk, who, without restraining him of his liberty, accompanied him wherever he went, and watched his every movement.
Bucholz soon developed a talent for spending money, which had never been noticed in him before. He became exceedingly extravagant in his habits, purchased clothing for which he had apparently no use, and seemed to have an abundance of funds with which to gratify his tastes. At each place he went and offered a large note in payment of the purchases which he had made, the note was secured by the officers, and was invariably found to contain the peculiar marks which designated that it had once belonged to the murdered man. He displayed a disposition for dissipation, and would drink to excess, smoking inordinately, and indulging in carriage-rides, always in company with the officers, whose watchful eyes never left him and whose vigilance was unrelaxed.
The State's attorney was indefatigable in his efforts to force upon Bucholz the responsibility of the murder, and no means were left untried to accomplish that purpose. As yet the only evidence was his possession of a moderate amount of money, which bore the marks made upon it by the man who had been slain, and which might or might not have come to him in a legitimate manner and for legitimate services.
The important fact still remained that more than fifty thousand dollars had been taken from the body of the old man, and that the murderer, whoever he might be, had possessed himself of that amount. It was considered, therefore, a matter of paramount importance that this money should be recovered, as well as that the identity of the murderer should be established.
The case was a mysterious one, and thus far had defied the efforts of the ablest men who had given their knowledge and their energies to this perplexing matter.
Mr. Olmstead, who remained firm in belief in Bucholz's guilt, and who refused to listen to any theory adverse to this state of affairs, determined in his heart that something should be done that would prove beyond peradventure the correctness of his opinions.
About this time two discoveries were made, which, while affording no additional light upon the mysterious affair, proved conclusively that whoever the guilty parties were they were still industrious in their attempts to avert suspicion and destroy any evidence that might be used against them.
One of these discoveries was the finding of a piece of linen cloth, folded up and partly stained with blood, as though it had been used in wiping some instrument which had been covered with the crimson fluid. This was found a short distance from the scene of the murder, but partially hid by a stone wall, where Bucholz and Samuel Waring were alleged to have stood upon the night of its occurrence.
The other event was the mysterious cutting down of the cedar tree, whose branches had been intertwined with others, and which had evidently been used as an ambuscade by the assassins who had lain in wait for their unsuspecting victim.
Meantime, the German Consul-General had been clothed with full authority to act in the matter, and had become an interested party in the recovery of the large sum of money which had so mysteriously disappeared. With him, however, the position of affairs presented two difficulties which were to be successfully overcome, and two interests which it was his duty to maintain. As the representative of a foreign government, high in authority and with plenary powers of an official nature, he was required to use his utmost efforts to recover the property of a citizen of the country he represented, and at the same time guard, as far as possible, the rights of the accused man, who was also a constituent of his, whose liberty had been restrained and whose life was now in jeopardy.
The course of justice could not be retarded, however, and an investigation duly followed by the grand jury of the County of Fairfield, at which the evidence thus far obtained was presented and William Bucholz was eventually indicted for the murder of John Henry Schulte, and committed to await his trial.
CHAPTER VIII.
My Agency is Employed—The work of Detection begun.
The events attendant upon the investigation and the consequent imprisonment of Bucholz had consumed much time. The new year had dawned; January had passed away and the second month of the year had nearly run its course before the circumstances heretofore narrated had reached the position in which they now stood.
The ingenuity and resources of the officers at South Norwalk had been fully exerted, and no result further than that already mentioned had been achieved. The evidence against Bucholz, although circumstantially telling against him, was not of sufficient weight or directness to warrant a conviction upon the charge preferred against him. He had employed eminent legal counsel, and their hopeful views of the case had communicated themselves to the mercurial temperament of the prisoner, and visions of a full and entire acquittal from the grave charge under which he was laboring, thronged his brain.
The violence of his grief had abated; his despair had been dissipated by the sunshine of a fondly-cherished hopefulness, and his manner became cheerful and contented.
It was at this time that the services of my agency were called into requisition, and the process of the detection of the real criminal was begun.
Upon arriving at my agency in New York City one morning in the latter part of February, Mr. George H. Bangs, my General Superintendent, was waited upon by a representative of the German Consul-General, who was the bearer of a letter from the Consulate, containing a short account of the murder of Henry Schulte, and placing the matter fully in my hands for the discovery of the following facts:
I. Who is the murderer?II. Where is the money which is supposed to have been upon the person of Henry Schulte at the time of his death?
Up to this time no information of the particulars of this case had reached my agency, and, except for casual newspaper reports, nothing was known of the affair, nor of the connection which the German Consul had with the matter.
At the interview which followed, however, such information as was known to that officer, who courteously communicated it, was obtained, and my identification with the case began.
It became necessary at the outset that the support of the State's Attorney should be secured, as without that nothing could be successfully accomplished, and an interview was had with Mr. Olmstead, which resulted in his entire and cordial indorsement of our employment.
The difficulties in the way of successful operation beset us at the commencement, and were apparent to the minds of all. The murder had taken place two months prior to our receiving any information concerning it, and many of the traces of the crime that might have existed at the time of its occurrence, and would have been of incalculable assistance to us, were at this late day no doubt obliterated.
Undismayed, however, by the adverse circumstances with which it would be necessary to contend, and with a determination to persevere until success had crowned their efforts, the office was assumed and the work commenced.
Mr. Bangs and my son, Robert A. Pinkerton, who is in charge of my New York agency, procured another interview with Mr. Olmstead, and received from him all the information which he then possessed.
Mr. Olmstead continued firm in his belief that the crime had been committed by Bucholz, and being a man of stern inflexibility of mind, and of a determined disposition, he was resolved that justice should be done and the guilty parties brought to punishment.
Declining to offer any opinion upon the subject until the matter had been fully investigated in the thorough manner which always characterizes my operations, it was decided to send a trusted and experienced operative to the scene of the murder, to obtain from all persons who possessed any knowledge of the affair every item of information that it was possible at that late day to secure.
Accordingly, John Woodford, an intelligent and active man upon my force, was detailed to the scene of operations with full authority to glean from the already well-harvested field whatever material was possible, and from his reports the particulars as detailed in the preceding chapters were obtained. The inquiries were made in the most thorough manner, and at the end of his labors every item of information connected with the matter was in our possession and the foundation was laid for a system of detection that promised success.
The particulars of the case were communicated to me at my headquarters in Chicago, and I was resolved also to learn the antecedents of John Henry Schulte and his servant, in order to unravel the mystery which attended his appearance at South Norwalk, and to discover the relations which existed between the master and the man who now stood charged with a foul crime.
That this eccentric man, possessed of such large means, should thus have taken up his abode in a land of strangers, and should have lived the secluded life he did, was an added mystery in the case, which I resolved to become acquainted with. I considered this necessary, also, in order to discover some motive for the crime, if any existed except that of robbery, and to guide me in my dealings with any suspected persons who might thereafter be found.
His brother was communicated with, and another operative was detailed to gather up the history of the man from the time of his landing in America.
John Cornwell, a young operative in the service of my New York agency, was delegated for this service, and he performed the duty assigned him in a manner which furnished me with all the information I desired to possess, and as the story contains much that is of interest, I will give it here.
THE HISTORY.
CHAPTER IX.
Dortmund.—Railroad Enterprise and Prospective Fortune.—Henry Schulte's Love.—An Insult and its Resentment.—An Oath of Revenge.
How true it is, that in the life of every one, there exists a vein of romance which justifies the adage that "Truth is stranger than fiction."
No page of history may bear their names. No chronicle of important events may tell to the world the story of their trials and sufferings. No volume of poetry or song may portray the sunshine and the storms through which they journeyed from the cradle to the grave. But in their quiet, humble lives, they may have exemplified the vices or virtues of humanity, and may have been prominent actors in unpublished dramas, that would excite the wonderment or the admiration, the sympathy or the condemnation of communities.
The life of Henry Schulte evinces this fact, in a remarkable degree.
The town of Dortmund in Prussia, in 1845.
A quiet, sleepy, German town, in the Province of Westphalia, whose inclosing walls seemed eminently fitted to shut out the spirit of energy and activity with which the world around them was imbued, and whose five gates gave ample ingress and egress to the limited trade of the manufacturers within its limits.
Once a free imperial city, it had acquired some importance, and was a member of that commercial alliance of early times known as the "Hanseatic League," but its prosperity, from some cause, afterwards declined, and passing into the hands of Prussia in 1815, Dortmund had slumbered on in adolescent quiet, undisturbed by the march of improvement, and unaffected by the changes that were everywhere apparent in the great world without her boundaries.
This sober, easy-going method of existence seemed to be in perfect accord with the habits and dispositions of the people. The honest old burghers pursued the even tenor of their way, paying but little heed to the whirl and excitement of the large cities, and plodding on with machine-like regularity in their daily pleasures, and their slow but sure acquirement of fortune. Children were born, much in the usual manner of such events—grew into man and womanhood—were married, and they—in their turn, raised families. Altogether, life in this old town partook very much of the monotonous and uneventful existence of a Van Winkle.
Such was Dortmund in 1845.
About this time, however, the wave of the advancing spirit of business activity had traveled sufficiently westward to reach this dreamy village, and a railroad was projected between Dortmund and the City of Dusseldorf.
Dusseldorf, even at that time, was the great focus of railroad and steamboat communication, and situated as it was, at the confluence of the Dussel and Rhine rivers, much of the transit trade of the Rhine was carried on by its merchants.
Here, then, was an opportunity afforded for such an added impetus to trade, such a natural increase in fortune, that it would readily be imagined that the entire community would have hailed with delight an enterprize which promised such important results, and that new life and energy would have been infused into the sluggish communities of Dortmund.
Such was the case, to a very great extent, and a large majority of the people hailed with delight a project which would place their town in direct communication with the great cities of their own country and with all the ports of foreign lands. But of this we shall speak hereafter.
On the road which led from Dortmund to Hagen, about fifteen miles distant, dwelt Henry Schulte, a quiet, reserved man, who had tilled the soil for many years. Of a reserved and morose disposition, he mingled but rarely with the people who surrounded him, and among his neighbors he was regarded as peculiar and eccentric. His broad acres evinced a degree of cultivation which proved that their owner was well versed in the science of agriculture; the large crops that were annually gathered added materially to the wealth of their proprietor, and the general appearance of thrift about the farm denoted that Henry Schulte was possessed of a considerable amount of the world's goods.
But while every care was taken of the fruitful fields, and every attention paid to the proper management of his lands, the cottage in which he lived, stood in marked contrast to its surroundings. A low, one-story structure, with thatched roof, and with its broken windows filled here and there with articles of old clothing, proclaimed the fact that its occupant was not possessed of that liberal nature which the general appearance of the farm indicated.
There was an air of squalor and poverty about the cottage, which told unmistakably of the absence of feminine care, and of the lack of woman's ministrations—and this was true.
For many years Henry Schulte had lived alone, with only his hired man for company; and together they would perform the necessary domestic duties, and provide for their own wants in the most economical manner possible.
Many stories were told among the villagers about Henry Schulte, for, like most all other localities, gossip and scandal were prevailing topics of conversation.
It is a great mistake to suppose that in the country, people may live alone and undisturbed, and that anyone can hope to escape the prying eyes or the listening ears of the village gossip, male or female. Such things are only possible in large cities, where men take no interest in each other's affairs, and where one man may meet another daily for years without ever thinking of inquiring who he is or what he does, and where you pass a human being without a greeting or even a look. In the country, however, where everybody knows everybody, each one is compelled to account to all the others for what he does, and no one can ever be satisfied with his own judgment.
Notwithstanding the charm which exists in this communion of work and rest in word and deed, the custom has very serious drawbacks, and any person having good or bad reasons of his own for disposing of his time in a manner different from what is customary, has to contend against the gossip, the jibes and the mockery of all. Hence, almost all localities have their peculiar characters, whose idiosyncrasies are well known, and who are frequently the subject of raillery, and often of persecution.
To the gay and simple villagers of Hagen, Henry Schulte was an object of great interest, and to most of them the story of his past was well known. Many of the old men who sat around the broad fire-place in the village inn, could remember when he was as gay a lad as any in the village, and had joined in their sports with all the zest and enthusiasm of a wild and unrestrained disposition; and when he marched away to join his regiment, no step was firmer, and no form more erect than his.
When he had waved adieu to the friends who had accompanied him to the limits of the town, and had bidden farewell to the tearful Emerence, his betrothed, who had come with the others; many were the prayers and good wishes that followed him upon his journey. He was a great favorite with both the young and old people of Hagen, and no merry-making was considered complete without the company of young Henry Schulte and his violin.
It was at one of the May-day festivals that Henry had met the beautiful Emerence, the daughter of old Herr Bauer, the brewer, and as their regard proved to be mutual, and the father of the young lady being propitious, nothing occurred to mar the pleasure of the young people, and the course of their true love flowed on as smoothly as the gentle river until Henry was required to do service for his king and to enter the ranks as a soldier.
It is needless to follow the young man through the various episodes of his soldier life, in which he distinguished himself for his uniform good nature, cheerful obedience of orders and strict attention to duty; it is enough to know that at the expiration of his term of service he returned home, and was welcomed by the many friends who had known and loved him from his youthful days.
It was at this time that the catastrophe occurred which changed the whole tenor of his life, and made him the reserved, hard man that we find him at the commencement of our story.
In the village there lived a wild, reckless young man by the name of Nat Toner, who had just returned to his native place after an absence of several years, and who since his return had spent his time at the village tavern amid scenes of dissipation and rioting, in which he was joined by the idle fellows of the village, who hailed with delight the advent of the gay fellow whose money furnished their wine, and whose stories of romantic adventure contributed to their entertainment.
Nat was a bold, handsome fellow, whose curling black hair and flashing black eyes and wild, careless manner played sad havoc with the hearts of the young girls of Hagen, and many a comely maiden would have been made supremely happy by a careless nod of greeting from this reckless young vagabond.
Not so with Emerence Bauer. Her timid, gentle nature shrank involuntarily from the rough, uncouth manners of the handsome Nat, and the stories of his extravagances only filled her mind with loathing for the life he was leading and the follies he was committing.
As she compared her own cheerful, manly Henry to this dissipated Adonis, whose roistering conduct had made him the talk of the village, she felt that her love was well placed and her heart well bestowed.
To Nat Toner the aversion manifested by Emerence only served to create in him a passionate love for her, and he was seized with an uncontrollable longing to possess her for his own.
Up to this time he had not been informed of the betrothal existing between Emerence and Henry Schulte, and his rage and disappointment on discovering this fact was fearful to behold. He cursed the young man, and swore that, come what would, and at whatever cost, he would permit no one to come between him and the object of his unholy affections.
His enmity to Henry Schulte, which soon became very evident, was manifested upon every possible occasion, until at length Henry's universal good nature gave way under the repeated taunts of his unsuccessful rival, and he resolved that further submission would be both useless and cowardly.
Nothing further occurred, however, for some time, but fresh fuel was added to the fire of Nat Toner's anger by an incident that he was an unobserved witness of. One evening he was returning home from the tavern, where he had been drinking with his companions till a late hour. His way led him past the residence of Emerence Bauer, and as he passed by upon the other side of the lighted street he witnessed the affectionate parting of Henry Schulte and the lady of his love.
Setting his teeth firmly, his eyes flashing with the malignity of hate, he strode on, vowing vengeance upon the innocent cause of his anger, who, with his mind filled with many pleasant dreams of the future, pursued his way towards the little farm-house where he then dwelt with his father and mother.
The next evening as Henry was passing the village tavern on his return from Dortmund, where he had been to dispose of some of the produce of the farm, he found Nat and his companions in the midst of a wild and noisy revel.
Henry would have rode on unmindful of their presence, but Nat, spying his rival, and heated with wine, induced his companions to insist upon his stopping and drinking a glass of wine with them, which invitation Henry, after vainly attempting to be excused from, reluctantly accepted, and, dismounting from his horse, he joined their company.
After indulging in the proffered beverage, Henry seated himself with his companions and joined with them in singing one of those quaint German songs which are so full of sweetness and harmony, and which seem to fill the air with their volume of rude but inspiring music.
After the song was finished, Nat filled his glass, and rising to his feet said, in a taunting voice:
"Here is a health to the pretty Emerence, and here is to her loutish lover." Saying which he deliberately threw the contents of his glass full in the face of the astonished Henry.
With a smothered expression of rage, Henry Schulte sprang to his feet and with one blow from his right hand, planted firmly in the face of his insulter, he laid him prostrate upon the floor. Quickly recovering himself, the infuriated Nat rushed at his brawny antagonist, only to receive the same treatment, and again he went down beneath the crushing force of that mighty fist. An ox could not have stood up before the force of the blows of the sturdy farmer, much less the half-intoxicated ruffian who now succumbed to its weight.
And again he went down beneath the crushing force of that mighty fist.
"And again he went down beneath the crushing force of that mighty fist."
Foaming with rage and bleeding from the wounds he had received, Nat Toner struggled to his feet the second time, and drawing a long, murderous-looking knife from his bosom, he made a frantic plunge at his assailant.
Quick as a flash, however, the iron grip of Henry Schulte's right hand was upon the wrist of the cowardly Nat, and with a wrench of his left hand the knife was wrested from him and thrown out of the window. Then Henry, unable to further restrain his angry feelings, shook his aggressor until his teeth fairly chattered, and, finally flinging him from him with an expression of loathing, said:
"Lie there, you contemptible little beast, and when next you try to be insulting, count upon your man in advance."
Saying which, and with a quiet good evening to the astonished company, he walked out of the house, and mounting his horse, rode slowly homeward.
The discomfited Nat slowly arose, and gaining his feet, glared around at his wonder-stricken friends, in whose faces, however, he failed to discover the faintest evidence of sympathy or support.
These honest, good-natured Germans were far too sensible and fair-minded to justify such an unwarrantable and unexpected insult as that which had been put upon one of their favorite friends, and consequently not one of the company lifted their voice or expressed any regrets for the punishment which Nat had so justly received. Henry had, in their opinion, acted in a manner which accorded entirely with their own views upon such matters, and much the same as they themselves would have done under similar circumstances.
Raising his clenched hand, and with face deadly pale, Nat Toner faced the silent group, and cried out, in the intensity of his passion:
"Henry Schulte shall pay dearly for this. As truly as we both live, I will have a full revenge, and in a way he little dreams of."
Uttering these words, he strode fiercely from the room, and disappeared in the darkness of the night. His companions, realizing that their pleasure for that evening was ended, silently took their leave, and wended their way to their several homes.
How well Nat Toner kept his oath will hereafter be seen, but many of the old men of Hagen yet recall with a shudder his dreadful words, and their fulfillment.
CHAPTER X.
A Curse.—Plans of Revenge.
As Nat strode onward to his home, after leaving his companions, his mind was in a chaotic state of excitement and rage. He was still smarting from the blows he had received, and the blood was flowing from his nostrils and lips. He paid no heed to this, however, for there was murder in his heart, and already his plans of revenge were being formed—plans which fiends incarnate might well shrink from, and from the execution of which even demoniac natures would have recoiled in horror.
As he walked on, the dark, lowering clouds that had been gathering overhead, broke into a terrific storm of rain; the wind whistled and howled through the valleys, and from the mountain gorges the lightning flashed with a vividness almost appalling; but, undismayed by the storm and the tempest, which seemed at that time to accord with the emotions of his own wicked heart, Nat continued on his way, which lay past the unpretending, but comfortable farm-house, where, in the peace and contentment of a happy home, Henry Schulte dwelt with his parents.
As he reached a point in the road opposite the dwelling of his hated rival, and from the windows of which the lights were gleaming cheerily, Nat stopped, and, unmindful of the drenching rain, he shook his uplifted hand at the inoffensive abode, and, in a voice choking with rage, cried:
"Curse you, Henry Schulte! Be on your guard, for if I live, you will know what it is to suffer for what you have done this night. Enjoy yourself and your victory while you can, but there will come a time when you would rather be dead than the miserable thing I will make you. Curse you! Curse you!"
Having relieved the exuberance of his passion in this manner, he silently resumed his journey, and reaching his home retired at once to his room, and throwing himself upon the bed, he gave himself up to the devilish meditations which filled his mind.
Ah, Nat Toner, far better for you, for that happy village of Hagen, and for the future happiness of two loving hearts, if to-night the lightning's flash had sent its deadly stroke through your murderous heart and laid you lifeless upon the road.
As may be imagined, the news of the encounter between Henry Schulte and Nat Toner was noised about the village, and during the next day the matter became the universal theme of conversation. It was astonishing, however, to remark the unanimity of opinion which prevailed with regard to it. The entire community with one accord united in condemning the insult and applauding its resentment; and when Nat Toner made his appearance the following day, bearing upon his face the marks of the punishment he had received, he was greeted with cold salutations and marked evidence of avoidance by those who heretofore had been disposed to be friendly, and even gracious.
This only intensified his anger at the cause of his humiliation, but he concealed his emotions and shortly afterwards returned to his home.
The anxiety of Emerence for the safety of her lover was most profound, and trembling with fear of the threatened revenge of Nat Toner, for his oath had also been repeated, she besought Henry to be watchful and cautious of his unscrupulous adversary, all of which he laughingly and assuringly promised to do. Not so much for his own security, of which he had no fear, as for the sake of the dear girl who was so solicitous for his welfare, and to whom his safety was a matter of so much importance.
The next few days passed uneventfully away, Nat remaining at home, nursing his wrath and the wounds upon his face, and Henry Schulte attending to his various duties upon the farm. The quarrel finally ceased to be a matter of remark, and the simple-minded villagers, believing that Nat's threats were only the utterances of a man crazed with drink, and smarting under the punishment he had received, quieted their fears and resumed their ordinary peaceful and contented mode of living.
To Nat Toner the days passed all too slowly, but with the slowly-moving hours, in the seclusion of his own home, and his own evil thoughts, his revenge became the one object of his life. His reckless, vagabond existence of the past few years, during which it was hinted by several of the villagers, with many shrugs of their shoulders and wise noddings of their venerable heads, he had been engaged in the service of a bold and successful French smuggler, had not tended to elevate his mind, or to humanize his disposition. His depraved nature and vicious habits were roused into full action by this encounter with Henry Schulte, and the anger of his heart was in no wise lessened, as he reflected that he had brought his injuries upon himself. All the brutal instincts of his degraded disposition were aflame, and he resolved that his revenge for the indignities that had been put upon him, should be full and complete.
With a fiendish malignity he determined to strike at the heart of his antagonist through the person of the object of his love, and by that means to be revenged upon both.
CHAPTER XI.
A Moonlight Walk.—An Unexpected Meeting.—The Murder of Emerence Bauer.—The Oath Fulfilled.
On a beautiful moonlight evening, about a week after the hostile meeting of Henry Schulte and Nat Toner, Emerence, all impatient to meet her lover, whom she had not seen for some days, and whom she fondly expected this evening, left the residence of her parents and walked towards a little stream that ran along the outskirts of the village, where she had been in the habit of meeting Henry upon the occasions of his visits.
The evening was a delightful one, and the scene one of surpassingly romantic beauty. The bright rays of the moon sparkled and danced upon the rippling water; the border of grand old trees that fringed the bank of the stream was reflected with exaggerated beauty far down among the waters; the glittering stars stole in and out among their branches, and shone in the clear crystal mirror. Now a fleecy speck of cloud floated over the face of the Queen of Night, from behind which she would soon emerge, with increased brilliancy, to dart her long arrowy beams away down to the pebbly bottom of the flowing river, kissing the fairies that the old German legends tell us dwelt there in the days of old.
Silently, but with happy heart and beaming eyes, the young girl gazed upon the scene that lay before her; then, walking to the center of the rustic bridge that spanned the stream from shore to shore, she leaned over the low railing and watched, with her mind teeming with pleasant visions of the future, her figure reflected as in a burnished mirror, upon the water beneath her.
Her sweet reverie was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and a blush illumined her face as she thought she would soon greet her coming lover, and feel his strong arms about her. Turning her head a little, she saw another shadow there so distinctly traced that she had no difficulty in recognizing it, and she started in affright as she discovered that instead of Henry Schulte, the new-comer was none other than his enemy and hers, Nat Toner.
She would have yielded to an intuitive sense of danger, and fled from the spot, but Nat stepped quickly in the way and barred her passage, lifting his hat in mock reverence as he addressed her.
"Good evening, pretty Emerence, you look like a beautiful water sprite in the rays of this bright-beaming moon."
Did she imagine it, or was there a cold, hard ring in the voice that uttered these words, which filled her heart with an aching fear, and made her lips tremble as she acknowledged his salutation?
"You are waiting for Henry Schulte, I suppose!" he continued, in the same hard, mocking tone.
Mustering up all the latent courage which she possessed, she looked up unflinchingly, as she replied:
"I do not know that anyone has a right to question me upon my movements, or to assign a reason for my actions."
"Indeed, my pretty little spit-fire! You speak truly, but Nat Toner intends to assume a right which no one else possesses," answered Nat tauntingly, while his black eyes glistened in the moonlight with a baleful light.
"I cannot stop to listen further to such language, and must bid you good evening," said Emerence, drawing herself up haughtily, and turning to leave the bridge.
"Stop where you are and listen to me," cried Nat sharply, and with his right hand he grasped the wrist of the shrinking girl.
"Nat Toner!" at last said Emerence boldly, "remove your hand from my wrist, or I will call for help, and then perhaps your conduct will meet with its just punishment."
"Utter one word, at your peril. I have something to say to you, and you must listen to me," said Nat, releasing his hold, and glaring fiercely at the brave girl who stood before him.
"I will listen to nothing further from you to-night. Stand aside and let me pass," said Emerence firmly, and again turning to leave the bridge.
"Emerence Bauer, listen to me I say. I have something to tell you that concerns that lover of yours, Henry Schulte, and you shall hear what I have to say."
At the mention of Henry's name Emerence stopped, and thinking that perhaps she might serve her lover by remaining, she said:
"I will hear you, Nat Toner, but be as brief as possible."
"Aha! for the sake of your dear Henry, you will listen to me. I thought so. Do you know that he is my enemy till death; that the insults which he has heaped upon me can only be washed away by blood; and that you, my haughty beauty, alone can satisfy the hate I bear to Henry Schulte and the revenge I have sworn against him?"
"Nat Toner, what do you mean?" tremblingly inquired the affrighted girl, unable to stir.
Ah, well might she tremble now! There was murder in the flashing of those wicked black eyes that glared upon her, and the distorted, pallid face before her showed too plainly the passions of his heart, as he answered:
"What do I mean? I will tell you! I loved you, Emerence Bauer, and I hate Henry Schulte for the insult he has put upon me. You scorn my love, and Henry Schulte must pay the penalty. He shall never possess you, for—I mean to kill you!"
With a wild shriek, that rang through the air as the cry of a frightened bird, Emerence turned to flee from the fiend before her. But, alas, too late! The murderous weapon came down with a dull, heavy crushing sound upon that fair, girlish head, and she fell lifeless at the feet of the madman who had slain her.
She fell lifeless at the feet of the madman who had slain her.
"She fell lifeless at the feet of the madman who had slain her."
Without uttering a word Nat Toner lifted up the body of the unfortunate girl and threw it over the low railing of the bridge into the rippling water beneath. A splash followed that sent the water in brightly burnished crystals high in the air—and then the river flowed on, as though unconscious and uncaring for the burden that had been committed to its keeping.
Raising himself to his full height and shaking his blood-red hand in the direction of the village, Nat Toner cried out with demoniac exultation:
"Now, Henry Schulte, I am revenged!"
Saying which, he plunged into a strip of woods that grew near by, and disappeared from view.
Oh, shimmering moon, did no pitying glance fall from thy cold, bright face as this fair, young life was cruelly beaten out by the hand of her brutal assassin? Oh, glittering stars, did no dark clouds intervene between thy merry twinklings and the dreadful scene below? And ye, oh, rippling river, did no murmur escape thee as the crimson tide of this fair dead girl mingled with thy transparent waves and floated away into the darkness of the night?
CHAPTER XII.
The Search for the Missing Girl.—The Lover's Judgment.—Henry Schulte's Grief.—The Genial Farmer becomes the Grasping Miser.
Half an hour later, Henry Schulte, who had been delayed beyond his wont in the village, came walking briskly along the road that led to the abode of Emerence. His heart was gay, and a blithe, merry song rose to his lips as he journeyed along. All unconscious of the dark deed that had been committed, he stood upon the rustic bridge, where he had expected to meet his betrothed, and gazed at the beauty of the landscape that was spread before him. No sound came from that gurgling stream, to tell the impatient lover of the fate of her he loved, and little did he dream, as he stood there in quiet contemplation of the glorious night, that directly beneath his feet, with her calm, dead face upturned towards him, could be seen, through the transparent waters, the lifeless body of the fair maiden, whose head had nestled on his bosom and whose loving lips had made him happy with their kisses of love.
Ah, nevermore for thee will the bright moon shine in its translucent splendor, and never again will you know the happiness and the peace of this beautiful evening, as you waited on that bridge for her who nevermore would come to your call again.
After waiting a short time, and not hearing the footsteps of his affianced, Henry resumed his journey and soon arrived at the residence of the wealthy brewer, whose hospitable doors flew open at his knock, and the mother of Emerence stood in the low, broad passage-way.
"Where is Emerence?" quickly inquired the mother of the girl, in surprise, at seeing him alone.
"Emerence! Is she not at home?" exclaimed Henry, equally surprised.
"No," replied the mother. "She went out about an hour ago, to meet you on the way."
Henry immediately became alarmed. He had not seen her, and it seemed incredible that she could have gone to visit any friends on the evening when she expected him, and certainly not without informing her parents of the fact.
"I will go at once in search of her," he said, as he turned away from the house, and hurriedly retraced his steps towards the village, with a terrible fear for her safety pressing upon his heart.
He inquired at every house where her friends resided, but everywhere was met with a wondering negative. No one appeared to have seen her, or to know anything of her whereabouts, and at length, wearied with his fruitless inquiries, and rendered almost desperate at his want of success, he went to the village tavern, and requested the aid of his comrades in searching for the missing girl, for whose safety and happiness he would willingly have laid down his life.
In a moment all was bustle and excitement; torches were procured and the party started upon their mission, resolved to discover some clue of the missing lady before the dawning of another day. Henry was in advance, and under his direction every part of the road which led from the residence of the brewer to the village, and the adjacent woods, were carefully examined, but all with no success. No trace could be discovered, and the superstitious villagers began to regard the disappearance as a supernatural mystery.
Utterly fatigued with their bootless investigation, and saddened by the thought that some harm must have come to the innocent maiden, they reluctantly left the house of the brewer and turned their footsteps towards the village, determined to continue their search in the morning. To Henry the suspense was agonizing. He seemed almost crazed at the uncertainty which shrouded the fate of the girl he loved so dearly, and he vainly attempted to discover some solution of the awful mystery.
As the silent party were crossing the bridge, they stopped for a temporary rest before proceeding further on their way, and indulged in subdued conversation upon the mystery which thus far had defied their efforts to solve.
Suddenly they were startled by an exclamation from one of their number, who, on looking casually over the railing into the stream beneath, discovered in the bright reflection of the brilliant moon, the figure of the murdered girl lying in the shallow water. With an agonizing cry Henry sprang into the river, and in a few moments clasped the lifeless body in his strong arms and bore her to the shore.
It was too true—the pale, beautiful features that met their frightened gaze were none other than those of the village beauty—Emerence, and a stillness like that of death fell upon the assembly as they looked upon her.
At first it was supposed that she had been accidentally drowned, but upon the lights being brought, and that cruel blow upon the head being discovered, each one looked at the other, and the words burst almost simultaneously from the lips of all:
"Nat Toner!"
After the first cry which escaped him, Henry Schulte never spoke again during that painful time, but with reverent hands he smoothed the wet drapery about her shapely limbs, and closed the great staring eyes, which, when he last looked upon them, were full of love, and hope, and happiness—and then, as the men gathered up the fair form and bore it to her once happy home, he followed silently, and with faltering steps.
It had needed no words from the villagers to tell him of the author of this crime. Before they had spoken, his own mind had discovered the murderer, and he had resolved upon the course to be pursued, and when, immediately after the sad funeral rites had been performed, and the body of the fair young Emerence had been placed in the ground, Henry disappeared from the village, one and all felt that the mission he had gone upon was a righteous one, and no one disputed his right to go.
At the end of a month he returned, but with a face so changed that he was scarcely recognized. The happy light was gone forever from his eyes, and the hard stern lines about the mouth told the sad story of long suffering, and of a harsh judgment that had been fulfilled.
No one questioned him upon his journey, or its result, and he gave no explanations, but when some weeks later a party of hunters in the forests on the mountains, near Werne, discovered the lifeless body of Nat Toner, with his pistol by his side, and a bullet-hole through the low, white forehead, the villagers felt that Henry's search had not been in vain, or his revenge incomplete.
To this day no one can tell, whether, suffering the pangs of remorse, the miserable man had put an end to his own life, or whether the wound in the low, white forehead was planted there by the man whom he had so dreadfully wronged.
No inquiries were made, however, and as time passed on, the history of Nat Toner passed out of the conversations of the simple village-folk, and, save as it was occasionally recalled by some romantic and unfortunate event abroad, was never mentioned.
To Henry Schulte the record of that sad night was always present, and was never effaced from his memory. The change that was wrought in him was apparent to all. He no longer mingled with the villagers in their merry-makings, but isolated himself entirely from their meetings and their pleasures.
A few years afterwards his parents died, and his elder brother assuming the control of the farm and estates of his father, Henry removed to the farm where we now find him, and to the lowly cottage which he had occupied to the time of which we write. He became a settled misanthropist, whose only aim in life seemed to be the acquirement of wealth, and whose once genial and generous nature had now become warped into the selfishness and avarice of the miser.
So he had lived, a social hermit, until in 1845 he had become a prematurely old man, with whitened hair and furrowed brow, whose love for gold had become the passion of his life, and whose only companions were a hired man and the old violin with which, in his younger days, he was wont to make merry music at the festivals in the village, but which now was tuned to mournful harmonies "cadenced by his grief."
CHAPTER XIII.
Henry Schulte becomes the Owner of "Alten Hagen."—Surprising Increase in Wealth.—An Imagined Attack upon His Life.—The Miser Determines to Sail for America.
It was at this time that the projected railroad between Dortmund and Dusseldorf began to assume definite proportions, and as the line of the contemplated road lay through the village of Hagen, much excitement was engendered in consequence.
The people of Dortmund were building extravagant castles in the air, and wild and vague were the dreams which filled their sanguine minds as they contemplated the advantages that were to accrue to them upon the completion of this enterprise.
The contagion spread rapidly to Hagen, and the simple-minded villagers, who saw in this movement the rapid growth of their little town; the possible increase in the value of their property and the consequent augmenting of their now limited fortunes, hailed with delight the information that energetic operations would soon be begun, with the view of successfully accomplishing the desired object.
Not so, however, thought the Baron von Lindenthal, whose vast estate lay in close proximity to the village, immediately adjoining the farm owned and occupied by Henry Schulte, and through whose domain the road must necessarily pass.
To him the idea of encroaching upon the ancestral acres of a von Lindenthal, was an act of sacrilege not to be complacently submitted to. The quiet and peaceful seclusion in which he and those who had preceded him had lived, and the repose of his declining years was to be disturbed by the whistling of the locomotive and the rattle of the train. The din, and bustle and activity of trade was to be brought to his very threshold, and the ease and comfort of his aristocratic retirement would soon become a thing of the past. This must not and could not be permitted, and the blood of the patrician boiled within his noble veins as he contemplated the outrage that thus threatened him, and which was to result in laying profane hands upon his possessions. Improvements were all very well in their way, but then they must not be of such a character as to interfere with the pleasure or the luxurious ease of the Baron von Lindenthal. His comfort and happiness were things to be considered far above the material growth of a commercial town, and were not to be subordinated to the welfare of its ambitious inhabitants.
But then, as now, the march of public improvement was not to be retarded, and so, finding it impossible to successfully oppose or to prevent the building of the objectionable railroad, the incensed Baron very reluctantly determined to dispose of his baronial estates and to remove to a more congenial locality, where the encroachments of trade were not to be feared, and where, in undisturbed seclusion and retirement, he might pass the remainder of his days.
With the irascible and impetuous Baron, the formation of an opinion led to immediate action, and no sooner had he resolved to the satisfaction of his own mind to dispose of his broad acres, than he began to look about him for a purchaser.
When Henry Schulte heard of this intention of the Baron, he determined, if possible, to become the owner of this extensive demesne. His mind was sufficiently alive to the importance of this railroad movement to convince him that the real estate in proximity to the line of the road must necessarily increase in value, and he also realized the necessity of seeing the Baron without delay, in order to precede any of the railroad contractors, who would no doubt present themselves ere long.
He consequently waited upon the irate Baron on the morning following, and upon being ushered into the presence of the last of the von Lindenthals, at once broached the subject of his desire to purchase the land.
The gouty old land-owner looked with astonishment as his shabbily-dressed visitor proffered his request. He had never imagined that his unobtrusive neighbor was possessed of any money besides his farm, and the proposition to become the purchaser of "Alten-Hagen" was a complete surprise to him.
The Baron did not know of the hours of patient toil, nor of the habits of miserly economy which had enabled Henry Schulte to accumulate so large a sum of money as to warrant him in entertaining the desire to increase his estate; nor did he know that his economical neighbor could see further into the future, and better appreciate the advantages which would accrue to him from the possession of this additional property, than could their present aristocratic owner.
However, the Baron lost no time in idle speculations as to the means by which his visitor had grown wealthy. His land was for sale, a purchaser stood before him, and in a short time the wealthy miser became the owner of the Baron's land for a price entirely inadequate to the value which he received. When, a few weeks later, the question of appropriating the land and allowing the damage therefor came to be considered, the railroad company were required to treat with the miser of Hagen instead of the Baron von Lindenthal.
The wisdom and foresight displayed by Henry Schulte in becoming the purchaser of this estate was very soon clearly demonstrated, for in a very short time afterwards he received from the railroad company, as damages and for the right of way through his grounds, more than the sum he had originally paid to the impulsive Baron for the fee of the entire estate.
A few years after this several coal mines were opened in the vicinity, iron works were erected, and as Hagen became a thriving, flourishing city it naturally extended its industries. Henry Schulte's newly acquired property then became available for the erection of iron works and coal breakers, and his wealth was considerably increased by these means. A division of a part of his land into building lots, on the main road from Herdecke to Hagen, also swelled the volume of his increasing revenue. It seemed that he had suddenly fallen upon the wave of advancing fortune, for soon after this some parts of the soil being found to be of excellent quality for brick-making, he entered into arrangements with some extensive manufacturers and received a large sum for the use and occupation of his grounds for that purpose.
Thus, in a very few years, the patient, plodding, avaricious farmer found himself one of the wealthiest men in the locality. This fact, however, produced no change in his habits or his dress, nor did his mode of living undergo any improvement consequent upon the changed condition of his circumstances. This vast accumulation of money only seemed to intensify his avarice, to increase his meanness, and the desire for gain became the ruling passion of his heart and mind. He removed to the large and imposing mansion lately occupied by the Baron, but this was done simply because he could find no other occupant for it; while he could readily procure a tenant for the little cottage where he had previously resided.
The effect of his presence there was soon made manifest, and only a short time elapsed before this beautiful residence presented an appearance of negligence sadly at variance with the thrifty neatness that was everywhere apparent during the time of its occupancy by the Baron and his family. The general air of neglect and squalor surrounding it proclaimed that the habits of the miser had been too firmly grounded to be easily disturbed, and that the man remained the same, whether in the castle or the hovel.
Indeed, it seemed that his reserve and isolation became more marked, and he dressed so shabbily that he scarcely ever appeared in other than soiled and ragged garments. His heart became harder and more grasping, and the few people who had known him in his younger days, and were disposed to be friendly, soon dropped away from him, finding it impossible to endure his harshness of manner and his penurious ways.
His household now consisted of a housekeeper and a valet, the former an elderly woman, who had long been an object of charity to the people of Hagen, and whose services were procured by him at a mere nominal price, and the latter was a young, simple-minded fellow, who performed the multifarious duties of a man-of-all-work, for a stipulated sum that barely sufficed for his needs, exclusive of the daily fare which he received from the hands of his economical employer.