Karl went into the next room, which he had chosen for himself. Soon both candles were extinguished—the first signs of life which had shone for years in the forsaken dwelling. But in the stove the little Kobolds of the castle lingered long over the newly-kindled fire; they hovered in the smoke wreaths, they knocked at doors and windows in amazement at the proceedings of the strangers. At length they assembled in a corner of the old tower, and began to dispute as to whether or not the flames lighted this evening would continue to burn, and to cast henceforth their cheerful glow on meadow, fields, and woods; and as they doubted whether the new order of things had strength enough to endure, the smoke drove the bats from their home in the chimney, and they came flapping down stupefied on the summit of the tower, while the owls in its crevices shook their round heads and hooted in the new era.
He who has always trodden life's macadamized ways, hedged in by law, moulded by order, custom, form, handed down from generation to generation habits a thousand years old, and who finds himself suddenly thrown among strangers, where law can but imperfectly protect him, and where he must assert by daily struggles his right to exist—such a one realizes for the first time the full blessing of the holy circle woven round each individual by his fellow-men, his family, his companions in labor, his race, his country. Whether he lose or gain in foreign parts, he must needs change. If he is a weakling, he will sacrifice his ownmanière d'êtreto the external influences around him; if he has the making of a man in him, he will become one now. The possessions, perhaps the prejudices, that he has grown up with, will wax dearer to him than ever; and much that once he looked upon as things of course, like air and sunshine, will become his most prized treasures. It is in foreign countries that we first enjoy the dialect of home, and in absence that we learn how dear to us is our fatherland.
Our Anton had now to find out what he possessed and what he wanted.
The following morning they proceeded to view the entire property. It consisted of the mansion-house, with the lands and buildings adjacent, and of three farms. About half the land was arable, a small part laid down in meadow; about half was wood, bordered with barren sand. The castle and the village lay about the middle of the great clearing; two of the farms were at opposite points of the compass, east and west, and both were hid by projections of the forest. The third farm lay toward the south, and was entirely divided by a wood from the rest of the estate. It joined on to another Polish village, had its own farm-buildings, and had always been separately cultivated. It occupied about a quarter of the plain, had a distillery on it, and had been rented for many years by a brandy-merchant, well to do. His lease had been extended by Ehrenthal, but the sum he paid was low. However, his occupancy was at present a good thing for the property, as it insured some return for one portion of it, at least. The devastated wood was under the care of a forester.
The first walk through the portion adjacent to the castle was as little cheering as possible: the fields were, generally speaking, not prepared for winter-sowing; and wherever the marks of the plow appeared, the land had been taken possession of by the villagers, who regarded the neglected property as their perquisite, and looked morosely at the foreign settlers.
For years they had done none of the work that their feudal tenure required of them, and the village bailiff plainly told Anton that the community would resent any return to old customs. He pretended he did not understand a word of German, and even Karl's eloquence failed to conciliate him. The soil itself, neglected and weedy as it was, turned out generally better than Anton had expected, and the landlord boasted of his crops; but in the vicinity of the wood it was very poor, and in many places quite unfit for culture.
"This is a serious sort of day," said Anton, putting up his pocket-book. "Harness the britzska; we will drive to see the cattle."
The farm where the cattle were quartered lay to the west, about a mile and a half from the castle. A miserable stable and the cottage of a farm-servant was all they found there. The cows and a pair of draught oxen were under his charge, and he lived there with his wife and a half-witted herdsman. None of these people understood much German, or inspired any confidence: the wife was a dirty woman, without shoes and stockings, whose milk-pails looked as if long unwashed. The farm-servant, and sometimes the herdsman, plowed with the yoke of oxen wherever they chose; the cattle fed on the meadow land.
"Here is work for you," said Anton; "examine the cattle, and see what you can find of winter provender. I will make an inventory of the building and implements."
Karl soon came to report. "Four-and-twenty milch cows, twelve heifers, and an old bull; about a dozen cows, at most, are in profit, the rest mere grass-devourers: the whole of them are a poor set. Some foreign cows, probably Swiss ones, have been brought over and crossed with a much larger breed, and the result is ugly enough. The best cows have evidently been exchanged; for some wretched creatures are running about, the rest keeping aloof from them: they can't have been here long. As to fodder, there is hay enough for winter, and a few bundles of oat straw; no wheat straw at all."
"The buildings are out of order too," cried Anton, in return. "Drive now to the distillery. I have carefully examined the conditions of the lease, and am better up in it than in most things."
The carriage rolled over a shaky bridge that spanned the brook, then through fields and an expanse of sand scantily covered with arenaceous plants, in whose roots a pine-seed had nestled here and there, stretching dwarf branches over the waste; then came the woods, with many a gap, where lay nothing but yellow sand, and on all sides stumps overgrown with heath and brambles. Slowly the horses waded on. Neither of the strangers spoke, as both were engaged in observing every tree that a fortunate chance had allowed to grow and spread better than the rest.
At length the prospect widened, and another plain lay before them, monotonous and forest-bounded like the rest. Before them rose a church. They drove past a wooden crucifix, and stopped at the court-yard of the farm. The tenant had already heard of their arrival; and perhaps he was better acquainted with the baron's circumstances than Anton could have wished, for he received them in a patronizing and self-sufficient manner, hardly taking the trouble to lead them into an unoccupied room. His first question, was, "Do you really believe that Rothsattel will be able to take possession of the estate? There is much to be done on it, and, from all I hear, the poor man has not got the capital required."
This cool demeanor exasperated Anton not a little; but he answered, with the composure that habits of business give, "If you wish to ask me whether the Baron Rothsattel will undertake the management of the estate, I have to say in reply that he will be all the better able to do so the more conscientiously his tenants and dependents perform their duties. I am here at present to ascertain how far you have done this. I have authority given me, by the terms of your lease, to examine your inventory. And if you value the baron's good-will, I recommend you to treat his representative more civilly."
"The baron's good-will is perfectly immaterial to me," said the inflated tenant. "But, since you speak of authority, perhaps you will show me your credentials."
"Here they are," said Anton, quietly drawing the document in question from his pocket.
The tenant read it carefully through, or at least pretended to do so, and rudely replied, "I am not very sure, after all, whether you have a right to look over my premises, but I have no objection to it; so go and inspect as much as you like." And, putting on his cap, he turned to leave the room, but Anton at once barred the way, and said, in his quiet, business voice, "I give you the choice of conducting me over your premises at once, or having an inventory drawn out by a lawyer. This last measure will occasion you unnecessary expense. I would besides remind you that the good-will of the proprietor is necessary to every tenant who wishes for an extension of his lease, and that yours will be out in two years' time. It is no pleasure to me to spend two hours in your society; but if you do not fulfill your contract, the baron will of course take advantage of it to break your lease. I give you your choice."
The tenant looked for a few minutes with a stupefied expression at Anton's resolute countenance, and at last said, "If you insist upon it, of course. I did not mean to offend." He then reluctantly touched his hat, and led the way into the court-yard.
Anton took out his tablets once more, and the survey began. 1. Dwelling-house: the roof out of order. 2. Cow-house: one side of the lower wall fallen; and so on. The survey was, on the whole, unsatisfactory; but Anton's business-like demeanor and Karl's martial aspect were not without their influence over the tenant, who gradually relaxed, and muttered out a few excuses.
When Anton got into the carriage again, he said to him, "I give you four weeks to rectify what we have found amiss, and at the end of that time I shall call again."
To which Karl added, "Will you have the kindness to raise your hat as you now see me do? This is the right moment for the ceremony. That's it! You will learn the proper thing in time. Drive on, coachman."
"When you return," continued Karl to Anton, "this man will be as obsequious as possible. He has grown bumptious on the farm."
"And the estate has grown the poorer because of him," said Anton. "Now, then, for the new farm!"
A poor dwelling-house on one side, a long row of sheep-pens on the other, a stable, and a barn.
"It is remarkable," said Karl, looking at the buildings from a distance, "the thatch has no holes, and in the corner there is a stack of new straw. By Jove! they have mended the roof."
"Here is our last hope," replied Anton.
As the carriage drew up, the heads of a young woman and a flaxen-haired child appeared for a moment at the window, then rapidly retreated.
"This farm is the jewel of the estate," cried Karl, jumping over the side of the carriage. "There are actually signs of a dunghill here; and there go a cock and hens—something like a cock too, with a tail like a sickle! And there is a myrtle in the window. Hurra! here is a housewife! here is the fatherland! here are Germans!"
The woman came out—a neat figure—followed by the curly pate, who, at the sight of strangers, put his fingers in his mouth, and crept behind his mother's apron.
Anton inquired for her husband.
"He can see your carriage from the field; he will be here immediately," said the wife, blushing. She invited them in, and hastily rubbed two chairs bright with her apron.
The room was small, but whitewashed; the furniture painted red, but kept very clean; the coffee-pot was simmering on the stove; a Black-forest clock ticked in the corner; on some hanging shelves stood two painted China figures, a few cups, and about a dozen books; and behind the little looking-glass on the wall there was a fly-flap, and a birch rod carefully bound round with red ribbon. It was the first comfortable room that they had seen on the estate.
"A song-book and a rod," said Anton, good-naturedly. "I do believe you are a good woman. Come here, flaxen-hair." He took the scared, stolid child on his knee, and made him ride there—walk—trot—gallop—till the little fellow at last got courage to take his fingers out of his mouth.
"He is used to that," said his mother, much pleased. "It is just what his father does when he is a good boy."
"You have had a hard time of it here," suggested Anton.
"Ah! sir," cried she, "when we heard that a German family had bought the estate, and that we had to keep things together for them, and thought they would soon come and perhaps drive over here, we were as glad as children. My husband was all day just like one who has been in the public house, and I wept for joy. We thought that at last there would be some order, and we should know what we were working for. My husband spoke seriously to the shepherd—he is from our part of the country—and they both resolved that they would not allow the steward to sell any more away. And so my husband told him. But weeks passed, and no one came. We sent every day to the village to inquire, and my husband went to Rosmin and saw the lawyer. But it seemed they were not coming after all, and that the estate would be sold again. Then, a fortnight ago, the steward came over with a strange butcher, and wanted my husband to give him the wethers; but he refused. At that they threatened him, and wanted to force their way into the sheep-pens; but the shepherd and my husband were too much for them; so off they went cursing, and declaring they would have the sheep yet. Since then a man has watched every night; there hangs a loaded gun which we have borrowed; and when the shepherd's dog barks, I get up, and am dreadfully frightened about my husband and child. There are dangerous men about here, sir, and that you will find."
"I hope things will improve," said Anton; "you lead a solitary life here."
"It is solitary indeed," said the woman, "for we hardly ever go to the village, and only sometimes on Sunday to the German village, where we go to church. But there is always something to be done about the house; and," continued she, somewhat embarrassed, "I will just tell you all, and if you don't approve, we can give it up. I have dug a little space behind the barn, we have hedged it in, and made a garden of it, where I grow what I want for cooking; and then," with increased embarrassment, "there are the poultry and a dozen ducks; and if you won't be angry, the geese on the stubble-fields, and," wiping her eyes with her apron, "there is the cow and the calf."
"Our calf!" cried the child, in ecstasy, slapping Anton's knees with his fat hands.
"If you do not approve of my having kept the cow for myself," continued the weeping woman, "we will give it up. My husband and the shepherd have had no wages since the last wool-shearing, and we have been obliged to buy necessaries; but my husband has kept an account of every thing, and he will show it you, that you may see that we are not dishonest people."
"I hope it will so appear," replied Anton, soothingly; "and now let us have a look at your garden; you shall keep it, if possible."
"There is not much in it," said the woman, leading them to the inclosed space where the beds were all prepared for their winter's rest. She stooped down, and gathered the few flowers remaining, some asters, and her especial pride, some autumn violets. Tying them together, she gave the nosegay to Anton, "because," said she with a pleasant smile, "you are a German."
A quick step was now heard in the yard, and in came the tenant with reddened cheeks, and made his bow to them.
He was a fine young man, with a sensible countenance and a trustworthy manner. Anton spoke encouragingly, and he readily produced his accounts.
"We will look over the stock now," replied Anton; "the books I will take with me. Come to me to-morrow at the castle, and we can arrange the rest."
"The horses are in the fields," said the tenant; "I drive one plow myself, and the shepherd's lad helps with the other. We have only four horses here; once there were twelve in the stable. We have of late cultivated little more than was necessary for ourselves and the cattle. There is a want of every thing."
However, the survey turned out cheering on the whole; the buildings were in tolerable repair, and the crops lately got in promised to keep the flocks through the winter. Last of all, the farmer, with a pleased smile, opened a door in his dwelling-house, and pointed out a heap of pease. "You have seen the straw and hay already," he said, "but here are the pease which I hid from the steward, thinking they belonged to you. Indeed, there was some selfishness in it," continued he, candidly, "for we were so placed that we got nothing, and I was obliged to think of some way of keeping the farm going in case the winter brought no help."
"Very good," said Anton, smiling; "I hope we shall understand each other well. And now to the sheep. Come with us, farmer."
The carriage rolled slowly along the fields, the tenant eagerly pointing out their condition. Not the fourth part of the land belonging to the farm was plowed; the rest had been in pasture for many years past.
As they approached the flocks, the only living creatures of any worth on the estate, Karl impatiently jumped out.
The shepherd slowly came to meet the strangers, accompanied by his two dogs, one an old experienced character, who walked at the same pace as his master, and looked with as much intelligence and discrimination at the new authorities; the other a young fellow, a pupil, who vainly attempted to maintain the aspect of calm dignity becoming his responsible calling, but kept running with youthful eagerness ahead of his master, and barking at the strangers, till a growl of rebuke from his wiser companion brought him back to propriety. The shepherd took off his broad-brimmed hat with all civility, and waited to be addressed. As a man of intuition and reflection, he perfectly knew who he saw before him, but it would have ill become one whose whole life had been spent in restraining precipitation on the part of sheep and dogs to have evinced undue curiosity.
The farmer introduced the strangers to him with a circular movement of his hand, and the shepherd made several bows in succession, to show that he perfectly understood who they were. "A fine flock, shepherd," said Anton.
"Five hundred and five-and-twenty head," replied the shepherd. "Eighty-six of them lambs, forty fat wethers." He looked round the flock for a sheep, who deserved to be presented as a specimen, and suddenly stooping, caught up one by the hind legs, and exhibited the wool. Karl was intent in the examination. They were great strong sheep, well fitted for the country, and far exceeded, both in condition and wool, what might have been looked for. "If they get plenty of food, they give wool," said the shepherd, proudly. "It is first-rate wool."
A yearling was at that moment thoughtless enough to cough. The shepherd looked disapprovingly at it, and said, "The whole flock is perfectly healthy."
"How long have you been in service here?" inquired Anton.
"Nine years," was the reply. "When I came, the creatures were like the poodles in town, all bare behind. It has taken trouble to bring them round. No one else has ever seen after them, but they have not fared the worse for that. If I could only always have had pea-straw for them, and this winter, common pease for the mothers."
"We must see what can be done," said Anton; "but we shall have to be sparing in our management this winter."
"True," said the shepherd; "but, however, this is good pasture."
"I can well believe," said Anton, smiling, "that your sheep have nothing to complain of. There are few fields here which your dog has not barked over for years. I have been delighted to hear how bravely you have defended the property of your new master. Have the people about often behaved ill to you?"
"I can hardly say, sir," replied the shepherd; "men are every where alike—they are not to be depended on. I would rather bring up a colly than a man." He leaned upon his staff, and looked with satisfaction upon his dog, who, true to his post, had been barking round the flock, and now came back to give his master's legs a confidential flap with his tail. "Look at this dog! When I have had a dog in training for two years, he is either good or not. If not, I send him away, and have done with him; if good, I can trust him as I do myself, so long as he lives. That boy yonder with the wethers I have had three years with me, and I can never tell the hour that some confounded freak or other may not come into his head, or that, instead of driving my sheep to the right, he may not run off to the left. That's why I say there's not much reliance to be placed upon men."
"And on whom do you rely in this world?" asked Anton.
"First of all on myself, for I know myself; then on my dog Crambo, for I know him too, and, besides, I trust as I ought." He looked up for a moment, then gave a low whistle, and Crambo again set out on his rounds. "And you, sir," continued the shepherd, "shall you remain with the baron?"
"I think so."
"May I ask as what? You are neither steward nor bailiff, for you have not yet looked at the wethers. The wethers should be sold; it's high time for it. So may I ask what you are to the new landlord?"
"If you want a name, you may call me his accountant."
"Accountant," said the shepherd, thoughtfully; "then I am to discuss my allowance with you."
"You shall do so the next time we meet."
"There is no hurry," said the shepherd; "but one likes to know how one stands. There is a pane broken in my room; the glazier will be coming to the castle, and I hope, Mr. Accountant, you will remember me."
Karl and the farmer now joined them. "To the forester's!" cried Anton to the driver.
"You mean to go to the forester's?" inquired the farmer.
"To the forester's!" repeated the shepherd, drawing nearer.
"Why does that surprise you?" inquired Anton from the carriage.
"Only," stammered out the farmer, "because the forester is a strange man. If the baron himself were to come, he would not surrender."
"Does he live in a fortress, then?" inquired Anton, laughing.
"He locks himself up," said the tenant, "and lets no one enter; he has a way of his own."
"He is a wild man of the woods," said the shepherd, shaking his head.
"The Poles say that he is a magician," continued the farmer.
"He can make himself invisible," cried the shepherd.
"Do you believe that?" asked Karl, much amazed.
"Not I, but there are plenty in the village who do."
"He is a good sort of man at the bottom, but he has his oddities," affirmed the farmer.
"I hope he will respect my position," rejoined Anton; "it will be worse for him if he does not."
"It would be better that I should speak to the forester first," suggested the tenant. "Will you allow me to drive thither with you? He is on friendly terms with me."
"With all my heart; take the reins, and we will leave the servant to manage the plow till we set you down again on our way-back. And now then for this dangerous character."
The carriage turned into a road bordered with young firs, and leading into the wood. The ground was again sandy, and the trees poor. They went on over stories and stumps till at length the wood stopped altogether at a plantation apparently about fifteen years old: here the tenant fastened the reins round the trunk of a tree, and begged the gentlemen to dismount. They walked on through a thicket of young trees, whose long spikes brushed their clothes as they passed, and filled the air with a strong resinous perfume. Beyond this the ground sank, green moss spread a soft carpet round, and a group of giant pines reared their dark crowns high in the air: there stood the forester's house, a low wooden building surrounded by a strong wooden fence, and further guarded by a triple hedge of young fir-trees. A little spring trickled under the fence, and gurgled among a few large stones, overshadowed by giant ferns.
Altogether it was a picture that could not fail to please in this district of sand and heath. No one was to be seen about, and there was not a trace of a footstep on the moss: it was only the barking of a dog from within that announced the dwelling to be inhabited. They went round the hedge till they came to a narrow door, which was firmly bolted.
"His bull-finch sits above the window," said the tenant; "he is at home."
"Call him, then," desired Anton.
"He knows already that we are here," replied the man, pointing to a row of small openings in the hedge; "look at his peep-holes. He is watching us; but this is always his way. I must give him a signal, or he will never open." Accordingly, he put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled three times, but there was no reply. "He is a cunning fellow," said the tenant, perplexed, whistling again so shrilly that the dog's bark changed into a howl, and the bull-finch began to flap his wings.
At last a rough voice sounded on the other side of the fence. "Who the deuce are you bringing with you?"
"Open, forester," cried the tenant; "the new gentry are come."
"Go to the devil with your gentry; I am sick of the whole race."
The tenant looked in perplexity toward Anton. "Open the door," said the latter, authoritatively; "it will be better for you to do of your own accord what I can force you to do."
"Force!" said the voice. "How will you manage that, pray?" The double barrel of a gun now made its appearance through a hole in the door, turning conveniently to one side, then the other.
"Your gun will not help you," was the reply; "we have that on our side which will henceforth be stronger in this forest than brute force, and that is law and our right."
"Indeed!" asked the voice. "And who, then, are you?"
"I am the agent of the new proprietor, and command you to open the door."
"Is your name Moses or Levi?" inquired the voice. "I will have nothing to do with an agent. Whoever comes to me as an agent, I set down for a rogue."
"A plague upon your hard head," cried Karl, in a towering passion. "How dare you speak so disrespectfully of my master, you crazy Jackboots you!"
"Jackboots!" said the voice. "I like that; that sounds more like fair dealing than any thing I have heard for a long time." The bolts were shot back, and the forester appeared at the door, which he shut behind him. He was a short, broad-set man, with grizzled hair, and a long gray beard, which hung down on his breast; a pair of keen eyes shone out of his furrowed face; he wore a thick shaggy coat, out of which sun and rain had expelled every trace of color, carried his double-barreled gun in his hand, and looked defiance at the strangers. "Who is bullying here?" said he.
"I am," answered Karl, stepping forward; "and you shall get something besides hard words if you continue in your insubordination."
"What sort of a cap is that you wear?" asked the old man, looking hard at him.
"Have you grown into a mere fungus here in your wood that you do not know it?" replied Karl, settling his soldier's cap more firmly on his head.
"Hussar?" asked the forester.
"Invalid," was the reply.
The old man pointed to a small strip of ribbon on his coat. "Militia," said he; "1813 and 1814."
Karl made a military salute. "All honor to you, old boy; but you are a rough one, notwithstanding."
"Well, you are not much like an invalid," said the forester; "you look wild enough, and know how to rap out an oath. So you are neither tradesman nor steward?" said he, turning to Anton.
"Now do behave like a sensible man," said the farmer. "This gentleman has been empowered to take possession of the estate, and to manage every thing till the family come. You will get yourself into sad trouble with your obstinate ways."
"Indeed!" said the forester. "Don't be anxious about me; I shall manage well enough. So you are an agent, are you?" said he, turning to Anton. "Of late years I have had enough of agents; and I'll tell you what," he went on, coming a few steps nearer, "you'll find neither books nor accounts with me. This is the state of things: For five years I, as the forester in charge of this wood, have been quarreling with agents. Each agent has put ever so much timber into his pocket, and at last the villagers have come from all the country round and carried off whatever they liked, and when I held my gun under their nose, they thrust a rascally bit of paper under mine, in which, forsooth, they had got leave from the agent. I had nothing more to say, and so I have just taken care of myself. There is but little game, but what I have shot I have eaten, and have sold the skins—for one must live. It's five years since I have touched a farthing of salary—I have paid myself. Every year I have taken fifteen of these trees. As far as to the clearing yonder, the wood is ninety years old. I reckon that they will last me about three winters longer. When the last is felled, I will shoot my dog, and choose out a quiet spot in the forest for myself." He looked down darkly at his gun. "I have lived here thirty years; I have buried my wife and my children in the German church-yard, and I don't trouble myself about what is to befall me now. So far as my dog's bark can be heard and my gun reach, the wood is in order; the rest belonged to the agent. That is my reckoning, and now you may do what you like with me;" and, much excited, he stamped the butt-end of his gun on the ground.
"I shall reply to what I have just heard," said Anton, "in the house and room which henceforth belongs to your master, the Baron Rothsattel." He stepped up to the door and laid his hands on its wooden bolt. "I take possession of this in the name of the new proprietor." Then opening it, he beckoned to the forester: "Keep back your dogs, and lead us in as you ought."
The old man made no opposition, but slowly preceded them, called down his dogs, and opened the house door.
Anton entered with his companions. "And now, forester, that you have opened the house," said he, "we will proceed to an arrangement at once. What has hitherto been done here by you can not be altered, and shall not be discussed; but from this day forth you will receive your regular allowance, and matters must be put on a different footing. I now place the forest, and all that belongs to the forest department, under your charge. Your duty now is to stand up for your master's rights, and from this time forward I make you responsible for them. I shall protect you as far as I can, and shall claim for you the protection of the law. We shall be severe in prosecuting all who damage this wood any further. This estate shall be better managed henceforth, and your new master expects that you will help him to do so, as a faithful and obedient man should. And there must be an end of this wild life of yours in the bush; we are fellow-countrymen, you know. You will come regularly to the castle and report the state of things, and we will take care that you shall not feel desolate in your old days. If you purpose honestly to fulfill the requirements I have just been making, give me your hand on it."
The forester had stood abashed, listening, cap off, to Anton's address, and he now took the hand offered to him, and said, "I do."
"With this shake of the hand, then," continued Anton, "I take you into the service of the present proprietor."
The forester held Anton's hand in both his, and at length exclaimed, "If I live to see things improve on the estate, I shall rejoice. I will do all I can, but I tell you beforehand we shall have a hard fight for it. Owing to the agents and the rascally management, the people on the estate are become a pack of robbers, and I am afraid that my old gun will often be obliged to have the last word of the argument."
"We will neither do wrong nor suffer wrong, and we must take the consequences," was the earnest reply. "And now, forester, show us your house, and then accompany us into the wood."
Anton then went over the little building: it was entirely of rough wood. The light fell dimly through the small windows, and the brown walls and blackened beams increased the darkness, and gave the room a mysterious aspect. It was difficult at first to distinguish the objects on the walls: antlers, dogs' collars, huntsmen's horns, whips, and stuffed birds. On the stove stood a small press with cooking apparatus.
"I cook for myself," said the forester, "and get what I want from the public house."
There were several birdcages in the windows, and a constant trilling and chirping going on within them. Near the stove sat a raven, whose rough plumage, and the white feathers about his beak and wings, proved his great age. He had drawn his head in between his shoulders, and seemed self-absorbed, but in reality his bright eye was observing every movement of the strangers.
Next came the bed-room, where several guns were hanging. A grating before the window proved that this was the citadel of the house.
"Where does that door lead to?" asked Anton, pointing to a trap-door in the floor.
"To a cellar," replied the forester, with some embarrassment.
"Is it arched?"
"I will take you down, if you will come alone."
"Wait for us," cried Anton to his companions in the room.
The forester lit a lantern, carefully bolted the door, and went first with the light.
"I had not thought," said he, "that any eyes but mine would see my secret in my lifetime."
A few steps led them into a narrow vault, one side of which had been broken through, and a low subterranean passage made, supported by stems of trees triangularly placed.
"That is my run," said the forester, holding the candle down, "and it leads into the young wood. It is more than forty yards long, and I was a great while excavating it. This is the way I creep in and out unobserved; and I may thank it that I am here still, for this is why the stupid villagers believe me a sorcerer. When they have watched me go into the house, and think they may steal in safely, I suddenly appear among them. Two years ago a band of them broke into my house, and it would have been all up with me but that I slunk out here like a badger. Do not betray to any one what I have just shown you."
Anton promised that he would not, and they went back into the little inclosure, where they found Karl occupied in fastening, between four blocks that he had driven into the ground, the wooden trough of a young fox. The fox, insensible to this delicate attention on the part of the hussar, snarled at him, rattled his chain, and tried all it could, under the board that Karl had placed across its kennel, to get at his hands.
"Do you want to kiss my hands, little red-head?" cried Karl, hammering away. "You are a pretty fellow! What a pair of soft truthful eyes you have, to be sure! Now, there, it's done; jump backward and forward as much as you like. He does what's told him, forester; a good-natured beast—something of your own character, comrade."
The forester laughed. "Do you know how to set about trapping a fox?"
"I should think so," said Karl.
"There are plenty more such fellows here," continued the old man; "if you like, we will go after them next Sunday."
And so they went together through the wood, all on the best terms possible. Anton called the forester to his side, and got much information from him. Certainly, he had nothing very cheering to tell. Of wood fit for cutting there was hardly enough for the use of the family and tenants. The old system of plunder had done its worst here. As they reached the carriage, the forester respectfully touched his hat, and asked at what hour in the morning he should come to the castle.
Anton rejoiced to have succeeded so well in concealing the feeling of insecurity which made his present position an irksome one to him.
"You see," said he to his faithful ally, as they both sat over the green tile stove at evening, "what disturbs me most is that I feel more ignorant and helpless than any of the servants about, and yet I have got to maintain their respect. These two last days have taught me how little mere good-will can do. Now, then, give me some sensible advice. What shall be our next step?"
"First sell off all the cattle that are out of profit, and instantly dismiss the good for nothing people who have them in charge. Bring cattle and horses to the farm-yard, that we may have them under our own eyes. What can be done in farming with our small means shall be done regularly, not hurried over. We must buy straw and oats for the present. Till next year, when a regular bailiff will be wanted, give me the charge of things; I shall not do much, to be sure, but more than any of your other people."
It was already late, when a quick step was heard on the stairs. With a great stable-lantern in his hand, and a face full of bad news, the landlord made his appearance in Anton's room. "I wished to tell you, sir, what I have heard. A German from Kunau, who has just passed through, has brought word that Bratzky never got to Rosmin yesterday."
"Never got there!" cried Anton, springing up.
"About two miles from Rosmin, in the wood, four riders fell upon the carriage. It was dark; the riders overpowered the gendarme and bound him, took off Bratzky and all his things, mounted him on one of the horses, and off with him into the bush. Two of them remained with the carriage, and obliged the driver to turn out of the road into a thicket, and there they staid two whole hours, holding their loaded pistols at the gendarme and the driver all the time. The driver said the horses were gentlemen's horses, and that the riders spoke like gentry. The gendarme was bruised, but otherwise unhurt, and they took your paper away from him."
Anton and Karl looked at each other significantly, and thought of the party of the day before.
"Where is the man who has brought the news?" asked Anton, snatching up his hat.
"He was in a hurry to get on before dark. To-morrow we shall hear more. Such a thing has not happened for years as mounted men falling upon a carriage with a gendarme in it. When a robbery has been committed, it has always been on foot."
"Did you know the riders who were in the village yesterday afternoon, and who were calling for the steward?" inquired Anton.
The host cast a sly glance at him, and seemed reluctant to answer.
"Nay," continued Anton, "you must have known them all; they belonged to this part of the country."
"Why should not I know them?" replied the landlord, in some perturbation. "It was the rich Herr von Tarow himself with his guests. A powerful man, Mr. Wohlfart, who has the command of the police on your property too. And as to what he wanted with Bratzky? Bratzky, as inspector, has had to do with the police, and has often been employed by the gentry in buying and selling horses, and in other ways too. If the head of the police wanted to speak to the inspector, why should not he? The Von Tarows are a clever set, who know what they are about in speaking and acting." So far the landlord, with much fluency, but his eyes and the expression of his countenance told a very different tale.
"You have a suspicion," cried Anton, looking fixedly at him.
"God preserve me from all suspicion!" continued the landlord, horrified at the idea. "And Mr. Wohlfart, if you will allow me to tell you my opinion, why should you go and suspect any one either? You will have enough to do on the property here, and will need the gentry round in many ways. Why should you make enemies for no purpose? This is a country where the gentlemen ride in parties, and then divide, put their heads together, and then start off in different directions. He is wisest who does not trouble himself about them."
When the landlord was gone, Anton said gloomily to Karl, "I am afraid that, besides our trouble with the property, much of a different nature is going on around us, which all our skill will not be able to set right."
This singular circumstance set the whole country in a ferment. Anton was often summoned to Rosmin in the course of the next few weeks, but his depositions led to no result, the authorities not succeeding in discovering the offenders, or in getting hold of the abducted steward.
Our two colonists spent the next few weeks in such active pursuits, that every night, when they threw themselves upon their beds, they were quite exhausted.
Karl had been duly installed as bailiff, and held the reins of management with a firm hand, and Anton had committed the care of the house and kitchen to a hard-working woman, whom he found in one of the German settlements around. The most difficult matter had been to establish tolerably satisfactory relations with the adjacent village; but Anton's calm decision had at all events prevented any outbreak of opposition. One of his first measures had been to appeal, in all cases of breach of trust or dereliction of duty, to the proper authorities. Karl's cavalry cloak attracted a few men who had served; and through these, the most civilized part of the community, the settlers gained some influence over others. At length, several voluntarily offered to become servants at the castle, or day-laborers on the estate.
Anton had written to the baroness, not disguising from her the state of the property, nor the unfriendly feeling of the district, and his own anxiety about the family moving thither in the course of the next winter. He had asked whether she would not prefer to remain till spring in the capital. In reply, he received a letter from Lenore, in which she told him, on the part of her parents, that they abode by their former resolve to leave the town, which had now become a painful residence to them all. She therefore begged him to have the castle put into a habitable condition as soon as possible.
Anton called out to his ally, "They are actually coming."
"They are, are they?" said Karl. "It is fortunate that we have heard of workmen—masons, joiners, locksmiths, glaziers, potters, and so on. If you will allow me, I will at once send a messenger off to Rosmin. If I could only get off this ugly brown paint from the door—it hides the beautiful oak carving. But lye won't stir it. And then how many stoves shall we want?"
An important conversation now began. "We must leave the whole lower floor unoccupied," Anton said, "closing up the windows with thick boards; but we shall have to put up a strong door in the hall, because one is constantly passing through it. These walls, too, can not remain as they are, and we have no one to trust to but the Rosmin mason."
"Since that is the case," said Karl, "I propose that we paint the walls ourselves. I am a dab-hand at marbling."
"You are?" replied Anton, looking at him with some anxiety. "No; I think we had better make all the rooms one color. What do you think of brown?"
"Hum—not bad," said Karl.
"I know it is a favorite color of Fräulein Lenore's. It must not be too dark, though, but a bright mixture of yellow, gray, red, and green, with, perhaps, a little black in it."
"Aha!" said Karl, disconcerted; "a peculiar sort of brown, I suppose."
"Of course," continued Anton, eagerly drawing his chair nearer; "we will mix it ourselves."
"That's my way," said Karl; "but I tell you beforehand, these chalk colors are the very deuce! You paint a blue, the next day you have white; you have the most beautiful orange in your brush, and when it has dried on the wall it is a dirty yellow."
"Between ourselves," replied Anton, "we shall not succeed very perfectly, but I think we shall manage to make things look tolerably comfortable."
The following day the hammering and painting began. The joiner and his men set up a workshop on the lower floor; above, the great brush of the painter kept unwearyingly passing and repassing over the walls, and white figures, with great aprons, carried buckets now up, now down. As for Karl, he seemed to have a dozen hands. Whenever he could get away from the farm, he painted woodwork and walls with all sorts of brushes. He ran round with a foot-measure, drove in nails and hooks for curtains, and the very next moment there he was again in the field or the stable, but every where whistling his soldier's songs and urging on the laborers. As the arrangements of the house progressed, his love of beautifying became more and more developed. He bought a quantity of oil-paint, which he found excellent, and displayed a decided talent for the art. He now ventured to give to several objects, which seemed to him qualified to receive it, the appearance of finely-polished wood, and, with the aid of a soft brush and a bunch of feathers, succeeded in producing wonderful effects. He even carried his brush and his beautifying into the farm-yard, and teased Anton into consenting to a general whitewashing of the mud walls. "They will dry in this weather just as well as in summer," said he. "My only regret is, that I can't wash the straw thatch." To make up for that, however, he was determined to give the two new potato-carts and the best plow a coating of beautiful blue oil-paint. "One must have something pleasant for the eye to rest on here," said he, by way of apology. "And it will pay for itself, for these Poles get on better with gayly-colored things."
The castle was temporarily arranged, and the arrival of the family expected on a cold December day. The sky had carried out Karl's wishes, most effectually covering the earth with a pure white mantle, and hiding many an eyesore from the expected party. The snow lay thick on pasture and sands, the summits of the pines wore white crowns, and the leafless shrubs glittered with frost-crystals. The ugly straw thatches were whitewashed to some purpose, the broken parapets of the bridge filled up. Each projection of the castle walls, the top of the tower, the whole roof, was capped with dazzling white, while the red-brown walls stood out in bold relief below. Within, it was a busy and exciting day. Wagons of furniture and stores were unpacked, and all arranged as well as the haste allowed. The farmer's wife and the housekeeper wove great garlands of fir-branches, and decorated the hall and the room doors. The sun set, and the silver landscape turned to gold, till the rising moon suffused it with a mysterious blue light. Several lamps were lit in the house, as many candles as possible placed in the apartments, the stoves all burned cheerily, and the fir-twigs filled the air with their fragrance. The gay curtains were drawn, and the open suite of rooms looked so habitable, that Anton asked himself in amazement how the labors of a few weeks could have wrought such a change as this. Karl had placed pitch-pans on both sides of the castle, and they shed a cheerful glow around.
Meanwhile all the dependents assembled in the hall—the forester in a new green coat, the memorial of his battles on his breast, a deer-hound at his side, stood in military attitude next to the German farmer and the shepherd. The housekeeper and the farmer's wife had put their best ribbons on their caps, and tripped to and fro in restless expectation. Karl, too, appeared in his hussar's frock.
Meanwhile Anton went once more through the rooms, and listened for the crack of the whip that should announce the baron's arrival. His own heart beat: for him, too, a new era was about to begin. After all, his life here had been a pleasant one enough hitherto: he and his trusty ally had felt themselves the masters of the castle, and had got through their anxieties cheerfully together. Now, however, Karl must take up his quarters in the farm-yard, while Anton, according to the wish of the baroness, was to occupy a room in the castle, so that he must come into daily relations with the family, and he now asked himself of what nature these would be. The baron was almost a stranger to him: how would he suit this baron? And he was blind too—yes, blind. Lenore had written him word that the surgeon gave no hope of the injured optic nerve ever recovering. This had been kept back from the sufferer, who comforted himself with the hope that time and skill might yet remove the dark cloud from his eyes. But Anton confided the truth to Karl, and was obliged to tell all the dependents that the baron was at present suffering from his eyes, and obliged to wear a bandage over them; and he read upon the faces of all that they felt this was a misfortune for the property. And his heart beat unquietly, too, when he thought of Lenore, with whom he should now be brought into constant contact. How would she and her mother treat him? He determined carefully to suppress what he now felt to have been idle claims, and so to behave from the first as to afford them no cause for mortifying his self-respect. And yet he could not help wondering whether they would treat him as a friend and an equal, or make him feel that he was a hired dependent. It was in vain that he said to himself that his own feelings made the latter arrangement desirable; he could not check the delightful visions that would arise of life led with Lenore on equal terms.
The crack of the whip was now heard in the village, and soon the family and establishment arrived. The farm-servants, the landlord, and a few of the villagers were grouped around the pitch-pans. The farmers rushed forward to open the carriage-door, and as Lenore jumped out, and her face was seen, the women pressed nearer, and the men broke out into loud acclamations. All looked in eager expectation at the carriage. But the welcome met with no return. The baron was got out with some difficulty, and with sunken head, supported by his wife and daughter, he toiled up the steps. The pale face of the baroness from behind him had only a mute glance for the tenants and servants—only a short nod of recognition for Anton, who proceeded to lead them to their suite of rooms.
"All very nice, Mr. Wohlfart," said she, with quivering lips; and as he remained standing and waiting for his first orders, she dismissed him with a wave of the hand, and the words, "I thank you." When the door had closed upon Anton, the baron stood helpless in the strange room, and the baroness broke out into loud weeping. Lenore leaned against the window, looking out into the snow-covered plain, with its black wall at the horizon, and great tears rolled silently down her cheeks. It was with a heavy heart that Anton returned to tell the people assembled that the family were fatigued and overcome, and would not be seen by them till the morning. Karl had the carriage unpacked, and led the old cook, who wept like her mistress, into the underground kitchen. None of the family reappeared that evening, and the light was soon put out in their rooms; but the pitch still glowed and flickered in the wind, and a black cloud rose above the window where the baron sat hiding his face in his hands.
Such was the entrance of this family upon their new estate.
"How beautifully Wohlfart has arranged every thing!" said Lenore to her mother the following day.
"These high rooms are dreadful," replied the baroness, wrapping her shawl around her; "and the monotonous brown of the walls makes them still more desolate!"
"It is surely time to send and ask him to come here and speak to us?" suggested Lenore, timidly.
"Your father is not yet in a mood to speak to him."
"Do not leave my father alone with Wohlfart," implored Lenore. "It would be horrible if he were to treat him rudely."
The baroness sighed. "We must accustom ourselves to pay to a stranger in our house a degree of attention and observance which will be irksome both to your father and to us."
"How will you arrange about the housekeeping?" asked Lenore, again. "Wohlfart will, of course, have his meals with us?"
"Impossible!" said the baroness, firmly. "You know what a melancholy thing our dinner is. Your father is not yet calm enough to be able to bear the daily presence of a stranger."
"Is he to eat with the servants, then?" asked Lenore, bitterly.
"He will have his table laid in his own room, and on Sundays we shall always invite him, and, if he is not disagreeable to your father, often in the evenings also. More would be troublesome to all parties. It is desirable to reserve at first a comfortable amount of freedom. Your father's state will be sufficient excuse."
She rang, and Anton was summoned. Lenore went to meet him, and with tearful eyes silently held out her hand. Anton was moved when he saw the traces of suffering in her mother's face. The baroness prayed him to be seated, and in well-chosen words expressed her gratitude for all he had done, and asked him both for information and advice. Then she went on to say, "My husband wishes to speak to you. I earnestly beg you to remember that the baron is an invalid. He has suffered fearfully in mind and body. He is never free from pain, and his helplessness distresses him inexpressibly. We are careful to avoid whatever may excite him, and yet we can not avert dark hours, nay, days. You, sir, will be considerate if his gloomy mood should affect you disagreeably. Time, they say, heals all. I hope it will restore him to peace."
Anton promised all possible consideration.
"My husband will naturally wish to be placed in possession of all the facts connected with this property, and yet I dread any painful impressions for him. Therefore, whenever you have any thing important to communicate, try to make the matter intelligible to me in the first instance. I may thus spare you much that is disagreeable. I shall have my writing-table carried into one of the rooms near yours, and I shall daily spend part of my mornings there. Lenore is her father's private secretary. And now, be kind enough to wait till I have announced your visit to the baron."
The baroness left the room. Anton looked down gravely. Lenore went up to him and said, as cheerfully as she could, "Brown walls, Wohlfart! my favorite color. You are not glad we are come, you ungallant man!"
"Only on your own account," replied Anton, pointing to the snowy plain. "Whenever I walked through the fields, I have always thought how lonely you would be here, and when I paced these great rooms of an evening, I have feared that your time would hang very heavily. The town is more than six miles distant, and even there you will find but little; the wretched lending-library will hardly satisfy you."
"I will draw," said Lenore; "I will do fancy work. Alas! I shall find it difficult, Mr. Wohlfart, for I am not skillful. I do not care for lace on either cuff or collar; but mamma, who is accustomed to have every thing so beautiful, and in such order—oh, how sorry I am for mamma!"
Anton tried to comfort her.
"We were obliged to leave the capital," cried Lenore; "we should all have perished if we had remained in that dreadfulentourage. Our own property in other hands, cold, distant faces on all sides, every where false friends, smooth words, and a pity which maddened. I am delighted that we are alone here. And even were we to suffer cold and hunger, I could bear it better far than the shrugging of Madame Werner's shoulders. I have learned to hate my fellow-creatures," said she, vehemently. "When you have been with papa, I will come down, and then you must show me the house, the farm, and the village. I want to see where my poor pony is, and what the people about look like."
The baroness now returned, and led Anton into her husband's room. Helpless and confused, the baron rose from his chair. Anton felt the deepest compassion for him. He looked at his sunken face, bent figure, and the black bandage over his eyes. He warmly declared his ardent wish to be of use to him, and begged his indulgence if he had in any way erred in judgment hitherto. Then he proceeded to tell him how he found the estate, and what had been done up to the present time.
The baron heard the report almost in silence, only making a few short observations in return. But when Anton proceeded, with the utmost delicacy indeed, but still with the precision of a man of business, to state the obligations under which the baron at present lay, and his inadequate means of fulfilling them, the nobleman writhed in his chair like a victim on the rack. And Anton keenly felt how painful it must needs be to him to have a stranger thus introduced into his most secret affairs—a stranger anxious to spare his feelings, it is true, but at every moment betraying that anxiety, and so giving fresh offense. The baroness, who stood behind her husband, looked on nervously at the attempts he made to control his irritation, but at length she waved her hand so significantly that Anton had abruptly to break off his report.
When he had left the room, the baron flung himself back in the utmost excitement, and exclaimed, "You have set a trustee over me." He was perfectly beside himself, and the baroness vainly attempted to compose him.
Such was Anton's entrance into the family.
He too returned sadly to his room. From that moment he felt convinced that it would hardly be possible to establish a good understanding between himself and the baron. He was accustomed, in matters of business, to express himself curtly, and to be promptly understood, and he now foresaw long disquisitions on the part of the ladies, succeeded probably by no decision at all. Even his position with regard to them appeared uncertain. True, the baroness had treated him with the utmost graciousness, but still as a stranger. He feared that she would continue the great lady, giving just as much of her confidence as might be useful to herself, but warding off all intimacy by a cold politeness. Even Lenore's friendly voice could not restore his equanimity. They went over the premises silently and thoughtfully, like two men of business engaged in making an estimate.
Such as these first days promised was Anton's life for the next few months, anxious, monotonous, formal. He wrote, kept accounts, and ate alone in his room, and when invited to join the family circle the party was far from a cheerful one. The baron sat there like a lump of ice, a check upon all free and animated conversation.
Formerly Anton used to admire all the accessories of the family, the arrangement of theirsalons, and the elegant trifles around. Now, the self-same furniture stood in the drawing-room suite—even the little foreign birds had survived their winter journey—the same carpets, the same worsted-work, even the same perfume was there; but now the very birds seemed to him rather bores than otherwise, and soon nothing about the room interested him but the share he had himself had in putting it in order.
Anton had brought with him a profound respect for the polished tone, the easy conversation, and the graceful forms of social intercourse that prevailed in the family circle.
But, crushed and downcast as the Von Rothsattels now were, he could not expect the same light-hearted grace that had captivated him at Frau von Baldereck's parties. They had been torn away from their accustomed circle; all the external influences, and the excitement which keep the spirits elastic, and help us to vanquish sorrow, were wanting now, and he modestly confessed that he could afford no substitute for them. But there was more than this to disenchant him. When, after a silent evening, he returned to his own room, he often regretted that they took no part in much that interested him; that their culture, in short, was of a perfectly different order; and, before long, he took the liberty of doubting whether their culture was the better of the two. Almost all his reading was new to them, and when they discussed the newspapers, he marveled at their ignorance of foreign politics. History was by no means a favorite study with the baron, and if, for example, he condemned the English Constitution, he showed himself, at the same time, very little acquainted with it. On another evening, it came out, to Anton's distress, that the family's views of the position of the island of Ceylon widely differed from those established by geographers. The baroness, who was fond of reading aloud, revered Chateaubriand, and read fashionable novels by lady writers. Anton found Atala unnatural, and the novels insipid. In short, he soon discovered that those with whom he lived contemplated the universe from a very different point of view to his own. Unconsciously they measured all things by the scale of their own class-interests. Whatever ministered to these found favor, however unbearable to mankind at large; whatever militated against them was rejected, or at least pushed out of sight. Their opinions were often mild, sometimes even liberal, but they always seemed to wear an invisible helmet, visor up, and to look through the narrow space on the doings of common mortals; and whenever they saw any thing in these that was displeasing, but unalterable, they silently shut down the visor, and isolated themselves. The baron sometimes did this awkwardly, but his wife understood to perfection how, by a bewitching turn of the hand, to shut out whatever was unwelcome.
The family belonged to the German church in Neudorf; but there was no choir there, and no pew near the altar. They would have had to sit in the body of the church among the rustics: that was out of the question. So the baron set up a chapel in the castle, and sent every now and then for a minister. Anton seldom made his appearance at this domestic worship, preferring to ride to Neudorf, where he sat by the side of the bailiff among the country people.
He had other vexations too. A wine-merchant's traveler forced his way on one occasion through sand and forest into the very study of the baron. He was an audacious fellow, with a great gift of the gab, and a devoted lover of races and steeple-chases. He brought with him a whole budget of the latest sporting intelligence, and bamboozled the baron into ordering a pipe of port wine. Anton looked at the empty purse, cursed the pipe, and hurried into the audience-chamber of the baroness. It required a long feminine intrigue to effect the retraction of the order given.
The baron was displeased with his carriage-horses, which were no longer young, and, besides, of a chestnut color. This last peculiarity might, indeed, have been supposed immaterial to him now, but it had been an annoyance for years, his family having always had a preference for roans; nay, was there not an old distich to the following effect:
"Who rides thus through the fray alone?I ween a noble knight,The red drops fall from his gallant roan,With red is the saddle dight."
This was supposed to allude to some remote ancestor, and on this account the Rothsattels (red-saddles) prized roans above all other horseflesh; but, as the color is rare in handsome horses, the baron had never had the good luck to meet with them. Now, however, Fate willed that a horse-dealer in the district should just bring round a pair. The blind man evinced a delight which much affected the ladies. He had them ridden, and driven backward and forward, carefully felt them all over, took Karl's opinion as to their merits, and revolved a plan of pleasantly surprising the baroness by their purchase. Karl ran to advertise Anton of the impending danger, and he again entered the audience-chamber, but on this occasion he met with no favorable hearing. The baroness, indeed, allowed that he was not wrong in theory, but still she implored him to let the baron have his own way. At length the new horses were in all secrecy led to their stalls, and the purchaser gave, besides the chestnuts and all the money he had in his private purse, a promise of letting the horse-dealer have, after the next harvest, two hundred bushels of oats at an unreasonably low price. Anton and Karl, in their zeal for the estate, were highly indignant at this when it first came to their knowledge months later.
The forester had the misfortune not to be an especial favorite. The baroness disliked the abrupt manner of the old man, who, in his solitude, had entirely lost the obsequiousness to which she was accustomed. One evening a plan was disclosed of giving him notice, and replacing him by a younger man, who might be dressed in livery, and serve as a representative huntsman, the family having been used to a functionary of this kind on their late estate. Anton had some difficulty in concealing his annoyance while stating that, in the disturbed state of the district, the experienced man, who was feared by every scapegrace around, was of more use than a stranger. Lenore was on his side, and the plan was given up, with a look of resignation on the part of the baroness, and an icy silence on that of her husband. Both henceforth endured the uncouth old man with outward composure, but with visors down.
These were slight discords, indeed, such as must necessarily occur when we live with people whose habits of thought and action differ from our own; but it was no sign of contentment that Anton kept constantly repeating this to himself. Not only did Karl suit him in many ways better than the family, but so did the forester, and the shepherd too; and he sometimes felt with pride that he was other than they were—that he was one of the people. Lenore, too, was not what he had imagined her. He had always honored in her the lady of rank, and felt her cordial friendship a favor; but now she ceased to impress him as a distinguished person. He intimately knew the pattern of all her cuffs and collars, and very plainly saw a small rent in her dress which the careless girl herself was long in observing. He had read through the few books that she had brought with her, and had often, in conversation, overstepped the limits of her information. Her way of expressing herself no longer excited his admiration, and he would have been less indignant than of yore if his friend Fink had made inquiry as to her sense. She had less information than another girl of his acquaintance, and her tastes were not half so cultivated; but hers was a healthy, upright nature; she had quick feelings and noble instincts, and oh! she was beautiful. That he had always thought her, but his tender reverence long wrapped her image round with a sacred halo. It was now, however, when he saw her daily in her simple morning dress, in the every-day moods of this working world, that he first felt the full spell of her blooming youth. Yet he was often dissatisfied with her too. One of the first days after her arrival she had anxiously inquired how she could make herself useful in the house, and he told her that her superintendence in the kitchen, and exact keeping of accounts, might be of very great use indeed. He had ruled an account-book for her, and had had the pleasure of teaching her how to make entries in it. She threw herself warmly into the new pursuit, and ran into the kitchen ten times a day to see how Balbette was getting on; but her calculations were not much to be depended upon, and after having for a week conscientiously labored at the task, some days of sunshine came, and then she could not resist accompanying the forester on his rounds after game, or riding far beyond the boundary of the estate on her little pony, forgetting alike the cook and her book-keeping.
Again she purposed studying history and learning a little English under Anton's superintendence. Anton was delighted. But she could not recollect dates, found the pronunciation of English impossible, and sauntered off into the stable, or went into the room of the bailiff, whose mechanical achievements she could watch with the utmost interest for hours at a time. One day, when Anton came to call her to her English lesson, he found her in Karl's room, a plane in her hand, working hard at the seat of a new sledge, and good-naturedly saying, "Don't take so much trouble with me, Wohlfart; I can learn nothing: I have always been a dunce."
The snow again lay thick on the ground, and millions of ice-crystals glittered in the sunshine on bush and tree. Karl had two sledges in order, one a double-seated one, the other a running sledge for the young lady, which, with her assistance, he had painted beautifully.
At the next morning conference Anton had to announce to the baroness that he must go in the afternoon to Tarow on some police business.
"We know the Tarowskis from having met them at the Baths," said the baroness. "We were quite intimate while there with Frau von Tarowska and her daughter. I earnestly wish that the baron should have some acquaintance in the neighborhood. Perhaps I may be able to prevail upon him to pay a visit with us to-day. At all events, we ladies will avail ourselves of your escort, and make an excursion thither."
Anton gently reminded her of the vanished Bratzky and his own suspicions.
"They are only suspicions," said the baron, soothingly, "and there can be no doubt that it is our duty to call. Indeed, I can not believe that Herr von Tarowski had any thing to do with the man's disappearance."
In the afternoon the two sledges were brought round. The baroness seated herself with her husband in the larger one, and Lenore insisted upon driving her own. "Wohlfart shall sit behind me on the seat," decided she.
The baron whispered to his wife, "Wohlfart!"
"I can not allow you to drive alone," calmly replied she. "Have no anxiety. He is in your service, besides; there is no great impropriety; and you and I shall be together."
The little bells sounded merrily across the plain. Lenore sat in the highest spirits in her little nutshell of a seat, and loudly urged on her horse. She often turned round, and her laughing face looked so lovely under her dark cap that Anton's whole heart went out toward her. Her green veil fluttered in the wind, and brushed across his cheeks, hung over his face, and concealed the view. The next moment his breath moved the ribbon round her neck, and he saw that only that slight silken covering lay between his hand and her white throat and golden hair. Absorbed in this contemplation, he could hardly resist the delight of gently passing his fur glove over her hood, when a hare jumped from its form close to him, shaking its ears threateningly, and significantly flinging its legs in the air. Anton understood the friendly hint, and drew back the fur glove; and the hare, pleased to have done a good turn, galloped off over the plain.
Our hero turned his thoughts into another direction. "This white road bears no trace of man's presence, no slides, no footprints; there is no life around to disturb the silent sleep of nature. We are travelers penetrating into regions hitherto untrodden. One tree is like another, the snow expanse is boundless, the silence of the grave around, and the laughing sunshine above. I wish we were going on thus the whole day through."
"I am so glad to drive you for once," said Lenore, bending back, and giving him her hand.
Anton so far forgot the hare as to imprint a kiss upon her glove.
"It is Danish leather," laughed Lenore; "do not give yourself the trouble."
"Here is a hole," said Anton, prepared to renew the attempt.
"You are very attentive to-day," cried Lenore, slowly withdrawing her hand. "The mood suits you charmingly, Wohlfart."
The fur glove was again stretched out to detain the hand withdrawn. At that moment two crows on the nearest tree began a violent dispute, screamed, croaked, and flew about Anton's head.
"Begone, you wretched creatures!" thought Anton, in his excitement; "you shall not disturb me any more."
But Lenore looked full and frankly at him. "I am not sure, either, that you ought to be so attentive," said she, gravely. "You should not kiss my hand, for I have no wish to return the compliment, and what is right for the one must be right for the other. Huzza! my horse, forward!"
"I am curious to know how these Poles will receive us," said Anton, resuming their former conversation.