"Well, well," said the surgeon cheerfully, "for the present you can only keep him quiet, and give him some red wine as often as possible, to repair the loss of blood; to-morrow I will try to extract the bullet."
He departed, accompanied by old Lohmeier.
Fritz, Deyke, and Margaret remained with the patient, and watched his breathing; with the greatest punctuality the young girl handed a spoonful of wine to the cuirassier, who poured it carefully into the officer's mouth.
Old Lohmeier brought Fritz some cold supper and a draught of his own beer. The young man hastily despatched the supper, his appetite was as good as ever, the beer he declined.
"I could not keep awake," he said.
"Now go to bed, Margaret," said her father, "we will tend the wounded man; sitting up at night will tire you."
"What is the loss of one night's sleep, father," said Margaret, "when a man's life is in danger? Let me stay, he might want something."
Her father did not gainsay her, and his look of satisfaction acknowledged she was right. Fritz Deyke said nothing, but he raised his large true-hearted blue eyes with an expression of gratitude to the young girl's face.
Lohmeier seated himself in an armchair and soon nodded; the young people remained near the bed, and scrupulously carried out the surgeon's orders, watching with pleasure every fresh sign of life in their patient, sometimes a deep breath, sometimes a slight flush passing over his pale face.
For a long time they sat in silence.
"You are a good girl," Fritz said at last, when she had just handed him a spoonful of wine, and he held out his hand to her in hearty friendship; "how thankful my lieutenant's mother will be to you, for what you have done for her son."
"Ah! his poor mother!" she said with emotion, responding to the warm pressure of his hand, whilst a tear shone in her clear eyes; "is she a great lady?"
Fritz Deyke imparted to her in low whispers all about the lieutenant's family, and the old house in Blechow, and he told her of beautiful Wendland, with its rich pastures and dark fir woods, and then of his own home, of his father, and the farm and acres; and the young girl listened silently and attentively to the soldier's words. The pictures they presented were so natural, so clear and so bright, and they were all gilded by the poetic shimmer surrounding the brave cuirassier, who had saved his playmate in the bloody battle-field, and who now watched so anxiously over the life still so precarious.
The night passed quietly in old Lohmeier's house. Loud, merry voices rang without, from the soldiers quartered in the town, and from the bivouacs, and when the old brewer sometimes woke he glanced benevolently at the young soldier and the wounded officer, whose presence prevented his house from being otherwise occupied, for all the troops had respected the words Fritz had written on the door. No one had knocked, but all had passed it in silence.
The morning of the 28th June dawned brilliantly, as if to greet the victorious soldiers in their cantonments. Already all was movement at head-quarters. The king in a proclamation to the army had expressed in a few affectionate words his thanks for their exertions and courage.
Then the burial of the dead took place. They were interred, so far as they could be found on the battle-field, in the churchyard of Langensalza.
The king with his suite stood near the open graves, whilst the clergyman of the little town, in a few simple words, commended to eternal rest the warriors united in death, Prussians and Hanoverians; and the king, who could not see the brave men who lay at his feet, true soldiers of duty and of their rightful lord, stooped down in silence, seized a handful of earth, and with his own royal hand strewed the first dust upon the loyal dead.
"May the earth lay lightly on you!" whispered the king, and in a still lower voice he added, "Happy are they who rest in peace!"
Then he folded his hands, repeated the Lord's Prayer, and taking the arm of the crown prince, returned to the Schützhaus.
On his way back, groups of soldiers who stood about greeted him with loud "Hurrahs!" and cries of "Forwards! forwards!"
The king bent down his head, a sorrowful expression appeared in his face.
As soon as he reached his room, he sent for the general in command. He was with the troops, and an hour passed before he entered the king's apartment.
"Are the troops ready to march?" asked the king.
"No, your majesty! The army is done for, quite done for!" cried the general, striking his hand on his breast. "There are no provisions forthcoming, and the ammunition is scarcely sufficient for the first round."
"Then in your opinion, what is to be done?" asked the king, calmly and coldly.
"Your majesty!" cried Arentschildt, "the general staff is unanimous in declaring a capitulation to be unavoidable."
"Wherefore?" asked the king.
"The general staff is of opinion that the army cannot march," cried the general; "besides, overwhelming forces are drawing up on every side; from the north the outposts have sent in word that General Manteuffel is surrounding us; in the south General Vogel von Falckenstein has collected troops from Eisenach, and has cut off the road to Gotha."
"That would have been impossible had we marched on yesterday evening," said the king.
"An advance was impossible, as the general staff declared!" cried General von Arentschildt.
The king was silent.
"Your majesty!" cried the general, striking his breast; "it is hard for me to say the word--capitulate! but there is nothing else to be done. I beg your majesty's permission to commence arrangements with General von Falckenstein."
"I will send you my orders in an hour," said the king; "leave your adjutant here."
And he turned away.
The general left the room.
"It must be so!" cried the king sorrowfully. "The blood of all these brave men has flowed in vain. In vain has been all the pain, the anguish, and the toil--and why in vain? Because my eyes are dark; because I cannot lead my valiant troops as my forefathers have done, as the brave Brunswick--oh! it is hard, very hard!"
The king's face had a dark expression, he clenched his teeth, and raised his sightless eyes to heaven.
Then the anger vanished from his countenance, peace took its place, a sorrowful but gentle smile came to his lips. He folded his hands, and said in a low tone:
"My God and Saviour bore for me the crown of thorns; for me He shed His blood upon the cross. O Lord, not my will but Thine be done!"
He touched the golden bell which had been brought from his cabinet at Herrenhausen.
The groom of the chambers entered.
"I beg Count Platen, General Brandis, Count Ingelheim, with Herr Lex and Herr Meding, to come to me at once."
In a short time these gentlemen entered the room.
"You know the position in which we are placed, gentlemen," said the king; "we are surrounded by the enemy in superior numbers, and the general in command declares that the troops cannot march from exhaustion, that they are without either provisions or ammunition. He considers a capitulation unavoidable. Before I decide, I wish to hear your views. What do you think, Count Ingelheim?"
Gravely and with painful emotion, the Austrian ambassador replied: "It is most melancholy, your majesty, after such a day as yesterday to speak of capitulation; but if we are really surrounded by superior forces, brought up since yesterday evening," this he said with emphasis, "it would be a useless sacrifice of many brave soldiers to resist, and no one could thus advise your majesty."
"If we could only send to Berlin," said Count Platen, "it might yet----"
"Your majesty," interrupted General Brandis, in a trembling voice, "if it were possible that like the Duke of Brunswick you could draw your sword, and ride yourself at the head of your army, I would still cry 'Forwards!' I believe we should cut our way through; but as it is----" he stamped with his foot, and turned away to hide the tears that blinded his eyes.
The state-councillor Meding came close to the king.
"Your majesty," he said, in a husky voice, "the unavoidable must be endured; the sun shines even on the darkest day! Your majesty must not uselessly sacrifice the lives of your subjects, but," he continued, "you are answerable to history, and it must be clearly stated that a further march is impossible. If I may presume to advise your majesty, cause the general in command, and each commander of a brigade, upon his military honour and the oath given to his sovereign, to declare before God and his conscience that the troops can neither march nor fight, and that they have neither food nor ammunition. Thus will your majesty be freed from all reproach from your army, your country, and history."
The king bent his head in approval.
"So shall it be," he said. "Draw up such a document with the assistance of Lex, and send it to General Arentschildt."
"And permit me, your majesty," cried Count Ingelheim, "at this solemn moment to express my conviction that notwithstanding the heavy trial it has pleased God to lay upon you, you will return in triumph to your capital, as surely as Austria and my emperor will, to the last man, maintain the rights of Germany."
The king held out his hand to him.
"You too have borne the fatigues of the campaign in vain," he said, with a melancholy smile.
"Not in vain, your majesty," cried Count Ingelheim. "I have seen a king and an army without fear and without reproach."
An hour later the king received the declaration he had demanded, signed by the general in command, the chief of the general staff, and all the brigadiers. A capitulation was concluded with General Vogel von Falckenstein, but soon afterwards General von Manteuffel arrived, and at the command of the King of Prussia granted other conditions, which were highly favourable to the Hanoverian army.
The officers retained their arms, their baggage, their horses, and all their privileges; and even the sub-officers retained their rank. The privates gave up their arms and horses to officers appointed by the King of Hanover, and they delivered them to Prussian commissioners; they were then dismissed to their homes.
But first General Manteuffel, at the express command of the King of Prussia, publicly acknowledged the brave conduct of the Hanoverian soldiers.
The King of Hanover sent Count Platen, General von Brandis, and Herr Meding before him to Linz, there to await him; he himself rested for a short time in the castle of the Duke of Altenburg, from whence he proceeded to Vienna to await further events.
The Hanoverian soldiers, who were smitten as by a thunderbolt from the seventh heaven by the capitulation, laid down their arms with bitter grief, and with dust on their heads returned to the homes they had left so confident of victory.
But they could return unhumiliated, for they had done what was possible. The brave and faithful army, on the last battle-field where the ancient banner of their country was unfurled, had raised a monument of honour and glory which the chivalrous commander of the Prussian troops was the first to adorn with the laurels of his praise.
But who, that knows the history of that day and its important results, can avoid asking the question, "Why was it not possible that two such noble, chivalrous, and pious princes, whose warriors stood opposed in deadly fight, should not have known and understood each other?"
The sultry heat of summer was extremely oppressive in the plain surrounding the quiet village of Blechow; the sky looked dark and heavy, not that it was covered with clouds, but it was grey from the heavy atmosphere, and although the sun was still high above the horizon, his rays were of a dark blood-red colour. Deep stillness prevailed. Almost all the young men had left the village; as soon as the news came that the troops were concentrated at Göttingen they had set out to join the army there, or to overtake it on its march. But the stillness was the most complete in the old castle, where the president, with gloomy wrinkles on his brow, paced up and down the great hall, and gazed from time to time across the garden at the broad plain beyond. He had obeyed the king's command, that all magistrates should remain at their posts; he had, through the Landrostei, received a decree from the ministry whereby the government of the country was delivered to the Prussian Civil Commissioner, Herr von Hardenburg, and he had given up all business to the Auditor von Bergfeld, saying, "Your knowledge is quite sufficient to enable you to understand and execute all the orders which may be issued by the government; do everything, and when you want my signature bring me the papers. I will remain at my post, and will sign them, since the king has so commanded; but do not consult me, for I will hear nothing of all this misery, and my old heart, which is sad enough already, shall not be pricked to death with pins. But if there is any oppression which I could by any possibility avert, then tell me the whole matter, and the Prussian Civil Commissioner shall hear old Wendenstein's voice as plainly as the Hanoverian board have ever heard it!" With that he left the office; he signed his name when needful, and he seldom opened his lips after the foreign occupation was completed.
Madame von Wendenstein went silently and quietly about the house,--she looked after the house keeping, and arranged everything as punctually as ever,--but sometimes the old lady would pause suddenly, her dreamy eyes fixed on the far-off distance, as if they sought to follow her thoughts beyond the wood-encircled horizon,--then she would hastily resume her occupation, and hurry restlessly through the well-known rooms, and the more she ordered and arranged the more she seemed to become mistress of her heavy trouble.
It was very quiet too in the Pfarrhaus. No one had left it, all went on as usual, but the general depression seemed to weigh down the humble roof, and even the roses in the garden hung their heads exhausted by the burning heat of the sun.
The pastor had gone out, as was his custom, to visit some of his people, for he did not consider the Sunday services his only duty, but thought that he who would really be a shepherd and bishop of souls must carry the word of God in friendly converse into the daily life of his flock and know its joys and sorrows.
Helena sat at the window, and mechanically plied her needle, but her eyes were often thoughtfully turned to the far distance, and her hands sank wearily into her lap.
Candidate Behrmann sat opposite to her; he was as neatly dressed and as smoothly brushed as ever, and his expressionless and composed countenance looked happier and more cheerful than usual.
His sharp observing eyes followed the looks the young girl fixed on the distant horizon, and that the languishing conversation might not entirely fail, he said,--
"It is strange what a sultry oppression hangs over all nature; we feel the actual weight of this thick heavy atmosphere."
"Our poor soldiers---what they must suffer from marching in this heat!" cried Helena, sighing.
"In those days I feel how doubly happy I am," said the candidate, "when I think of my peaceful and spiritual calling, and contrast it with the useless and really reprehensible employment of the soldiers, and all they must now undergo."
"Useless and reprehensible!" cried Helena, gazing at him with her great eyes; "do you call it useless to fight for your king and your country?"
"Not according to the views of the world," he said sanctimoniously; "all these people are doing their duty according to their lights; but the king himself is reprehensible, and the sacrifices they make for him are useless, for what will they gain? Oh! it is a nobler fight, and more pleasing to God, to struggle with spiritual weapons against sin and unbelief, and to benefit mankind--as your father does, Helena," he added, "and as I hope to emulate him in doing."
"Certainly it is a nobler calling, beautiful and holy, but a soldier also serves God when he fights on the side of right," said the young girl warmly.
"Which side is right?" asked the candidate; "both sides call on the God of battles, and very often what is evidently the wrong side conquers."
"For a soldier," cried Helena, "that side is the right which his duty and the oath plighted to his sovereign calls upon him to defend."
"Certainly, certainly," said the candidate, as if agreeing with her; "but women should feel greater interest in peaceful and beneficial usefulness,--what help, for instance, can a soldier be to his wife and children? at any moment he may be called away to do battle for the great ones of the earth,--he gives his life for a cause for which he does not care, and his family are left in need and misery."
"And they bear in their hearts the proud consciousness that he for whom they weep is worthy to be called a hero," cried Helena with kindling eyes.
The candidate gave his cousin a reproving look, and said, in a solemn voice,--
"I believe the conflict in God's service has also its heroes."
"Certainly," said Helena, without embarrassment; "every calling has its own round of duty to fulfil, and we," she added with a smile, "are here to comfort and to help those who are wounded in the battle of life."
And again she dreamily turned her eyes to the distance. After a moment she rose hastily.
"I think," she said, "the heat will be less oppressive out of doors. I will walk to meet my father; he must now be returning." As she put on her straw hat she asked, "Will you come with me, cousin?"
"With the greatest pleasure," he replied eagerly; and they left the parsonage together, taking the road which led to the village.
"I have so greatly enjoyed my life here," said the candidate, after they had walked for a short time in silence, "that I already quite understand the charm of this quiet, peaceful seclusion, and I own myself ready to forego all larger circles of society."
"You see," said Helena merrily, "a short time ago you shuddered at our solitude, as I did at the restless, crowded city. At a time like this," she added, with a sigh, "it is hard to be so completely cut off from the world; we literally hear nothing--what has happened to the army and the king?" she said with energy. "Our poor sovereign!"
The candidate was silent.
"Really," he said, after a short pause, continuing his own flow of thought, as if he had not heard his cousin's last words, "really one. cannot feel solitary here. Your father's conversation, so simple, yet so rich in thoughts, offers greater variety than many an assembly in the great world; and your society, dear Helena," he added warmly.
She looked at him with astonishment. "My society," she interrupted, with a smile, "cannot compensate for your friends in town; my learning----"
"Your learning!" he exclaimed hastily; "is it learning that charms us in a woman?"
"A certain amount must be needful," said she, half jokingly, "when conversing with a learned man."
"Not for me," he cried. "Natural simplicity of heart and intellect has a charm for me. A man wishes to form, to educate his wife, not to find her opinions already fixed," he cried, his voice assuming a sudden tenderness of expression.
Her eyes were raised to his for a moment, and then lowered. They walked on for a time in silence.
"Helena," he said, "it is true that the idea of quiet, simple usefulness in the country attracts me more and more; and it is also true that your society has greatly influenced me."
She walked on in silence.
"When a man relinquishes the intellectual pleasures of the great world," he added, "he naturally seeks some equivalent; and this equivalent I find in my family, my home. I shall remain here to assist your father in his spiritual office. I shall experience double happiness in my labours, if my own heart finds a lovely flower to reward my unassuming industry. Helena," he continued, with animation, "shall you find no satisfaction in uniting with me to support and cheer the evening of your father's life, and in assisting me in my holy calling? Will you not stand at my side as a help-mate, such as your mother was to your father?"
The young girl walked on, her eyes fixed on the ground. A deep sigh heaved her breast.
"Cousin----"
"It does not become me, a servant of the Church," he interrupted, "to speak to you in the manner and the tone in which a man of the world might declare his love; pure and bright must be the flame which holds a place in the heart of a minister. But such a flame my heart offers you, Helena; and I ask you, plainly and candidly, will you accept what my heart can give, and do you believe you can thus find the quiet happiness of your life?"
She stood still, and looked at him calmly and honestly.
"Your words surprise me, cousin. I did not expect to hear this, and so suddenly----"
"The relations between us must be made clear," he said. "For this reason I have told you the feelings of my heart. A minister cannot woo as a man of the world; you cannot be surprised at that, being yourself the daughter of a minister."
"But consider," she said hesitatingly, "we scarcely know each other."
"Have you no confidence in me?" he asked. "Could you not accept me as your support through life?"
She looked on the ground. A deep blush spread over her face.
"But one must also----"
"Well, what?" he asked, and with piercing glance he gazed at her anxiously.
"Love," she whispered.
"And that you believe you could not feel for me?" he enquired.
Again she looked up at him. Again she sighed deeply, and her eyes were for a moment turned dreamily to the distance. Then a slight, half roguish smile came to her lips, and she whispered,--
"One cannot tell beforehand!"
"Beforehand?" he said, and a darker expression passed over his face.
"Cousin," she said, with sweetness and candour, as she held out her hand to him, "your words mean well, and it is flattering to me that you should think I can be anything to your life. Let me then tell you honestly, I think you are mistaken. Perhaps," she added kindly, "it is not needful to pursue this conversation, that has so surprised me, just now. Give me time. I promise to think of what you have said; and when we know each other better, I will tell you."
He looked down gloomily.
"Oh," he said bitterly, "your heart answers already; it does not respond to the simple language of my feelings. I truly do not know how to raise excitement and restless emotion. The servant of the Church cannot hope to cause the fiery passion that a--young officer----"
She stood still. Her face was very pale, and her eyes were fixed upon him with a proud look.
He stopped suddenly, as if displeased with himself, and his excited features resumed their usual smooth and calm expression.
"Cousin," she said coldly, "I must beg you not to continue this conversation now. Examine your own feelings, and give me time. My father----"
"Your father's wishes are my own," he said.
She bent her head, and a melancholy look passed over her face.
"My father," she then said, "cannot wish me to make any promise without examining my own heart."
"And you will tell me your decision, when you have made this examination?"
"Yes," said she. "Now leave me, I beg."
A deep breath passed through his thin lips; he cast his eyes to the ground, and walked by her silently and gravely.
"Here comes my father," cried Helena, and hastened to meet the pastor, who was returning by a side road leading to some of the scattered cottages of the village.
The candidate followed in silence.
"This is well," said the old gentlemen, "my children, that you come together to meet me; it is better in these troubled times not to be alone. Throughout the village there is sorrow and anxiety about the absent, the more so that a rumour is flying through the country of a most exciting nature."
"What is the rumour, papa?" cried Helena; "nothing disastrous?"
"Glorious, yet disastrous," said the pastor; "there has been a great battle, so it is said from village to village, from house to house. Our army has won a great victory; but much, much blood has been shed."
"Oh, how horrible!" cried Helena, with great emotion, as she folded her hands. The candidate's quick eyes regarded her with curiosity; but she did not remark it, her looks were fixed on space.
"People scarcely know which they feel," continued the pastor quietly, "joy at the victory, or anxiety lost sons and brothers should have fallen."
"How happy are those," said the candidate, "who have no relative in the army; then there is no anxiety, no care."
"You have not, like myself, lived here for years," replied the pastor gravely. "Every member of my flock is as dear to me as if he were my relation. I feel each grief that affects them as if I myself were smitten."
Helena involuntarily caught her father's hand with a hasty movement, and pressed it to her lips. The old gentleman felt a tear upon his hand. With a gentle smile, he said,--
"You too, my good child, feel for the sorrows of our friends. I know it must be so; you have grown up amongst them."
Helena covered her face for a moment with her handkerchief and sobbed.
The candidate flashed an evil, malicious side glance upon her, whilst a cold, scornful smile played around his lips.
"I am going to the president," said the pastor; "there they must have the earliest reliable news, and they will be most anxious about the lieutenant. Poor Madame von Wendenstein! Come with me to the castle, children."
And they took the road to the hill upon which the old house stood amidst high dark woods.
Helena took her father's arm, and involuntarily hastened her steps.
They climbed the hill and entered the hall by the open door. The great oak chests stood there as still and solemn as ever, and the old paintings looked down from their frames as gravely and quietly as if there were no changes, no cares nor sorrows in the world of living men.
In the large garden drawing-room Herr von Wendenstein paced up and down with measured step, Madame von Wendenstein sat in her accustomed place before the large round table, and her daughters were beside her; all was as usual, yet a heavy cloud of care weighed on each brow, on each heart.
The president held out his hand to the pastor in silence, silently Madame von Wendenstein greeted her visitors, and the young girls embraced without speaking a word.
"A rumour is abroad of a great battle, and of a great victory," said the pastor; "I hoped here to learn something reliable."
"I have had no news," said the president gloomily. "I only know what has been brought from mouth to mouth; some part will be true; let us hope the news of the victory may be confirmed."
He said nothing of the care and anxiety of his heart for the son who was on the distant battle-field, but an affectionate and sympathizing look flew from beneath his contracted brows towards his wife.
"What a wonderful thing the world is!" she said in a low tone, as she shook her head. "In peaceful times, steam and the telegraph seemed to have annihilated time and space, and news of the most unimportant trifles flew from one end of the earth to the other; and now, when so many hearts are tormented by restless anxiety, news travels slowly and uncertainly from mouth to mouth, as in the days that are long passed away."
"So it is with the proud achievements of human intellect," said the pastor; "when the hand of God seizes the history of a nation, man grows weak and powerless, and all the progress the world has made becomes as nothing. But that it is God's hand must be our consolation, He has power to raise up and to protect, He has power to heal the wounds His hands have made."
With a pious look of resignation, Madame von Wendenstein listened to the pastor's words, but tears trickled down her cheeks, and proved how hard her heart found this anxious suspense.
"I have no news from the army," said the president, "but I have received a letter from my son in Hanover. He tells me of the Prussian government, and praises its order and punctuality highly," said the old gentleman with some bitterness.
"Public men must be in great and painful difficulties in Hanover," said the pastor; "there, political views are much more in the foreground than here in the country, and it must be extremely hard to reconcile the duties of a servant of Hanover with the necessities of the situation."
"It appears as if the gentlemen in office found them easy to reconcile," said the president gloomily. "It is certainly good that the Prussian government should be excellent, prompt, and punctual, but it would never come into my head in these days to feel any particular enthusiasm about it. Well, youth is different to what it was in my day."
The auditor Bergfeld entered the room with a hasty step and an excited look.
"What news do you bring from Lüchow?" cried the president, hastening towards him: and all eyes were fixed on him in mute anxiety.
"It is true!" he cried; "there has been a battle--at Langensalza, and our army is victorious!"
"Thank God!" cried the president; "and have they succeeded in pressing on to the south?"
"Alas, no," said Bergfeld, mournfully, "the day after the battle our brave soldiers were surrounded by overwhelming forces and obliged to capitulate." The president gazed gloomily before him. "Is the king a prisoner?" he asked. "No," said Bergfeld, "the king is free, the capitulation is very honourable, the officers return home with their arms and horses. But," he continued, "there are many wounded; in Hanover committees have been formed, nourishment is wanted, they beg for linen, for bread and meat."
"Everything in the house shall be packed up at once," cried the president, energetically, "the wounded must have the best of everything; my cellar shall be emptied."
Madame von Wendenstein had risen and approached her husband.
"Let me take the things," she said, imploringly. "Why?" cried the president, "you can do no good, and if Karl comes back, it--"
"Ifhe comes back!" cried the old lady, bursting into tears.
"We shall soon hear news of him," said the president, "and until then--"
The sound of voices was heard in the hall. Johann entered and said, "Old Deyke is here; he wishes to speak to the president."
"Bring him in, bring him in!" cried the old gentleman, and the old peasant Deyke came in amongst the excited group, looking as calm and dignified as usual, but with a deep and gloomy gravity spread over his sharp features.
"Well, dear Deyke," cried the president, "have you heard the news; do you come to consult with us how to send in the quickest way all that our brave soldiers need?"
"I have received a letter from my Fritz," said the peasant solemnly, whilst he respectfully took the hand held out to him by the president.
"Well, and how does the brave young fellow get on? cried the old gentleman.
"Has he seen my son?" asked Madame von Wendenstein, gazing at the peasant with anxious eyes.
"He has found the lieutenant," he replied, laconically.
"And my son lives?" cried the poor lady with hesitation. She feared to hear the answer which must touch the inmost string of her heart.
"He lives," said old Deyke. "I wish to say a couple of words to the president alone," he stammered.
"No!" cried Madame von Wendenstein, vehemently, "no, not alone. Deyke, you have some bad news, but I will hear it; I am strong enough to hear anything, but I cannot bear suspense. I beg you," she continued, looking affectionately at her husband, "to let me hear what he has to tell."
The president looked undecided. The pastor came forward slowly.
"Permit your wife to hear the tidings, whatever they may be, my old friend," he said, gravely and quietly. "Your son lives, that is the first and most important point; whatever may be to come, cannot be too hard for a true and pious heart, like our friend's, to bear."
Madame von Wendenstein looked gratefully at the clergyman.
Old Deyke slowly drew out a paper.
"The president will perhaps look at my son's letter?"
"Give it to me," said the pastor; "it belongs to God's servant, an old friend of this house, to impart this message."
He took the paper and walked to the window, through which the last light of the waning day entered the room.
Madame von Wendenstein with widely opened eyes hung on his lips. Helena sat at the table with her head resting on her hand, calm and apparently indifferent; her eyes were cast down; it seemed doubtful whether she saw or heard anything passing around her.
Slowly the pastor read,--
"My dear Father,
"I write at once that you may have news of me, and, thank God, I am well and cheerful; I fell in with the army at Langensalza, and enlisted in the cuirassier guards, and took part in the great battle, and went under a hot fire, but I came out safe and sound. We were victorious, and took two cannon and many prisoners, but to-day we are surrounded by superior numbers, and the generals have said we could not march. So the king capitulated, and we are all coming home. My heart is almost broken when I look at all our brave soldiers going back with the white staff in their hands, and they don't look such cowardly creatures either.
"Now, dear father, I must tell you of Lieutenant von Wendenstein, with whom I must remain, for he is badly wounded, and I cannot leave him here alone. I found him on the battle-field and thought he was dead, but, thank God, it was not so bad as that; and the doctor has extracted the ball, and says he will live if he only has strength to hold out through the fever. I am with him at the brewer Lohmeier's, a good man though he is a Prussian, and the lieutenant is well cared for. My host sends off this letter for me through an acquaintance in the field post. Go at once to the president and tell him all, and have no anxiety about me for I am all right.
"Your son,
"Fritz.
"Written the 28th July, 1866."
The pastor was silent.
The president came up to his wife, put his arm round her shoulders, kissed her grey hair, and said,--
"He lives! my God, I thank thee!"
"And now I may go to him?" asked Madame von Wendenstein.
"And I?" cried her daughter.
"Yes," said the old gentleman, "and I wish I could go with you, but I should be of no use there."
Helena rose; she walked slowly but with a firm step towards Madame von Wendenstein and said, while her eyes shone brilliantly,--
"May I accompany you? If my father will permit it?"
"You, Helena?" cried the pastor.
"Our brave soldiers want nursing," said the young girl, looking firmly at her father, "and you have taught me to help the suffering. Will you not allow me at such a time as this to do my duty?"
The pastor looked kindly at his daughter. "Go, my child, and God be with you;" and turning to Madame von Wendenstein, he added, "Will you take my daughter under your protection?"
"With all my heart," cried the old lady, and folded the pastor's daughter in her arms.
Candidate Behrmann had watched the whole of this scene in silence.
He bit his lips, when Helena announced her intention of accompanying Madame von Wendenstein, and a pale ray shot from his eyes, but his face immediately resumed its smooth smiling expression, he stepped forward and said in a gentle voice,--
"I shall also beg permission, madame, to accompany you on your journey; it will be desirable for you to have a male protector, and I think on the site of the bloody battle-field spiritual consolation will be needed and welcomed. I believe I can be more useful there than here, where until I return my uncle can so well fulfil all the duties of his sacred office alone."
He looked humbly and modestly at his uncle and the president, awaiting their reply.
"That is a good and right thought, my dear nephew," said the pastor, holding out his hand to him; "on yonder battle-field there is grave and blessed work to be done, and I can get on here in the meantime quite well alone."
The president was glad that the ladies should have a protector, and Madame von Wendenstein thanked the candidate heartily for facilitating her journey to her suffering son.
Helena had looked up, startled for a moment when her cousin said he would accompany the ladies; then in silence, with downcast eyes, she listened to the rest of the conversation, neither word nor look betraying the least interest in it.
The greatest movement and activity suddenly began in the old castle.
Madame von Wendenstein hastened through the well-known rooms ordering and arranging, here showing her daughters what must be packed in the travelling trunks, there sorting out wine, sugar, and nourishment of all kinds, then again giving the servants instructions as to what they were to do in her absence: all the silent abstraction which had altered the old lady during the last few days had vanished, with active step and shining eyes she hurried about, and anyone so seeing her might have thought she was preparing for some great festival.
Helena had returned to the Pfarrhaus with her father and the candidate to make her rapid preparations for the journey, and not quite two hours after the journey had been decided on the president's comfortable carriage, with its well-bred powerful horses, stood before the large hall door of the castle.
Madame von Wendenstein gave her husband a long and affectionate embrace, it was the first time for years that they had been separated. He laid his hand on her head and said, "God bless you! and bring you back with our son!"
Old Deyke was there, and a crowd of villagers were there too, with their wives and daughters, for the news had spread like wild-fire that the president's wife and daughter were going to nurse the wounded lieutenant, and that the pastor's daughter and the new candidate were to accompany them. They all came to take leave, and Madame von Wendenstein shook hands with all, and promised each to gain news of this or that relative who was with the army. What the carriage could still hold was taken up with love offerings that all had brought for their relations, and every head was uncovered when at last the carriage rolled away; but there was no shouting, no loud word was heard, and they all went back quietly to their homes, in great anxiety as to what the next few days must bring, whether the life or death of those dear to them.
The president went quietly back into the castle with the pastor, and the two old gentlemen sat together for a long time. They said but little, and yet each found in these weary times consolation in the society of the other. The president cast his eyes round the drawing-room, which was as quiet and comfortable as ever, but when he looked at the place where his wife usually sat, and thought of the cheerful voices which used to sound through the room, and then turned his thoughts to the distant town where his son lay threatened by death, a mist came before his eyes, he pressed his eyelids together and a hot drop fell on his hand. He stood up quickly, and walked several times up and down the room.
The pastor arose.
"My honoured old friend," he said, "at such a moment as this a man like yourself need not be ashamed of a tear! It is late, let us go to rest, and these days will pass away!"
The president stood still, held out his hand to the pastor, and looked at him through the blinding tears which ran down his cheeks.
"Pray to God," he said in a low voice, "to give me back my son."
The pastor went home. All was quiet in the castle and the darkness of night brooded over it, but a light still burned in the president's window, and the servants heard, even until morning dawned, the firm regular step of their old master as he paced up and down in the lonely castle.