Gunther received his dismissal. Sated with his experience of the world, he withdrew from its distracting and bustling turmoil. Old and endearing associations made it no easy matter for his family to transfer their affections to a new home--and yet the change was brought about without impairing their unity of feeling and affection. Those two pure gods, love and science, followed Gunther beyond the mountains, and his heart was free from rancor.
Their home circle now was once more perfect. As if returning from a journey around the world, Gunther again found himself at the starting-point--for he knew that he and his would find a free and self-dependent life the source of the most ennobling and beautiful influences.
Naturally enough, they missed the presence of a cultured circle, its refining influences and the opportunity it affords for an interchange of ideas. But he felt that they would stand the test, and would prove that they could give up all this without greatly missing it. Immediately after his dismissal, he received a most flattering offer of a professorship at one of the great universities. He declined the proffered position. It had been a long cherished idea of his, to improve his knowledge of certain branches of science and to complete certain scientific labors, of which he had thus far merely sketched the outlines. It often grieved him to think that he might quit the world, incomplete in himself and leaving much unfinished work behind him. Life at court, with its constant changes and interruptions, renders connected thought impossible. To mount guard every morning, in full armor; to be ready, at a moment's call, to discuss even the most important subject, in a light conversational manner:--such a life, if persisted in for a number of years, will, in spite of every effort to the contrary, tend to injure one's inner nature.
Fortunately for Gunther, scientific studies and home influences always lent him new vigor. But he was often alarmed lest he should fritter away his life and gradually lose his individuality. To a certain extent, he was perfectly willing to be uniformed; he even admitted that it was both necessary and pleasing, since it represented a remnant of that mental and political discipline which combines and utilizes individuals who were otherwise incongruous and scattered. But, at the same time, Gunther endeavored to prevent any change in himself. He would often, and with special stress, remark that he who suffers any of his essential traits to be thus changed has been subdued and killed by the world, and has ceased to exist as himself.
When, with each succeeding day, he presented himself at court, he came, as it were, from a strange and distant sphere. And it was this which accounted for the severe and almost unbending manner, so often observed in him. He was, nevertheless, forbearing toward the superficiality and the mere desire to please, which he encountered at court, for he well knew that where strength of character or depth of culture do not feed the spring of life, there must needs be some provision for every passing hour, and also an inevitable tendency to make all life center about the daily affairs of a small and exclusive circle.
Gunther's so-called inflexibility also lay in the fact that he never misplaced the center of gravity, and thus, when the prop seemed withdrawn, he could yet stand his ground firmly and had no need to seek for strength from without. And now, when the sudden, but by no means unexpected, rupture took place, it was easy enough to lay aside the privy councilor and remain the doctor. He had soon mastered every trace of ill-feeling produced by his great and sudden fall. He regretted to leave his many friends at the capital and the queen especially. He knew that he could still have been of great benefit to her; "but then," said he to himself, "it will be far better for her to seek and gain strength from herself, and without the aid of others."
Thus Gunther left the capital, and, in doing so, realized a life-long wish to return to his native town.
He had almost attained his seventieth year, and looked upon the remnant of life yet accorded him as a peaceful evening of rest--the reward of a well-spent manhood. He desired, as far as possible, to close his accounts with knowledge, in order that night should not overtake him, while so much was as yet incomplete.
Some years ago, Gunther had built a modest house in his native town, and had intended it as a summer retreat for his family, while his children were still young. And now this house was to serve as a resting-place for the remainder of his life. Madame Gunther and the children had cheerfully taken leave of their old associations. They bade farewell to friends who were near and dear to them. But their life lay in their home, and this home, with all its visible and invisible treasures, accompanied them to their new abode.
Gunther's sister was the only relative he possessed in the little Highland town. She was an active, bustling hostess. The father, who had been a country physician, died while Gunther was studying at the university. Wilhelm had ever been the idol of the family, and the sister--as well as the mother, up to the time of her death--had always regarded him as a sort of daring and successful navigator. With the assistance of her grown-up sons and daughters, the sister had put their new dwelling to rights. Gunther's charming home soon became the center of attraction in the little town, and was, in its way, almost as important as the royal palace at the capital.
Esteem and gratitude were the invisible sentries who guarded the house. The respectful manner in which visitors entered it proved that naught but good-breeding dare cross that threshold.
Gunther's sister, the hostess of the Rose, reaped new honors, and when, within a short time of each other, her two sons and one daughter became betrothed, it was deemed an inestimable piece of good fortune to become connected with the family of the privy councilor. Every stranger who visited the town was speedily informed of this eminent citizen and of his charming household.
A peaceful atmosphere reigned in Gunther's house. It seemed a very temple of science and beauty. It was difficult to decide whether it was more delightful in summer or in winter. In summer there was, of course, less chance to know how familiar its inmates were with all that tends to adorn home life. If the gardens in the neighborhood were less neatly arranged, their seats less comfortable and cozy, the points from which views could be obtained less artistically chosen--their hedges and trees were of just as bright a green and the prospect just as fine. But in winter, when man adorns his home, and when he has naught about him but the little world which he has himself shaped and arranged, then and then only, can we see what a lovely home may be created by those whose light and warmth are derived from themselves.
If a half-frozen traveler, descending from the snowy mountains, had been at once conducted to Gunther's home, he would have imagined that he had landed upon an oasis of civilization.
Salve! was the inscription over the doorway. Architecturally, the building was an improvement on the usual country-house. The roof projected considerably, for it was necessary to prevent the snow from piling itself before the windows; but this projecting roof was decorated with tasteful carvings. The steps were covered with winter plants, the walls were decorated with plaster copies from the Parthenon, the rooms were neatly arranged, and every piece of furniture properly placed. There were also finely engraved copies of the choicest paintings, and, alternating with them, statuettes of the great men of all ages. On every hand, there were marble, plaster, or bronze works of art which had been sent to the celebrated physician by his admirers, and principally by those of the fair sex. Two stuffed bears, which had been sent to him by a Russian princess and served as foot-stools, had been quite the talk of the town.
The rooms were never excessively warm. The temperature was a comfortable one, in which men and plants could thrive. Large leaf-plants were placed at the windows and in the corners of the room. There was also a marble bust of Gunther, made by Irma's teacher, years ago. It was standing on a console and was surrounded by flowers.
Gunther was famous as a ladies' doctor, and was thus in correspondence with many ladies of the higher classes. During the summer, some of these would occasionally visit the little town, for the sake of consulting him, and would sometimes prolong their stay beyond the time intended. The hostess of the Rose had fitted up two houses adjoining her own, and had put them in charge of two of her children, subject, of course, to her own careful supervision. And here the invalid visitors dwelt, while under treatment. Gunther gave a large share of his practice to a young physician who had married the second daughter of his sister, but retained the general superintendence in his own hands.
The little town blessed its distinguished and beneficent citizen. The best of everything always found its way to Gunther's house. Choice fish, the best game, early vegetables, and the finest fruit were brought there, and Madame Gunther was at some trouble to prevent people from overstocking the house. Even their servants were held in honor. Since they moved into the town, they had not once changed their domestics, who were constantly endeavoring to make themselves more useful and obliging. Even the dog and the mule which Gunther had procured for his mountain trips, were regarded with pleasure by the citizens.
It was in the early spring. Madame Gunther and her two daughters were sitting by the window and working. A light-haired little girl, nearly five years old, was playing on the floor, and the three ladies often regarded it with affectionate glances. Aunt Paula seemed to be her favorite, and most of the child's questions were addressed to her.
Change of residence had made no alteration in Madame Gunther. She was still as dignified and refined as of yore, and, as her friends at the capital had been wont to say, every dress she wore seemed as if she had put it on for the first time.
The professor's widow had grown somewhat stouter, and Paula, who had grown in height, was the youthful image of her mother.
"May I call grandfather now?" asked little Cornelia, who noticed that the round table in the center of the room had been set for the second breakfast.
"Not yet, but right soon," replied Paula.
Gunther was still in his working-room. It was furnished simply, provided with a small but choice library, and embellished with appropriate bronzes. Gunther's dress, while at his work-table, was as scrupulously neat as if he expected to be summoned to court at any moment. He invariably rose at five o'clock, all the year round, and had done a full day's work when others were just commencing the day. It was only in unavoidable and exceptional cases that he allowed himself to be disturbed during the morning.
He wrote a great deal. It was rumored at the capital that he was engaged in preparing his memoirs, and he might, had he cared to do so, have had much to tell; for who was so familiar as he with the secret history of the last and the present government? But he felt it his duty to write of other matters. He endeavored to construct a science of life, using the combined results of the study of nature and practical knowledge of the world, as a basis. A slight glow would mantle his cheeks, and his eyes would involuntarily gaze into the far distance, when some difficult problem, which had hitherto eluded his grasp, became clear to his mental vision. At such moments, he would, as if impelled by an inner force, rise from his seat, and his chest would heave with emotion, at the thought that he was laying bare the secret springs of character and habit, with as much indifference to side considerations as if he were engaged on a physiological preparation.
The view from Gunther's windows, each of which consisted of a single plate of glass, extended to the distant mountains. Far up the heights, there was a small clearing, scarcely visible to the naked eye. Naught was noticeable but a small break in the woods, and, although it was known that the freehold lay there, its broad acres were out of sight. Irma had been sitting up there, working and brooding over her troubles, for nearly four years, while Gunther, in the mean while, had been sitting at his oaken table, writing his "Contributions to the Science of Life." His glance often rested on the distant heights, but he little dreamt that, while he was calmly gathering the fruits of his experience, another soul up there was spending its strength in the vain endeavor to solve the enigma of life.
When he dwelt on the difficulty of assigning to nature and education their relative share in determining conduct and character, hundreds of varied pictures would present themselves to his imagination. In all these investigations, the dead and living were as one. The only question he asked himself was: To what extent do they exemplify the eternal idea? Eberhard's form would often appear to him; sometimes, in all the dewy freshness of youth; at others, in its last, sad aspect. Irma was also summoned by the spirit of knowledge and, although never mentioned by name, was made to illustrate the present disturbed state of the public mind.
That day, many of Gunther's thoughts had been of Irma.
There was a gentle knock at the door. His grandchild entered, and Gunther's countenance brightened at the sight of her. For hours, his thoughts had been of grand abstractions, of past memories, and of general laws, and now, blithe and cheerful childhood saluted him. He went into the sitting-room with his granddaughter.
The family seated themselves at the table. Letters and newspapers were left untouched until after the meal was finished.
"Did Adolph set out punctually?" enquired Gunther.
He received a full and explicit answer. Gunther's son, who owned the chemical works at the capital, had been visiting his parents for several days. He had left that morning, but Gunther had said "good-by" the evening before. It was a peculiar, but well-weighed custom of his, to avoid the excitement of the hour of parting. They had many visitors, for their house was, in the best sense of the word, a hospitable one; but Gunther would suffer nothing to disturb him during the morning hour.
It was a merry breakfast party. Paula remarked that spring had surely come, for the wood-carver who lived in the neighborhood had thrown his old felt shoes out of the window, and that this was even a surer token than the coming of the swallows.
After breakfast, Gunther took up his letters, carefully examining the address and postmark of each, and arranging them in the order in which they were to be read.
The first one he opened bore the seal of the state department. It was from Bronnen, who, since his elevation to the highest office under the government, had kept up a regular correspondence with his old friend Gunther, and had, indeed, twice visited him in his new home.
Gunther's face brightened while he read the letter. After he had finished it, he quietly laid it aside and said:
"Friend Bronnen intends to pay us a visit shortly."
Paula turned away quickly, and bent down to kiss her little niece. Although Gunther was still reading, her movement did not escape his notice. After he had looked through the rest of his letters, he took up the newspapers. He was in a thoughtful mood, and would now and then ask Paula to read certain passages aloud to him.
"One often wishes," said he, "--that is, I have often heard others express the desire--to be able, after death, to look down upon the world again. It is a mere phrase, however, which seems deep only to those who have not weighed it properly. All that we possess, see, or understand, lies in the world in which we live and move."
The remark seemed a singular one, and Paula was about to follow it up with a question, when a sign from her mother hinted that she had better not. The idea had evidently separated itself from a chain of reasoning which had engaged the mind of the solitary philosopher.
"You will have to answer several letters for me," said Gunther to Paula, who acted as his secretary. "Come along!"
He was about to leave the room, when a special messenger arrived with a letter for him. It was written in blue ink and was from the queen. Gunther opened it and read as follows:
"...April 5th.
"Your letter seems laden with fresh mountain breezes. If I were not afraid lest you might deem it inconsistent with the dignity of the subject, I should request you to give me the summary of your philosophy of life, in an epistolary form. What cannot be given in that way, has not yet acquired communicable shape. In a letter we have the effect of the personal presence of the writer. And believe me, for I know of what I speak, you cannot imagine how much your ideas lose in impressiveness, when you thus, as it were, put them away from yourself and cause it to seem that another might have said the self-same thing. A letter has a voice of its own, and, while I write, I am reminded that your friend Horace wrote letters in verse and that the apostles also availed themselves of the epistolary form.
"Your remark that the myriad forms of life which you have from time to time beheld, now throng about your bark as if it were Charon's, has made me quite uncomfortable. I cannot imagine that you are only leading us into the realms of darkness. The problem before you is the knowledge of life. I must have misunderstood your meaning. I suppose that you are treating each group or epoch as if it were an individual, and that, with delicate touch, you note its every pulsation.
"It is quite charming to think that you can even find place for my modest doings in the grand march of human development. I am well aware that my interest in beneficent institutions is episodical and incomplete; and yet my whole heart is enlisted in their behalf. And this I owe to you. We know how small and imperfect our life is, but we must aim at greatness and perfection, and can best contribute to it by faithfully discharging the small duties that lay near at hand. Working for others rescues one from introspection, and thus expands the mind. When busied with self-contemplation, we are apt to put either too flattering, or too disparaging an estimate upon ourselves. It is only by what we are able to accomplish that we can really measure our value. I often ask myself whether I should ever have realized all this, if I had remained possessed of perfect happiness. My bent lay in another direction. I had a taste, and perhaps some talent, for the cultivation of the beautiful, and aimed to adorn life with festivals. Fate has decreed otherwise, and it is well. There should be no feasting, while there is so much suffering to alleviate. I felt so happy while wearing the one crown--and now I must bear the other willingly.
"I was, at first, pleased with your remark that the lists of the members of beneficent institutions are the only true church record of modern times; but, on second thought, I could not help finding that you free-thinkers are terrorists as well. The church has rights, too, as long as she is willing modestly to place herself side by side with other educational and charitable institutions, and accord them equal rights with herself.
"As patron of various charitable institutions, I have been brought into personal contact with ladies of the middle class, and find many of them exceptionally cultured and well-bred. As you can readily imagine, it cost quite an effort to get some burgher names to be used for more than mere show. Minister Bronnen has been of great assistance to me. My committee for the blind asylum includes a charming Jewess, Madame ----, who is just as modest as she is firm and decided in character. I think you once mentioned her to me.
"At the last examination of the blind, I was quite indignant at the clergyman, who referred to their fate as a wise dispensation of Providence. The only way in which I could show my displeasure at this piece of unctuous barbarism, was to ignore his presence.
"I read much religious history, and when I review past ages, I feel as if sitting by the waterfall which we have so often looked at together. The stream flows unceasingly and, though the water is ever changing, its source and its channel are ever the same. Its waves and its eddies remain in the same place; the rocky masses, where they were on the day of their creation. In time, the rocks become covered with mosses and flowers, and in the course of many thousand years, new channels become hollowed out by the gradual action of the waters or by some sudden convulsion of nature. Such is the course of history. We are mere drops flowing down the foaming, bubbling stream.
"I observe that I have left several of your inquiries unanswered. You express a wish to learn my views of the various charitable institutions. But here I experience both the advantages and the disadvantages of my position. I am never quite sure whether my visit has not been announced in advance and prepared for. The advantage of my position, however, is, that the poor and unfortunate are rendered happy by my very presence, or by a few words from me. Yes, the first duty of those who are so highly favored, is to be kind to the unfortunate. But there is one thought that ever disturbs me. It is both right and necessary, and perhaps expedient, that these children should be educated and cared for in common--but this method unfortunately deprives them of that which most strengthens the young soul:--solitude.
"You find that I have become cheerful, and you hope that it may be something more than a passing mood. I myself believe that the key-note of my inner life has changed from a minor to a major mood, but the great dissonance still remains. Do not, I beg of you, imagine that I encourage this feeling. I have a right to claim that the great precept: 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out,' expresses my inner nature. I understand it thus:--if there be aught in your desires and efforts which might harm yourself or the world, be unmerciful toward yourself, and, instead of regarding it as an essential element of your being, pluck it out.
"But, my friend, I cannot find the offense. I must bear the one great sorrow of my life. How often I long for deliverance! He, too, suffers, and doubly, because of his guilt. The thought often overwhelms me, and, even now, while I write these lines, I shudder--for the shadow of death stands between us. How can it be exorcised?"
"April 6th.
"I have not yet thanked you for that which is best in your letter. That you, too, are delighted with the free and consistent changes in the government, affords me great comfort. I read much that is good about the new rule, but I read and heard just as much in praise of the old, and there are many who maintain that there has been no break, and that, although the key is changed, the tune is still the same.
"What makes human beings take such a pride in never changing?
"But, never mind; as long as the good and the right are brought about, it matters not.
"Those who form our immediate circle look upon the disbanding of the guard as an actual revolution. I have just begun to realize that it formed a privileged caste, which, although we scarcely knew of its existence, had come to be looked upon as a matter of course.
"Do you remember my once asking you whether there are any really happy beings on earth? Your life is the answer to my question, and your greatest happiness lies in the fact that you have no false part to perform, nothing which is opposed to your judgment and convictions.
"I now see my error in regarding your mode of thought as the philosophy of solitude. You hold fast to the harmony of life. But I have not yet rid myself of a fear lest that which is real should, as it were, become volatilized, causing the living forms of the vast human multitude to disappear. In that case, the spirit alone would remain, or, if I understand aright, would lose itself in matter, when all individuality and all participation in actual life would cease.
"I cannot help interesting myself in individual inmates of these institutions. I can help the cause as a whole, but I can only love individuals.
"I am greatly comforted by one piece of information you give me:--that, in all history, there is no age that was satisfied with itself. We fondly dream of a golden age, but the golden age is to-day or never.
"But now as to matters that concern us more nearly. You ask me to tell you of my little Woldemar. I do so with pleasure, but must be careful not to weary you with a thousand and one of his little sayings and traits. I follow your advice and endeavor to interest myself in his questions, instead of teaching him that which he does not care to know. He is quite decided, both in his likes and dislikes. I think that this is well, and let him have his own way. His disposition, is, to a marked degree, that of the king; he is quite fond of music. I think it good for him that he was, literally speaking, sung to while in his cradle, although the songs were from the lips of such hypocritical specimens of culture and simplicity. Ah, my dear friend, that one sad memory still casts its dark shadow over all my thoughts and all that I behold."
"April 7th.
"And now this tiresome letter is nearly at an end. We are coming to you, my dear friend. Woldemar and I, I and Woldemar.
"I told Woldemar, and he at once added in a decided tone:
"'But Schnipp and Schnapp' (his two ponies) 'must go, too.'
"To be brief--the king has granted my request. For the benefit of my health, I may pay you a visit of four weeks during midsummer and take Woldemar with me. Orders have already been given, and Minister von Bronnen has, I understand, made all the necessary arrangements to have the dairy-farm in your neighborhood prepared for a small suite.
"This year, we shall walk together, on Goethe's birthday.
"But my letter is long enough already, and I shall not begin another sheet. If, as I am willing to admit, you really possess a power over your native mountains, let them be bright and cloudless, while welcoming to you and yours, your friend,
"MATHILDE.
"Postscript.--Bronnen has visited you. He had much to tell me, and when I inquired about your youngest daughter, his features seemed to betray his emotion. Was I mistaken? Remember me to your wife and children. I trust that the queen's presence will not embarrass them."
It seems as if, even in the quietest life, there are days in which the whole world has, as it were, agreed that visits and interruptions should never cease.
Gunther was in his room, and had scarcely had time to compose himself, after reading the queen's letter. It was evident, he thought, that the king designed to bring about a reconciliation between himself and his consort, through the agency of the dismissed friend. Gunther was willing to aid him in this, but not to have the even tenor of his life interfered with. The queen's hint in regard to Bronnen accorded with his own observations, and just then he could hear Paula singing--for the first time this year by the open window--and her voice seemed expressive of a bridal moon. He felt that Paula deserved to be happy, and that her marriage with his exalted friend would best promote the happiness of both. But he was firmly resolved, even in that event, never again to leave his birthplace.
Buried in thought, Gunther was sitting in his room.
The servant announced the freeholder's wife.
"No--Walpurga!" cried a voice, and before the servant could bring the answer, Walpurga had entered the room.
"Ah, dear Doctor, you're our neighbor! I heard, only a minute ago, that you were living here, and it's scarcely four hours' walk from our farm. Yes, that's the way people live hereabouts: alone and away from each other, just as if one were dead."
She offered her hand to Gunther, but he was busily engaged in gathering up some papers, and inquired:
"Does your mother still live?"
"Alas! no. Oh, if she had only lived to see Doctor Gunther once more! Who knows whether she wouldn't be living yet, if we could have called you when she was sick."
Walpurga wept at the remembrance of her mother. Gunther seated himself and asked:
"What is it you want?"
"How? What?" asked Walpurga, quickly, drying her tears. "And you never once ask how it fares with me?"
"You're prosperous and have changed but little."
"May I sit down?" asked Walpurga, in an anxious voice. This cold reception from one who had always been so kind to her, affected her so deeply that she could scarcely stand. She looked about her as if bewildered, and at last said:
"And is there nothing more you want to ask me? Where I live and how my husband and children are?"
"Walpurga," said Gunther, rising from his seat, "lay aside your old acting."
"What? acting? I don't know what you mean! What have I to do with acting?"
"That does not concern us now. Did you want to ask me anything? or have you anything to tell me?"
"To be sure; that's just why I came."
"What is it?"
"Yes; but you seem so strange that my thoughts are quite mixed up. Hansei doesn't know that I've come here, and not another soul in the world is to know about it but yourself. I can keep a secret; I have kept one. I can be trusted."
"I know it," said the physician, in a hard voice.
"You know it? How? You can't know it, and I shan't tell you all of it, either. I might have told you, but after such a reception, I can't."
"Do as you please; speak or be silent; but cut it short, for I have very little time."
"Then I'd rather come some other time."
"I can't receive you for mere talk. Tell me now what you have to say."
"Well then. Doctor--Oh, dear me, to think that you don't even shake hands with me. I can't get over it. But I see, that's the way it is with great folk; it's all the same--thank God, I know where I'm at home!"
"Cease your empty talk!" said Gunther, interrupting her still more sharply. "What have you to tell me? Can I help you in any way?"
"Me? Thank God, nothing ails me. I only wanted to say that under-forester Steingassinger lives out on the dairy-farm, and that his wife is my friend and companion, Stasi. Early last winter, she told me that the king was coming here this summer, and all I wanted to say was that if he cares to pay me a visit at the freehold, he's quite welcome. I might have said something more, but I see I'd better not. I'd rather not break an oath."
Gunther nodded.
"If the king wishes to pay you a visit, I will tell him what you have said."
"And isn't our dear, good queen coming, too! I've often been kept awake at nights by anger and sorrow, when I thought that she doesn't concern herself about me. And she promised me so solemnly that she would. I can't understand how it is; but it's all right, I suppose. And how is the little prince? And is it true that you are not in favor and have been dismissed from the court? And is that why you are living here in this little house?"
Gunther gave her an evasive reply, and said that he had other matters to attend to.
Walpurga arose from her seat, but could not move from the spot. She could not understand why she should be treated thus, and it was only because she had previously made up her mind to do so, that she invited Gunther to visit her, and asked permission to see Madame Gunther for a few moments. She hoped that she, at least, would receive her kindly and afford her some explanation of the Doctor's repellant manner.
"Go to her," replied Gunther, turning away and taking up a book. Walpurga left the room.
She stopped in the passageway and asked herself whether she was not dreaming. She who had once been the crown prince's nurse was now treated as if they had never known her. She, the freeholder's wife--her pride rose, as she thought of her vast homestead--was sent away like a beggar.
She no longer cared to speak with Madame Gunther. Her lips trembled with grief at the thought of how wicked the great people were. And yet they could praise this house, and she, too, had once praised it, as though none but holy persons lived in it.
She left the house, and, while walking through the garden, met Madame Gunther, who started back when she recognized Walpurga.
"Don't you remember me?" asked Walpurga, holding out her hand towards her.
"Indeed I do," said Madame Gunther, without noticing the hand that was offered her. "Where do you come from?"
"From my farm. I'm the freeholder's wife, and if you, Madame, had come to me, I wouldn't have let you stand out of doors in this way; I'd have asked you to come inside, into my room."
"But I don't ask you," replied Madame Gunther, "I put nothing in the way of those who leave the straight path, but I do not invite them into my house."
"And when did I leave the straight path? What have I done?"
"I am not your judge."
"Anyone may judge me. What have I done? You must tell me."
"I must not; but I will. You will have to answer to yourself how all the money was earned with which you bought your great farm. Good-day!"
She went into the house.
Walpurga stood there, alone. The houses, the mountains, the woods, the fields--all swam before her, and her eyes were filled with bitter tears.
Gunther had been looking out of the window, during Walpurga's interview with his wife, and, by the manner of the latter, felt satisfied that the peasant woman had been told some unpleasant truths.
He now saw Walpurga walk away; she would stop now and then, and dry her tears with her apron. The woman repents, at any rate, thought he to himself, and she's only another proof of the far-reaching and all-corroding effects of evil.
It was long before Gunther could be made to believe that Walpurga had received a large sum of money in return for wicked services, but it had been judicially proven that the farm had been paid for in new coin, such as only passes through princely hands. And just because Gunther had believed in Walpurga's simple true-heartedness, and had staked his word upon it, he was all the more embittered against her.
He was resolved to clear up the matter as soon as the opportunity offered.
Proud and happy as Walpurga had been when she left home in the morning, it was with a heavy heart that she returned at evening.
She might well be proud, for no farmer's wife could present a better appearance. Franz, the late cuirassier, had broken in the foal. It was harnessed to the little Bernese wagon and looked around as if pleased when Walpurga came out, dressed in her Sunday clothes and accompanied by Burgei. Hansei helped his wife into the wagon and then gave her the child.
"Come back safe and sound," said he, "and Franz, take care of the horse."
"Never fear!" was Franz's answer, and the horse started off at a lively gait, as if it were mere child's play to draw such a load.
Hansei stood looking after his wife and child for a while and then turned about and went off to his work. He only nodded to Irma, who was looking out of her window and waving a farewell to Walpurga. Walpurga rode off, holding her hand to her heart, as if to repress the joy with which it was overflowing.
What was there better in the world than a well-arranged household like the one she was just leaving, and to feel, moreover, that the people she met would know that she was well-to-do in the world? But Walpurga was proud of something else which the people could not see.
She had, with great circumspection, arranged quite a difficult affair.--On the following morning, Irma was to go to the shepherd's hut, and all danger of discovery would be averted. It is no trifling matter to keep such a secret a whole winter, for Irma had judged rightly. Walpurga encouraged Irma's plan of spending the entire summer in deeper solitude. Stasi, whose husband had heard it from the chief forester, told her that the king intended to visit the neighboring village during the following summer. She feared for Irma, and now her fears had taken a still more decided shape. Stasi's husband had been removed to the dairy-farm and had been ordered to arrange the forest paths and drives, preparatory to the king's arrival.
Hansei was quite willing that his wife, instead of going to the neighboring village, should go to a more distant town, in order to purchase the articles of use and comfort which it would be necessary for Gundel and Irma to take with them to the shepherd's hut. This afforded her an opportunity to fulfill her promise to visit Stasi in her new home. He even consented that Burgei should go along. And thus Walpurga drove off, her heart full of happiness, and with a kindly smile of greeting for all whom she met on the road.
"I only wish," said Franz, "that we could drive along the lake, and by our old village, for we all came from there; you and I, Burgei and the horse."
Franz had bestowed especial care upon his appearance.
His face beamed with joy, for he, too, cherished a secret thought. He intended to buy a silver ring to place on Gundel's finger, before she went to the shepherd's hut.
"Be careful of that horse," replied Walpurga. "He's so very young. What a fine day it is. The cherries down here aren't in blossom yet, and the sapling we brought from home is blossoming to-day, for the first time. Didn't you see it?"
"No."
They drove on in silence.
When they drew near to the village in which Stasi lived, Franz, who drove about the country a good deal, said:
"This pretty brook flows from up near our new meadow. It comes out of the rocks scarcely a rifle-shot from there."
Walpurga smiled at the thought that a stream that flowed far through the country, had its source on her own land. Yes, no one knows what fortune may have in store for him.
Stasi was delighted at Walpurga's arrival, and was lavish in her praise of all that belonged to her friend. She declared that the king himself had not a finer horse, a better-behaved servant, a lovelier child or a better wife, than Hansei had. Wherever she took Walpurga, the laborers who were clearing the roads, or building bridges, would stop for a while to look at the farmer's handsome wife and the child who, both in dress and feature, was the very picture of her mother.
Stasi prepared an excellent meal. Walpurga had brought, as a gift, enough butter and eggs to last for a great while. In the new inspector's dwelling, as great honor was shown Walpurga as if she were the queen herself.
At last, Walpurga set about making her purchases, and showed that she was sensible and aware of what her position required. She always bought the best of everything, and did not higgle long about the price.
They had returned to the dairy-farm, and Walpurga was on the point of confiding a portion of her secret to Stasi, so as to put her on her guard as to the king, when she heard of the distinguished man who, for nearly four years past, had been living in the little town.
"Dear me! why he's the best friend I have!" said Walpurga. She handed the child to Stasi and hurried off to Gunther's house. She felt as if her heart would burst with joy, and was obliged to sit down before the house, for a while, to get her breath.
But while she walked back to the farm, she did not once raise her eyes from the ground. She could not. And what annoyed her most of all was that she had told Stasi: "He's the best friend I have."
They expected her to tell about her visit, but all she could say was:
"Don't ask me to tell you what great folks are. If I were to begin I couldn't get through before to-morrow, and I've got to go, or it'll be dark before we get home."
Walpurga became quieter and sadder, the more Stasi and her husband praised Doctor Gunther. She dared not tell what had happened to her. This is all you get, thought she, if you depend on the respect which others are to show you. Long after she had left them, Stasi and her husband spoke of how strange and changeable Walpurga was. But she was glad that she was no longer obliged to look any one in the face. And now, at this late day, she was reminded of something that she had long since forgotten. "Oh, dear mother!" said she aloud to herself. "You were right. Everything in this world must be paid for, and now the gold is to be paid for--but how?"
She seated her child upon her lap as though it was all that was left to her. She hugged and kissed it and, at last, it fell asleep, resting upon her heart. She grew calmer, although she keenly felt the wrong that had been done her, and wondered what might yet be in store for her. When, while in her old home, the envy and enmity of the villagers had annoyed her, she could easily console herself with the fact that they were simple, ignorant people; but what could she say now? Was she to experience her old troubles over again? And there was no one to whom she could confide them; her mother was gone; she could not tell Hansei and, least of all, Irmgard.
It was twilight when she at last caught a glimpse of home. Mustering up all her courage, she said to herself:
"The best thing I can do is to let suspicion rest on me until I die, or till she dies; for then no one will come near us, and I needn't have any fear for my dear Irma, who has far more to bear than I have. Thank God, I didn't betray my secret; and how lucky it is, she's now going up into the wilds where no one will find her."
Full of courage, she went into the house and told Hansei of her visit to Stasi, but nothing more.
"I have borne it alone, thus far," said she to herself. "I'll do so, hereafter."
With great self-command, she assumed a cheerful air while with Hansei and Irma, and romped with her boy, for whom she had bought a little wooden horse.