Joseph in the Snow, and The Clockmaker Volume I Part 5

"Joseph, go to Haspele, and look at the new boots he is making for you," said the mother.

Joseph did not want to go, but his mother persisted in sending him out of the house. The boy stood outside, looking very indignant, and muttering, "When my father comes I will tell him all about it. I am not to stay anywhere; neither with my grandfather nor at home."

Nevertheless he did go to see Haspele, and was as merry and good humoured as possible, for Haspele loved the boy, and when he was tired of playing with his toys, he could always amuse him by talking to him.

For a year past he had repeatedly promised to give Joseph a dog, and the boy was now very speculative as to what the animal was to be like, and what tricks it was to be taught. Haspele had one capital pretext for delay, which was that he would have to search some time before he could find a dog exactly answering Joseph's description; for it was sometimes large, and sometimes small; at one time it had four white paws, at another all brown; at one moment it was to be a wolf dog, and the next a Spitz.

In the meanwhile Leegart was talking to Martina, and could not comprehend why Martina was not more eager to ascertain whether her deadly foe had not at length quitted the world. She urged her to go to the Parsonage to inquire what state the Rottmannin was in.

"You know very well," said Martina, "that formerly our Pastor was always glad to see me in his house, but not now. I can't go there without some pretext when he is at home."

"Very well; in that case, go to my house; and on the chest of drawers with the mirror above it you will find a china soup tureen, and in it three nightcaps, which I have just made for the Pastor's wife. Take them to her from me, and then you will hear how matters stand."

Martina did as she told her.

CHAPTER VIII.

WARM AND SNUG IN THE PARSONAGE.

Can there be such a thing as a holy feast for a woman like the Rottmannin? Can there exist a human being doomed one day to leave this world, without ever having felt the joyful sensation of being happy, or of having contributed to the happiness of others? That there are such persons, cannot fail to cast a dark shadow on the earth, and must prevent anyone feeling unalloyed gladness of heart.

These were the reflections floating in the mind of the Pastorin, as she sat at the window. Soon, however, she chased away all such shadows, and her soul became as bright as the morning of this joyous and holy festival, which is a ray emanating from eternity.

She arose and went through the house, like a gentle hushed spirit. The approaching feast day, and also the thought that her brother was with her, shed such l.u.s.tre and gladness on her whole being, that everything seemed to smile on her; and while she prepared a good breakfast for her brother, who was sure to return very hungry from shooting, she looked at the ham, the b.u.t.ter, and eggs, with considerable complacency, as if grateful to them for possessing the excellent property of nouris.h.i.+ng and strengthening man.

These articles of food could not speak, or make any observations in return; but the maid being pretty well aware that her mistress liked to talk of her brother, said, "What a handsome, grand gentleman your brother is, ma'am. When he arrived yesterday evening I really thought he was the Prince who drove through here last winter, on his way to shoot;" and the maid gave her own face a good rub with her ap.r.o.n, to make it look as well as possible. "I was so glad we happened to have killed a goose," added she, giving an affectionate look at the slaughtered victim, hanging outside the kitchen window.

Brother Edward returned home about ten o'clock. The Pastorin warned him that her husband was still asleep, and he placed his gun as gently in the corner as if it had been made of cotton. Her brother's good appet.i.te pleased the Pastorin, who seated herself with her embroidery beside Edward, and told him the Pastor's adventures. He, in return, said he had shot nothing, for he felt quite sure he had got on the track of the wolf; but he lost all traces of the animal in a ravine, as he was afraid of venturing to descend into it alone. He had gone as far as the forest mill, and described with much enthusiasm the grand and striking aspect of the landscape, the waterfalls all frozen, and the rocks glittering like finely cut crystal. The more awe inspiring and imposing the young man delineated the scene without, the more snug and comfortable did the room appear within. And the brother and sister talked to each other with the same quiet ease with which the heat diffused itself through the room: the pendulum of the clock and the crackling of the wood in the stove were more audible than their voices.

Gentle flakes of snow were falling slowly and quietly outside, fluttering in the air as if in play, making the room within seem even more comfortable than usual.

"I have still an adventure to relate to you," recommenced Edward.

"Won't you wait till my husband is awake, so that you may not have to tell it twice over?"

"No; I wish you alone to hear it, and you must promise me secresy. I was standing behind a bush, not far from the forest mill, on the watch, for I thought the wolf would be sure to appear again, when I saw two girls coming along the path. They stood still not far from my hiding-place, and one girl said, 'I will say good bye to you here; thank you for your kindness, my mother in Heaven will reward you for it. But it is all over; I cannot help myself. Oh! why are those days gone by, when a wicked woman could transform you into a raven? I wish I were that raven in the sky above our heads; then I could fly far away, then my misery would be over. See! the snow is melting where my tears fall on it; but nothing can melt a hard heart, and my father is entirely changed.' Her tears prevented her saying more, and her companion left her. The weeping girl turned back towards the mill; I could not resist advancing to meet her, but I almost regretted it when I saw such sorrow overclouding the young, fresh, blooming face. I would gladly have tried to console her, but I really did not know what to say; so I simply wished her good day. She looked at me, startled, and stood still for a moment in surprise, and then went on her way."

"That must have been the Forest Miller's Tony," said the Pastorin; "a good-hearted girl, as ever lived. She is to be betrothed to Adam, I hear."

"That would be too shameful!" exclaimed Edward, indignantly.

"I quite agree with you. Tony is the Forest Miller's only child. Her mother was an excellent woman: so long as she lived, the forest mill was the most highly respected house in the whole community, and the resort and refuge of all the poor. Little Tony went daily for four years to school, three or four miles off, and in winter she came on a donkey. A child like that, going daily alone for years through a valley, encircled by rocks and by the forest, cannot fail to become thoughtful and observant, if naturally of a quick and lively disposition; for there is much to see and hear of animal life in the forest, unknown to the world. Little Tony was a very quick child, and she was often to be heard telling her thoughts aloud, and singing songs in the forest. She has a most lovely voice. Two years ago her mother died, and the guardian appointed by her father is the innkeeper at Wenger, whose sister shortly after married the Forest Miller. From that hour the girl had never another happy moment; and her guardian being unluckily the brother of her stepmother, it comes to pa.s.s that Tony will be forced to marry Adam Rottmann."

Suddenly the Pastorin interrupted herself, saying, "I must surely have left the house door open, for I hear some one on the stairs."

"Hus.h.!.+ be quiet!" said she softly, opening the door. "Oh! it is you, Martina; come in, but tread softly, for the Herr Pastor is asleep. What message have you for me?"

"Leegart sent me here, to bring you these nightcaps."

"Why did she not come herself?"

"She is in our house, busy making a new jacket for my Joseph."

"You dress Joseph too smartly; you will spoil him," said the Pastorin.

"Leegart takes no payment from me," said Martina timidly, and, turning away suddenly, the red shawl in which she had wrapped her head fell back. The young man gazed earnestly at her pretty oval face, and large dark brown eyes. Martina felt that he was looking at her, and casting down her eyes blushed deeply, groping for the handle of the door in going out, as if she had been in the dark.

The Pastorin, however, followed her into the pa.s.sage, and said, "You would like to know about the Rottmannin? The state of her health is as bad as that of her heart. She sent for the Herr Pastor last night, but she is not dangerously ill; far from it."

"G.o.d is my witness that I do not wish for her death," said Martina earnestly, laying both hands on her heart.

"I believe you. My husband had a severe struggle with her, but he persists in his determination never to marry Adam to any one but yourself. But I will tell you all about it another time," said the Pastorin, turning to re-enter the room.

But Martina said uneasily, "Oh! dear Madam, I cannot make out what is the matter with my Joseph for some days past; he speaks and thinks of nothing but his father. He insists on my talking of him till he goes to sleep, and in the morning his first words are always about his father.

He has refused positively to go back to school any more, for they call him _The Foal_ there, because his father's nickname in the village is _The Horse_."

The Pastorin could not help smiling, but she said, "I cannot stay with you at present: that was my youngest brother who has come to visit me.

Pray be very strict with Joseph: the whole village spoils that child.

Come to see me again during the holidays, and shut the outer door very gently."

Martina went homewards with slow and heavy steps, singing in a melancholy tone the lines that seemed to haunt her memory:

"Faithful love my bosom fills,-- Can true love ever fade?

Oh! what a smile that heart must wear That never was betrayed."

In the mean time the Pastorin returned into the sitting-room, when her brother Edward proved that he had a quick eye, not only for fine scenery, but also for pretty people, by expressing his sincere regret, that so lovely a creature should be doomed to pa.s.s her days in poverty and sorrow.

"But though she looks ill even now," said the Pastorin, "if you had seen her a year after her disgrace, she was so changed that it was scarcely possible to recognise her, she looked so deadly pale, and just like a dying person. It is said that a speech of Leegart's made her strive to bear her calamity with more courage. 'Don't go on grieving in that way,' said she, 'or people will say that Adam is quite right to forsake such a faded, emaciated creature.' This advice, and love for her boy, inspired Martina with new life."

While the Pastorin was talking to her brother, and listening to him, she was also listening to sounds in the adjacent room, for she suspected that the Pastor was now dressing; and, while doing so, he was humming the air that she had sung with Edward the evening before; so she quickly sat down at the piano, and sung once more, with her brother, Mozart's melody, "Joys and sorrows let us share."

The Pastor entered the room, smiling kindly. He must, however, have heard a good deal, even in his sleep, for in a few moments he said, "Lina, Martina has just been here, I do beg that my orders may be attended to, that she is not to be in the habit of coming here."

"You are generally so indulgent," ventured Edward to remark.

"Perhaps so; but that is quite compatible with sternness, when it is requisite. Those who have sinned may reform and repent, but the privilege of being at home in the Parsonage is one they ought no longer to enjoy. It would be destructive to all morality if sin were allowed, from false ideas of humanity, to remain unpunished."

The usually benevolent features of the Pastor a.s.sumed a stern, uncompromising air while uttering these words. But he quickly added, "Edward, give me one of your cigars."

The three once more sat pleasantly together.

CHAPTER IX.

BETROTHAL AND PLIGHT.