A Tale of a Traveller.
by Percy B. St. John.
Originally published in Hood's Magazine (Henry Hurst) vol.5 #4 (Apr 1846).
Chapter I.
How Caleb Von Dustenberg Got Caught in a Trap.
Some hundred years ago, when baronial castles still had some influence on the human mind—when knights and barons still sat in banquet hall and quaffed deeply of the red-red wine and foaming tankard—when no French Revolution, with irreverent hand, had shaken feudalism to the dust—ere the grim but regretted darkness of the middle ages had fallen scale-like from the people's eyes—before men thought of travelling at a greater rate than twenty or thirty miles a day—in fact, long long ago, a single horseman was threading his way, towards nightfall, through the mazes of a German forest. Now a German forest, before ghosts and goblins and spectre-riders and gnomes had vanished to the nether spheres, was about the very last place any Christian man was at all likely to fancy being benighted in. There was a peculiar atmosphere about the place which was far from pleasant; and sounds like the clanking of chains, the sighing of tormented souls, and the shrieks of galloping demons, were satisfactorily established to have been heard upon more than one occasion! Dangers, too, of a more material character were not unfrequent, as we all know that an Alemanian wood was literally thronged with Black Alicks, Red Roberts, Green Riders, and other horrible fellows, who whipped me up half a dozen way farers as Gargantua would the same number of pilgrims in a salad, and they were then no more heard of.
It is not to be wondered at if, with these alarming facts running in his head, the traveller we have alluded to should have been somewhat anxious not to be caught in the wood during the night. He therefore urged his tall bony and skeleton steed to the utmost, but nothing would make the old horse stir a step faster than his usual jog trot. This was the less surprising, when we mention that the traveller was a big, burly, heavy man, weighing about twice the ordinary weight, and that the half dusty and half splashed state of his Rozinante showed that he had journeyed far and fast. It could not be that the rider feared the loss of property—for a worse clothed, more shabby old soldier never returned from the wars; for soldier he was, and brave as a lion against anything in the shape of mortal—but, like many others of his class, very timorous and fearful of supernatural powers and foes he could neither see nor feel.
"By my boots," said the veteran, whose scanty grizzled locks spoke of three score years at the least, "By my boots, but I shall camp in the forest an I make not this brute stir faster, and a bivouac is the very last thing I should fancy this night. The trees are dark, the bushes hide glaring eyes, and, by my father's sword, the ground is damp. Der teifel and all the other saints, but thou must stir thy stumps, old Peter," he continued, caressing his steed, and endeavouring to coax him into a gallop. "That is right," he exclaimed, as, where the path he followed joined the main road, the steed for a few momoments started off into a spasmodic trot.
"By my boots!" he again cried, as another traveller who had been journeying along the main road now came up, and, without a word, began to trot side by side with him.
The appearance of the new comer was sufficiently remarkable. Mounted upon a gigantic horse—eighteen hands high if it were an inch—the rider was about as small a man as is found, without being considered a deformity. Thin, with legs perched up almost on the horse's back, a tall steeple hat added not a little to the strangeness of the picture presented by so diminutive a human being mounted upon so great a horse. The burly man, as he gazed upon the stranger in the grey darkness of the evening, began not to like his companionship. He glanced at his face, but a nose was all that he discovered; and such a nose!—crooked enough for a scythe, and big enough for a giant!
"By my boots," said the old man to himself, "but that is a queer customer!"
"Ha! ha!" laughed the little man, perceiving that our friend edged off as far as possible to the other side of the road; "ha! ha!" he continued, in a thin shrill voice, "you don't like me, don't you?"
"I have no objection to any man's company," replied the other, with a marked emphasis on the word man, "but, by my boots! I want no communion with the devil nor with his works."
"Ha! ha!" again chuckled the little man, "you're not afraid of robbers, then?"
"By my boots, no; for I've nothing to lose."
"Nothing? Not a crown piece? not a stiver?"
"Nothing."
"You are poor then, my friend," grunted the gaunt rider; "you are lucky."
"By my boots," thought the burly old soldier, "but he is a strange fellow!" And he added aloud, "May I be allowed to ask whom I have the honour of addressing?"
"Oh, it is of no consequence," said the little man. "What is your name?"
"It is of no consequence," replied the old soldier, grumbling.
At this moment a turn of the road brought them in sight of a village, over which, perched on a hill, frowned a huge castle, with its towers, draw-bridge, and picturesque gates, boldly relieved against the sky.
"Do you stop here?" said the little man, addressing the old soldier in a more natural tone than before, "because, if you do, take the word of Jerome Wappenbickel, and put up at the Green Rider."
"And who, pray, may be Jerome Wappenbickel?" inquired the veteran good-humouredly, for he could now plainly see that the diminutive gentleman was mortal.
"Your very humble servant to command."
"Oh!"
"And your name, I think you said, was—was—?"
"Caleb Von Dustenberg," replied the soldier, raising himself proudly in his stirrups.
With this they reached the inn, and halted before the door. Wappenbickel alighted with an agility which was remarkable, while Caleb descended in a manner more consonant with his age and portly bearing.
The inn was of the most ordinary description, but still had about it an air of neatness, of cleanliness, and of comfort, which quite won the heart of the soldier as he entered.
"Wappenbickel," said he, as they gained the parlour, which was well sanded, "this is a jewel of an hostellerie."
"Capital!" replied the little man.
"Your orders," said a neat, tidy, pretty dame, tripping lightly into the room, "your orders, Meinheers?"
"Ha! ha!" exclaimed Jerome, with a wink, and a finger placed cautiously on his lips, "is that you, Adela? How you have grown!"
"My God, Jerome Wappenbickel?" said the landlady, with a scream, and a blush that rivalled the crimson of her kerchief.
"The very same," replied the other, who, despite his diminutive person, was, now that he stood in the light, by no means a repulsive looking personage; "the very same, and I am happy to say, the same in everything,"—and he looked tenderly at the surprised and, sooth to say, pleased hostess; "but now a hearty supper for two—a foaming tankard—and by and bye we'll talk over old times. But mind,—mum! not a word of Wappenbickel."
"You know the lady?" said Caleb Von Dustenberg, with a sly glance.
"Rather," answered Jerome, complacently stroking his huge hooked nose,—" mean to marry her some day, when I can afford it."
The new acquaintances now sat down, one opposite the other, and entered into a conversation which was only interrupted by the entrance of supper. A third party would have remarked that, while Caleb spoke of whatever came uppermost in his mind, such was by no means the case with Jerome, who drew the conversation as much as possible to a point which tended to explain the exact position and views of the old soldier. His curiosity was insatiable, but the mode by which he arrived at his facts was so cunning that no suspicion was excited in the mind of our hero. At length supper was concluded, and pipes and beer, the eternal Germanic solace, were resorted to.
"Who, to look at the comfort, neatness and cosiness of this room," observed Wappenbickel, as he lit his pipe, "would suppose himself in the parlour of a public-house?"
"Ah, who!" replied Caleb Von Dustenberg, with a sigh, "I only wish I had such a berth."
"Humph," said Jerome, eyeing him with his little red fiery peepers, that glowed in the dense volumes of smoke which he blew on all sides around him, like two hot coals, "you would like to keep a public?"
"Just would'nt I!" growled Caleb; "why, by my boots, what could an old soldier, without a penny, without a pension, and without a friend—I say, what could he do better than bring up in a snug hole like this, and play the landlord until it pleased Heaven to call him home?"
"But you would like a little wife, I suppose—a landlady to match," said Jerome,—"just such a one as Adela, now?"
"As to wives," continued Caleb, "why, having had two already, I can't say I feel any inclination to experimentalize in that way again."
"Then there is an end of the matter," put in Jerome gravely, placing his right foot at the same time across his knee, and caressing it with his left hand, "No wife, no public."
"Why, you diminutive imp," said Caleb, laying down his pipe and getting in a passion, "there was never any question of a public except in fun."
"You are mistaken," replied Jerome, "I have been looking for you these three weeks for this very purpose."
"Donder and blitzen!" exclaimed Caleb Von Dustenberg.
"Now don't put yourself out—when I say I have been looking for you, I mean I have been looking for such another person as yourself."
"What for?"
"You shall hear, if you will be patient and answer me a few questions."
"Der teifel! that is what I want you to do. By my boots—"
"All in good time—but first let me. You are sixty—"
"Sixty-five good."
"A stout, hearty, hale, respectable looking old gentleman."
"As you see," he replied impatiently, "but, by my boots, what has all this to do—"
"You want to keep an inn. Would the Green Rider suit you?"
"To a shaving."
"You shall have it on certain conditions."
"Name them," said Caleb Von Dustenberg, opening his eyes half wildly.
"You want a landlady?"
"So you say."
"I have one for you. You must get married."
"Der teifel!"
"To a pretty little woman as any in all Brandenburg, with flaxen hair, blue eyes, a complexion of alabaster, teeth like ivory—but though charming and amiable, somewhat silent and thoughtful."
"Well," said Caleb Von Dustenberg with half a frown.
"You must marry her, I say," continued Jerome Wappenbickel, "and the next day you take possession of this very inn—you are its landlord, its master, and I and Adela become your very dutiful servants."
"Well, all this is very fine," observed Caleb inquiringly; "but am I expected to do nothing else but this?"
"There is a little boy," said Jerome, screwing up the corners of his mouth, and endeavouring to hide a laugh.
"A what?" cried Caleb.
"A charming little boy, about six weeks old."
"And so, you rascally son of perdition," cried the wrathful veteran, "I am to sell myself to you, and tie myself to—"
"Stop," said Jerome, "and listen to reason. I have told you one side of the story. If you consent to what I demand, and ask no questions, I will make your fortune. Do not think I wish to dim the lustre of the name of Caleb Von Dustenberg, by leading it to cloak either misfortune or crime."
"What does all this mean? By my boots, Maitre Jerome!" said the irate Caleb.
"Why, it means this. You want a comfortable, cosy, roadside tavern of your own. I have one at my disposal—it is yours."
"Well?"
"You must agree to all I say, and do all I tell you," said Jerome with solemnity.
"That depends—"
"Well, you are married?"
"By my boots!"
"To a charming woman, about a year ago. You have a son, the pride of your old age. You wish to return to your native village. You purchase this house—"
"Come, now, no more of this nonsense. By my boots!" said the bewildered Caleb.
"You purchase this house, I say, to-night—to-morrow you start.for B—, there you meet your wife and child, whom you have left behind—you bring them here, and live in peace and quietness till Heaven pleases to clear up the mystery."
"And then—"
"Why, we assure you this house for life."
"And I am not to marry at all?"
"You comprehend me to a T. You will not marry at all; but that is between you and I and the door-post. To every one else, Madame the —"
"The what?" said Caleb, observing that the other paused.
"To every one else the lady must be your wife, and little Richard your son. Do you agree to these terms?"
"Why," observed Caleb, "the temptation is strong. I am poor, but I have a name and honour. Will this affair compromise my reputation?"
"On my honour, not," said Jerome, shaking his head solemnly, "but you will be the means of serving a noble and generous being, who will one day explain all to you."
"I'll take your word for it, then," exclaimed Caleb Von Dustenberg, with an accompanying oath; "but if I find you have deceived me, mind, I break your bones as sure as my name is Dustenberg,—and that, by my boots, is no small oath!"
Jerome acquiesced, and promised that the worthy old soldier should be at perfect liberty, in case of his proving false, to turn his, the said Jerome's, body into the state of a mummy. The little man even suggested that reduction to impalpable powder was not too great a punishment for a man who deceived and dishonoured one of the respectable Von Dustenbergs. Satisfied and flattered, Caleb agreed to everything; and less than a week beheld him installed as landlord of the Green Rider, with a wife and a son both charming in the extreme.
Chapter II.
The Wife.
When Caleb first saw the lady who passed for Madame Leopoldine Von Dustenberg, he could not refrain from wishing himself young again, nor from almost regretting that, despite her suspicious antecedents, he had not made her his wife in reality. About two-and-twenty, fair, and of surpassing loveliness, there was about her a shade of sadness and melancholy which vanished only when she gazed upon her infant. It was a boy, too young yet to possess any marked characteristics, but to her it was a Golcondian mine of happiness. She received Caleb Von Dustenberg with a graceful inclination, which at once let him see that he was playing the part of a convenience; but a very short time being sufficient to let her discover how worthy a fellow the veteran was, she unbent, and even went so far as to call his attention to the innumerable graces which she, if no one else, could see in him who now bore, to the world, the euphonious name of Edward Von Dustenberg. Her blue eyes lighted up with a holy fire, her pale cheek grew lustrous in its blushing beauty, her lips parted in a heavenly smile, as she pointed out to the soldier the gentle loveliness of her babe.
They moved to the Green Rider, and took up the course of life which had been arranged on. Caleb was supposed to be the landlord of the hostellerie; but all his duties consisted in sitting in the parlour, smoking his pipe and quaffing his foaming tankard, or in talking to the customers—duties which he performed in the most exemplary manner. Jerome Wappenbickel and Adela, who speedily became his wife, performed the real part of innkeepers; while Madame Von Dustenberg remained generally confined to her room, rarely even seeing her supposed husband, except occasionally at the last evening meal, when she would bring the child to be admired by Caleb, who really began to be fond of the little being that laughed in his face and soon learned to plunge its hands into his whiskers and tear them out by the very roots.
A year passed in this manner, when the child began to run alone. And now a great change took place in the mother's habits—a change which soon drove the former unearthly pallor from her cheeks, and made her, though still sad and thoughtful, look most surpassing lovely. The village was surrounded by woods and copses; and especially on the side of the castle there were scenes of picturesque beauty and grace, which the young mother loved to wander among with her fondly cherished charge.
One afternoon she found herself in a lonely and deserted dell beneath the castle of Pfeiffenberg that frowned over the village. There was a shallow pool of water in the centre, fed by a silver line of cascade that fell many feet without impediment, and then came tumbling headlong down a heap of rude and black rocks. The pool was translucent, the tiny fish swam in shoals over its golden sandy bed, while the trees of the forest waved solemn and stately over all. It was a lovely spot—one where but peace and quiet could be supposed to dwell. It was here that Leopoldine oftenest strolled with the child, that loved to sprawl on the grassy turf that carpeted the dell, as well as to take a bath in the waters when warmed by the afternoon sun. Then in some shady corner would the mother plunge the little innocent in the pool; and it was hard to tell which laughed loudest or most merrily, when it arose all dripping with the water-drops, more purely lovely than Venus emerging from the phosphorescent waves of the ocean. On the occasion to which we allude, the boy had been bathed, and was smiling, one might say sarcastically, or at all events comically, at its mother, when it suddenly shrieked as a huge dog came gambolling up and crouched gently and in friendly guise at their feet.
"Nay, Edward," said the mother rising, while all her pallor returned, as she gazed with half affrighted look towards the part of the forest whence the dog had emerged, "thy mother is near thee, and the dog is gentle."
"As a lamb," said a voice, "to women and children."
Leopoldine raised her eyes, and discovered advancing towards her a young man, who, by his costume, was clearly a member of the upper classes of the community. A green hunting-frock, profusely ornamented, set off an almost faultless form, while the face of the intruder was handsome, but evidently the face of a proud if not of a violent man.
"I was not alarmed for myself, sir," replied Leopoldine, regarding the stranger for an instant with a glance of astonishment and curiosity, "my child was a little fearful, that is all."
"I am sorry that the sweet babe should have been rendered uneasy for a moment; but Hero, like his master, at times loves to rest at lovely woman's feet."
"Your dog is gallant," said Leopoldine, turning with a slight but haughty bend of the head to go.
"You are in haste, fair dame," continued the stranger, stepping boldly to her side, "and I marvel me much how you came here at all alone, an you be not some fountain sprite."
"I have no reason to fear being alone," replied the lady, "and of late I come here every day."
"Indeed," said the young man with a gratified smile, "and shall you still come?"
Leopoldine turned towards the stranger a look so stern, cold, and piercing, that he involuntarily quailed beneath it.
"I shall come every day," she added mildly, "while the weather is so tempting."
The stranger was silent for a few moments, and then inquired if his new friend lodged in the village.
"At the Green Rider."
"You put up there, doubtless?"
"I am its landlady."
"The wife of—of—"
"Caleb Von Dustenberg."
"Oh! indeed," replied the young man, "I knew not that our village concealed anything half so charming. Excuse me, but a young and happy mother is indeed a bright picture. I shall certainly not neglect to pay you a visit. May I hope to see you if I come?"
"I shall always be happy to receive the Count of Pfeiffenberg."
"Ah! you knew my name—you know that I am heir to all these broad domains and yonder castle."
"I certainly knew you to be the Count, but I knew you not heir to the castle. I thought you had an elder brother."
"Oh, Count Edward," replied the young nobleman, with a laugh, and then he added with a frown, "he is dead and gone, and, were he not, he could not claim these lands; my father had disinherited him before his death."
"I thought I had heard the Count was in America, seeking to retrieve his father's favour by retrieving his fortune."
"So they tell me, but for my part I think it mere talk. I believe myself he was killed in Flanders."
The high road was now gained, and the pair separated, after a sort of implied understanding that they were to meet again in the green dell by the shallow pool, where first they had happened one upon the other.
From that day the young Count's visits to the Green Rider were frequent and lengthy. To Caleb Von Dustenberg he took care to make himself most particularly agreeable, by drinking his beer and smoking his pipes, while to the child he endeared himself by all manner of pranks and capers. They met too in the green dell, and their interviews were prolonged. Leopoldine loved to talk of the old baronial castle, of its history, of its interior, and of its present owner. As these subjects flattered the Count's vanity, he would discourse incessantly upon them, though he gradually endeavoured to make the young wife sensible that courtesy towards her alone enabled him to dwell so minutely upon details, which it puzzled him to understand were of interest to her. Despite, however, all his hints—despite the most assiduous attention, the heir of Pfeiffenberg failed to make the lovely hostess of the Green Rider understand that his feelings for her were other than friendly, and that his interest was centered rather in her than in her child.
"Leopoldine,"—from some inexplicable cause she had never repressed this instance of his familiarity—"Leopoldine," said he one day, "why did I ever meet you, or why not before you were the wife of that beer-drinking old hog!"
"What hog of our acquaintance is in the habit of beer drinking?" observed the lady quietly.
"I meant to insinuate that it would have been a brighter fate for you been united to one who would have better understood you than Caleb Von Dustenberg."
"My husband is an excellent and worthy man," said Leopoldine mildly.
"But scarcely a fit mate for one so young, and so charming!" he replied.
"When I married, Count Pfeiffenberg, I married a man whom I loved, honoured and respected; he did the same, and, please God, he shall never have reason to do any other."
The Count took the hint, and shortly after withdrew, determined in his mind that Leopoldine should not long enjoy her present peace of mind.
Chapter III.
Caleb Von Dustenberg Opens His Eyes.
Leopoldine for some time saw no more of the Count, who, offended doubtless at the very plain-spoken rebuff he had received from the fair innkeeper, made no farther attempt, as it appeared to disturb her quietude. Little Edward meanwhile grew apace, and became a lovely and gallant looking child. To his mother he was an endless source of joy, for, surrounded by beings who knew not all her secret sorrows, nor understood her peculiar feelings, Leopoldine had but him to depend on and ensure her comfort and occupation of mind.
It was a winter evening. The snow lay heavy on the ground, while the wild wind whistled and whirled the congealed rain in drifts along the high road. There was coldness in the very look, while the whole expanse between heaven and earth partook of the glacy glare that arises from the ground at such times. The rigid and leafless tenants of the forest groaned grimly—the course of the torrent was mingled with the crush of ice—while there was a wintry atmosphere in every nook and corner of the open air.
But within! Such comfort and cosiness was never seen! A huge fire, piled with logs, sent forth a furnace glow cheerily upon the room. The very flames looked happy, merry and cheerful, for they performed a happy and cheerful office. The room, the principal one the Green Rider boasted of, was large, but the fire was expansive—had a generous heart, and sufficed for all. It was none of your tiny, halfpenny-bundle-of-wood affairs, but an honest, downright kind of fire, with vast logs from the neighbouring forest, and diffusing warmth, light and general comfort. It seemed aware of its own importance, and disposed to show off its own sense of its dignity. Like more sensitive things, it was not content to burn steadily, or in the proud consciousness of its own importance, but it must forsooth make a bluster and fuss about the matter. It crackled, it spluttered, it sent burning chips flying hither and thither, and performed in fact gambols which none but a fire of the very first class would have presumed to indulge in. Fortunately, too, those who sat around it were not disposed to be critical. They were seated at supper; and who that has the smallest drop of the milk of human kindness, stowed away even in the remotest corner of his inner man, can be critical at such a time? The French so-called philosophers of a certain age—lucus à non lucendo—were used to be pugnaciously disposed over that meal, but the amount of bile which enabled them so to do, must have been equal to the amount of assurance which has made them the ridicule of all succeeding critics.
They were at supper. At the head sat Caleb Von Dustenberg, to his right the lady Von D., with, on her knee, the boy. Jerome Wappenbickel and his little wife occupied the other end. Now every thing was in keeping. There was plenty to eat, and excellent fare. So, no doubt, thought Master Edward, as, after some moments of profound meditation, during which he appeared about to sacrifice his own fists to his infant appetite, he suddenly nearly leaped out of his mother's arms, plunged his hand into a half eaten pie, and next moment, amidst roars of laughter, had thrust the wing of a fowl against his little mouth.
"Bravo!" said Caleb, "that boy has a rare spirit."
"Oh Edward!" exclaimed the smiling mother, endeavouring in vain to disengage from the child's hand the fowl's wing, with which he was performing serious havoc on a clean white collar, "you rude child!"
A loud knock interrupted this colloquy.
Jerome rose to discover in what it originated, and soon returned, followed by two men of by no means prepossessing appearance. Of the lower class, with huge rough beard and moustachioes, their broad brimmed hats, their black cloaks, and the clanking of concealed arms, made no very great impression in their favour. Apologizing for intruding on the best room, on account of its containing a warm fire, they seated themselves and called for supper. They were served at a small table by themselves, and the others then continued their meal. All cheerfulness was however gone—even the child seemed alarmed at the sight of the strangers, and played no more of those antic tricks which, in a child, have such an inexpressible charm for all of simple tastes and natural feelings.
Not many minutes had elapsed when another knock came, which being answered, two other men, apparently of higher rank, but closely muffled and cloaked, entered, and without a word seated themselves somewhat apart from the previous pair. Leopoldine, uneasy at what seemed suspicious, rose, and with the child left the room.
"Can we sleep here?" said the younger of the new comers, addressing Caleb.
"The rooms are all occupied," replied Jerome Wappenbickel, "but you can make shift in the little parlour beside this."
The travellers nodded, and the affair was considered settled.
* * * * *
It wanted but an hour of midnight, when the two men who had first entered, and who had been left to sleep before the great fire we have above alluded to, rose and cautiously peered about.
"All quiet," said one of them, after peeping into the little room where lay the other travellers; "we can act."
"Yes, my lord," replied the other respectfully.
"You remain here, and keep watch: I will upstairs."
The other bowed, and the Count Pfeiffenberg, for it was he, alone ascended the inn stairs on an errand of crime.
The other ruffian remained alone by the fire, examining his arms.
All was wrapped in deep silence; nought was heard save the creaking of the old stairs under the cautious step of the young Count, who had divested himself of his disguise. In one hand he carried a lanthorn, in the other a sharp hunting-knife. He reached the chamber occupied by Leopoldine, and, the lock easily giving way, entered.
Five minutes elapsed of intense interest to the confederate, who stood breathlessly watching the progress of events. At the expiration of that period, the count reappeared with the child in his arms, and followed by Leopoldine, who had not retired to rest. Stern determination characterized the features of the young nobleman, while hopeless despair sat upon the brow of the youthful mother. They reached the room. The Count handed the sleeping child to his confederate.
"And now, madam," he said sternly, "one word of alarm, and your child pays the penalty."
Leopoldine made no answer for an instant; but as the Count laid down the lanthorn, advanced towards him, and laid her hand on his shoulder.
"You would kill that child?" she said calmly.
"Aye, rather than be discovered, and disinherited by my old father."
"You would murder your nephew, because your brother's wife would not follow a seducer?"
Count Pfeiffenberg stood petrified. A suspicion, dismissed as absurd, but generated by the child's features, was thus confirmed.
"You are not," he said, gasping for breath, "the wife of Caleb Von Dustenberg?"
"I am the Countess of Pfeiffenberg," replied Leopoldine, "and that child is your father's heir."
"I believe you," said the young man, "and thank you for the information. The child shall be provided for."
"What mean you?" cried the mother.
"Nothing against the boy," replied the young man, recollecting his position; "but with regard to you my purpose undergoes no change. You scorned me, Madam the Countess, you shall sue for mercy at my feet."
"Brother!" said the young Countess, with an imploring glance.
"Madam," continued the young man, "I had a brother, who, because he was studious, a stay-at-home, and would sit for hours listening to my father's old worn-out tales of the wars, was the favorite. I was wild and a wanderer, and loved not such twaddle. I hunted in the woods, and when the baron was in the storytelling vein, would whistle to my dogs and seek the kennel. At length, however, I saw the end of this. The student was the favorite, and as I made that discovery, I hated; I changed my tactics, I became a listener, but I was not passive. Inuendos, a few false reports, made my father suspicious of my brother's motives; goaded by me, he charged him with hypocrisy. My brother was high-spirited, and he resented the charge as an insult. They quarrelled, and my father dismissed him with a curse."
"He did," replied the Countess, "and your brother went to Spain, gained the favour of its sovereign, and wedded me. Appointed by the king chief of an important but dangerous expedition, he sent me here to watch over my child, and, in case your father was ill, to seek as a stranger to nurse and watch his bed of sickness—"
"And expose me," laughed the count, "but my good angel has served me. Come, madam, a litter awaits you without. Follow."
"Stay," thundered the younger of the two men who had slept in the little room.
A painter, who could have caught the whole features of the scene, would have made a splendid picture.
In the doorway stood, his cloak at his feet, his broad brimmed hat cast beside it, in the splendid uniform of a General of the Roman Empire, the Count, the elder-born of Pfeiffenberg. By his side stood, half tottering and in tears, the old man, whose eyes had been so cruelly opened. The younger son remained back, glaring like a tiger on his brother, while the Countess, having secured her babe, rushed to her husband's side, proud, happy, and almost fainting with emotion.
"Brother," said the elder Count, in a deeply pained voice, "your servant, in a fit of drunkenness, betrayed your secret last night to my faithful attendant, Jerome Wappenbickel. Arrived here this morning, and anxious to regain my father's favour, I sought him, and in justice to myself brought him here, not expecting, when you discovered who the lady was, you would persevere. I now deeply regret what I have done, for you have betrayed more than I wished."
"Yes! yes!" said the baron, "enough to make me call down an old man's curse upon his head, which I now—"
"Nay, father, I forgive him, and you will," exclaimed the elder brother, "I am most satisfied. I gain my father's love, I am restored to a dear wife and child: let not a brother's hatred poison my cup of joy."
The young Count was silent for some time, then proudly raising his head, he spoke.
"To say I am sorry, is useless: to promise to make up for what I have done, is vain; but time will shew."
"Yes! yes!" cried the young mother, rushing towards him, and placing the child in his arms, "you will not hurt my child?"
"No," said the Count, bending his head over the babe, "and," he added in a whisper only heard by Leopoldine, "I will transfer my love for you to your son."
"But in all this, by my boots, I lose a wife!" exclaimed Caleb von Dustenberg, who, with Wappenbickel and his wife, had crept cautiously in.
"You do, my friend," said the Countess, "but you gain a home and faithful protectors."
He did so, and never had cause to repent having lent his name to the beautiful Leopoldine. As for the Pfeiffenbergs, the old man never recovered the shock, and dying had the satisfaction of seeing the brothers sincerely reconciled. The young Count never married, devoting himself entirely to the education of his nephew,—a task, however, which as long as he lived was disputed with him by Caleb von Dustenberg.