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CHAPTER XVIII.
FOR THE SAKE OF THE CHILD

Night had followed morning, and morning turned into night, on this day like the previous one. The worthy Pastor required to exercise all his quiet self command, not to give way to the most feverish feelings of distress and anxiety; but just in the same way that he had resisted allowing the alarm bell to be rung except in the greatest extremity, so he now restrained his own feelings. He stood long looking out of the window. In the dead of night the ticking of the pendulum of the church clock was distinctly heard, and the heart of the anxious Pastor vibrated in unison with the swinging pendulum. He had learned the difficult art, in the midst of all the heartfelt sorrow and uneasiness he so keenly felt, to maintain the most perfect outward composure, and to subdue every symptom of passion: even the noblest of all – that of sympathy for others.

While all those who had remained behind in the village forced themselves to go to work, or sought to divert their thoughts by conversing with each other, and keeping themselves awake by sharing their uneasiness, the Pastor sat alone in his room, looking out of the window, apparently without emotion or noticing any object – and yet his inward agitation and excitement were great. The villagers, well acquainted with this habit of his, declared that at such moments the Pastor preached a silent sermon to himself; the Pastorin, however, had confided to her father, and to no one else in the world, that on these occasions the Pastor was composing poems, so tender and so aërial that solid words were too substantial for them, and he was content to breathe out his words and thoughts, though he neither wished nor tried to preserve them, by writing down his conceptions. Thus, when the poor child was found frozen to death, in the neighbouring village of Wenger, he had repeated, almost unconsciously, aloud, the words that are now inscribed on his tomb, and they had no little difficulty in persuading him to allow them to be written down, and sent to his brother clergyman at Wenger. Often, however, it was a poem, a deep thought from the kindred soul of another, or a melody of his favourite master, Mozart, that the Pastor repeated to himself at such hours, with all sorts of imaginary variations; and when he had held this silent intercourse with himself – the Pastorin called this his supernatural existence – he then went forth into the world, with a kind and consoling word for every one who needed it, and a degree of holiness an faith, strength and power, visible to all men. Thus he sat on this evening absorbed in a reverie.

The strokes of the clock were heard striking slowly from the church tower, proclaiming on hour after another; they go on striking, by day and by night, in joy or in sorrow – they sound on, and on, and loudly say: "Another space of time gone for ever – lost in Eternity!"

"We have found him," was the cry he suddenly heard in the streets, as the sound of a horn rung through the silent night, and the Pastor went out to welcome back his brother-in-law.

When they were again in the sitting-room, Edward told how Joseph had been found in the Forest Mill, with Adam's betrothed bride, Tony, He did not stop to describe minutely the fierce rage of the ungovernable Röttmännin, he spoke with enthusiasm of the kind honest sympathy shown by all the villagers: —

"These men," said he, "possess nothing but their lives, and their sound limbs, to enable them to struggle on through life, and yet with the utmost decision and confidence, as if it could not be otherwise, they, every one, exposed themselves to danger in order to save a lost child; this proved to me, dear brother, that your heart lived in all these men – you were at home, and yet they all came with us. I cannot but think that it must be a severe trial to you to leave such people."

The Pastor answered nothing; neither in assent or dissent, and the Pastorin asked: —

"So the Forest Miller's Tony has given up Adam? Heaven be praised for that! She has a pure and true heart, and is sure to do well in the world. Why did you not bring her with you to the village? I wish you had brought her here to me, Edward. She stands in great need of some one to interpose between her and her stepmother, and also the fierce old Röttmännin."

Edward did not say a syllable, but he breathed hard; in the mean time the Paster rejoined: —

"Don't be uneasy about Tony, she is wood of a fine and solid grain, and we cannot avert from others the consequences of their own actions, either for good or evil. They who have courage enough to do a deed, have also courage enough to endure its consequences, and ought to have it."

Edward looked up more cheerfully, but his cheeks glowed, and his sister, on seeing this, said: – "You are quite feverish – do go and lie down, and I will bring you a cup of tea when you are in bed."

Edward was very reluctant to follow this advice, and yet he felt quite dizzy; he had gone through more than he cared at this moment to confess. There was a knock at the door: —

"Come in," cried the Pastorin, but as there was an evident hesitation in doing so, she opened the door herself, and in came Speidel-Röttmann, Schilder-David and his wife, and, behind them, Adam and Martina.

"Herr Pastor," said Schilder-David, stepping forward, "God has helped us wonderfully; we hope you will give us further aid, and speedily too, that all things may be done in order."

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Speak yourself;" and David drew back, jogging Speidel-Röttmann's arm.

"What I want," began the latter, repeatedly stroking his closely cropped head with his hand, as if wishing to give a token of respect by pulling off an imaginary hat – "What I want, and I have not a word to say against it, is that the Herr Pastor should marry Adam to Martina this afternoon."

"Oh! that is delightful!" exclaimed the Pastorin, while Adam came forward, holding Martina's hand, and said —

"Yes, Herr Pastor, we earnestly beg you will."

"Yes, we humbly beg it," repeated Martina, in a low voice.

"Gently, gently," said the Pastor, in an authoritative tone, "you two young people, follow me to my room."

He went first, and the two followed him.

"Sit down," said the Pastor, when they were in his study – then he continued: "Adam, probably because you are the richest man in all the country, and can help yourself out of a full purse, without even thinking. What will it cost? you may imagine that whatever you choose can be done at once; you are proud of your strength, because you can knock down a horse, or kill a wolf with your stick: do you suppose that you are, therefore, entitled to imagine that where you are concerned, there are no laws or sacred injunctions, that cannot be abrogated when you wish it?" —

The Pastor paused, and Adam began —

"Herr Pastor! no one in the world knows me as I really am – neither my father, nor my mother – no one but my Martina. You, Herr Pastor, do know something of me; but not everything. What you have just said is very true; I have been a wild fellow; always ready to hit every man – a word and a blow; and I fear it is true, that I had not, hitherto, entirely subdued this wild fellow within me; but, Herr Pastor, he is now down for ever, and you and my Martina … only give me some penance to perform; I will submit cheerfully, for I deserve it. Desire me to hack off my fingers, that I may become as weak as a child, and I will not shrink from it."

Adam's emotion was so great that he could not say another word, and the Pastor resumed —

"The law is, that you must be proclaimed three Sundays following."

"Is it not enough that the perils of my child made my blood run cold in my veins? Tell me what to do, Herr Pastor, and I will do it."

"Oh! Herr Pastor," entreated Martina; "have we not been punished severely enough? Have we not repented long enough?"

"No! you conducted yourself very properly during your long trial, but your sin was no light one. It shall never be said that those who once set the law at defiance, shall do the same now."

"If we cannot help ourselves, we must submit, I suppose," said Adam. Martina could not speak for tears. The Pastor let her remain for a time quiet, and then said: —

"Come with me to the next room."

"Is it all arranged?" asked the Pastorin.

Adam and Martina shook their heads, and Speidel-Röttmann came forward and said, "Herr Pastor, is it on account of the banns?"

"Yes, yes," answered Adam.

"If that is all," said Speidel-Röttmann with an air of importance, "Herr Pastor, I am willing to pay the fine it will cost."

"Truly, if rich farmers could smooth all obstacles with their money, there would be little difficulty for them in this world; but, Master Röttmann, there are some things which even your ten horses could not move from the spot. Has your wife given her consent?"

"Häspele declares she has," interrupted Edward. "He will be here presently."

Adam hurried away and brought Häspele back with him; he came in a great fright, and when the Pastor appealed to his conscience to say whether the Röttmännin had really given her consent, he said at length, after biting his lips till the blood came, "No, she did not."

"Very well then," said the Pastor; "I will on my own responsibility undertake to marry you, even without the Röttmännin's consent; but now I have something to say to you. Neither your pride, Adam, nor your humility – and I believe in your sincerity, and hope I shall have reason to do so henceforth – nor your swaggering, Speidel-Röttmann, as to paying the fine, but – "

"For the sake of little Joseph," the Pastorin could not help saying: "you give in on account of the boy. He is a precocious child. What would he think, if he heard that the banns of his parents were only published now? What battles he would have with his companions, and who knows what poisonous drops might fall into his heart, and what evil might be produced by them hereafter?"

"Exactly so," said the Pastor; "the child is now asleep, and utterly unconscious of all the perplexities and disorders of this wicked world; he has been in danger of death, and miraculously saved in search of his father, who proved himself a weak person, in spite of his strength; and his grandfather, who hitherto believed that everything could be purchased with money. So for little Joseph's sake I will marry you this night."

Martina rushed up to the Pastor, and knelt down and kissed his hand; Adam would evidently have gladly done the same, but in spite of his humility he could not quite bring himself to kneel yet; he only laid his hand on Martina's head, as if to testify that she was kneeling for him also.

All was still in the room, and the Pastor ended by saying, "We shall see each other again in church," and then went into his study. The Parsonage soon resumed its usual quiet aspect, but even before the wedding party left it, the news ran like wildfire from house to house in the village. "Adam and Martina are to be married to-night. Leegart said they would beforehand."

CHAPTER XIX.
A VOICE AT MIDNIGHT

The bells were ringing out into the cold night air; a bright ray of light from the open church door streamed out on the graves, which were covered with snow. The whole community were assembled in the church, and each had a light beside them; the organ was pealing forth, and the congregation uplifted their voices in a hymn.

The sounds of the organ died away, the voices were silent, and the Pastor stood up in the pulpit and commenced thus: – "St. Matthew, 25th chapter, 40th verse. 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' These are words from a distant land, but they are verified this day, here in our woods; in this forest, where at that time no human foot followed the track of wild animals, either here or elsewhere." He then went on to describe that men cannot serve themselves better than by doing good to others; "and never," continued he, "never is the human face more bright than at the moment of doing a good action; a sacred halo overspreads such a man, and makes him soar above the sorrows of life." He then began to explain the signification of having service in the church at midnight. "You are all voluntarily assembled here, and have broken in on your sleep; break in also on the sleep of your souls, and close not your eyes. How often have anxiety and sorrow kept you awake in the night, and you tossed about, no longer able to return to repose, and it was well for you if it was only anxiety, or care creeping intangibly in the darkness about your bed! Sad indeed would it have been for you, had it been the remembrance of an evil deed that made you wakeful! In one house a child keeps its mother waking; the father is far away, and she stands beside his sick bed, and says, 'Would to God it were morning!' and asks, 'Is it not yet morning?'"

As the Pastor spake these words, Martina clung close to Adam, who was seated beside her on the foremost bench, and whispered: —

"That was the cry of our child during the past night."

And the Pastor continued. "She felt that if it were only day, if she could only see the light of the sun in the sky, she could better bear her burden – but still a bright star shone out in the night." The Pastor inculcated on his people, how good it was sometimes voluntarily to sacrifice a few hours of sleep, to watch the stars in the night sky; he then returned to the words of his text, and invoked a blessing on the heads of all those, who had this day made a good deed the porch through which they came to church.

Not a breath was heard; no coughing, no whispering was heard on this occasion – which at evening service is but too common, as if to protest against thus reversing the usual order of life. Every one seemed to hold their breath, and, when the singing recommenced, the old walls rung with the sounds of the hymn.

The Pastor then in few and simple words, performed the marriage ceremony between Adam and Martina, and the congregation quietly dispersed, amid the renewed ringing of bells. Some lads had loaded their guns, intending to fire them off after the wedding, but they were prevented doing so by those who were leaving church. All felt so solemnized in spirit, that they shrunk from any noisy demonstrations; the pious feelings which the Pastor had inspired in his congregation, rendered them averse to all clamour; and when the moon rose at one o'clock in the morning, dispersing the cold snowy fog, it shone down on a calm, sleeping village, where all slumbering hearts were at rest, and happy.

CHAPTER XX.
DAYLIGHT

It was a happy waking hour to all next morning, every eye shone brightly, and each saluted his neighbour gaily, saying, "Good morning! beautiful weather!" while in truth the most beautiful atmosphere was within their own hearts. The sun above was certainly most brilliant, and the snow covered hills and trees glittered in the rays of the morning light; but the best of all was, that there was something to gladden all hearts of a less changeable nature than the weather: a child had been saved, and parents and grandparents made happy; a delightful wedding had taken place, though there had been neither baking nor roasting, nor clattering of plates and dishes. And how admirably and faithfully did the Pastor expound the truth! What a sad thing it was that he persisted in leaving them, when they would gladly have kept him for ever!

In the attic in Schilder-David's house, Adam and Martina were standing by the bed of little Joseph, who was still fast asleep, though a bright streak of sunshine, as wide as the little garret window could admit, shone right on the face of the boy. There was an expression of saucy petulance on the features of the child; his head was thrown back, his lips curled and half opened, and his clenched fist lay close to his rosy cheek.

"I will wake him; it is time," said Martina.

"Do let him sleep on, to oblige me. I am just the same when I have undergone any great excitement, I could sleep on for three days and nights without stirring. How pretty a child looks asleep! I never saw him asleep before." Thus talked Adam and Martina, and looked fondly at their child.

Adam felt as if there was not room for him in the attic. He sat down on Martina's trunk, and, in such a gentle voice that it appeared to proceed from some one else, begged her to stand out of the light, that he might see Joseph, distinctly.

"I will remain here till he wakes," said he; and Martina told him again and again, how Joseph on the preceding night had called out "Is it not yet morning?" At the sound of these words the boy turned and moved restlessly, but continued sleeping.

His mother now, however, bent over him, and called out to him in a clear, ringing voice, "Mother, is it not yet light? The light is come, Joseph! wake up. Your father is here."

Joseph now looked up with a face of surprise and curiosity, but he began to cry bitterly from terror, when the gigantic form of his father stood upright in the small attic; he probably appeared to the child like some monstrous apparition in a dream, and when the large figure interposed like a gloomy cloud, between the bed and the sunlight, the attic seemed almost as dark as night. Martina had no little trouble in pacifying the boy. Adam was obliged to leave the room till Joseph was dressed, and during the few minutes that he was standing outside the attic, while the mother was soothing the child, feelings of remorse for his past transgression again smote him – but only for a moment; he was Adam Röttmann still, who could and would be master of all; he was angry with the boy, who did not seem to care for him, nor to clasp him round the neck as he expected; he was resolved to teach him by stern discipline, and that this very day, he must love and honour him as his father.

When Joseph came out of the room he ran down stairs quickly, past Adam.

"The boy must be taught differently; this is not proper conduct towards his father," said Adam to Martina, indignantly.

She, however, begged him to think how much the boy must love him, to go in search of him through the snow, and at night, so fearlessly; as yet, however, the child was naturally shy, and his father still a stranger to him. Adam must try to win the love of his boy by gentleness and kindness, and not suppose he could do this by force.

"You are right, quite right," said Adam, and he went down the narrow stairs with such a heavy tread that the small house shook. Joseph was in the room below, seated on Schilder-David's knee, and Adam called to the boy, "You are to get a present from me to-day; what would you like? Tell me."

The boy did not come, but knit his brows, and looked at his father with a shy glance. He left his grandfather, but did not go to his father; he was staring with astonishment at the nail on the wall over the stove, for there hung a written document framed. Long before daylight, Schilder-David had replaced there Martina's Confirmation Certificate. A bright gleam of sunshine lighted up the text, which was: Revelations 3rd chapter, 11th verse. "Hold that fast which thou hast, that no man take thy crown."

In another house in the village, however, there was weeping and wailing, and that too in the best of all. In the Parsonage the maid sat in the kitchen, crying bitterly: "The fine fat goose, which was to have been roasted this very day, and it was the very thing for such a welcome guest: such a lovely bird, and so well frozen by hanging outside the window! and now in all the confusion last night, it has been stolen. I am sure it ought to choke those who were so wicked as to steal from the Pastor; and how like an angel he spoke to them, and thanked them for what they had done – and now they play him such a trick as this! He ought to bring it into his sermon today, and preach to them on an appropriate text; and the first man that coughs, has stolen the goose, I will go through the whole village, to spy out who has got my goose. I will find out whether the fox, the wolf, a dog, a weasel, or a raven has stolen it; but more likely far some wicked wretch, intending to roast it. I am resolved to get it back; we have really nothing for dinner to-day." These, and many other lamentations were poured forth amid bitter tears, and scolding, and execrations, by the maid in the kitchen, till at last the Pastor came into the kitchen, saying, "What is going on here?" The fact was duly detailed to him, and, as a proof of her assertion, the maid pointed out the empty hook on which the goose had hung outside the window.

"The hook is still there, but the goose is gone," said the girl, sobbing, and laying hold of the hook, as if she thought it the very thing to hang the thief upon. Brother Edward also came in, and the maid begged him to oblige her by looking at the hook. The Pastor turning to his brother-in-law, said, "It is often thus; just the very last delicate morsel, carefully cherished, falls on the floor, when it is actually stuck on your fork."

"And you are positively making a jest of it!" said the Pastorin to her husband; "you men never seem to have any idea of the great difficulty of preparing a good dinner in the country, and how pleasant it is when all is prepared; and it seemed quite a happy chance that my mother sent me some chesnuts."

"I am not making a jest of it; on the contrary, it is very annoying to me."

"The greatest annoyance to you is, assuredly, that any person here is capable of being a thief. They cannot, however, enjoy the fruits of their theft, I feel sure," interrupted Edward.

"By no means: I am so material in my nature, that I should have liked excessively to have myself enjoyed a fine, well browned, crisp, roast goose; – and as for the thief? If the goose had been stolen from any one else, the man would have equally been a thief, but it would vex me less than now, when I have lost my own goose and the giblets too."

"We have still got the giblets," said the maid, in a soothing tone. They all laughed, and at that moment the letter carrier came up the stair. He brought the country newspaper. The Pastor hastily looked over the clerical intelligence, and there, sure enough, he saw that the living in Odenwald, for which he had applied, had been given away to another clergyman, a much younger man, and one of the new fashioned stiff necked species.

"You see here is another empty hook," said the Pastor, giving the newspaper to his wife, and pointing out the paragraph to her.

Along with the newspaper was a letter from their uncle, the President, announcing the appointment of another to the living, but that there was great anxiety to induce our Pastor to take a charge in the Capital.

"I shall refuse, and remain here," said the Pastor, abruptly.

The cook of the Parsonage, who went to the inn in order to buy some meat to replace the missing goose, had two pieces of news to spread abroad which had no great connexion certainly, but which she mixed up together in the most singular manner: the stolen goose, and the Pastor staying in the village.

The bells rung out in soft melodious peals in the bright light; this ringing on Christmas-day is appropriately termed a "lullaby." When the Pastor again entered the church he found the villagers assembled, and crowded together from the door of the Parsonage all the way to the church, and they all saluted their Pastor kindly, in token of their gratitude and joy, that he was now to remain till the day of his death in this parish.

While the organ sounded in the church, a figure, closely muffled in a cloak, glided past the kitchen of the Vicarage, and unexpectedly a fat goose was once more suspended by its legs on the hook outside the window. Was it the stolen one or another? was it the thief restoring what he had taken, or some good hearted person replacing it by another? This could never be ascertained. The cook declared that she knew how to shut her eyes, that she had neither recognized the person, nor did she wish to do so. She was, however, so overjoyed, that she hurried to the vestry, to tell the Pastor that there was no occasion for him to preach about the stolen goose, for it was come back. She did not venture to go into the vestry, and went home again. "He is too sensible a man," said she, "to preach about a goose," and there she was perfectly right.

Little Joseph went to church with his parents, holding a hand of each; he looked curiously at the people he met, but said nothing, only clinging close to his father. At the church door the parents dismissed Joseph to join his schoolfellows, and themselves separated – one joining the women, and the other the men – in their different parts of the church; but the two were now united, the same building containing them, and their voices harmonizing together. The singing was not so perfect as usual, for the best singer was wanting, who had often with his deep bass notes helped the schoolmaster out of a difficulty. Häspele failed the choir, for he was so hoarse that he could not speak a word, far less sing.

When little Joseph joined his comrades, some of them asked him – "Do you know what you are called now?"

"Joseph Röttmann, just as I always was."

"No, Joseph in the Snow, that's your new name," and they persevere in calling him by that name to this day.

In the course of the afternoon many healths were drank in the inn to the worthy Pastor, and also to "Joseph in the Snow," and each had much to tell of all that had occurred during the night. The terror would have been a hundredfold increased, had they known all the steepness of the rocks and precipices. It seemed a much greater wonder that no one had been injured, than even little Joseph having made his way straight to the Forest Mill through so many perils. Schilder-David was at home, dressed in his Sunday clothes, seated before his large Bible, carefully reading its precious words – running his finger along the lines as a guide – from where he had left off two evenings before. Schilder-David lived out his life in his usual quiet fashion, constantly reading his Bible from beginning to end. There had been a wonderful combination of mercies for him, and all had turned out for the best.

At noon a messenger came into the village, and declared that there was a corpse lying in the Forest Mill.

"The Röttmännin!" exclaimed all.

"No! the Forest Miller himself; it seems he must have died last night, but it was only discovered to-day. There is no doubt that he killed himself by trying to drink as hard as Speidel-Röttmann, and I hear nothing could be more horrible than to hear the Röttmännin, who tried to wake him at night to come to her aid, scolding and cursing. It was a dead man she was raging at."

All shuddered, and certainly the death of the Forest Miller was much deplored, but he ought to have died at some other time, for now people spoke less of Joseph's rescue, and more of the Forest Miller's sudden death.

No one was more horrorstruck by this sudden death than Leegart; it showed that she did know more than other people: she can by her wishes, wish the death of a man. She had incautiously wished that there should be poison in all the spices he bought from the grocer, and in all the wine from Rössler's Inn. A shudder of pleasure and awe crept through her veins, that she should be endowed with such miraculous gifts. She dared not venture to leave the house; every one must be well aware of what she had done, and she sincerely regretted it; she had not really intended the man's death. I will take good care, vowed she to herself, never to do anything of the kind again; I wish nothing but good to the whole world, and even to the Röttmännin herself. At last she ventured to go to Martina, and said privately to her in the attic: "I beg you will, in a quiet way, take care that none of the women to whom I was talking yesterday repeat what I wished with regard to the Forest Miller. Men are apt to be vastly superstitious, and might at last actually believe, that I knew more than other people; but I don't wish to have this reputation." Leegart was only half pleased, when Martina assured her that no one thought about the matter, and that the world was not so silly as to believe in such things. Leegart thought to herself: "Martina is very stupid, but I am thankful if I alone have the gift of knowing what is to come to pass in the world." She shrunk from every evil thought, that had ever hitherto passed through her mind with regard to others, or was yet to pass. It was a dreadful responsibility to possess such a gift, and to be able to influence the fate of others just as she chose. Whenever the women came to pay her a visit Leegart never failed to repeat: "I mean well to the whole world; no one can have better intentions than I have. I wish every one, without a single exception, all that is good."

No one understood what Leegart meant, but all agreed in saying —

"Yes, indeed, you were always kind to everybody."

"And do you know what I am going to say?" exclaimed Leegart, with sparkling eyes, "I say nothing but this: the Parsonage, and Tony of the Forest Mill. Remember that I said it – I say no more."

Soon after the news came of the miller's death, the Pastor and his wife, escorted by Edward, drove to the Forest Mill; and it was fortunate they did so, for they found Tony in a perfect agony of grief and remorse, for she had gone through so much that was dreadful since yesterday, and she continually blamed herself, that in studying the welfare of others she had forgotten her father.

Tony welcomed the Pastorin as a guardian angel, and she became more composed when she promised to stay with her. Edward begged she would give him something to do for her; Tony looked at him intently, and drew close to the Pastorin.

The newly made widow at the mill howled and lamented horribly, and when the Pastor addressed her she scarcely listened to him, but stared incessantly at Tony, as if she would have poisoned her by her glances. The martyr was now free, and her tormentor was forced to quit the house a beggar.