Joseph in the Snow, and The Clockmaker Volume I Part 14

Adam went up and shook hands with her of his own accord, bawling into her ear in his stentorian voice, "G.o.d bless you! mother-in-law."

The old woman stepped back suddenly, as if she had received a blow. "I hear you well enough, I am not so deaf as all that," said she, retreating to the bench beside the stove, and looking nervously at the great men and the great dogs.

Schilder-David's house was not made for the Rottmanns. The father and son almost touched the ceiling when they stood upright.

Little Joseph remained for a time sitting on the knee of Speidel-Rottmann. David was jealous, and felt almost angry with the child for taking so quickly to other people.

"Give me your large wolf-dog," said Joseph to grandfather Rottmann, who said--

"He is yours."

"You are mine; my own;" said Joseph to the dog, but he was obliged to leave him with his grandfather for the present, as the animal would not go with him.

"Some one take Joseph to bed instantly," repeated David, in a voice of authority. His wife understood, by the movement of his lips, what her husband was saying, so she took Joseph by the hand, and went with him up to the attic. Scarcely had the door closed behind the grandmother and grandson, when Leegart stepped forwards with a degree of confidence and self-a.s.surance that amazed every one, saying deliberately,

"And now, Martina, go and put on your wedding dress. I will a.s.sist you, for you know I always promised that I would. All you men, if you are true men, take care that Adam and Martina are married this very night.

You can, if you will, and if you insist upon it. The Rottmanns have a famous opportunity of showing their courage. Speidel can now split asunder a hard log, and you, Adam, 'The Horse,' may drag it home. What are you all staring at me for? I say, go straight to our Pastor, and I tell you the thing will be done. I tell you so, and I always know pretty well what I say. Come, Martina, that I may dress you. You shall not hide your face any longer; you have groaned and grieved, and felt shame long enough. Come along."

She took Martina with her to her room, while every one walked after her in surprise, but no one spoke a word. Martina soon returned into the room, prettily dressed. Adam went up to her, and, unseen by the others, showed her something wrapped up and fastened by a riband into his purse. He then turned to the others, saying, "Father, and father-in-law, it is far the best plan. Come with us to our Pastor. He must make us one this very day."

"He will never do it."

"Let us at least try."

"Don't let us forget the chief point of all," said Schilder-David, suddenly stopping, "When any one goes to be married they must know their Catechism, and particularly the Ten Commandments. Can you repeat them to me, Adam? You say nothing. Here is Joseph's Catechism for you, go into the next room and look it over quickly."

"I will help you," said Martina, going with Adam into the next room.

This, however, was far from being an easy piece of work. Adam plodded, and became as hot as fire, but he could not manage to get the Ten Commandments into his head, especially the order in which they followed each other; in his agitation of heart, he evidently had no chance of impressing these Eternal Laws on his memory.

"Does our Joseph know the Ten Commandments by heart?" said Adam to Martina.

"Yes, indeed, word for word."

Leegart rescued the despairing Adam by coming into the room, and saying, "Don't delay at present. You are not like other people. The Pastor will probably ask you no questions on the subject, and, if he does, you can promise to learn the Commandments afterwards."

"A capital idea," said Adam, in a tone of relief; and closing the book at once, he felt as if a heavier load was taken off his shoulders, than on that memorable day when he had carried the cart and the sacks.

He returned with Martina into the sitting-room. The two fathers, and the bride and bridegroom, wished to leave the house together. Adam tried to make his mother-in-law aware of what was going on, but she shrunk from him, putting both hands to her ears; but when David spoke to her, she nodded. "Shall I stay at home," asked she, "and take care of Joseph? I will do it if you choose; but you have all done so much, while I have been sitting at home; and I must say I should like to be present at my Martina's wedding."

"Leegart will be so kind as to stay with Joseph."

"No! I will not be so kind. I have vowed to be present at Martina's marriage, and I could not possibly stay away even if I wished it."

Luckily Haspele, the refuge of the dest.i.tute, arrived at this moment, and though he had dressed himself very smartly, and was very proud of his personal appearance, and especially overjoyed that the wedding was to take place that very day, naturally expecting to have a conspicuous place at it, still he was at last persuaded to stay with Joseph by Martina saying to him:--"Haspele, all your life long you have been most kind both to the child and to me; be so good as to stay with the child today."

"Yes, yes, I'll do so of course, not another word," said Haspele, and, gulping down his disappointment as he best could, he went up to the attic and sat down by Joseph's bedside.

The two fathers, the mother, and the bridal pair went to the Parsonage, and a few paces behind followed Leegart alone, looking round at the houses on every side, where she saw a light, as she went along, and thinking how little they knew what an unexpected event was about to take place that night. Leegart heard the sounds of music--it must be bridal music sounding in the air. To be sure she is the only one who hears the melody, but she both knows and hears more than most people.

When the wedding party entered the sitting-room of the Parsonage, Leegart stayed below with the maid in the kitchen; she soon, however, dispatched her upstairs, that she might throw open the little window of the kitchen for air, she was in such a state of excitement.

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 pa.s.sion: even the n.o.blest 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 aerial 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 s.p.a.ce 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 Rottmannin, 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 a.s.sent 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 Rottmannin."

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-Rottmann, Schilder-David and his wife, and, behind them, Adam and Martina.

"Herr Pastor," said Schilder-David, stepping forward, "G.o.d 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-Rottmann'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.