Part 6

Andrew returned on the following morning, seemingly anxious to spend as much time as possible in the society of his first playfellow, Maria. The news of her return spread rapidly through the hamlet, and many were the hearty congratulations poured forth, mingled with blessings, on her youthful head. It at length reached the ears of the noble proprietor of the castle, who sent for her, and listened to her statement with no little surprise and wonder: they were struck with her vivacity of spirit, tempered with unassuming modesty, and with her plain unvarnished tale;--so well hitherto had she concealed in her own bosom any feeling that might have thrown a shade of suspicion on her story, and brought to light the awful secret of which she was possessed. It was now the month of February; but the whole country wore that rich appearance which a more matured season of the year induces: the trees were clad in their brilliant green livery; the nightingale's notes were already to be heard in the woods; and never had such an early or so lovely a spring gladdened the earth before in the recollection of the most aged villager. The hills seemed to increase in size; the vines planted on them shot forth more numerous tendrils, and the thick clusters, that promised an abundant vintage, were already peeping forth among the leaves; the fruit-trees were covered with blossoms, and there had been no hail to crush the produce in the bud, no blight to destroy the hopes of the farmer at a more advanced season. The following year wore the same happy appearance; the harvest was still more abundant than before, and at the conclusion of their toil Maria assented to the wishes of her parents and crowned their joy by becoming Andrew's bride. Still she would often dwell upon the happy days that were passed behind the fir-trees, till she grew silent and serious, but more beautiful each succeeding day. It pained her too, as often as Andrew talked of the gipsies and vagabonds, and prayed that the Baron might some day purge his estate of such worthless characters, as he styled them. On such occasions the temptation of defending her benefactors was great indeed; but whenever Andrew mentioned the subject she was more silent than before, in consequence of her knowledge of the result of such a communication. Thus matters went on steadily for a year, at the end of which time they were blessed with a daughter, whom Maria named Elfrida--the name doubtless having reference to those kind beings whose home she had once shared, and who were at that time the secret agents in working the grand changes that had taken place.

Elfrida was a very intelligent child from her birth, and ran about alone and prattled ere a twelvemonth had passed over her head. As she grew older, her singular beauty was the remark of every one, and her quick perception astonished them: she did not associate with other children, but seemed to shun their sports, and avoid their company, retiring frequently into an arbour or some secret spot, and passing the hours in reading or working, and indulging her love of solitude. Old Martin rejoiced to see the bloom of health on the cheek of his grandchild, and to trace the rapid development of her intellect; but Brigitta was constantly saying, "That child will not see many years--she is too good, too beautiful for earth; she will smile on us here for a time, but she will soon be carried off to a happier home than we can give her." The child was never in need of any assistance--she rose with the lark, and was off immediately to her chosen retreat: but on one occasion, when they were going to the castle, Maria insisted on dressing her child, who resisted her with prayers and tears, begging and entreating that her mother would leave her. Maria persevered, and on stripping her discovered a singular piece of gold, corresponding exactly to the treasures which she had seen in the elves' chambers, fastened to her bosom by a silken thread. The child, terrified at the discovery, declared that she knew not how she had come by it, but at the same time prayed that her mother would not remove it, but allow her still to keep the treasure. At the child's earnest entreaty Maria replaced it by its thread, and took her to the castle; but it made a deep impression on her heart, and she was from that moment full of thought.

By the side of old Martin's house were some detached buildings, erected as storehouses for fruits and corn; behind them was a grass-plat, where stood an old arbour, which no one was in the habit of visiting, in consequence of its distance from the new dwelling-house. This was the favourite retreat of Elfrida, and no one disturbed her, even though she were to spend the greater part of the day there in solitude. One afternoon Maria went to the arbour to find an article she had mislaid, and observed a bright stream of light issuing through a chink in the wall: she hastily removed a few loose stones, and, peeping in, saw Elfrida seated on a little rustic bench, and by her side Zerina, sporting with her. The elf embraced the child, and said, "Ah, my dear little thing, I played with your mother once as I do with you, when she visited us: you are growing so fast, and becoming so rational--'tis a sad pity."

"How I wish," said Elfrida, "how I wish I could remain a child all my life, to please you!"

"Ah," said Zerina, "it is with you as with the blossoms of the trees: how beautiful the bloom is! but ere you have had time to admire the bud, the warm sun shoots down on it, the blossom bursts and comes to its full maturity."

"How I wish I could see you in your home, if it were only once!" said the child.

"That is impossible," said Zerina; "since our king has come, no child of earth can visit us: but I can come often to you--no one knows it, either here or there; I fly to and fro like a bird; so that we can be happy with one another as long as we live."

"What can I do to please you, dear Zerina?" said the child.

"Let us make a crown again," answered Zerina, taking a golden box from her bosom. She shook two grains upon the earth, and there arose a greenish bush with two red roses, which bent towards each other, and seemed to kiss. They plucked the two roses, and the bush sank again into the earth.

"I wish my rose would not die so soon," said the child.

"Give it to me," said the elf; and breathing on it she kissed it three times, and gave it back to the child, and said, "now it will live till the winter."

"How sweet!" said Elfrida; "I'll set it up in my room like a picture, and kiss it morning and evening."

"Now, dear Elfrida, I must leave you," said Zerina; "the sun is going down, and my time has passed;" and she disappeared from the arbour, and soon regained her fairy home.

From this moment Maria looked with a certain degree of awe and reverence upon her child, and let her roam at her will even more than she had done before--soothing and quieting her husband whenever he wished to go in search of the little fugitive. Maria frequently crept to the hole, and always discovered the elf there playing or chattering with the child.

"Should you like to be able to fly?" asked the elf one day of her little friend.

"Willingly," replied Elfrida.

Zerina embraced her, and they floated up together from the earth to the top of the arbour. The mother, in her anxiety for her darling child, leant forward from her hiding-place to look for them, when Zerina perceived her, and, holding up her finger in a threatening manner, she smiled sweetly on her, and brought down the child to earth again, and disappeared.

Maria was in the habit of shaking her head kindly at her husband in their disputes concerning the occupants of the district behind the fir-plantations: on one occasion she said, "You are unjust in your ideas of them;" but when pressed by her husband for an explanation, she was silent. Scarce a day passed without a serious conversation between them on the same subject; and on another occasion Andrew was more than usually enraged against them, and said, "The Baron ought to expel them; they are injurious to the hamlet."

"Silence!" cried Maria, "they are benefactors, and no vagabonds!" and, binding him by a promise never to divulge aught of what she was about to mention, she related to him the story of her youth, with all the particulars of the elfin regions. As he continued incredulous, she led him to the arbour, where he saw the elf caressing his child. On his approach Zerina grew pale, and trembled exceedingly, and lifted her finger in a threatening manner at Maria, no longer smiling as before. "It is not your fault," said she to the child, "but I must leave you for ever;" and embracing Elfrida, she flew in the form of a raven, with most discordant shrieks, towards the fir-plantation.

The little child silently kissed her rose, and wept incessantly; Andrew spoke little. At length night came on: the trees moaned as the blast swept by, the owls whooped mournfully, the thunder boomed along the sky, and the earth rocked violently. Maria and Andrew lay trembling with fear, and endeavouring to shut out all the fury of the storm, and the roar of the thunder from their thoughts. How eagerly did they long for the morning! At length day dawned, and the sun shone forth again. Andrew dressed himself hastily, and, opening his door, looked forth on the scene around him. What a change was there!--the prospect could not even be recognised; the verdant freshness of the wood was gone, the hill had sunk into the ground, the stream wound slowly on, with scarce a sufficient depth of water to cover its channel; the sky wore a grey gloomy hue, and the fir-trees, that had ever been so unusually dark, wore the same appearance as the rest of the vegetation. Maria looked at her ring, the gift of the elf, and saw that the stone was of a strange palish colour, having lost all its fire and brilliancy.

The villagers, in different groups, were discussing the events of the singular night; some had passed over the heath by the gipsy-huts early in the morning, and found no trace of living creature. The huts were certainly still standing, but they were tenantless; and the whole spot was so entirely changed that there was no feature in it to distinguish it from the hamlet in which they themselves dwelt. In the course of the day Elfrida sought a conference with her mother, and said, "I was so restless last night, dear mother, I could not close my eyes; and, being terrified by the storm, I prayed fervently for safety during the many dark hours that still remained before morning dawned; and in the midst of my prayers the door opened suddenly, and my little playfellow entered to take leave of me. She was equipped as though for a long journey, and had a pilgrim's staff. She was angry, dear mother, very angry with you; for she has undergone severe and painful punishments on your account, and that too when she was so fond of you: and even amid all this trouble, resulting from your want of prudence, she says she is sorry to leave the district on your account." Maria begged her to conceal the whole matter from her father, and to mention it to none of the villagers.

Meantime the ferry-man, who plied on the stream near which their gardens were situated, came, with terror depicted on his face, to tell the strange things he had seen and heard. "At twilight," said he, "a man of gigantic stature called to hire the ferry till sunrise this morning, on one condition, that I would promise to keep myself within doors, and not venture to peep forth to see what was being done. I was afraid that some trick was to be played off; and although I retired to rest, I could not sleep for thinking on the strange bargain. I crept silently to the window, and looked forth; the dark dusky clouds chased one another restlessly through the expanse of sky; the distant woods moaned heavily, strange noises floated in the air, and the cottage shook from its very foundations. Suddenly I saw a white stream of light, brightening ever and anon, like many thousand twinkling stars; it floated on from the direction of the firs, waving to and fro over the fields, and spreading towards the stream. I heard a tramping of footsteps, and a buzzing, rustling noise, which grew by degrees more and more distinct: then I saw many thousand glittering figures--men, women, and children--pass on to the ferry-boat and embark, and the gigantic man ferried them across; many beautiful creatures swam over by the boat, and lively clouds of white and blue floated over their heads; melancholy music was wafted by the breeze around me, and the sounds of lamentation, as though of colonies parting for a distant country from their father-land: the stroke of the oar fell heavily on my ear, and then all again was silence for a while. Then the boat returned, and was laden anew: many hideous dwarfs rolled along heavy vessels; but whether they were demons of earth or not, I cannot say. Then there came a brilliant and stately procession, in the midst of which appeared an aged man, on a small white horse, the head of which was adorned by precious stones of every colour. The old man's head was surrounded by a coronet, which shone so vividly, that, as he passed, methought the sun was rising, and that the beams of early day were piercing through the mists of midnight. This procession lasted during the whole night, till at length, worn out with fatigue, I fell into a deep slumber. In the morning all seemed quiet; but when I rose to look after my ferry-boat, I observed that the stream was almost dry, and the water so low, that I must altogether remove my ferry."

This was the strange recital on the part of the ferry-man, who had been an eye-witness of the wondrous spectacle. In the same year a dreadful famine prevailed through the whole district; the corn was blighted; the fruit-trees withered away; the foliage of the woods became of a sickly yellow colour; the springs dried up; and soon that pretty hamlet, which had been for years the delight of the traveller, was nothing more than a barren desert, naked and sterile; a vast expanse of sand, with here and there a tuft of grass, and even that discoloured and dying. The vines, that were formerly the pride of the district, afforded no more rich clusters; and the whole spot wore so melancholy and gloomy an aspect, that in the following year the Count and his family removed from the once magnificent castle, which soon afterwards fell to ruins.

Elfrida gazed fondly at the rose day and night, and kissed it, dreaming of her dear little playfellow; and as the flower drooped and faded, so did her little head droop; and ere the balmy breezes of spring returned with their freshness, she was gone. Maria would often stand before the door of the cottage, weeping for her lost child, and dreaming of that happiness once her own, never again to return. On her fell all the misery that was predicted by the golden lady, if she should ever divulge aught of the elves or their fairy regions: she bowed her head to the stroke, and like her child faded slowly away, and followed her to the grave. The broken-hearted parents could no longer dwell in the spot, embittered as it was by the recollection of former days of happiness, and the prospect of heaviness and gloom for the future; and since the link that bound them to all that was dear had been rudely snapt asunder, old Martin, Brigitta, and Andrew, quitted the spot, and retired to a district where the old man had passed his first happy days.

THE WHITE EGBERT.

High up in the Hartz Mountains there lived in a castle a knight who was known by the name of the White Egbert. He was about forty years old, rather below the middle height; and he obtained his name from the quantity of short, smooth, white hair which covered his pale haggard cheeks. He lived a peaceable retired life, never involved in feuds with his neighbours; indeed, he was seldom seen beyond the walls of his small castle. His wife loved quiet as much as he; they were passionately attached to each other; and their only cause of sorrow was that Heaven had not blessed their union with children.

It was seldom that a guest was seen at the castle; and if ever such an event did happen, it never was allowed to interfere with their ordinary way of going on. No advance was made upon the frugality--almost meanness--with which the establishment was conducted; the only difference being that at such times Egbert assumed an air of lightness and gaiety, whereas when alone he was observed to be reserved and melancholy.

His most frequent visitor was Philip Walters; a man to whom Egbert had attached himself, because he observed in him, on the whole, a general resemblance to himself in his ways of thinking. This person was a native of France, and spent the greater part of his time there; but he was often for more than six months together in the mountains in the neighbourhood of Egbert's castle, looking for grasses and minerals, of which he was a collector. He had a small property of his own, and was independent of every one. Egbert often accompanied him on these expeditions, and every year a closer attachment formed itself between them.

There are hours in every man's life in which, if he has a secret from his friend, he becomes suddenly in labour with it, and what before he may have taken the greatest pains to conceal, he now feels an irresistible impulse to throw out of himself--to lay bare the whole burden of his heart, that it may form a new link to bind his friend to him. Friendship ebbs and flows, and is subject to singular influences. There are moments of violent repulsion; there are others when every barrier is dissolved, and spirits flow together and mingle into one.

On a dark cloudy evening, one day late in autumn, Egbert was sitting with his friend and his wife Bertha round the fire in the castle-hall. The flame flung a bright ruddy glow along the walls, and played and flickered in the deep oak roof. The night looked in gloomily through the windows, and the trees outside shook with the wet and the cold. Walters complained of the distance he had to go to his house, and Egbert pressed him to stay and spend half the night talking over the fire, and then accept a room in the castle till next morning. Walters agreed to do so; wine and supper were brought in; fresh logs of wood were thrown upon the fire; and the friends' conversation became more and more easy and confidential.

When the things were taken away, and the servants had retired, Egbert took Walters' hand, and said, "My dear friend, you must let my wife Bertha tell you the history of her younger days; it is a very strange one, and well worth your hearing."

"With the greatest pleasure," said Walters; and they again drew their chairs round the fire-place.

It was toward midnight; dark masses of cloud were sweeping across the sky, and the moon looking fitfully out between. "Do not think I am forcing myself on you," Bertha said. "My husband tells me you are so noble-hearted a person, it is a shame to conceal any thing from you. Singular as it may sound, the story I am about to tell you is true.

"I was born in a village in the plains. My father was a poor herdsman. Our housekeeping was none of the best, and my parents often did not know where they were to get a mouthful of bread. What was to me most distressing of all was, that they often quarrelled because they were poor, and each brought the bitterest complaints against the other for being the cause of it. Of me, they and every one else said I was a stupid, silly little creature; that I could not do the commonest thing properly; and, indeed, I was a good-for-nothing helpless child. Whatever I took up, I was sure to let fall and break. I could neither sew, nor spin, nor knit, nor could I learn. I could not help in managing the house; all I knew was that we were poor and miserable. I used often to sit in a corner and think how I would help my parents if I was all of a sudden to get rich; how I would shower gold and silver on them, and what fun it would be to see how surprised they would look; and I used to fancy all sorts of spirits sweeping round me, and shewing me treasures buried under ground; or giving me little pebbles, which suddenly turned to precious stones. In short, the strangest notions got hold of me; and when I had to get up and help at any thing in the house, I was all the stupider about it, because my brain was running upon these sort of ideas.

"My father was often very angry with me for being such an idle, useless burden upon him. He sometimes spoke to me very harshly, and it was seldom that I ever got a kind word from him. So it went on till I was about eight years old; and now matters got serious--I must learn to do something. My father thought it was wilfulness and obstinacy in me, and all I wanted was to spend my time in amusement. Enough: one day, after a number of threats which all proved fruitless, he gave me a dreadful beating, and declared I should have the same every day till I had learned to turn myself to some purpose or other.

"All that night I lay on my bed crying; I felt so wretched and miserable that I wished to die. I was afraid of the daylight, because I did not know what to begin about. I wished and wished for every possible accomplishment, and I could not conceive why I was stupider than other children that I knew. I was almost in despair. When morning began to break, I got up; and hardly knowing what I did, I opened the door of our little cottage. I ran out into the open fields, and presently into a wood close by, which was so thick that daylight could hardly find its way into it. I ran on and on without ever looking behind me. I did not feel the least tired; all I was afraid of was that my father would catch me, and beat me again worse than before for running away.