After Long Years and Other Stories

T >> Translated from the German by Sophie A. Miller and Agnes M. Dunne >> After Long Years and Other Stories

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While the noble Count sat lost in these thoughts, a loud shouting arose
in the corridors. Soldiers ran here and there, crying: "Save yourselves,
if you can. Fire! Fire!" This reached the Count's ears. All at once the
door of his cell was thrown wide open. Thick volumes of smoke and dust
poured in and dreadful flashes of light illumined his dark cell. A young
soldier stood before him, and cried: "Save yourself!"

Through the carelessness of a drunken servant, a fire had started in the
building. The soldiers had torn off their coats and weapons and had
hurried to put it out. Robert had seized the first opportunity that
afforded itself, had taken the clothing and weapons of a soldier, and
had hastened to the Count with them, saying to himself: "The only chance
to save him is to dress him as a soldier."

"Hurry, put on these clothes," said Robert. He helped the Count pull on
the coat, placed the hat on his head, buckled on his knapsack, and gave
him a musket. The Count's face had not been shaved during his
imprisonment, so that this gave him the wild appearance which all
soldiers had at that time.

"Now," said Robert, "hasten down the steps and out of the front door.
With this outfit, I trust you will easily get through the crowd
unnoticed. Then go directly to John, the fisherman, and there you will
meet my father."

Count Berlow knew exactly how to act his part. Earnestly, as if he had
some urgent business to transact, he hurried down the steps and shouted
in haughty tones to the men who were carrying buckets, "Aside, aside!"
At last he reached the street without being detected. With quick strides
and fast-beating heart, he made his way to the city gate and continued
on, as Robert had taken care to give him the pass-word.

At midnight, he reached the fisherman's hut. He knocked at the window.
The fisherman came to the door, but stepped back frightened at seeing a
soldier who might wish to arrest him or his brother. He based his fears
on the fact that they had both made many enemies on account of their
fidelity to the Berlow family. When John recognized the Count, he raised
his hands and exclaimed, "Oh, it's you, Count Berlow; how happy I am to
be able to help you!" Richard, who had waited and watched there for the
last ten nights, rushed into the room and shouted: "Oh, my master!" and
both embraced and wept.

The first question which the Count asked was for his wife and children.
Richard quickly related the details of their flight and the illness of
Marguerite, who had now recovered and was sleeping in the adjoining
room. The noise, however, had awakened her, and recognizing her father's
voice, she rushed into the room. With great joy she hurried into his
outstretched arms. He kissed her rosy cheeks and looked at her long and
tenderly.

The Count decided to continue his flight that very night from the land
which once had been to him a paradise but was now only a murderers' den.
On the same boat that had safely carried his wife and son, he now took
passage. The old fisherman led the way and Richard followed last. The
night was clear and the heavens bright with stars. Suddenly they heard
sounds of shooting, and voices shouting: "Halt! Halt!--Halt, halt!--You
are deserters!"

It so happened that when the fire in the prison had been extinguished,
the soldiers had carefully searched each cell, to find if anyone had
escaped. To their great astonishment, they found the cell of Count
Berlow empty. The soldier who had lost his uniform cried loudly with
rage: "He has flown with my clothing and my weapons. Up and follow him!"
The pursuers soon found a clue to the Count's route.

[Illustration: "On the same boat that had safely carried his wife and
son he now took passage."]

The poor Count and Richard were almost stupefied when they heard the
distant shouting, but they seized the oars all the more firmly and rowed
with every muscle strained to the utmost. Soon the soldiers reached the
shore and began to fire upon the occupants of the boat. Marguerite crept
under the seat, while the men tried to dodge the bullets. One bullet
pierced the Count's hat, two pierced Richard's oar. The little boat,
which was scarcely an inch above the water, rocked and rolled and almost
capsized, but the occupants escaped without injury and finally reached
the opposite shore in safety.

Count Berlow was thankful for his escape, and so were Richard and
Marguerite. They seated themselves on an overturned tree trunk, to
recover a little strength. When they had rested a little, the Count
quickly threw off his uniform and donned some old clothes belonging to
Richard. With a staff in his hand and a bundle on his back, Richard now
led the way, while the Count and Marguerite followed. In order to allay
all suspicion, Richard took a roundabout course through the
thickly-wooded country.

CHAPTER IV

THE PURCHASE

Count Barlow's greatest desire was to see his wife and son. "I shall not
have a restful moment," said he to Richard, "until I shall have found
them. You tell me they are safe in a shepherd's lowly hut, but how shall
we reach them? My daughter cannot go on foot, and I have not the means
to ride there."

Then Richard drew out of his bundle a bag of gold. "You are not as poor
as you think, my noble master," said he. "This money is all yours."
Count Berlow stared first at the gold and then at his faithful servant.

"You see," said Richard, "while you were rich, you paid me well and
presented me with large gifts of money. Many people, too, were
generously aided by you. During the time you were imprisoned, I set out
to gather in as much money from these people as I could possibly move
them to give you. 'Tis true we often find people who never feel grateful
for any good they receive, but I must confess that these grateful souls
not only returned all you ever gave them, but out of love and deep
thankfulness added much more thereto."

Count Berlow counted the money. "It is a very, very large amount," said
he, and raised his eyes in thanks to heaven. "But how long can even this
last us?"

"We will economize," said Richard, "in every possible way, but let me
first of all purchase a horse and wagon," This was soon accomplished.
The wagon was provided with a canvas covering, which served to shield
the occupants from view, and also to protect them from the sun and rain.

They rode for days and days, and the way was long and dreary. Owing to
the rough handling which the Count had received in the prison, the
terror which his death sentence had caused him, the sorrow and fear of
his flight, and the weariness of the journey, he soon became very much
weakened and was forced to stop at a little village and rest for a
while.

Richard hired a few rooms and bought the food. As he was well trained in
all household duties, he took upon himself the care of their temporary
home. Marguerite helped, as best she could, and from morning till night
performed each task willingly, always wearing a sunny smile.

Count Berlow was confined to his bed for many weeks, and it was a long
time before he could sit up, even for a little while. Marguerite cared
for her father, read to him, cheered him, and thus made the time pass
pleasantly. Her father returned his thanks with every evidence of love
and contentment.

Marguerite's birthday was now at hand. When she awoke one morning, she
found the window-sills filled with potted geraniums, her favorite
flowers, and a beautiful canary bird hanging above them in a pretty
golden cage. The bird exactly resembled the one which she had had at
home. She thanked her father in the tenderest tones for his selection.

"Take these simple gifts, my child, for at present I can give you no
more."

Richard now served dinner and all seemed once more to be bright and
happy. When the meal was ended, the Count drank to the health of his
daughter and his absent wife and son. "I wonder, my child," said he to
Marguerite, "where your mother and brother are this day, and how they
are celebrating your birthday? What has befallen them? I always had a
happy heart; but now I often have many troubled hours. I fear--I fear."

Marguerite threw her arms about her father's neck and tried to reassure
him. "Be comforted, dear father," said she. "We shall be brought
together again, for surely God cares for us."

"Yes, that is true," he said, and dried his eyes.

All was silent. It was a deep, solemn, soul-stirring moment.

All at once the canary bird began to sing a song--the song which father
and daughter recognized at once as the one which the Count had composed
and taught his children. No one else had ever heard it or played it.

Marguerite clapped her hands and shouted: "What can this mean! That is
the first piece that you taught us, dear father." All gazed at the bird
in astonishment. The bird repeated the song, twice, thrice. "It is our
song. No note is missing."

"This is truly wonderful," said the Count. "Certainly no one could have
taught that song to the bird but my boy Albert; but how? I do not know.
Now, Richard, where did you get this bird?"

Richard then related how he had purchased the canary on the preceding
night from a bird fancier in the village.

"Hasten to the village and possibly he may be able to tell you more
about the bird."

Richard ran to the village, and was gone what seemed an interminable
time. At last he returned with the information that the fancier had
bought the bird from a little boy who lived with his mother, many miles
beyond, and who had trained this little bird to sing and whistle. The
fancier described the boy and mother so well that all were unanimous in
their decision that this was the boy and mother for whom they were
seeking.

CHAPTER V

REUNITED

Preparations were now made for a hasty departure, for the Count seemed
suddenly stronger. Richard packed their belongings and placed them in
the wagon. The bird was hung from a hook fastened in the top of the
vehicle. Everything was soon in readiness.

On the following morning they started off. The Count and Marguerite were
regaled on the journey by the sweet song of the canary. It cheered them
and seemed to make the time pass all the more quickly. After a journey
of twenty miles, they reached the village, at sunset.

They repaired at once to the clergyman's house, where they learned that
the Countess and Albert Berlow lived in the shepherd's lowly hut, some
miles distant. "The Countess holds her husband as dead," said the
clergyman, "and no joy can now penetrate her heart. Her health has
failed and it seems as if she would not last very long."

Count Berlow asked how she could have received such incorrect news. The
clergyman then brought out a package of newspapers, searched for one
sheet, and laid it before the Count. He read that, on such a day, and at
such an hour, Count Berlow, with twenty others, had been hung. "Strange
it is," said the Count, "either they forgot to cross my name from the
list, or else they did not wish to, in the hope that in that way they
would not be answerable for my escape."

It pained the Count sorely that this false news had brought much
suffering to the Countess, for death seemed almost to have enrolled her,
too. The clergyman advised them to proceed slowly and cautiously, lest
the joyful news of the Count's return should be too great a shock to
her.

Intending to follow the good clergyman's advice, they continued their
journey. Soon they reached the summit of a wooded hill, and from the
distance they discerned the low hut with its flat, thatch-covered roof
and smoking chimney. Richard then went hurriedly ahead.

Countess Berlow, dressed in black, sat knitting at the fireside, the
light of which illuminated the room, which had been slowly filling with
the shadows of the approaching twilight. Albert sat at her side, reading
from her favorite volume. As she saw her faithful servant enter, she
uttered a loud cry and her work fell from her hands. She hastened toward
him, and with a thousand exclamations of joy and pain, she greeted him
heartily, as if he were her dear father. Albert, too, was deeply
affected.

Countess Berlow then pointed to a chair which Albert had drawn close to
the fire, and said: "My good, true friend, be seated. So we see each,
other again. Over the death of my dear husband let us draw a veil. The
memory of it is too painful for me. But tell me, how is my daughter! Did
she die, as the doctor said she might?"

Richard then explained that the doctor had diagnosed the case as more
serious than it really was, in order at that time to hurry the mother's
flight; and that Marguerite had very shortly after recovered and had
remained well ever since. The Countess was greatly pleased with this
report, and her eyes gleamed with joy.

"But," said she earnestly, and with a clouded brow, "why did you not
bring her with you? Why did you not tear her from the unhappy
fatherland where no hour of her life could be safe? How could you leave
without her--you hard, cruel man? Why did you not--" she could say no
more, for the door opened, and Marguerite rushed to her mother and
embraced and kissed her as if nothing could ever again tear them
asunder. Albert joined them and gladder tears were never shed than those
which the Countess wept in her exceeding happiness.

Alas, the joy soon melted into yearning. "Oh, that my dear, true husband
still lived," said the Countess, as she looked to heaven, "for then my
measure of joy would be full. Now, my dear children, you are poor and
fatherless. The sight of you fills the heart of your oppressed mother
with pain. For what can I, a poor, lonely widow, do for you?"

Then Richard interrupted the conversation with the glad news of the
Count's rescue. The Countess proved herself more self-controlled than
Richard had anticipated, for the great joy of having seen her true
servant, the greater joy of again clasping her daughter in her arms was
for this woman the preparation for the greatest of joys--the joy of
again seeing the husband whom she had mourned as dead.

The Count had long stood, with palpitating heart, waiting before the
door of the hut, where each word had fallen distinctly on his ear.

Richard's last words had scarcely been uttered when the Countess cried:
"He lives; he has been saved from the hands of his oppressors." The
Count then opened the door, and overcome with emotion, fell at the feet
of the Countess.

Timid and fearful, as if she half doubted that he really lived, she
gazed at him long and steadily as the light of the fire irradiated his
face. She could scarcely express her rapture. Then after a long pause
she said: "Oh, the joy of again seeing my loved ones for whom I have
wept so long!"

Father and mother, son and daughter, and faithful servant spent a
peaceful, joyous evening in the little, lowly hut. The old shepherd and
his good wife shared in the contentment which filled their little home
to overflowing.

On the following morning, there was brought into this lowly hut another
guest who had rendered such helpful service in the speedy reuniting of
the separated family--the little canary bird.

Albert was delighted to see his bird again, for during his mother's
illness he had found it impossible to care properly for it, and had
reluctantly disposed of it at the fancier's in a distant village.

Count Berlow then related at length the circumstances which had brought
the bird into his possession and how it had helped to give him the
needed hope and strength to continue the journey which had ended so
successfully in their reunion.

Albert joined in the conversation, and said, "Wasn't it a happy thought
to teach the bird that particular song, when I knew so many songs? But
then, you see, it was the song nearest and dearest to my heart. It was
my father's song. Little did I think, when I had to part with my pet,
that it would be taken from me only to restore my father and sister to
me."

"So we see," said the Count, "how through a little trial we may find a
great joy. I trust that through our losses we all have gained in
humility and sympathy, which have a lasting worth; and perhaps God will
return to us our past fortune, just as he has returned your canary to
you."

Count Berlow was obliged to spend the winter under the roof of this
lowly hut, and Richard was housed in a neighboring one.

The canary bird was hung in the same place it had graced before it was
sold to the fancier. Marguerite cared for it daily and never neglected
to give it proper food and water.

Often, when the family was gathered together around the friendly
fireside, on a cold winter's evening, the bird would begin to sing the
song so acceptable to them. The children and the parents would join in
the chorus, and they found therein comfort and hope.

The noble family was forced to live for some time in these same narrow
quarters; but at last they were permitted to return to their fatherland,
where they again came into possession of their property. The Count and
Countess rejoiced in being wealthy once more, for now they could return
in measure full and overflowing, the goodness and kindness of the
friends who had proven themselves in the hour of need.

The good, faithful Richard, with his kind wife and their clever, honest
son; John, the brave old fisherman; and the helpful shepherd and
shepherdess, together with the devout clergyman, were among the first to
receive this reward--the expression of gratitude and love from a family
of loyal members.

THE UGLY TRINKET

CHAPTERS.

I. THE OPEN DOOR.

II. THE TEST.

III. REVERSES.

[Illustration: "Nursed her foster-mother with the tenderest care."]

THE UGLY TRINKET

CHAPTER I

THE OPEN DOOR

Respected and beloved by all her neighbors, Mrs. Linden, a rich widow,
lived a solitary life in her grand, old castle.

One day some urgent business called her to the city of Antwerp. Here she
was detained longer than she had expected, and during her stay she
visited the principal points of interest, among them an old cathedral,
famed far and wide for its beauty.

With deep reverence, she entered this time-honored house of worship. Its
high, vaulted roof, its long rows of stately columns, its beautifully
painted windows, the altar in the distance, and the twilight and the
stillness of the holy place filled her with admiration and awe. In her
heart arose a feeling of the nearness of God, and she knelt and prayed.

Then she passed slowly on, stopping often to study the wonderful
paintings by the old masters, and the inscriptions upon tablets placed
on the walls in memory of notable men and women long since passed away.

Suddenly she stopped and read a tablet. It had been placed there in
honor of a pious woman who had suffered much in her life, but had always
striven to do good; and these words were written there: "She rests from
her cares, and her good deeds live after her."

Mrs. Linden then and there resolved that as long as she lived she would
bear all her troubles and trials patiently, and do good to all, so far
as lay within her power.

As she neared the altar of this grand cathedral, she noticed a little
girl eight years of age, clad in black, who was kneeling there and
praying fervently. Her eyes were riveted on her hands, tightly clasped
before her, so she noticed nothing of Mrs. Linden's presence. Tears were
rolling down her cheeks and her face had a look of sorrow and reverence.

Mrs. Linden was at once moved to pity. She did not wish to disturb her,
but as the child arose, she said softly: "You seem sad, my little one!
Why do you cry?"

"I lost my father a year ago, and a few days ago they buried my mother,"
said the child, as the tears rolled the faster.

"And for what did you pray so earnestly?" asked Mrs. Linden.

"I asked for help. 'Tis true I have some relatives in the city, and I
would like one of them to take me. The clergyman says that it is their
duty, but they do not want the trouble. I can't blame them, for they
have children enough of their own."

"Poor child," said Mrs. Linden, "no wonder you feel sad."

"Truly, I was much sadder when I entered this cathedral," said the girl,
"but all at once I feel much better."

These words pressed on Mrs. Linden's heart and she said, in a motherly
way, "I think that God has answered your prayer. Come with me."

"But where? For I must return to my house."

"Let us go to the clergyman. I know him well, and I will ask his
advice," continued Mrs. Linden. Then she offered her hand to the child,
and led the way.

The aged clergyman arose with astonishment from his chair, as he saw the
woman enter with this child.

Mrs. Linden explained to him how and where she had met the little one,
at the same time asking the girl to step aside while she engaged the old
man in quiet conversation.

"I have decided to adopt this little girl and be a mother to her. My own
dear children died when they were infants and my heart tells me that I
could give the love that I had for my own to this little orphan; but I
would like you to advise me further. Do you think that my care would be
given in vain?"

"No," said the clergyman, "a greater deed of charity you could not do;
nor could you easily find such a good, well-mannered child. Her parents
were right-living people, and they gave this, their only daughter, a
good training. Never will I forget her mother's last words: 'Father, I
know that Thou wilt care for my little one, and send her another
mother.' Her words are now being fulfilled. You have been sent to do
this."

The old clergyman then called the little girl into the room, and said:
"Amy, this good, kind woman wishes to be your mother. Do you want to go
with her and be a good daughter to her!"

"Yes, yes," said Amy, and cried for joy.

"That is right," said the clergyman. "Be to this gracious woman, the new
mother whom God has sent to you, as good and obedient a child as you
were to your own mother. Remember that trouble and sorrow may come into
your life, as they must come into every life; but if you pray with the
same trust in God as you prayed to-day, help will surely be sent in the
same way."

Her relatives were then summoned and acquainted with the fact, and not
one of them objected; instead, they were very much pleased.

When Mrs. Linden said that she would take the child just as she stood
there, and that they could have all of her clothing for their own
children, they were more than delighted.

But Amy begged to keep just a few books which her mother had given her,
and which she cherished; and this wish was granted.

On the next morning, Mrs. Linden and Amy started for the castle home.
The servant, who had expected them, had everything in readiness. After
the evening meal had been served, Mrs. Linden showed Amy to her room.

Amy was charmed with her home and her new mother. With tears of thanks
she prayed, and soon was fast asleep. When she awoke, she found the sun
streaming into the room. She walked to the window and gazed out into the
lovely, sunny grounds and wooded walks surrounding the castle. In the
distance, she could see the spire of the grand cathedral.

After a few days, Mrs. Linden sent Amy to school. When she returned each
afternoon, she helped in the garden and in the kitchen as much as her
years would permit; for Mrs. Linden wished to train her to a useful,
industrious life. Often, when the opportunity offered, she taught her to
sew and knit and care for the house, something she thought that every
girl should learn. Under the guidance of such a kind, loving woman, Amy
grew to girlhood, simple and modest.

CHAPTER II

THE TEST

Ten years passed by, filled with joy and happiness. Then suddenly Mrs.
Linden became dangerously ill.

Amy nursed her foster-mother with the tenderest care and bestowed as
much love upon her as if she were her own mother. She entered the sick
room noiselessly; spoke in soft, gentle tones; opened and closed the
doors without the least sound, so that Mrs. Linden preferred to have Amy
rather than a nurse.

Often Amy would sit in the darkened room and watch over her charge
during the long, weary hours of the night. Days and weeks passed, and
the invalid grew no better; still Amy nursed her with the same untiring
patience and care.

Mrs. Linden was very thankful that she had taken Amy into her home and
heart, and realized it more and more each day, and said: "My dear Amy,
you do so much for me. A daughter could do no more. God will reward you.
I, too, will not forget you; and you shall see that I am not
ungrateful."

Amy bade her speak no more about it.

Mrs. Linden said no more on the subject. After a lingering illness, she
became very weak, and at last passed away.

Amy cried as bitterly at this loss as she had done at the loss of her
own mother.

In the course of the week, many of Mrs. Linden's rich relatives were
summoned to the house, where her will was to be read. The lawyer
unfolded the document, and Amy was greatly surprised to learn that her
foster-mother had bequeathed to her five thousand dollars, with the
instructions to choose from her treasures the costliest, as a
remembrance.

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