A Hero of the Pen

A dark, portentous glow overspread the professor's face; his brow contracted, and his voice had a singularly angry tone, as he replied: "I thank you for your good intentions, doctor, but I must decline all intermeddling on your part in my affairs, I am called to active service, and shall follow the call in the sense in which it was given."

The doctor gazed at him in speechless astonishment. He had been accustomed to absolute authority over his patient, who had always yielded him the most implicit obedience; and now, all at once, he had risen in open rebellion against his best and most deliberate conclusions, this was too much for the doctor; he grew angry.

"Are you mad?" he cried excitedly. "You will enter active service? You? No, that surpasses all conception."

The professor was silent, but he set his teeth together as Frederic had before described, a deep flush covered his face, and he gazed at the doctor with a glance which forced that gentleman to assume another tone.

"Give me only one reason, one single sensible reason, for this insane proceeding!" he said, almost imploringly. "Could you not serve the Fatherland just as well with the pen, if you could only bring your mind to that? Why will you not enter one of the bureaus? only tell me why."

"I will not!"

"You have an obstinate head!" cried the doctor again becoming angry. "In this you have a remarkable likeness to my niece. 'I will not!' and now the whole world might rise against it; but it must be! Exactly Jane's manner, exactly her tone; just as if you had learned of her. One is just like the other; you would make a nice, 'married pair!'"

"Doctor, please spare me this foolish jesting!" broke out the professor with great violence, at the same time stamping furiously.

For a moment Doctor Stephen stood utterly dumb before this passionate outbreak of his amiable patient, then he said, in a tone of sincere astonishment.

"I believe that even you can be rough and violent!"

Fernow frowned and turned away.

"Well it was only a jest!" said the doctor apologetically. "I know that you and Jane stand half upon a war-footing; but you can become very angry now, professor! I notice that, for the last two months, you have not been the same person you used to be!"

Fernow did not defend himself against the reproach with a single word; he preserved an obstinate silence.

"Well, to go back to the main business," began the Doctor anew–but this time in a low voice–"you will not accept my proposition?"

"No!"

"You will really march to-morrow with the army?"

"In any event."

"Well then–I cannot compel you, and if it cannot be otherwise,"–here the doctor's patriotism broke through all resentment; he cordially extended his hand to his patient–"well then, go in God's name! Who knows? The surgeon-in-chief, may be cleverer than we all; of one thing at least he has convinced you, one which you would never believe from me: that you are not consumptive, that you have no decided illness, and as to your nerves–do you remember what I prescribed to you four weeks ago?"

The professor slowly raised his eyes.

"Some powerful remedy," he said softly.

"Certainly! A radical cure, at which you were horrified at that time. You would not take upon yourself the life of a day-laborer; but you now plunge into the military life, without asking me. Well, I should not certainly have advised so powerful a remedy as this, for we cannot cease taking it at will; if the dose is too strong, we must either bend or break! But if you are determined to venture upon it–good luck to you!"

The professor smiled sadly. "I have little confidence in this blood and iron cure," he said calmly. "I shall fall, I feel sure of that, either in face of the enemy, or in consequence of the unwonted exertion. But it does not matter; in any case it will be better and more speedily than to die at my writing desk after a consumption, years in duration. Do not rob me of this conviction, doctor; it is the best I take with me; I shall at least be of some use in the world!"

"Do not approach me again with your premonitions of death!" cried the doctor excitedly. "To die–nonsense! We in B. forbid ourselves that idea. And so you are of no use in the world! You have written no work over which the whole learned world is beside itself in admiration, eh?"

The professor's lips quivered, as he said bitterly; "and to the rest of the world, it will remain mere nonsense,–dead, fruitless, valueless."

"Do you really think so? And your article in this morning's paper, was that, too, mere nonsense? Yes, be horrified as much as you like, because I know; the whole city knows, the university also. Professor since you have written that article, I deem all things possible to you, I doubt you in nothing more!"

Fernow scarce heard these last words; his glance had followed the motion of the doctor's hand as he pointed to the morning paper, and his eyes suddenly flamed up as if in deep, glowing satisfaction–the paper lay in the arm chair where Jane had just been sitting.

"And you ought to be ashamed of yourself," cried Doctor Stephen growing more and more excited; "you ought really to be ashamed of yourself, for having so little self-esteem, when with your pen you can rouse thousands to the most glowing enthusiasm."

The professor's face again grew dark; a hard, bitter expression lay upon it.

"With the pen," he said slowly. "The pen must always fall into disrepute when the moment demands deeds. With all my knowledge and abilities, I stand below Frederick, who, with a pair of vigorous arms, can fight for the Fatherland. At the highest, I can die for it, and for this, I must still thank your surgeon-in-chief; he, at least, has lifted from me the curse of being only a hero of the pen!"

The doctor shook his head. "If I only knew how all at once you have become possessed of such terrible bitterness! This sounds as if some one had given you a deadly insult in these words. I tell you your whole nature is changed."

With a deep, repressed sigh, as if he would throw off a heavy burden, Fernow rose to his full height.

"I entirely forget what brings me to you," he said evasively. "They leave us little time; we must return to H. this evening, for we are ordered to march early to-morrow morning. I would request you to take my rooms and my library under your care. In case of my death, you can dispose of the former as you think best; the latter must go to the university; it contains many valuable books, a large share of which I have inherited."

"Yes, and if a formal testament is to be made," interposed the doctor, "I beg you give me the address of your relatives, so that I may be prepared for any emergency. Hitherto, I have made no inquiries concerning them; you have maintained such a strict secrecy in regard to your family affairs."

"Secrecy! I had nothing to conceal. I have no relatives."

"What! not a single one?"

"Not one; I stand entirely alone in the world."

There lay a quiet, but deep anguish in these words. The doctor preserved a sympathetic silence; Fernow reached him his hand.

"I must now bid you farewell. I have much to arrange, but I will see you again this evening."

He went. Doctor Stephen accompanied him to the door, and they parted with a cordial pressure of the hand. The professor entered the parlor through which he must pass in order to reach the hall; his features had won again the gentle, melancholy expression peculiar to them; but suddenly he started, and drew back–he caught a glimpse of Miss Forest.

She had not left her place at the window, but she had stepped forward somewhat, so that he could not avoid seeing her, and her glance met his. Jane's eyes were capable of no soft, dreamy glance, and even their fire was always like the glow of Northern Lights over an ice field; but still, a strange power lay in those shadowing depths, the might of a proud, unyielding will, which knew not how to entice, but to compel; and she was in the fullest measure conscious of her power. Seldom as she had recourse to this power, whenever she did enforce it, the victory remained with her, and it had been a victory over no common individuals. The obstinate character of her father had bowed to this will; it had silenced the ever-ready sarcasm of Atkins; it had brought the cold, equally rigid nature of Alison under her control. And now it must also enforce something else; the step which, in spite of all that had happened, must and should cross her path, the farewell word which she must once again hear from his lips–for this, these eyes now beamed in the full radiance of their splendor, and deep below, under all this ice flamed something warmer than the mere glow of boreal fires.

This mysterious power seemed also to subdue Fernow; as if spellbound, his glance rested upon her face; he saw that she was waiting, waiting for a farewell. It would cost him only one step, one single word; here was involved an absence perhaps without return. Over Jane's features flashed a triumphant glance–then all at once the professor's face grew dark, every muscle was strained for an energetic resistance. Slowly, as if step by step, he would withdraw from the influence of a demoniac power, he tore his eyes from her face; his lips quivered as he set them firmly together, to shut in any farewell word; his breast rose and fell convulsively in an agonizing inward conflict; but the wounded pride of the man held its ground before temptation. He turned to go; a bow, cold, distant as that parting one upon the Ruènberg, and the door closed behind him. He had kept his word!

Jane stood there like a statue; this was too much! She had humiliated herself by waiting; she had waited all this time, and now she stood there decided to offer her hand in reconciliation, ready to give and to receive a last parting word; and this incredible self-mastery of hers had been thus received! What then did this man wish? Did he demand entreaties from her?

Entreaty? At the mere word, the whole nature of this young girl was aroused to resistance and exasperation. To entreat was something she could not do. Miss Forest, who so clearly tested, so calmly considered all, never had occasion to lament a momentary enthusiasm nor to atone for an error, because she never allowed herself to yield to impulse; even in her childhood entreaty was something that had been impossible to her. She had borne every punishment, but it was with an obstinacy which chose to endure for long weeks, rather than allow the word "forgive" to pass her lips; and Forest had discerned in the child too much of his own nature to force her to anything he would himself regard as a humiliation. The thought of entreaty flashed through Jane's soul, only to be repelled with abhorrence. He wished no farewell; well then he might go without it, into the field, to death, wherever he would.

And what had driven him to this? She knew now; the bitter satisfaction with which he had heralded his ceasing to be any longer "a hero of the pen," had betrayed it to her. That phrase had entered deep into this man's soul; for weeks long it had tortured him; had become the goad which had impelled him on to undertake something to which his strength was not equal; and if he now succumbed, if he perished in the undertaking, whose was the blame?

Jane began to pace excitedly up and down the room; she strove to repel this thought, but ever and ever again it would return. She heard only the words he had spoken in gloomy resignation: "I have no one; I stand alone in the world!" She pressed her hand against her breast, as if that agony had found an echo there.–Perhaps she ought now to confess this to him. The old obstinacy again towered up in all its uncontrollable might, she stamped violently as if beside herself. "No, and no! and forever no!"

CHAPTER XIV.

Farewell!

The afternoon passed in hasty preparations for the departure of the two soldiers; at last all was arranged, and with the early twilight, Frederic, ready for the journey, betook himself to the doctor and his wife, to say good-by. The poor fellow looked very melancholy; around his broad mouth was a quiver of pain: it was with great difficulty he kept back his tears. Neither the heavy package of money the doctor handed him nor the promise of the doctor's wife to care for him in the field, could console him.

"For shame, Frederic!" said Doctor Stephen, chidingly. "Is that the way to go to war? With such a sorrowful mien, with tearful eyes? I should have believed you had more courage."

Frederic, deeply wounded, wiped the tears from his eyes, and at length, comprehending the full meaning of the reproach, he cried excitedly:

"Do you think, Herr Doctor, that I am afraid? It is a real delight to me to take the musket on my shoulder, and go to war. But my poor master! This is going to cost him his life, even before he meets the enemy."

"Well, that is by no means certain," said the doctor, while Frau Stephen, who was entirely of Frederic's opinion, pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. "Perhaps he will hold out better than we all think. I tell you once more, he is not so very ill as you imagine, and this soldier-life will tear him away from his studies, which, in any event, is a fortunate thing."

"He will not endure it," persisted Frederic with a mournful shake of the head; "he certainly will not endure it! At the very first march, he will lie in the hospital; and if I am not with him to take care of him, he will surely die. And for all this"–here that fearful, bearish nature, so deplored by Mr. Atkins, broke forth anew in Frederic,–"and for all this, those accursed Frenchmen are guilty,–I–I am going to kill a dozen at least for it!"

"Well, well; wait until you are in France!" cried the doctor, retreating from the furious pantomime Frederic enacted after these words. "You certainly will have to wait before you can offer such a propitiatory sacrifice to the manes of your master. So far as I know, he has served his year in the volunteer army, and he still remains alive."

"That was ten years ago," replied Frederic, still more despairingly. "At that time he was much stronger and more healthy than I, and still he lay for some time in the hospital. Well, there is no help for it now! Good-by, Herr Doctor, good-by, Frau Doctorin!" he cordially stretched out both huge hands, and in spite of his efforts to keep them back, tears streamed down his cheeks. "You have been very kind to me during these last three years; when I return I will try to repay you; if I cannot–may God reward you!"

So saying, he pressed, and shook with a giant's strength, the proffered hands, accepted another caution and some further words of good advice, waved his cap, and trotted down the steps after his master, who had already taken leave of the married pair, and had gone for a few moments into the garden.

The professor stood at the farther end of the garden, leaning against the latticed gate, and gazed fixedly and dreamily upon the now dry portion of the hedge-way which separated it from the river rushing past. The sun had already set, the last beams of the twilight were fading away, and the first stars faintly glimmered in the sky. Between the trees and shrubbery, dusky shadows already lay, and the cool breath of the night enveloped all. From above came the light rustle and murmur of the waves, the dear old familiar Rhine voices whispered to him their parting salutation. Whether it was a parting from home, or from life as well–it was the last he had to expect.

There was all at once a rustle from another direction, but more distinct, more violent, as a woman's silk dress crossed the path. Thrilled by a presentiment, Fernow turned around. Before him stood Jane, pale as death, her glance fixed upon the ground, her hands firmly clasped, and with an expression as if, just now, the most terrible thing in her whole life had happened. Her breast rose and fell convulsively; her lips quivered; she could not control them, and at last they opened for these momentous words: "I–I beg your forgiveness!"

"Miss Forest! Johanna!" cried Fernow, with uncontrollable emotion; but she had already turned, and like a hunted creature, fled down the path. He was about to rush after her, when Frederic's loud voice echoed through the garden.

"Herr Professor, we must go! Herr Professor, where are you? We haven't a moment to lose."

"Must we go? This very instant!" The new duty was demanding its first heavy sacrifice; a moment of struggle, and then all was over.

"I am coming!" he replied in a firm voice! He hastened to the house. Under the vine-wreathed balcony it was growing dark already, but the outlines of a delicate form were visible, only half concealed by the foliage. For a moment the professor's feet lingered, only one, and ardent and deep-toned the parting word at last wrung from him up to her:

"Farewell!"

CHAPTER XV.

Following the Clue

Weeks and months had passed, since that first call to arms had echoed through the land, and still the storm of war raged with undiminished fury; but the arrow had recoiled upon its sender. Upon the Rhine the vineyards were ripening, the purple grapes gaining richer hues day by day; golden harvests moved in the fields; over the cities floated the nation's victorious banner; but yonder in France, the vineyards were laid waste, the blooming meadows were trodden under the feet of men and horses, the flames of burning villages rose to heaven. All the horrors which had been destined for the Rhineland, now fell upon French soil, a late but fearful punishment for the once so frivolously devastated Palatinate. Even the victors could no longer restrain their rage: the ruin, now unfettered, took its course, alike visiting the guilty and the guiltless, and the trembling land now at last itself experienced the full, terrible import of those words with which it had often enough absolved itself from every responsibility–C'est la guerre!

Onward, still onward, marched the victorious columns of the German army, from the Rhine to the Moselle, from the Moselle to the Meuse, from the Meuse to the Seine, throwing down all that stood in its way. City after city opened its gates, citadel after citadel yielded after a shorter or longer resistance. The fiery August sun blazed down upon seven battlefields, saluting at the same time, countless trophies of victory; and the first cool breezes of September swept that soil, where the wavering enemy, surrounded, hemmed in, pressed on every side, had at last yielded. A whole French corps, the once formidable head of the army, now indeed held the vaunted entrance to Germany; but without arms or resources;–and meantime the conquerors pressed on, with restless, unyielding persistence, to the heart of France–to Paris!

At N., the capital of one of the departments, in spite of the war-billows that had long since swept over it, reigned an active, military life. This town was the principal station on the great military and travelling highway which led from Germany into the interior of France. Marching regiments, endless provision and munition trains, here crossed the path of the returning transports of sick and wounded soldiers, ambulances, and couriers; all the streets were crammed with men, carriages and horses; all the quarters were full to overflowing. In this state of things, two travellers, apparently English or American, who had arrived yesterday, although they undoubtedly belonged to the richer class, still deemed it a lucky accident to obtain, at an extravagant price, a pair of miserably-furnished attic rooms in a hotel of the second grade.

Upon the morning after their arrival, the stronger gentleman sat upon a sofa, while his young companion stood at an open window and gazed up the street, where a confused multitude of pedestrians and vehicles of all sorts blocked the way, while the tumult and excitement, in ever-increasing murmurs, fell upon her ear.

"I do not comprehend how you can endure those deafening noises down there, Miss Jane! Are you not at least weary of this eternal hurrying and surging to and fro?"

"No!" was the curt, somewhat ill-natured answer of the young lady, who, bending far out of the window, at this moment was gazing intently into an ambulance full of wounded men. Her glance fixed itself immovably on the pale wan faces, and she looked after them until the ambulance vanished around a corner.

"Well, you have better nerves than I," said Atkins resignedly. "I confess that during these last eight days I have become really morbid. We were a whole week on this journey to N. which is usually made in twenty-four hours; we have had our night quarters in the most wretched villages, such food I never in my life tasted before. For hours and days, we have had to lie over in half-ruined places on account of broken bridges and impassable roads, and always in danger lest a battle might be fought in our immediate vicinity, and we borne onward with the wave of victory or flight. I should think all this must at last have convinced you how impossible it is to trace out family relationships upon the theatre of war."

During this speech, Jane had closed the window; she now turned around. "Impossible?" she asked calmly. "I thought that in spite of all, we had arrived in N., and that, in any event, a decision awaited us here."

"Or a new deception! This clue misleads us in the most exasperating ways. Scarce do we think we have it, when it suddenly snaps asunder, and darts away to some other quarter of the heavens. At present, we are in France, and I should not wonder if the next thing, we had to direct our course back to America, only to go from there to the Rhine again, and so on."

"It is all the same!" declared Jane energetically. "I promised my father to find my brother if still alive, and to yield only to impossibilities. I shall keep my word!"

"If it were only a direct clue we are following?" began Atkins again; "but whom do we seek? A man who by some remote possibility may be able to give us information of the principal character in this drama."

"And perhaps the only one who can give it! The direct clue is lost; that clergyman is not to be found, neither in his former parish nor anywhere else; all our efforts in this direction have failed; but we have found the artisan who adopted the other boy."

"And from him have received the joyful tidings that his nephew went to France four years ago, and at this moment may be here in N. For the theatre of his highly respectable efforts at the planing bench, he has chosen a place right in the midst of all these accursed military operations."

Jane's eyes flashed half-angrily. "You forget the most important thing," she said, "the one which alone leads us here; the assertion of that man that the former playfellow of this young Erdmann is still living, that the two, after a separation of years, met again during their term of military service. Certainly, he could tell us nothing further; his nephew was at that time on duty far away from him in a large garrison city; but this much he remembered distinctly, having heard it from Erdmann's own lips. I have learned that my brother still lives, that there is some one in the world who knows him, who can tell me his abode. Does this not seem to you a step gained on the path we seek? It is more than I had hoped!"

"I do not dispute all this," replied Atkins; "I am only of the opinion that it would be better to defer our investigations until after the end of the war."

"Until the end of the war," echoed Jane. "When all present associations are severed, and the soldiers are scattered here and there! These tidings have not come too late; I hope not, at least, but we ought not to delay a moment, to make the best possible use of them, and as an epistolary correspondence was not to be thought of, there was only one resource; I must enter personally into the investigation, and follow the clue. If you suffer from the dangers and deprivations of the journey, Mr. Atkins, it is your own fault–I could have come alone!"

"Yes, God knows you would have done so!" said Atkins, with a sigh. "Jane, you are sometimes terrible in your restless energy! I certainly do not belong to the indolent and the irresolute; but this tireless rushing onward toward one single goal, has at last quite exhausted me."

"But not me!" replied Jane, with cool determination. "I am resolved to go on, I repeat it, to the utmost limits of the possible!"