A Hero of the Pen

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!"

"Well, we have one certainty at least," began Atkins after a brief pause; "the German master with whom young Erdmann was at work when the war broke out, is still here. You know that yesterday, I went from the mayoralty, where I received this intelligence, directly to the designated house. But I found it closed, all its inmates fled to the just arrived Prussian regiments, among whom they hoped to find countrymen. This information I obtained from a very peculiar conversation with an exceedingly talkative neighbor; peculiar, I may well say, for she understood no English and I no French, and we were forced to call a very expressive pantomime to our aid, by means of which I made her comprehend that my visit was designed for Monsieur Erdmann and his master, that I would return to-day, and that I should be infinitely obliged to her if she would hand my card to the latter. Thus far our pantomime brought us, and now I am curious to know what sort of unavoidable confusion Madame has made out of the slang."

Jane glanced at her watch. "It is now half-past nine, and I think we ought to get ready to go out."

CHAPTER XVI.
An Agonizing Doubt

The answer which Atkins was about to give, was interrupted by a knocking at the door. It was opened, and an old man with white hair, simply but not poorly clad, and with a modest, friendly manner, entered, and immediately addressed himself in good French to the two strangers.

"I beg your pardon, but they showed me up here. I am the master joiner Vogt, Rue de–. A strange gentleman inquired for me yesterday, and left a card with his address which I understood as a request for me to call on him. I trust I have come to the right place?"

Atkins naturally understood nothing of these words. But Jane, who was perfect mistress of French, translated all he needed to hear, and then turned to the visitor.

"You are quite right, but the gentleman's visit was not to you, it was to a young man who, they tell us, works with you. He is in any event, a German, and a journeyman carpenter, Franz Erdmann. We are in search of him, and were just about visiting you again on his account."

"Is it Franz you seek?" asked, the old man, now in his mother tongue. "Good heavens! he has been gone six weeks. Immediately after the declaration of war he went from us back to Germany. He is now in the Prussian army."

Jane involuntarily grew pale. Another vain effort! But the disappointment which, after so confident a hope, would have discouraged any other, only angered her. She compressed her lips and the toe of her little boot beat the floor. If this experience lent her no words, it was evident that in her heart she made a new vow to press forward in spite of all.

Mr. Atkins did not take the tidings so quietly; his vexation found vent in loud exclamations.

"In the army; I believe this glorious Prussian host embraces all mankind! Whatever person we enquire after in the course of our investigations we always receive the stereotyped answer, In the army! I am convinced that if at last we get upon the direct track of this Mr. Franz, we shall learn that he too, is in the army. If he is in no other part of Europe, we shall certainly find him there."

The master-joiner understood none of this English, but he heard the tone of the words, and saw from the expression of the young lady's face, what an effect his arrival had produced upon both.

"Yes, and this war comes near enough to us also!" he said sadly. "I miss Franz everywhere, and my poor girl sits weeping her eyes out the whole day long; they were to be married in the autumn. But there was no help for it; he belonged to the first levies, and we would not take upon ourselves the sin of holding him back."

"Sin!" growled Atkins, again in his English, and turned to Jane. "Did you ever hear of such a thing? This fellow sits safe and concealed here in France, where no man asks after his military duty. He was to marry here, settle down here, and the prospect was that he would not during all his life, return to Germany; and scarce does the war break out when he runs home, leaves bride, wedding, handicraft, all in the lurch, and hurries off to let himself be shot dead for the beloved Rhine. The sentiment of duty with these Germans is really a sort of mania."

Jane scarce heard these words; a ray of hope already flashed before her eyes here, where Atkins had given up all for lost. She turned hastily again to the master-joiner. "Young Hartman stood in intimate relations to your family? He was to be your son-in-law? Well, then, perhaps you and your daughter know something in regard to his past which may be very important to us. We hope to gain from him some intelligence as to a family matter, and shall very cheerfully requite any such service."

"As to his family relations, I know them intimately. He has been more than two years in my house, and he tell in love with my Marie at the very first," said Vogt unhesitatingly. "Ask on, Mademoiselle, I think I can give you information."

Atkins drew back. He saw that Jane wished to take the affair into her own hands, and he resigned it to her the more readily, as he promised himself no especial result from the pending examination. Indeed no help was necessary; Miss Forest propounded her questions so clearly, so confidently and energetically, that the best criminal lawyer could have done no better.

"Your future son-in-law was born in the little fishing village of M., not far from Hamburg?"

Master Vogt nodded.

"After the death of his parents, he came to relatives in P., who brought him up, and from thence, after his apprenticeship and military service were ended, he went over to France to perfect himself in the joiner's art, and for two years, he has lived at N., in your house?"

"Quite right!" returned the master. "It is really our Franz you describe. All agrees to a hair!"

"Has he never"–Jane's voice again betrayed the excitement she could with difficulty restrain–"has he never told you of a brother who grew up with him in M.!"

"That he has indeed! But he was no real brother, only an adopted child whom his parents had brought with them from Hamburg, and kept, in their kindness of heart, as no one claimed him."

Jane sent a triumphant glance over to Atkins. In spite of all, she was on the track. "And this also is known to you? Later the boys were separated, but the other also found adoption?"

"Yes, with a learned man."

With an almost convulsive movement, Jane lifted her head. "With–a learned man!" she repeated slowly; "they told us it was a clergyman, pastor Hartwigs."

"Yes, you are quite right; he was a very learned old gentleman, with his head always stuck into books; Franz has told us all about him; later, he gave up his pastorate–he was not poor–just to live for his learning."

Jane had all at once become pale as death. A lightning ray had flashed down and rent the darkness which had so long lain over the destiny of her brother; for a moment it glowed lurid and threatning, then all was again night; but its upflowing must have shown something terrible to the sister, for she shuddered before it.

"Are you ill, Miss Jane?" asked Atkins, anxiously, and made a movement to approach her.

"No!" Jane summoned all her strength, and motioned him back; her breath came short and violently, and the hand with which she held for support to the table, trembled as if in a fever.

"And do you know whether that adopted brother is still alive, whether he stands in any sort of relationship to your son-in-law?"

"Certainly he is alive," said the master-joiner calmly. "And they have often written to each other. No longer ago than last Easter, Franz had a letter from him."

"From what place? Where was it dated?" Fearful excitement pulsed through Jane's voice; her glance was fixed upon the man as if life or death for her lay in his answer.

Master Vogt shook his head. "That I cannot tell you. Franz spoke of the letter, and told us that his brother was doing well, but he always called him by his given name, Fritz, and neither my daughter nor I saw the writing. The only thing I know is that he came from the Rhine."

From the Rhine! Jane laid her hand against her moist, icy-cold forehead. For a moment, it seemed to her as if she must swoon away, and all else with her; but she kept up, and remained so dumb and motionless, that both men thought her apathetic.

Atkins glanced over to her in surprise; he waited for her to ask further questions, waited for a full, minute; but as she was still silent he began to speak.

"This being the case, we might have spared ourselves a difficult journey! We have just come from the Rhine, my best Monsieur Vogt. You can give us neither name nor place? Neither you nor your daughter?"

"Neither."

"Well, then, I must beg you to tell me the exact regiment and company in which your future son-in-law serves at present. You have received tidings of him since he left for the war?"

"Only once! We were hoping he would pass through here with the army, and yesterday, when we learned that the new Prussian regiments were entering the town, we all ran out and stood before the gates to see if his was not there."

Atkins still waited for Jane to take part in the conversation; her entire indifference seemed so strange after the feverish interest she had shown a few minutes before; but, as she persisted in her immobility, he drew forth his note book, and jotted down the statement just given. The master-joiner took his leave of the young lady; she bowed mechanically, and left it to her companion to dismiss him with great politeness. The man might perhaps be again needed in this business, and anyone whom Mr. Atkins thought of making use of always enjoyed the politest attention from him.

When the man was gone, he turned to Jane. "Did I not tell you so? We must go to another point of the compass? Now we will direct our steps back to the Rhine. The only thing which remains to us is to write from Germany to Herr Erdmann; in any event this is easier than a correspondence with N., since we have his full address. In case he is no longer alive, we must repeat our advertisement in the several Rhenish newspapers. But in any event, I think we should immediately start upon our return journey."

At these words, Jane started from her stupor.

"And why? We are now in France. Perhaps we may succeed in finding that regiment!"

"For Heaven's sake, Jane, what are you thinking of? Seek a regiment upon the march–what an idea!"

"But that matters not, I will now know the truth! And if it was to cost me my life, and I must rush into the fight, even into the line of battle,–I must have a certainty!"

Atkins stood almost horrified before this sudden outbreak of a passion he had never suspected in Jane; and he now for the first time remarked her deathly pallor.

"Good God, what is the matter with you! Are you ill? I thought you would have to suffer from the weariness and excitement of this journey."

He sought to assist her, but she repelled him with a passionate gesture.

"It will pass over–I need nothing–but I beg you for a glass of water."

Atkins was in serious anxiety; he knew that Jane was not at all subject to nervous attacks, and he feared that she was ill. As in the hotel at present, prompt service was not to be dreamt of, he himself hastened out to fetch the water.

This was what Jane had expected. She wanted no water, but she needed a moment of solitude to save her from suffocation. Scarce was he gone, when she, too, hastened to the door, drew the bolt, and then sinking on her knees by the sofa, she buried her face in her hands. Jane Forest would not yield in this way before stranger eyes!

"If one is thrust out into life, without parents and without home, and then falls into the hands of a learned man who knows and loves nothing in the wide world but science–" and that letter came from the Rhine! This had been the lightning stroke which had passed through her; the presentiment came with all the annihilating power of certainty. That lightning flash had opened an abyss before her, into which Jane did not dare to glance; it had brought a secret to light, of which the cold, proud betrothed of Alison had not before been conscious. But, as now in mortal anguish she wrung her uplifted hands, it broke forth in one long-repressed despairing-cry;–

"Almighty God, only not this! My rival, my deadly enemy, if it must be, I will bear it–only not my brother!"

CHAPTER XVII.
The Pen and the Sword

The late afternoon sun of a bright September day shone through the thick-leaved boughs of the ancient gigantic chestnuts which shaded the avenues and grass-plats of the broad park stretching behind the castle of S., one of those magnificently situated country seats in which the interior of France is so rich. This castle, on the western declivity of a precipitous range of hills, which at this point unfolded all their widely-romantic beauty, as well as the village in its immediate vicinity, had just been seized as quarters for the soldiery. A Rhenish landwehr regiment, after having taken part in all the August battles had been ordered back here to protect the mountain region from roving bands of French fusileers, and to keep the passes free. It was a dangerous and arduous post for the rather small detachment, which, many miles distant from its comrades, almost daily undertook excursions to the mountains, thereby placing itself in constant danger of an attack for which this region was only too favorable. The soldiery lay in the village, while the officers had quartered themselves close by in the castle, whose inmates had naturally fled. These gentlemen, for the moment at least, seemed to have surrendered themselves to an idleness of late only rarely offered them; from the terrace echoed loud talking and laughing, blended with the ringing of glasses.

At the entrance of the park, under one of these giant chestnuts, lay a landwehr officer stretched upon the tall grass, and gazing up into the thick leafy roof through which the setting sun threw hither and thither its palpitating rays. The floral treasures of the garden, arranged with great art and care, and now resplendent with all the summer's magnificence and luxuriance, appeared to fetter his attention just as little as the sound of his comrades' merriment coming down to him from the castle. He raised his head only when an approaching footstep startled him from his dream.

A man of about thirty years, his uniform and the bands upon his arm designating him as a surgeon, came up the path as if in search of some one, and halted before the reclining officer.

"I thought as much! Here you lie dreaming again, while I, by the sweat of my brow, am winning popularity for you. You really do not concern yourself about it in the least!"

The man addressed half rose and supported himself on his elbows. "I have a duty to perform," he said. "I must go down to the village at four o'clock."

"And for that reason you must make yourself invisible at three? Do not deny it, Walter, you ran away from us because you remarked that I had the horrible intention of reading aloud a poem, a copy of which I forced from you. But flight does not avail you; on your return, you will be received with general acclamation. Our major swears that he never heard anything like it his life; the adjutant was just as enthusiastic in its praise. You know he is a sort of amateur critic, well versed in æsthetics, and from the very first you wonderfully impressed him with your learning. He reminds us how highly favored we are by destiny in being able to call a poet our companion-in-arms, a poet Germany will one day salute as it greatest genius. Our lieutenant swears by all the gods of the upper and lower world, that if the French had possessed a bard who before the battle had inspired them with such songs, they would have given us more to do; but your poetry has had the most stupendous effect upon our fat captain; it has made him forget his dram!"

"Stop this nonsense!" said the young officer half in anger, as he sank back to his reclining posture.

"Nonsense! I give you my word that I have only repeated literally to you, what was said. Did you hear the glasses ring? All the officers were just then solemnly guaranteeing you immortality. I am sent to seize the flying singer, and bring him back, living or dead. They clamorously demand your presence."

"Spare me! You know how much I dislike such ovations."

"And again do you refuse to come? Well, it is just like you! We ought by this time to have learned that we can have Lieutenant Fernow's company only when some service is required, or some fight is at hand. You run away from all recognition of your talents, as any other man would run from punishment. You must cease this, Walter; it really is not fitting for the future poet of Germany."

Fernow had meantime risen; he had put on the helmet which lay near him in the grass, and bound his sword more firmly. One who two months ago had seen the learned professor of the university of B. would certainly not have recognized him in this young warrior, whose military coat fitted the slender form excellently, as if he had all his life worn no other. The sickly pallor and the deep, shadowy rings about the eyes, had vanished with the bowed form and the unhealthy appearance. The forehead and cheeks were deeply sunburned, the blood coursed vigorously through the veins, the blonde hair, little cared for, waved in luxuriant profusion under the helmet; the once smooth chin wore a heavy beard; the upright military bearing seemed to cost the present landwehr lieutenant not the slightest effort, and the once delicate hands, with a strong grip, now seized the sword. These six weeks in the field had wrought wonders; it was evident at the first glance–Doctor Stephen's radical cure had been affected.

"You place too much value on my songs," he said evasively. "The verses, written upon the inspiration of the moment, inspire only for the moment, and when the excitement which called them forth is ended, they will fall into forgetfulness."

"Do you think so?" asked the surgeon gravely. "I may be allowed to doubt it. In your verses resounds more than a mere battle-cry, although you may, perhaps, in future, thank the war for having roused your slumbering talent and for showing you the path to future renown."

"Perhaps!" said Fernow gloomily. "And perhaps, also, a bullet may to-day or to-morrow make an end of all the promised renown?"

"Can you not throw off this eternal melancholy?" asked the doctor chidingly. "Walter, I really believe you are bearing an unhappy love around with you."

"Not at all!" cried Fernow passionately, and turned away. The deep flush which earlier had suffused his pale face at every violent excitement, again appeared, although less visible in the bronzed countenance.

This sudden emotion had escaped the surgeon. He had been a younger colleague of Doctor Stephen, a private tutor in the university of B. He and Fernow had known each other sufficiently to exchange a passing salutation as they met. This had lasted for three years, but the army life had in a few hours made them acquaintances, and in a few weeks, friends.

The always merry young doctor laughed aloud at his own comic idea. "I have really been very curious as to the where and when! Since we have been in the field, I have scarcely stirred from your side, and in B. you never so much as looked at a woman, for which reason, the fairer half of the city, with good reason, declared you outlawed and proscribed." Fernow made no answer; he busied himself with the hilt of his sword.

"But Doctor Stephen was right with his diagnosis," continued the surgeon after a momentary pause, "although I would not believe it when he came over to H. to commend you to my care, he having heard that I was assigned to your regiment. I could with a good conscience, promise to do my best, for I was convinced that you would be the first patient, to fall into my hands. The first week, I would not have given a penny for your life, but when the marches and hardships began, when our men fell in scores beneath the fiery August sun, and you still held out; when amid all the over exertion and deprivation which sometimes lay low the strongest, you grew only healthier and more robust then I took off my hat to the superior discernment of my old colleague. Walter, you have one of the best constitutions, a really magnificent constitution, which only needed to renounce the study and the writing-desk, to gain its full development; and you have found the right, although somewhat unusual remedy for your nerves. The thunder of the cannon has thoroughly re-established them! This will be a surprise to everyone when you return to B."

"When I return?"

"Forever and eternally, these presentiments of death!" cried the surgeon, with an impatient gesture. "You cling to them with a genuine passion."

"Because I feel them!"

"Nonsense! If there is a man bullet-proof it is you! Do not take it ill of me, Walter, but your rushing to the front in all these battles, borders on insanity. Courage need not become reckless; but where excitement urges you on, you see and hear nothing. Your comrades all say this."

"And still there is not one among them, who a little while ago, would have owned that I possessed any courage at all," returned Fernow, with some bitterness.

"I know that," said the surgeon, frankly. "But to tell the truth you used to have little enough of the hero in you. You were entirely a man of the pen, who wholly absorbed in his books had nothing to do with the outside world. Now that is all a thing of the past, as well as the error of your comrades. Since the first battle, none doubt your courage."

Fernow smiled sadly. His eyes alone had not changed. There lay within them the old dreaminess and the old sadness.