The family had all that day sat in the innermost room of their humble dwelling. Everhard had wished to accompany his father to the court—his mother withheld him. The sisters involuntarily dropped their work from time to time, and their mother gently reminded them of the necessity of renewing it. They did resume it, but their hands, at variance with their feelings, made such blunders, that their mother, δακρυοεν γελασασα, removed their work, and suggested to them some active employment in household affairs. While they were thus engaged, evening came on—the family from time to time suspended their ordinary occupations, and crowded to the window to watch the return of their father. Their mother no longer interfered—she sat in silence, and this silence formed a strong contrast to the restless impatience of her children. “That is my father,” exclaimed the voices of the four at once, as a figure crossed the street. “That is not my father,” they repeated, as the figure slowly retired. A knock was heard at the door—Ines herself rushed forward to open it. A figure retreated, advanced again, and again retreated. Then it seemed to rush past her, and enter the house like a shadow. In terror she followed it, and with terror unutterable saw her husband kneeling among his children, who in vain attempted to raise him, while he continued to repeat, “No, let me kneel—let me kneel, I have undone you all! The cause is lost, and I have made beggars of you all!”
“Rise—rise, dearest father,” cried the children, gathering round him, “nothing is lost, if you are saved!”
“Rise, my love, from that horrible and unnatural humiliation,” cried Ines, grasping the arms of her husband; “help me, my children—father—mother, will you not help me?”—and as she spoke, the tottering, helpless, and almost lifeless figures of the aged grandfather and grandmother arose from their chairs, and staggering forwards, added their feeble strength—their vis impotentiae, to sustain or succour the weight that dragged heavily on the arms of the children and their mother. By this sight, more than by any effort, Walberg was raised from the posture that agonized his family, and placed in a chair, around which hung the wife and children, while the aged father and mother, retreating torpidly to their seats, seemed to lose in a few moments the keen consciousness of evil that had inspired them for an instant with a force almost miraculous. Ines and her children hung round Walberg, and uttered all of consolation that helpless affection could suggest; but perhaps there is not a more barbed arrow can be sent through the heart, than by the thought that the hands that clasp ours so fondly cannot earn for us or themselves the means of another meal—that the lips that are pressed to ours so warmly, may the next ask us for bread, and—ask in vain!
It was perhaps fortunate for this unhappy family, that the very extremity of their grief rendered its long indulgence impossible—the voice of necessity made itself be heard distinctly and loudly amid all the cry and clamour of that hour of agony. Something must be done for the morrow—and it was to be done immediately. “What money have you?” was the first articulate sentence Walberg uttered to his wife; and when she whispered the small sum that the expenses of their lost cause had left them, he shivered with a brief emphatic spasm of horror—then bursting from their arms, and rising, he crossed the room, as if he wished to be alone for a moment. As he did so, he saw his youngest child playing with the long strings of his grandfather’s band—a mode of sportive teasing in which the urchin delighted, and which was at once chid and smiled at. Walberg struck the poor child vehemently, and then catching him in his arms, bid him—“Smile as long as he could!”
They had means of subsistence at least for the following week; and that was such a source of comfort to them, as it is to men who are quitting a wreck, and drifting on a bare raft with a slender provision towards some coast, which they hope to reach before it is exhausted. They sat up all that night together in earnest counsel, after Ines had taken care to see the father and mother of her husband comfortably placed in their apartment. Amid their long and melancholy conference, hope sprung up insensibly in the hearts of the speakers, and a plan was gradually formed for obtaining the means of subsistence. Walberg was to offer his talents as a musical teacher—Ines and her daughters were to undertake embroidery—and Everhard, who possessed exquisite taste both in music and drawing, was to make an effort in both departments, and the friendly priest was to be applied to for his needful interest and recommendation for all. The morning broke on their long-protracted consultation, and found them unwearied in discussing its subject.
“We shall not starve,” said the children hopefully.
“I trust not,” said Walberg sighingly.—His wife, who knew Spain, said not a word.—
XXVIII
… This to me
Shakespeare
In dreadful secrecy they did impart,
And I with them the third night kept the watch.
As they spoke, a soft knock was heard, such as kindness gives at the door of misfortune, and Everhard started up to answer it. “Stay,” said Walberg, absently, “Where are the servants?” Then recollecting himself, he smiled agonizingly, and waved his hand to his son to go. It was the good priest. He entered, and sat down in silence—no one spoke to him. It might be truly said, as it is sublimely said in the original, “There was neither speech nor language, but voices were heard among them—and felt too.” The worthy priest piqued himself on his orthodoxy of all matters of belief and form enjoined by the Catholic church; and, moreover, had acquired a kind of monastic apathy, of sanctified
