“Of course Rike cannot be in time,” said Uncle Ernst.
“Aunt is in the kitchen,” said Ferdinanda.
“Of course she is somewhere, only she never is where she should be.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Aunt Rikchen, who just at that moment entered, and hastily went towards her place, stopping at the sideboard on her way, to busy herself over something else.
“Are we to sit down to supper tonight?” demanded Uncle Ernst.
“Directly—directly!” said Aunt Rikchen.
The large round table was only laid for four. Reinhold had hoped now to meet his cousin Philip, after whom he had not been able to make any inquiries during the first interchange of question and answer; so he asked now.
His question was addressed to Ferdinanda.
“Philip does not come often,” she replied.
“Say, rather, that he never comes.”
Reinhold gazed in astonishment at his uncle, who had said this with a displeased look, and in a harsh, stern voice; and he thought that he observed on the two women’s faces an anxious, confused expression. He had unwittingly touched upon a string which sent a sharp discord through the whole family.
“This is a good beginning,” thought Reinhold, as he seated himself between his uncle and aunt, with Ferdinanda opposite.
III
Luckily, however, it seemed that his fears were groundless. It is true that Aunt Rikchen could hardly open her mouth without Uncle Ernst cutting short the thread of the story. Nor did Ferdinanda join much in the conversation; but that at first was not so remarkable, and was easily explained by the fact that Uncle Ernst was most anxious to obtain from Reinhold a comprehensive account of his life and adventures during the many years in which they had not met, and listened to him with attention that would admit of no interruption.
During their conversation, Reinhold had many opportunities of observing the unusual extent and depth of his uncle’s knowledge. He could not mention any town, however distant, of which the situation, history, and mercantile relations were not thoroughly well known to him. He expressed to his uncle his surprise and admiration at this.
“Why, what would you have?” was the answer. “When a man is born a poor devil, and not, like you, lucky enough to be able to follow his own inclinations in his profession, but, as boy, youth, and man, ground down with hard work for his daily bread, till he has reached old age, and it is too late for him to set out on his wanderings, what is there left for him but, with map in hand, to read and study, that he may find out how vast and how beautiful the Almighty has made this world?”
When Uncle Ernst spoke thus, all harshness and severity vanished from his voice, and all gloom from his stern features; but it was only for a moment, then the dark cloud settled once more upon eyes and brow, like the grey mist upon the snowy mountaintop, which but a moment ago glistened in the sunshine.
Reinhold could not look enough at the fine old face, with its ever-changing expression, though there was never the least trace of weakness or littleness—it was always strong and resolute; and at the noble head, which, with its thick curly hair and bushy beard, now turning grey, seemed more dignified, more commanding even than in former years. And he could not help being constantly reminded of another face, opposite which he had sat but a few evenings ago—General von Werben’s—also the face of a handsome, stern old man, more concentrated and self-controlled, indeed, and lacking that mighty fire which in the other burst forth in brilliant flashes, to be, as it were, forcibly restrained, and left to smoulder and perhaps flame afresh.
From the very first, Reinhold had thought that this inward fire, so hardly restrained, was threatening to burst forth in all its thunder and storm, and was only awaiting its opportunity; and it was soon proved to him that he had not been mistaken.
He had arrived in his account of his wanderings at the day when he received in Southampton the news of the Declaration of War, when, throwing up all engagements and forsaking his usual occupation, he hurried back to Germany to fulfil his duties to his threatened Fatherland.
“This resolution,” he cried, “was called forth by enthusiasm; it was carried out with absolute devotion, and with all my mental and physical powers, from first to last, without once, I may truly say, getting weary, once faltering, once doubting that the cause to which I had devoted myself was a holy one, however unholy and sanguinary the garb in which it might, indeed must, be decked. Then when the great goal was reached at last—greater, better, more complete than I—ay, than any who were with me in the battle—had thought or expected, hoped or wished—then I returned to my old employment, and once more launched my ship upon the seas, with the calm and joyful feeling of having fulfilled my duty; safe, wherever the uncertain career of a sailor may lead me, to find a spot of home under the German flag; and in the full assurance that you, in our beautiful Fatherland, will never lose what has been so hardly won, and that in good time the great work so nobly planned, so powerfully begun, will be finished and completed, and that when I returned home it would be to a country full of joy and peace, and sunshine in every heart and on every face. I must own, however, that during the short time that I have been at home, I have noticed many things which would seem to mock my hopes, but I cannot believe that I have seen rightly. On the contrary, I am convinced that
