CHAPTER XII. THE STORY OF GOTTFRIED BRÜCKMANN AND JANE GIRARDEAU.
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Among the Mercenaries, popularly known as Hessians,
employed by England against America during the war of
our Revolution, was Gottfried Brückmann. He was,
properly speaking, a Waldecker, having been born in Pyrmont,
an inconsiderable city of that principality. From
what we know of his history, he seems to have shared
largely in the passion for music, which distinguishes many
of his country. To this also he added a thirst for literary
acquisition. But a peasant by caste, he encountered
not a few obstacles in these higher pursuits. He became
bellows-boy for the organ in the church of his native town,
and availing himself of chance opportunities, attained some
skill on that instrument. He played well on the harpsichord,
flute and violin. In the French language, at that
time so much in vogue among the Germans, he became a
proficient. Nevertheless, he fretted under the governmental
yoke that lay so oppressively and haughtily upon
the necks of that class of people to which he belonged.
His conduct exposing him to suspicion, he fled into the
region of country described as the Hartz Mountains.
Whatever of romance, literature, poetry, descended into
the mass of the population; whatever of legendary tale or
cabalistic observance was cherished by the common heart;
whatever of imaginative temper, ideal aspiration, or mystic
enthusiasm has ever characterized any portion of his
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countrymen, Brückmann possessed; and in the vicinity where
he now found himself, there was a supply of objects fitted
to animate the strongest sentiments of his being, and scenes
and associations that were congenial with his inclinations;—
forests of oak and beech, fir and pine; every kind and
conformation of rock; birds of all descriptions; cloud-piercing
hills, unfathomable chasms; lakes embosomed in mountains;
waterfalls; mines and smelting-houses, with the
weird and tartarean look of the workmen and their operations;
gorgeous sunsets; dense and fantastic fogs; perennial
snows: points of local and traditionary interest; the
Altar and Sorcerer's Chair, the seat of the festival of the
Old Saxon idol, Crotho; the grottoes Baumanshole and
Bielshole; a cave reputed at the time to have no termination;
wildness, irregularity, terror, grandeur, freedom and
mystery, on every side. In addition, were little villages
and clusters of houses in valleys embowered in forests and
overshadowed by mountains, into one of which Brückmann's
wanderings led him, that of Rubillaud, through which runs
the Bode. Here in the midst of almost inaccessible rocks
and cold elevations, he found fruit-trees in blossom, fields
green with corn, and a small stone church surmounted
with a crucifix, a May-pole hung with garlands, around
which the villagers were having their Whitsun dances. In
this place he remained a while, and was engaged as a school
teacher for children, the parents of whom were chiefly
miners. Here he became warmly attached to one of his
pupils, Margaret Bruneau, daughter of the Pastor of Rubillaud,
who was a Lutheran. In her he found tastes and
feelings like his own. With her he rambled among mountains,
penetrated caves, sang from rocks; and had such an
intercourse as tended to cement their affection, and prosecuted
whatever plans were grateful to their natures.
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But in the midst of his repose came that cruel and barbarous
draft of the British Crown on the German States. Some
of the inhabitants of Rubillaud, who were subjects of the
King of Hanover, were enlisted in this foreign service.
Requisition was made on several provinces then in alliance
with England, Brunswick, Hesse Cassel, Hanau, Anhalt
and Waldeck; and on Brückmann's native town, Pyrmont.
The general league formed among these princes against the
peace and liberty of their people, would not suffer that
Brückmann should escape. He was seized, as if he had
been a felon, and forcibly taken to Rotterdam, the place of
embarkation. The reluctance with which this body of
levies contemplated the duty to which they were destined,
will be understood when it is told that they were obliged
to be under guard on their march to the sea-coast; that
many of them bound hand and foot were transported in
carts; some succeeded in deserting; others making the
attempt were shot. Brückmann, for some instance of
insubordination, received a wound at the hand of his own
Captain, from which he never entirely recovered. Swords
ruled souls. Their avaricious and tyrannical lords let
them out as slaves, and had them scourged to their tasks.
Brückmann and Margaret parted in uttermost bitterness of
spirit, and with the fondest expressions of love. They
wafted their adieus and prayers to each other across the
bridge of the Bode, over which he was rudely snatched to
see her in this world no more forever.
We shall not follow him through the fortunes of the war;
but hasten to its close, when he was stricken and overwhelmed
by the news of Margaret's death. A strong bond,
and perhaps the only one that attached him to his native
country, was broken; and in common with many of his
countrymen, he chose to remain in America after the peace.
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These Germans, such as survived,—more than eleven thousand
of their number having perished during the war,—disposed
of themselves as they could; some joined the settlements
of their brethren in Pennsylvania, others pushed
beyond the Ohio, a few sought the New England States.
Brückmann took up his abode in New York. Those who
returned to Germany he bade plant Margaret's grave with
narcissus, rosemary and thyme, and visit it every Whitsun
Festival with fresh flowers; while he would hallow her
memory with prayers and tears in his own heart. He was
disappointed in purpose, forsaken in spirit, broken in feeling.
Contrary to the usual maxim, he loved those whom
he had injured, and was willing that whatever of life or
energy remained to him should be given to the Americans,
while he remembered the land of his birth with sorrow,
upbraidings and despair.
Owing to our numerous and profitable relations with
France at this time, the French language had arisen in the
popular estimation, and was in great request. He would
teach it, and so earn a livelihood, and serve the land of his
adoption. Music too, the musical spirit of Margaret and
of his native country, that which survives in the soul when
every thing else is prostrate, came over him. He would
live again in song. He would recall the scenes of the past.
Margaret would reappear in the tones of their love and
their youth; her spirit would echo to the voice of his flute;
in song, like night, they would meet again; by an invisible
pathway of melody they would glide on to the grave. Poor
Brückmann! Poor America! What with his deficiency
in our tongue, and his former services against our liberties,
he obtained but few scholars. Superior and more agreeable
Frenchmen were his rivals. Music! How could we
pay for music, when we could not pay our debts? The
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crescendo and diminuendo were other than of sound our
people had to learn. He grew sicker at heart, his hopes
had all fled, and his spiritual visions seemed to grow dimmer
and dimmer. He sat by the narrow window of the
small unlighted room he rented, in the night, and played
on his flute to the darkness, the air, the groups of idle
passers by, to memory and to the remote future whither his
visions were flying and the fair spirit of his reveries had
betaken itself. Yet he had one and not an unconcerned
listener, and perhaps another. These were Jane Girardeau
and her father. Mr. Girardeau had discovered the sound
of the music proceeding from the hill behind his house, and
his daughter listening to it. He called her in; she would
go up to the chamber window, and repeat her curiosity.
He ordered her to bed; she would creep from her room,
and sly into the street that she might hear it. He detected
her, rebuffed her, and locked her into her room. “Can
you indulge such extravagance?” was the language of Mr.
Girardeau to his daughter. “Can you yield to such weakness?
Will you waste your time in this way? Shall I
suffer in you a repetition of all your mother occasioned
me? Will you hazard your reputation? Why will you
so often break my commands? I will have none of this.
You are impudent, beastly.”
His daughter ill brooked such treatment. To the mind
of her father, she was rash, turbulent, inordinate, selfish,
lavish, insensible. She was lavish, but only of her heart's
best affections; she was rash, not in head, so much as in
impulse; she was insensible, but only to the demands of
lucre; she was troubled, not turbulent; she was inordinate,
for no want of her heart had ever been supplied; she was
selfish in the sense of obeying her nature, while she disregarded
the behests of stupidity and meanness.
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Jane had rebelled under the iron jurisdiction of her
father. Like the hidden fires of the earth she broke out
wherever she could find vent. She was held down, not
subdued. She was too elastic to flatten, too spiritual to
stagnate. She rebounded with a wild recoil. Her fits of
anger, or sallies of spirit, whatever they might be called,
were frequent and energetic. As she grew older, she became
more sensible of her degradation and wrongs, as well
as more capable of redressing them.
She was the only child of an ill-assorted marriage. She
became of some service to her father. Her personal beauty
was an attraction to customers, and he valued her aid as
shop-girl. She presided over the department of the store
devoted to the sale of fancy goods, which, obtained in various
ways, afforded enormous profits, and became an item
of trade, that, notwithstanding her father's extensive and
multifarious business, he could not well forego. She was
also a good accountant and book-keeper. Brückmann was
straitened for means. His quarterly rent was due. He
would make one effort more; and that perhaps the most
dangerous for a poor man; he would borrow money. He
knew of the broker near by, and his reputation for wealth.
He had no friend, no backer. He obtained a certificate
ftom the parents of one of his scholars, to the effect that he
was believed to be an honest man. He presented himself
at the store of Mr. Girardeau. Jane was there; she recognized
in him the flute-player, whom she had sometimes
seen in the streets, or at his window. Brückmann was a
Saxon throughout; his eyes were full blue, his complexion
was light and fair, his hair was of a sandy brown, thick and
bushy. Dejection and disappointment were evidently doing
their work upon him. His face had grown thin, his eyes
were sunk, and his look was that of a sick man. He
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addressed Mr. Girardeau in broken English. “Speak in
your own language,” said the latter gentleman, “I can
understand you.” He stated briefly his object. Mr. Girardeau
looked at the note, and replied in German, “Hard
times, sir, hard times; securities scarce, liabilities uncertain,
business dull, great losses abroad, foreigners do not
appreciate our condition.” He then proceeded to interrogate
Brückmann on his business, circumstances, prospects.
There were two listeners to the answer, father and daughter,
both intent, but in a different manner. The old gentleman
ordered Jane away while he transacted a little private
business. She retreated to the back part of the store
where she persistingly stood; and it was obvious, although
the stranger spoke in his own tongue, she comprehended
what he said. From one thing to another, Brückmann
was led to recite his entire history; his birth, his retreat to
Rubillaud, his interest in Margaret, his enlistment, his service
in the war, Margaret's death, his present method of
support. Mr. Girardeau replied, in brief, that it was not in
his power to accommodate him. The agitation of Bruckmann
was evidently intense at this repulse; and there
seemed to be aroused a corresponding sympathy of distress
in the heart of Jane. The story of the stranger interested
her, it took strong possession of her imagination. As he
left, her thoughts followed him with that most agonizing
sense of powerless compassion. Could she but see him,
could she but speak with him, she would bestow upon him
her condolences, if she could offer him no more substantial
aid.
Jane studied day and night how she might encounter the
unhappy stranger, the enchanting musician. To perfect
her for his purposes, her father allowed her to do a little
business in her own name. These earnings, ordinarily
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devoted to some species of amusement or literary end, she
now as sedulously hoarded as increased. She discovered
where Brückmann had some pupils in a private family.
Thither, taking her private purse, she went; sought her
way to his room, and seated herself among the scholars.
She heard the recitation, and the remarks that accompanied
it. She discerned the originality of Brückmann's mind,
as she had formerly been interested in the character of his
sensibilities. He spoke in a feeble tone, but with a suggestive
emphasis. She knew well the causes of his depression.
He sang also to his pupils one of his native hymns;
she admired its beauty and force, and perhaps more the
voice of the singer. She staid behind when the scholars
left. He spoke to her. She replied, to his surprise, in his
own language, or something akin to it. She told him who
she was, that she had heard his story, and she compassionated
his wants, that her father was abundantly rich, and
that from her own earnings she had saved him some money.
She pressed upon him her purse, which neither delicacy
demanded, nor would necessity allow that he should refuse.
She told him how much she had been interested in his
history; she desired him to repeat it.
She was reproached and maledicted by her father, on
her return, although he knew not where she had been. An
idea had seized her, and for that she was willing to sacrifice
every thing. It had neither shape, nor color, nor definition,
nor end. She thought of it when she went to bed,
she dreamed of it, she awoke with it. She would see the
stranger. She went again to his school-room. She walked
with him on the Parade. “Tell me,” she would say, “more
about Margaret. How old was she? How did she look?
How did you love her? Why did you love her?” He
would rehearse all he had said before, and discover new
particulars each time.
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“Were her parents rich or poor?” asked Jane.
“Poor,” replied Brückmann.
“Happy, happy Margaret! O if my father was poor as
the sheerest mendicant I should be happy.”
“You may be able to do much good with your money,
sometime or another.”
“I see nothing before me but darkness and gloom,” replied
Jane. “My father,—you know what he is. My dear,
dear mother, too fond of her child, too opposed to her husband,
too indulgent, too kind,—she has gone from my love
and my approach forever. I may be in the midst of affluence,
I am cursed, blighted by a destitution such as you
know nothing of. Gold may be my inheritance, my prospects
are all worthless, fearful, sombre. You say you will
meet Margaret in heaven!”
“Speak freely with me,” said Brückmann, “I love to
hear, if I cannot answer. Margaret and I often talked of
what we could not comprehend. We strove to lift each
other up, even if we made no advance. She had a deep
soul, an unbounded aspiration. We sang of heaven, and
then we began to feel it. We were more Sphinxes than
Œdipuses. Yet she became heaven to me, when there
was none in the skies. She was a transparent, articulate
revelation of God.”
“How I should love Margaret!” said Jane to him one
day. “What was the color of her hair? like yours?”
“No,” replied Brückmann; “as I have told you, she was
not of German origin. Her ancestors came from Languedoc
in the Religious Wars. She was more tropical in her
features, and perhaps in her heart, than I. She had black
hair and eyes; she resembled you, Miss Girardeau, I think.”
“How I wish I could see her!” replied Jane. “You
say she does come to you sometimes?”
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“Yes,” said Brückmann,” and since I have known you
she comes more frequently, more clearly. My perishing
heart had scarce power to evoke her. My song became
too faint a medium. You have revived those visions, and
refreshing communions.”
“Then I am happy,” said Jane; “I knew not that I
had such a power. You, sir, know not the misery of being
able to make no one happy. I torture my father, I plague
Samuel. I am of use to no one. And my poor self answers
not for itself!”
“How could you fight against our poor country?” she
one day asked him.
“I never did,” he said; “my heart was with the Americans.
I was forced into the work. I was bayoneted to
the lines. My musket shared the indisposition of its owner,
and shot at random. Wounds that had been spared by those
against whom I was arrayed were anticipated by my own
officers. At this moment I am sensible of the pain.”
“Yet you might have been killed in battle,” said she,
“and I, poor, ridiculous, selfish me! should never have
seen you.”
“Nor I you,” he rejoined; “I know not which is the most
indebted.”
These interviews could not be repeated without coming
to the knowledge, or kindling the indignation of Mr. Girardeau.
He noticed the frequent, and sometimes protracted
absences of his daughter; he traced them to the indigent
German, whose application for money he denied, to the
villanous musician that had given him so much annoyance.
His passion had no bounds. He ceased to expostulate;
he raved, he threatened; he shut Jane into her chamber,
he barred the door and declared he would starve her. As
Jane had never learned filial obedience, so she had not
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disciplined herself to ordinary patience. Even in matters
that concerned her interest and happiness most vitally, she
was impetuous and inconsiderate. She could bear imprisonment,
she could bear starvation, she could bear invective
and violence; she could not endure separation from
Brückmann. She experienced, in respect of him, new and
joyous sensations that enchained her existence. She looked
on him as a superior being. She felt that he alone could
understand her, appreciate or sympathize with her. She
felt that of the mass about her, he only seemed to have a
common nature with her. She thought not of his poverty
or his dejection. She thought only of his soul into which
she could pour her own. She was eager for him, as a child
for its mother's breast. His love for Margaret Bruneau
only heightened his value in her eyes. He seemed for his
devotion to Margaret Bruneau, purer, greater, diviner.
He and Margaret constituted to her mind a delightful company.
She entered a magic circle when she came into
their communion. She became one of a glorious trio. Then
she saw herself interpreted and symbolized in Margaret;
and she acted as a conjuration to bring that delightful vision
from the shades. Brückmann she assisted, encouraged,
enlivened; she rendered him more hopeful, more happy.
And she herself had no life, except as he was able to explain
that life. His soul seemed to respond to hers, and
her own grew serner and stiller as it received that response.
“He, too, will suffer,” she said to herself, “if he
sees me not. His own heart will break again Margaret
Bruneau will come to him no more;” and every thought
of his uneasiness or suspense vibrated, like a fire, through
her sensations.
Mr. Girardeau waited to see some tokens of his daughter's
repentance and amendment, but none appeared. The
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more completely to secure his purposes, he instigated a
prosecution against Brückmann, on the score of debt, and
had him thrown into the City Jail. The old gentleman
then approached his daughter, apprised her of what had
befallen her friend, and announced his final decision. He
told her if ever she saw Brückmann again, if ever she
communicated with him by word or letter, he would turn
her into the streets, close his doors upon her forever, and
cast her out to utter shame and wretchedness. With whatever
tone or spirit this sentence may have been distinguished,
and there could be no mistake as to its general purport,
its effect on Jane was scarcely perceptible. Her die
was cast, her resolution taken. She undid the fastenings
of her room and escaped into the street.
Going to the jail, she obtained access to the cell and was
locked in with Brückmann. Through his drooping heart and
wasting frame he received her with a bland, welcome smile.
She fell at his feet, and vented herself in a torrent of tears.
His kindness reassured her, and she told him what had
transpired. “But,” she continued, “Gottfried, I must see
you, I must be with you, I cannot live away from you, I
die without you. Existence has not the faintest charm,
not a solitary point of interest, if I am separated from you.
You have awakened within me every dormant and benumbed
faculty. You have spread over time the hues of
a higher being. You have given back to my soul the only
answer it ever received; with your eyes I have looked into
myself and discovered some beauty there, where before
was only a deep and frightful chaos. In a world of shallowness
and stupidity you alone have anticipated, understood
and valued me. I repose on you as on the breast of
God. You have introduced me to an elevated communion;
you have welcomed me to the participation of yourself and
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Margaret; you have inspired me with a desire to know
more of the laws of the spirit's life. For all this I have
made you no return. I am little, how little! to you. You
owe me nothing, I owe you every thing.”
“Jane,—” said he.
“Do not interrupt me now,” she continued. “Let my
poor soul have its say. It may be its last. I have now
no home on earth but you. May I remain with you? May
I hear your voice, look into your eyes, be blessed and illumined
by your spirit?”
“Is it possible,” asked Brückmann, “that your father will
never relent? He needs you, his own fortune is under
obligations to you.”
“You know not my father,” was the decisive reply.
“He is fixed, inexorable, as the God he serves. I look to
you, or to vacancy, to nought, to the sepulchral abyss of my
own soul, to the interminable night of my own thoughts
To be poor is nothing, to be an outcast is nothing; to be
away from you is worse than all calamities condensed in
one blow. Do not be distressed, my good Gottfried. I
will not embarrass you. Gottfried—I will marry you—I
do embarrass you. I do distress you—I will not. No!
I go away—I leave you.—Farewell, Gottfried!”
“Stay!” replied he, “do not go away.”
“Speak to me,” she said. “Chide me, spurn me. I
can bear any thing. I will not stir, nor wince, nor weep.
I can stiffen myself into insensibility. I will sit here unmoved
as a curb-stone. Speak, Gottfried, speak, if you
kill me.”
“Jane,” said he, very kindly, “you have nothing to fear
from me, we have nothing to fear from each other. We
know each other too well to be alarmed by surprises, or
perplexed at disclosures. We have no secrets to keep or
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to reveal, no hopes to indulge or disappoint. Our natures
are bared to each other; our several destinies too well understood;
a word, the faintest expression of a wish is sufficient.
You know Margaret, I need not—”
“No, Mr. Brückmann, you need not—”
“Call me Gottfried. Margaret called me Gottfried.
You must never call me any thing else.”
“O,” said she, “if I could do Margaret's least office for
you, if I could ever remind you of her! And this assimilates
me nearer to her. It gives me a prerogative, which,
with all my rashness, I should hardly otherwise dare to
claim. But you need not speak to me of her. I know all
about it, and you, and her. Yet not as a beggar, not as a
friend, not as one who has the slightest demand on your
notice, yet I say, obeying an impulse which I know how
neither to control nor define, but which is deep as the central
fires of my being, I ask for entrance, for a home, in
that which you are, for fellowship with you and all your
life. Tell me more of Margaret; I will grow up into her
image; I will transmute myself to her nature. You shall
have a double Margaret; no, not double, but one. Nay,
if needs be, I will go out of myself; I will be the servant
of you both. Call me your child, your and Margaret's
child, your spirit-child, and so love me. And when we get
to Heaven, you may do what you will with me. Sure I
am, I shall never get there if you do not take me. I cannot
sing, as you say she could. But my soul sings. I can
describe with my sensations as many octaves and variations
as you on your flute; and with your nice ear perhaps you
could hear some pleasant strains. Away from you, I am
all discord, a jangling of broken and bewildered emotion.”
“Have you thought,” asked Gottfried, “how we should
be situated. This prison is my home now, and I have no
better prospect for the future.”
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“I have enough in my purse,” said Jane, “to release
you. You can teach as you have done. I perhaps could
give instruction in the more popular branches.”
“Dear Jane!” said he, “you are dearer to me than all
on earth beside. But how fade all earth scenes from my
thought! I feel myself vanishing into the spirit-world.
Daily I perceive the hand of destiny lying more heavily
upon me. Hourly invisible cords are drawing me away.
The echoes of my song sound louder and louder from the
shadowy shore.”
“Ah, dearest Gottfried! if you die, I will die too. I
cannot live without you; I cannot survive you; I perish
with you. I will be absorbed with you into the Infinite.
All your presentiments I share.”
“We will be married,” answered Gottfried. “I have
loved you; I will still love you; you deserve my love.
Margaret Bruneau too will love you; and the heaven-crowned
shall bestow her blessing on the earth-worn.”
Jane procured his release from prison, by paying debts
and costs of suit. They went to the house of the Rev. Dr.—,
a kind and benevolent old clergyman, by whom the
marriage ceremony was performed, the wife and daughter
of the rector being present as witnesses. They knelt on a
couch for an altar; the long black hair of the bride gathered
loosely about her temples and skirting a clear marble
neck, and her dark eyes, contrasting the light thick hair,
deep blue eyes, and flickering pale face of the groom, produced
a subdued and sad impression in the mind of the
observer; yet the evening light of their souls, for such it
seemed to be, coming out at that hour, shed over them a
soft, sweet glow. The old man blessed them, and they
departed.
They sought lodgings in a quarter of the city at some
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distance from their former abode. Brückmann was enabled
to form a small class in French. If female education
or the employment of female instructors had been as common
in those days as at the present time, Jane might have
directed the powers with which Nature had enriched her
to some advantage. She secured, in fact, but a solitary
pupil, and that one more anxious to be taught dancing and
dressing than to advance in any solid acquisition. She
found a more satisfactory as well as promising task in perfecting
Brückmann in the English language. This difficulty
once surmounted, she fancied he would be able to pursue
his practice to any desirable extent. So five or six months
passed away.—Whether it was the seeds of disease constitutionally
inherited, the effect of disappointment, want,
heartache, he had been called to endure, the internal progress
of his wound, or his own presentiments acting upon
an imagination sufficiently susceptible—Brückmann fell
sick. He lay upon his bed week by week. Jane abandoned
every thing to take care of him.
“Jane,” said he, “I must die.”
“I know it,” she replied, “you told me you should soon
die. I believed it then, I am prepared for it now.”
“Voices,” he added, “are calling me away.”
“I know that too,” she rejoined; “I hear them.”
“An inward force propels my spirit from me.”
“Yes,” said she, “I feel it.”
She bent over him, not as over a sick and dying man,
but a convalescing angel. He seemed to her not to be
wasting to skin and bones, but to spirit and life. His eye
brightened, his smile was sweeter, as he grew paler and
thinner.
“I wish you would sing to me, Jane.”
“I am full of music and song,” she said, “can you not
hear me? All that you have ever played or sung, or
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spoken, leaps, trills, is joyous, within me. Do you not
hear a soft chanting?”
“Yes,” he replied; “it sounds like the voice of Jesus
and Margaret.”
“How glad I am our little Margaret is to have her birthplace
in song!” said Jane. “She feeds on melodies. Yet
if I should die before her birth, will she die too? Tell
me, Gottfried.”
“I think her spirit will go with ours,” he answered.
“Then we could nourish and mould the undeveloped,
unformed spirit in heaven. And our other Margaret
will be there to help us bring up the little Margaret. Will
Jesus bless our child, as you say he blessed the children of
olden times?”
“Yes,” replied Gottfried. “He died for all, and lives
to give all life.”
“I shall not need to make her clothes?”
“You had better do that, Jane, we may both survive her
birth.”
Acting upon this hint, their private funds having become
well nigh exhausted, she repaired to her father's house to
procure some articles of her own, out of which suitable
garment's might be prepared. By a back entrance she
ascended to her old chamber, where, as the event should
prove, Mr. Girardeau detecting her, drove her off. At
this moment, as she retreated through the store, Nimrod,
who in the mean time had succeeded to the deceased Samuel,
saw her, as has been related in the previous chapter.
Here, also, the two episodical branches of this memoir
unite.
When Nimrod learned from Mr. Girardeau who the
woman was, how she stood related to him, and what were
her fortune and condition, we may naturally imagine
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his curiosity, always restive, always errant, would be more
than usually aroused. A new object presented itself; he
must pry into it. Having ascertained the place of Jane
and Gottfried's residence, being out of an errand, he made
bold to enter the house, and knock at the door.
“Ax your pardon, marm,” he said, shuffling into the
room, as Jane opened the door, and the sick man lay on
the bed before him; “hope I don't intrude. I sarve at
Master Girarder's, since Samuel's dead. I am the fellow
what see you running out of the store like a duck arter
a tumble-bug. What was you so skeered for? I wouldn't
a hurt you any more than an old shoe. I guess the old gentleman
ain't any better than he should be—”
“Young man!” said Jane, breaking in upon him, “whoever
you are, we have no connection with Mr. Girardeau.”
“Yes—marm,” said Nimrod, who, nothing daunted, approached
the bed. Gottfried rose a little, with his wan,
beautiful face. Jane, paler if possible, and more beautiful,
held her arm under his head, and her dark, loving eyes
brimmed with tears, the nature of which Nimrod could not
understand.
“I vum,” said he, “what is the matter? If the Widder
was here she could cure him in a wink. Won't your Dad
let you go home? Won't he give you a limb to roost on!
I tell you what it is, he's close as a mink in winter; he's
hard as grubbing bushes. I don't guess he's so poor.”
Jane, remembering her father's servants in Samuel, who
was a perfect creature of his master, if at first she was
annoyed by the familiarity of Nimrod or was suspicious
of his motives, soon perceived that his manner was undisguised
and rusticity sincere. She was led to question him
as to himself and who he was. He gave her his real name,
and that of his parents. In fact he became quite
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communicative, and rendered a full description of his family, their
residence and mode of life. He was pleased with his visit,
which he promised to repeat, and whenever he had a chance,
he dropped in to see his new found friends. As our readers
will have anticipated the result of this story of Gottfried
Brückmann and Jane Girardeau, we shall hasten to its
close. When Mr. Girardeau became apprised of the real
situation of his daughter, he manifested deep disturbance
of spirit. He addressed himself anew to Nimrod. “That
girl,” said he, “is a runaway, a spendthrift, a wanton. She
is about to have a child, the fruit of her reckless, ruinous
misconduct. That child may do me an injury, a great
injury. The offspring of that viper may turn upon me
with the malignity of the mother. That child must be
watched. You know, Mr. Foxly, we are identified in
interest. You know if I let you go, or you me, we both
fall. That child must be watched. Do you understand?”
“That wa'nt in the bargain when I came to live with
ye,” replied Nimrod. “I must have a little more, a little
of the ready.”
Nothing could be more opportune for Nimrod. He was
now at liberty to prosecute his visits to Jane and Gottfried
at his leisure. Whatever money he obtained from Mr.
Girardeau, eked out by his own scant purse, he applied to
their necessities. He felt himself to be of more consequence
than he had ever been before, and although exercising
his function rather pragmatically, he made himself
greatly useful. Brückmann grew more feeble; Jane approached
the period of her child's birth.
“Nimrod,” said she a few days before that event, “we
are going to die.”
“No, no,” he rejoined. “He'll give up the ghost as sure
as wild geese in cold weather. But you will come out as
bright as a yaller bird in spring.”
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“We must die—I shall die,” she continued, hardly noticing
what he said, having become quite used to his manner.
“We have loved, tenderly loved, if you know what
that means.”
“Yes—marm,” replied Nimrod. “If I am a Ponder
and you live in the city, you need'nt think we are as dull
as millers that fly right into your links and never know
whether they are singed or not. When I have been by
uncle Bill Palmer's, that lives at the Ledge, as you go up
to Dunwich, and seen his Rhody out there, jolly! she has
gone right through me like an earwig; it sticks to me like
a bobolink to a saplin in a wind. I an't afeered of the old
Harry himself, but I say for't! I never dare speak to
Rhody. But you great folks here don't care any thing
about us, no more than Matty Gisborne and Bet Weeks
down among the settlers.”
“Yes I do care for you,” said Jane; “you have been
very kind to us. I know not what we should have done
without you. But we are really going to die. It has been
foretold that we should.”
“O yes,” said Nimrod, relapsing into a more thoughtful
mood, “I remember. I heard a dog howl in the streets
the other night, and I dreamed of seeing monkeys, and that
is sartin death.”
“You must bury us, Nimrod,” continued Jane. “And
you must promise one thing, to take care of our child. Its
name is Margaret, you must call it by no other. You will
contrive means to take it to your own home, the Pond.
You are poor, you say, that is the greatest of blessings.
Your house is apart from the world. Your little brother
Chilion you think would love it as his own sister. Now
promise us, Nimrod, that you will do all we desire.”
Nimrod not only promised, but volunteered a declaration
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having the full weight of an oath, that her wishes regarding
the child should be studiously fulfilled. At this crisis they
were also visited by a daughter of the clergyman who married
them; she having become informed of their state, sought
to minister to their needs. Brückmann died as he had presaged.
“Farewell, Jane!” he said. “Yet not farewell,
but, follow me. I kiss you for the night, and you shall see
me in the morning. The sun fades, the stars glow, brighter
worlds await us. We go to those who love us.” Nimrod
bent reverently over the dead form, that did perhaps what
life itself could never have done, it made of the strong man a
child, and tears gushed from his eyes. Jane knelt calmly,
hopefully by his side, kissed his lips, and smoothed the
bright curling locks of his hair. Nimrod, assisted by the
clergyman before mentioned, and some of Brückmann's
countrymen that remained in the city as servants, bakers,
or scavengers, and could do little more for their old friend
than bear him to his grave, saw him decently buried. The
wife and daughter of the clergyman were with Jane at the
period she had anticipated with so much interest. Her
hour came, and as she had predicted, a girl, the “little
Margaret,” was born. She lingered on a few days, without
much apparent suffering or anxiety, blessed her child, and
melted away at last in the clouds of mortal vision. The
child was taken in charge by those ladies who had kindly
assisted at its birth.
Mr. Girardeau, who had exhibited ceaseless anxiety, as
well as glimpses of some unnatural design, during these
events, the progress of which he obliged Nimrod carefully
to report, ordered the child to be brought to his house.
His language was, “it must be put out of the way.”
It was a dark night; Mr. Girardeau, availing himself of a
weakness of his servant, plentifully supplied him with
liquor. He also threatened him, in case of disobedience,
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with a legal prosecution on the score of his smuggling connections.
Nimrod, sufficiently in drink to make a rash
promise, started for the child. But apprehensions of some
dark or bloody deed came over him; the recollection of his
solemn vows to the mother of the child upbraided him; the
spectral shadows cast by the street-lamps startled him. He
remembered the smuggling vessel which had made another
trip, and was about to return. The child was delivered to
him, and in place of going back to his master, he made
directly for the sloop, which was even then on the point of
sailing. The captain and crew, however serviceable they
might be to Mr. Girardeau's interest, cherished little respect
for his character, and Nimrod had no difficulty in enlisting
their aid for his purposes. We need not follow him all the
way to the Pond, or recite the methods he adopted to sustain
and nourish the child. On his way up the river he
found plenty of milk in the cabin. Leaving the vessel, he
spent one night in the shanty of an Irishman, whose wife
having a nursling at her side, cheerfully relinquished to
Margaret one half of her supply. One night he slept with
his charge in a barn. On the third evening he reached his
home. The family were all abed; his father and mother,
however, were soon ready to welcome their son. Surprise
was of course their first emotion when they saw what he
had with him. He recounted the history of the child, and
his purpose to have it adopted in the family. The course
of his observations on the subject was such, as to allay
whatever repugnance either of his parents may have felt
to the project, and they became as ready to receive the
little stranger as they might have been originally averse.
“Call up Hash and Chilion,” said Pluck. “The child
must be baptized to-night.”
“Wait till to-morrow, do Dad,” said Nimrod. “I guess
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she needs something to wet her stomach more than her
head.”
“Fix her something, woman, can't wait.”
His wife prepared a drink for the child, while Nimrod
aroused his brothers. Chilion, then a boy, seven or eight
years old, held a pine-torch that streamed and smoked
through the room. Mistress Hart supported the child,
while Nimrod and Hash stood sponsers. The old man
called her Mary. “No, Dad,” interposed Nimrod, “it must
be Margaret.”
“No! Mary,” replied his father, “in honor of my
esteemed wife. Besides, that's a Bible name, and we can't
liquor up on Margaret. Yours is a good name, and you
never will see cause to repent it; and there is Maharshalalhashbaz,—
that I chose because it was the longest in the
Bible; I wanted to show my reverence for the book by
taking as much of it as I could; and Chilion's is a good
one too; all Bible names in this family.”
“I tell you no, Dad, she must be called Margaret,” repeated
Nimrod.
“Do call her Margaret,” said Chilion.
“Well, well,” replied Pluck, “we will put it to vote.—
Three for Margaret, I shall call her Mary, and Hash goes
for Peggy. We won't break heads about it, if we do we
shan't the bottle. So here goes for Margaret and Mary.”
The family, severally and collectively, laid themselves
under strict injunctions to keep the history of the child a
secret, and cherish it as their own. Mr. Hart and his little
son Chilion were glad enough to receive it on its own
account; Mistress Hart, if for no other reason, in consideration
of the money Nimrod represented he would get from
its grandfather, a reflection that prevailed with Hash also.
The secluded position of the family rendered it possible
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indeed for children to be born and die without exciting
observation. Their neighbor, the Widow Wright, was the
only person from whom they had cause of apprehension.
It was presumed however to be an easy matter to bring
her into the arrangement of secrecy, which was accordingly
done by an oath sealed with a small douceur. In behalf of
the child were enlisted both the Widow's superstition and
her avarice. What might befall her son Obed, then six or
seven years of age, she knew not. So Margaret was only
spoken of as a child of the Pond. When Obed asked his
mother where the little baby came from, she said it dropped
from an acorn-tree.
Such is the origin of Margaret, who a few months later
has been phantasmagorically introduced to our readers.
We might add, in conclusion of this chapter, that Nimrod,
the next year, made a visit to New York, and sought an
interview with his old master. The disappointment, chagrin
and displeasure of the latter were evidently great. Their
conference was long and bitter. In the result, Nimrod
declared in cant phrase that he would “blow” on the old
gentleman, not only as a smuggler, but as a murderer, unless
he would settle on the child a small annual sum, to be
delivered at sight. To such a bond Mr. Girardeau was
obliged to give his signature. He asked where the child
was, but on this point Nimrod kept a rigid silence.
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Judd, Sylvester, 1813-1853 [1851], Margaret: a tale of the real and the ideal, blight and bloom [Volume 1] (Phillips, Sampson and Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf624v1T].
