Another Heir Started.
“More swift than lightning can I flye
About this aery welkin soone,
And in a minute’s space descrye
Each thing that’s done below the moone.”
Ben Jonson.
57
CHAPTER III.

Many and many a mile from King Katzekopf’s Court,—in a valley among those Giant Mountains, which separated his territories from the neighbouring kingdoms, stood the Castle of Taubennest, in which, at the date of our tale, dwelt Count Rudolf and his family.

And a happy family they were, all except the Count, who was a discontented man. He had 58spent his youth in cities, and so the country had no charms for him. He was ambitious, and a time-server. He was never so happy as among great people, and he longed to meddle with the intrigues of state, and to be talked of as among the eminent men of the kingdom.

He was a very poor man when the Castle and its broad lands were bequeathed him by a distant relation, and so he was glad enough to take possession of them, even though he found the bequest coupled with the condition that he should live on his domains continually.

Now if, on acquiring this property, the Count had set himself in earnest to the discharge of the duties for which the possession of that property rendered him responsible,—if he had turned his talents to bettering the condition of his vassals, improving his estates, and benefiting his neighbourhood generally, he would not only have spent his days happily, but would, in all probability, have arrived at the object of his desires, and acquired an illustrious name. But instead of this, he spent 59his years in murmurs and repinings; now railing at the blindness of Fortune, who had condemned one of his genius for rising in the world to a sphere of inactivity, now complaining that he was imprisoned for life amid the mountains. What a sad thing it is, when people neglect their present duties, for no wiser reason than because they choose to imagine that if their duties were of some different kind, they could discharge them better! Our trial in life consists in our being required to do our best in whatever circumstances we are placed. If we were to choose those circumstances for ourselves, there would be an end of the trial, and the main object for which life is given us would be lost.

Happily for her children and dependents, the character of the Countess Ermengarde was a complete contrast to that of her husband. She was one of those people who seem only to find happiness in doing good to those around them. Had her destiny placed her in the midst of a court, she would have 60added to its dignity and honour by the lustre of her example. But that example was not lost because her days were spent in comparative seclusion. The Castle of Taubennest was at a great distance from the metropolis, but it did not rear its head in a solitary desert. And the Countess, as she stood on the stone platform, which opened out of her withdrawing room, and led to the garden below, and gazed at the wide and fertile valley which lay stretched before her, could count hamlet after hamlet, the inhabitants of which were tenants to her husband, and over whom, therefore, she felt that it was in her power to exercise an influence for good. But the Countess Ermengarde had yet dearer ties, to whom she well knew that all her care and tenderness were due. There were her two little girls, Ediltrudis and Veronica, and her son, a boy of seven years old, the gentle, yet noble-spirited Witikind. In educating these her treasures, disciplining their youthful minds, and training them for the duties and trials of active 61life, the greater part of her time was spent, and so fully absorbed was she in this labour of love, that never an hour hung heavy on her hands, and not days only, but months and years seemed to glide on without her having a wish or a thought beyond her children, and the vassals of her husband’s house.

“What a happy family should we be!” exclaimed the Count, as, in spite of himself, he stood enjoying the evening breeze, and watching his lovely children in their play, “What a happy family we should be, my Ermengarde, if we were not condemned to wear out our existence in this dull wilderness!”

“I would you were in any place that could bring you a greater measure of enjoyment than you find here, my dearest Rudolf,” replied the Countess, soothingly, “and yet, methinks, our lot might have been cast in a less fair scene than this. What if the setting sun, instead of throwing its rosy lustre on yonder mountain peaks, and illumining with its declining rays those verdant meadows, 62through which our glassy river flows, and the fields yellow with the ripening corn, and the purple vineyards, and the deep umbrageous forest, were to light up for us no more joyous scene than a desert of interminable sand? What if, instead of looking forth, and seeing nothing so far as eye can reach which does not call you master, we were landless, houseless wanderers, without bread to eat, or a roof to cover us, should we not have less to be thankful for, than is the case now?”

“Doubtless,” answered the Count; but he made the reply impatiently, and as if his wife were putting the matter before him in an unfair point of view. Without being the least aware of it, he was unthankful for all the blessings which he actually possessed, because a single ingredient which he supposed necessary to fill up his cup of happiness was wanting. So long as he had not that, all else went for nothing. “Doubtless,” said the Count; “but, say what you will, this place will never be any better than a wilderness in my eyes. 63Is it possible to conceive a more monotonous life than I pass? nothing to interest one, not a soul within twenty miles that one cares to speak to!”

The Countess smiled. “Nay, nay, Rudolf,” she cried gaily, “you shall not persuade me that the children and I do not make very agreeable society!”

“The children! there again! what a distressing subject is that! Poor things, they will not have common justice done them! They have not a chance of getting on in the world.”

“For my part,” replied the Countess, “I don’t see what is the necessity for their ‘getting on in the world.’ They will do very well as they are.”

“How can you talk such nonsense as that, Ermengarde?” exclaimed the Count in a tone of pique. “Why, what is to become of the girls, when they grow up to womanhood?”

“Oh,” answered the Countess, “we need scarcely make that a cause of anxiety at present. 64Years must elapse before they will be women, and when they are grown up, I don’t know why they may not become the wives of honest men, or why they may not find happiness in a single life, if they prefer it.”

“Really, Ermengarde, you sometimes provoke one past all patience. ‘Wives of honest men,’ forsooth! I believe you would be satisfied if you could see them making cheese on the next farm, or wedded to the huntsman, or the woodreve. You forget,” added he proudly, “that their birth entitles them to some splendid connexion, and less than a splendid connexion shall never satisfy me.”

“Why, what is it that you covet for them?”

“That they should see something of courts and cities, instead of being immured in this mountain-dungeon; that they should take that place in the world to which their rank entitles them, and that they should be followed by a host of admirers, and that their cotemporaries should have cause to envy their 65good fortune. Yes,” continued he, warming with his subject, and falling unconsciously into one of those day-dreams in which he was continually indulging, “I should like to waken and find myself at the court, with Ediltrudis at my side, the admired of all beholders, princes and peers struggling to obtain the honour of her hand, while I, with watchful eyes, would be ascertaining which of her many suitors it would be most prudent to encourage, and which to reject. Can you conceive anything more interesting, more delightful to a parent’s feelings?”

“Yes, indeed, my Lord,” replied the Lady Ermengarde, “to me it would afford more satisfaction, if I were permitted to see my child growing up to maturity, unspotted by the world, and saved from exposure to its poisonous breath, and from the temptation to yield to its evil influences. I would rather see her innocent and happy here, than the star and favourite of a court.”

Had Count Rudolf listened to this speech 66it would have probably made him very angry, but he was too much occupied with his castles in the air to attend to it.

“And then my pretty little Veronica,” he continued, “your career shall be no less brilliant than your sister’s. Come hither,” said he, calling the child, “and tell us what destiny you would choose. Would you not like to be a Maid of Honour to the Queen, and to be glittering with silks and jewels, and to live in a royal palace, and to spend your time in all manner of pleasures?”

The little girl seemed puzzled, and did not answer immediately. After a pause she said, “Must I leave Taubennest, if I were to be Maid of Honour to the Queen?”

“Yes, my child, that must you, for where the King lives is many a mile from Taubennest.”

“Nay, then, dear father, I would rather be where I am. I should like to see the royal palace, and all the things you mention, but I should prefer to live here. Ah! we 67never could be so happy as we are here, could we, Witikind? We never could find such pretty walks as we have here among the hills, nor play such merry games in a palace, as now we do in the meadows by the river side. And besides, I dare say I should not be allowed to take my kid with me, nor my birds, nor perhaps,” added the child in a tone of dismay,—her eyes brimming with tears as the thought occurred to her—“perhaps you, and Ediltrudis, and nurse, and papa, and mamma might not be with me. Oh, no, no; I would rather stay where I am; would not you, Witikind?”

“Why, what folly!” exclaimed Count Rudolf, interposing. “Even you, Veronica, must be old enough to know that a boy cannot pass through life beside his nurse’s apron-string. Witikind must see the world, and learn to be bold and manly.”

“Can I not be bold and manly, father, unless I see the world?&r............