“I do not agree with you,” observed Anselm; “the former proprietors might have had equal foresight, before they gave up the castle for the sake of a bell, but they feared lest the dark prophecy should be connected with the duration of their line.”
“On which account it shall not be destroyed,” interrupted the baron; “it shall continue, but in a situation where its sound shall not disturb the peace of my family. Besides, the anathema has been accomplished to the letter; the name of the Ritter has long since passed into oblivion; my father-in-law was the last of his line, and my wife, fortunately, bears that name no longer.”
“I quite agree with Anselm,” said Cecilia, “that too much foresight often produces the evil it would avoid.”
“Pray,” said Herrmann, “let the gloomy subject rest; the old year has scarcely one short quarter of an hour to exist. Let us sing our adieu to her, and a welcome to the new one. Hist! First in quartett, and the last line in full chorus.”
Herrmann, Falk, Adolf, and Julie began:—
“TO THE EXPIRING YEAR.
We’ve ta’en a last adieu;
We grieve to hear thy parting knell,
Our tears thy grave bedew.
Like angels shall watch o’er thee;
Perchance each cup has not o’erflowed
With joy; yet we deplore thee.
We’ll welcome it right merrily,
We see thy waning form descend,
Thy smiling babe comes cheerily.”
Scarcely had the chorus finished when a tremendous crash that almost shook the massive building, started the affrighted guests from their seats. The baron, with much presence of mind, opened the window, the sound appearing to come from without. While they were yet conjecturing as to the probable cause of it, another and a louder report took place, followed by a long reverberation.
“It had the sound of a bell,” faltered the baron, visibly agitated.
Some of his friends thought the noise more resembled the falling of brickwork or stone.
All the household had run to the yard in their first fright, and the baron was proceeding to inquire personally into it, when the noise was again repeated, and sounded distinctly like powerful strokes dealt upon some metal substance. Fearfully the hollow sounds boomed through the midnight air, and immediately another crash ensued, while several voices from the court-yard exclaimed at once, that the old tower was falling in.
“The same—the walled-up belfry,” sighed the baron.
It struck midnight.
Again all was still; but, as the company were about to resume their seats, in the chair which Falk had playfully placed for the baroness, was her form distinctly visible: with the last stroke of the pendulum it disappeared, before the terrified guests had time to utter more than an exclamation of alarm.
The domestics now returned to say, “that the roof of the old tower had fallen, and that amongst the rubbish fragments of a huge bell were to be seen, which in its fall, must have occasioned the strange sounds they had heard.”
“The coincidence is singular,” said the baron, with a faltering voice. “The bell is destroyed at the same moment that the shade of my absent wife appeared to all of us. That dream! I can no longer doubt my loss!”
An express was instantly dispatched to bring immediate intelligence of the baroness, and relays of horses were sent on to expedite it as much as possible. Before sunrise the messenger returned, his dejected countenance too plainly showing the nature of his mission. The baroness had been attacked by spasms. Medical assistance was promptly rendered, but every exertion to save her proved unavailing. She expired as the clock struck twelve.
“Everything has had its portent, and all is consummated,” exclaimed the baron in the bitterest grief.
No one ventured to intrude words of vain comfort on the bereaved hus-
