  The king and queen went into the forest. They were walking hand in hand. Night drew on. The wind rustled through the tree-tops. The queen stood still for a moment and then, impelled by the ardent love she had so long repressed, embraced her husband, kissing his eyes, his mouth and his brow, and said: "I've asked the departed one to forgive me! She died with my kiss on her lips. I now ask you who still live, to forgive me. You have both expiated--she, alone, by herself; you, alone, while at my side!" She took out an amulet which she had worn hidden next to her heart. It was the betrothal ring which the king had given to her. "Take this ring, and put it on your hand," she said. "We are united anew," replied the king, while he put the ring on his finger and embraced the queen. He clasped her in his arms and her head rested against his heart. With a firm step, they descended the mountain unto where their carriages were waiting for them. Followed by the servants, Bronnen, Sixtus, and Paula also descended the mountain. The king and queen were in the first carriage; Paula and Sixtus in the second. Bronnen went back with Gunther to the cottage. The newly espoused arrived at the dairy-farm. The first thing they did was to go to the crown prince's apartments and, while they stood at the child's bed, the king said: "He sleeps, and his innocent, infant mind knows nothing of our differences. It is well for us that, with his dawning powers, he will see in us only love and harmony, enduring unto death." During all that night, the king and queen sat by the lamp, reading the journal of the solitary worldling. Gunther and Bronnen had lingered in the hut above. Gunther sat with Walpurga for a while, holding her hand in his, while he told her that her perfect innocence had now been brought to light. A silent nod was her only reply. The cows gathered about the hut. Their bellowing and snorting proved that their unerring instinct told them of the presence of death, and scarcely were they driven away, before they returned again. The little pitchman dug a grave during the night. It was up at the spot where Irma had so often rested. He shed many a tear over his work, and once, when he paused to take breath, said to himself: "When the kid is old enough to run of itself, I'll let it go back into the woods." Irma was buried at early dawn. Hansei, the little pitchman, Gunther and Bronnen carried her, Walpurga and the child following after them. Gundel and Franz had covered the sides and the bottom of the grave with Alpine roses. Wrapped in the queen's white mantle, Irma was silently laid to rest, just as the rosy dawn appeared in the east. Down in the valley, the king and queen had been reading Irma's journal. Day was breaking. They gazed at the rosy dawn and lifted their eyes to the mountains--to where Irma was being buried on the heights.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:Footnote 1: The familiar "thou." Footnote 2: Kammer--meaning here the chamberlain and other officers composing the household. Footnote 3: Church festival. Footnote 4: "Geh zum Kukuk!"] Footnote 5: "He who goes up with the cattle into the mountains, during the good season, is a 'Senn.' In Switzerland, this is done by men; in the Eastern Alps, in the Bavarian highlands, and in Austria, generally by women--the 'Sennerin,' 'Almerin.'" (The Alps--H. Berlepsch.) "The first great English novel that has appeared in the 20th century."--Lewis Melville in N. Y. Times Saturday Review. By William De Morgan. 4th Printing. $1.75. A notable novel of life near London in the fifties. From Mr. Melville's article in the Times Review: "It is epic in its conception, magnificent in its presentment.... 'Joseph Vance' is a book for laughter and for tears, and for smiles mingled with an occasional sob, that triumph achieved only by the best of humorists.... One of the tenderest figures in modern fiction.... I write this before the appearance of 'Alice-for-short.' ... 'Joseph Vance,' in my opinion, is the book not of the last year, but of the last decade; the best thing in fiction since 'Mr. Meredith and Mr. Hardy'; a book that must take its place, by virtue of its tenderness and pathos, its wit and humor, its love of human kind, and its virile characterization, as the first great English novel that has appeared in the twentieth century." Alice-for-shortBy William De Morgan. 4th Printing. $1.75. The experiences, some of them decidedly dramatic, of a London waif, the artist who was kind to her, and of his family and friends. Dial: "'Joseph Vance' was far and away the best novel of the year, and of many years.... Mr. De Morgan's second novel proves to be no less remarkable, and equally productive of almost unalloyed delight.... The reader is hereby warned that if he skims 'Alice-for-short' it will be to his own serious loss. The cream reaches to the dregs.... A story of extraordinary interest.... A remarkable example of the art of fiction at its noblest." N. Y. Times Review: "He is no more afraid to set down the little language of lovers and children and mothers than he is to deal with murder or suicide or ghosts.... These two novels of his seem to us to prove not only that the English novel is not dead, but that it is safe to develop on the lines laid down by the old masters."
By MAY SINCLAIR | ||||||
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