But no sad fate could await him and Molly, and blithely he sang as he rode in the clear moonlight towards Weimar to visit Molly.
He would fain come unexpected, and unexpected he came.
And welcome they made him. Wine-cups filled to the brim, distinguished company, a comfortable room, all these he found, but it was not as he had pictured it, dreamed of it.
Poor Anthony could not make it out, could not understand them, but we can. We know how one may be in the midst of others and yet be solitary; how one talks as fellow-voyagers in a post-chaise, boring one another, and each wishing the other far away.
One day Molly spoke to him. "I am straight-forward, I will tell you all. Since we were playmates together much has altered. It is not only an outward change in me, you see. Habit and will do not control our affections. I wish you well, Anthony, and would not have you bitter towards me when I am far away, but love, deep love, I cannot feel for you. Fare thee well!"
So Anthony bade her farewell. No tear bedimmed his eye, but he felt he had lost a friend. Within four and twenty hours he was back in Eisenach; the horse that bore him, bore him no more.
"What matter?" said he, "I am lost. I will destroy whatever reminds me of the Lady Holle. The apple tree I will uproot it, shatter it. Never more shall it bloom and bear fruit."
But the tree was not injured. Anthony lay on his bed, stricken with fever. What can avail him. Suddenly a medicine, the bitterest medicine known to man, cured his fever, convulsing body and soul. Anthony's father was no longer the rich merchant he had been!
Troublous days, days of trial, awaited them. Misfortune fell upon the home; the father, dogged by fate, became poor. So Anthony had other things to think about than the resentment he cherished in his heart towards Molly. He must take his father's place, he must go out into the great world and earn his bread.
He reached Bremen: hardship and dreary days were his lot days that harden the heart or sometimes make it very tender. How he had misjudged his fellow-men in his young days! He became resigned and cheerful. God's way is best, was his thought. How had it been if heaven had not turned her affection to another before this calamity?
"Thanks be to heaven," he would say. "She was not to blame, and I have felt so bitter towards her."
Time passed on. Anthony's father died, and strangers occupied the old home. But he was destined to see it once more. His wealthy master sent him on business that brought him once more to Eisenach, his native town.
The old Wartburg was unchanged the monk and nun hewn on its stones. The grand old trees set off the landscape as of old. Over the valley the Venusberg rose, a gray mass in the twilight. He longed to say, "Lady Holle! Lady Holle! open the door to me. Fain would I stay forever." It was a sinful thought, and he crossed himself. Old memories crowded to his mind as he gazed with tear-bedewed eyes at the town of childhood's days. The old homestead stood unchanged, but the garden was not the same. A roadway crossed one corner of it. The apple tree, which he had not destroyed, was no longer in the garden, but across the way.
Still, as of old, bathed in sunshine and dew, the old tree bore richly, and its boughs were laden with fruit. One of its branches was broken. Wilful hands had done this, for the tree now stood by the highway.
Passers-by plucked its blossoms, gathered its fruit, and broke its branches. Well might one say, as one says of men, "This was not its destiny as it lay in its cradle." So fair its prospects, that this should be the end! Neglected, forsaken, no longer tended, there between field and highway it stood bare to the storm, shattered and rent. As the years roll by it puts forth fewer blossoms, less fruit and its story comes to a close!
So mused Anthony many a lonely evening in his room in the wooden booth in a strange land, in the narrow street in Copenhagen, whither his rich master sent him bound by his vow not to marry.
Marriage, forsooth, for him! Ha, ha! he laughed a strange laugh.
The winter was early that year with sharp frost. Outside raged a blinding snowstorm, so that every one that could stayed indoors. And so it befell that his neighbors never saw that for two days his shop was unopened, nor Anthony been seen, for who would venture out if not compelled to?
Those were sad, dismal days in his room, where the panes were not of glass, and at best but faintly lighted it was often pitch dark. For two days did Anthony keep his bed; he lacked strength to rise. The bitter weather affected his old joints. Forgotten was the pepper-fogey; helpless he lay. Scarce could he reach the water-jug by the bedside, and the last drop was drunk. Not fever, not sickness, laid him low: it was old age.
It was perpetual night to him as he lay there.
A little spider spun a web over the bed, as if for a pall when he should close his eyes forever.
Long and very dreary was the time. Yet he shed no tears, nor did he suffer pain. His only thought was that the world and its turmoil were not for him; that he was away from them even as he had passed from the thoughts of others.