The Festival.
The next morning, when Gottlieb awoke, he discovered that he had a visitor even at that early hour of the day. His uncle Fabian was pacing backward and forward at the side of his nephew's bed, with a countenance so wretched and woe begone, that Gottlieb could not but pity him.
"Good morning, uncle," said Gottlieb, cheerfully, "how is your health?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Your voice sounds just as if I was a robber demanding your purse or your life. What is the matter?"
"That which you told me yesterday makes your comparison very apt."
"You are mistaken. It is not my intention to play the part of the famous Rinaldo Rinaldini. I am the most peaceable person in the world, and if you wish to remain at peace at home—which is very natural, you know—I have no desire to prevent you from doing so."
"But, perhaps, you intend to demand from me three times the sum of money necessary to fee a lawyer, to bribe you to secrecy."
"Shame upon you. I have not demanded anything. I only expect—"
"What?" inquired his uncle.
"That you will of your own free will and accord loan me the money necessary to pay old Mr. Lonner's fine. In a few months, when Ragnar Lonner returns and repays me, I will settle with you. If he does not repay me, why it is but a small sum to lose."
"And what will you require for yourself?" inquired Mr. Fabian.
"Shall I peddle out my secret like a Jew? I swear by my honor that I will not divulge to my aunt one word of all that has passed."
Mr. Fabian thrust his hand into his capacious pocket, and withdrawing his purse, with a sigh counted the money into Gottlieb's hand.
"I shall not give you my note for this, for if I am not repaid I do not expect to repay you."
His uncle did not immediately reply, but after opening and closing his purse several times, he addressed his nephew in a tone which displayed deep and true emotion.
"Gottlieb," said he, "I am not miserly. You have spared me when you might have prepared a place of torment for me. I am grateful. Have you any debts? Your father is not rich."
"That is spoken like a man of honor and a true relation," said Gottlieb, warmly, "but fortunately I have always been obliged to live economically, and therefore have escaped from falling into the foolish habit of contracting debts."
"Well, then, if you have no debts, you at least have a future to prepare for. You must not therefore refuse my offer."
"I do not wish to make use of it at present. Yet I do not wish you to consider it refused entirely. At this moment I do not require anything, unless indeed you wish to spare my feet and my boots, by giving me a little money to pay my travelling expenses. When the time comes, and I find myself fully engaged in my father's office, I will consider your proposal with the greatest pleasure."
"Do so, and I will have a good memory, I assure you."
"One word more, uncle. You must promise me to trouble the worthy Mrs. Lonner no longer. She will never submit to your desires."
As he thus spoke, an ashy paleness o'erspread Mr. Fabian's countenance, and with a shudder he glanced fearfully around the room.
"O, the walls have no ears," said Gottlieb; "but uncle you will promise me this, will you not."
"Most assuredly," replied his uncle. "That woman has driven me almost mad; but I think that last night's fright has entirely cured me. I shall not go there again under any circumstances."
The songs of the birds of the valley were more melodious than ever before, the perfume of the roses and lilacs were sweeter than formerly, at least so thought the occupants of the little cottage when Gottlieb visited them that afternoon. Certainly, however, the feast which was given on that day had never been equalled before, except perhaps on the day of the arrival of Ragnar after a long absence from his wife and home.
It was a splendid dinner—roasted spare ribs, and fish, and cakes. The old man occupied the seat at the head of the table. Gottlieb, who had provided this repast from the money he had received from his uncle for travelling expenses, was seated beside Nanna. The children ate so rapidly and heartily that it appeared as though they intended to swallow a sufficient supply to last them for a year to come. Carl, wearing his Sunday vest, a vest that Magde had made, and with a rose in his jacket button-hole, a rose that Magde had plucked, was seated in his usual place at the table, cheerful and contented. Magde attended almost solely to the old man's wants, filling his plate, and replenishing his cup. And lastly, little Christine, who trotted from place to place, taking care of the cow, dog, sheep, goats, and the ancient cat, was as happy and cheerful as the others. Altogether the scene was beautiful and harmonious.
"And for all this happiness," said the old man, looking tearfully upon the youth, "for all this happiness, Mr. Gottlieb, next to God, we are indebted to you. Happy must be the parents of such a son!"
"Father Lonner," said Gottlieb glancing around the table, with a friendly smile, "you have no reason to be envious."
"That is true," replied the old man nodding his head pleasantly to the circle of beloved ones.
In the afternoon, after the old man had retired to his comfortable bed, now doubly comfortable to him, to rest himself awhile, and Magde was seated by his bedside pleasantly chatting with him, while Carl was busy making little boats for the children, Nanna and Gottlieb were seated near the spring beneath the tree, in the meadow.
It could easily be believed that the young couple were not very talkative, for Nanna was busily engaged in searching in the grass for a four leaved clover, and Gottlieb was amusing himself, according to his childish custom, by blowing shrill blasts upon a thick blade of grass.
It was sunset. The glowing reflection of the sun fell upon Nanna's pale neck and face, illumining them with a golden blush.
"I am sorry," said Gottlieb, at length, throwing aside the blade of grass, and assuming a serious cast of countenance, "I am sorry that our lessons must have an end; but all is for the best, for, my child, you know enough already."
"More than enough," replied Nanna, softly.
"Especially for a school teacher," said Gottlieb.
"Yes, especially for a school teacher," repeated Nanna.
"But you speak so abstractedly. You are not so lively as usual."
"I did not know it; but if Gottlieb says so, it must be true. When one has been so glad as I have been to-day, and then as sorrowful, it takes much courage to meet the change indifferently."
"But, dear Nanna, you were aware that I should be forced to go away soon."
"I did not know that you were going so soon as to-morrow morning."
"Neither did I, myself, when I saw you yesterday; but when I determined to go by the steamboat, you perceive that—"
"Yes, yes."
"And then again what difference will a day or two more or less make, when we part—"
"Never again to meet," interrupted Nanna.
"You will do right in the meantime not to hope too much."
Nanna glanced inquiringly towards Gottlieb.
"Do you not think it strange, Nanna, that we who have been acquainted but so short a season, should think so much of each other?"
"It is perfectly natural that we should. Persons in fashionable society cannot become so well acquainted with each other as we could in one hour. At first we met each other every evening, then every morning and evening, and at length—"
"And at length morning, noon and night!" interrupted Gottlieb, with a smile. "In truth, Nanna, you are right, for if our every meeting was so divided that we should be together but once each week, our acquaintance would have been prolonged for an entire year."
"O, much longer than that even," said Nanna, joining in Gottlieb's laugh.
"And as we have remained by our agreement not to fall in love with each other, we part as friends, and not in despair, and what is still better, not with reproaches, which, had the case been different, we would have been obliged to make and listen to."
"Yes, it is fortunate, very fortunate, that—that—" stammered Nanna, unable to finish the sentence.
"We need not conceal from ourselves that in making that arrangement we ran a great risk. For my part, I am not too proud to say that it has been very difficult for me to keep it."
"But Gottlieb," replied Nanna, "as you have kept it, it is better as it is."
"Certainly; but then it is not so good as I wish to have it."
"How do you wish it to be then?" inquired Nanna innocently.
"Upon my honor I can hardly say; but if I was placed in better circumstances—" Nanna dropped her eyelids over their soft tell-tale orbits; but not so quickly but that Gottlieb detected a ray of hope gleaming from their deep wells.
"Will you advise me what course to take, when I have obtained a competency?" continued Gottlieb.
"No, that would be of no use; but Mr. Gottlieb, when I hear that you have wedded the rich wife of whom you have spoken, I will rejoice at your good fortune."
"And does not the thought of that rich wife cost you even half a sigh?"
"Not if that wife will render you happy."
"Nanna, you speak as though you did not love me at all!" exclaimed Gottlieb hastily, forgetting entirely the part he had determined to play during this interview.
"And should I love you?" inquired Nanna blushing deeply. "I think I am not such a foolish girl as that."
"But I believe that you love me," replied Gottlieb. "Can you deny that your heart is mine?"
"I do not deny it; but I shall not allow it to be so," said Nanna with a glance that immediately cooled Gottlieb's sudden ardor. "My heart is my own, and should not be an object of trouble to you; and I assure you Mr. Gottlieb that I shall not allow any weakness on my part to cause you to break the judicious contract we have made."
"Ah! Nanna, you are both wise and charitable. I shall not endeavor to wrest the secret from you; but you are so much esteemed by me, that at some future day, when I can follow my own inclinations I will return to you."
"I will forget these last words, Mr. Gottlieb, for I think them the saddest you have ever uttered."
"You are right; but I spoke as I thought. It is not my fault if I thought that you were above all others most suitable to become my wife."
As he thus spoke Nanna trembled violently and she looked upon him with a gaze which contained more bitterness than words could have expressed.
"I believe I am mad indeed. I have endeavored to speak in a better spirit, and instead of so doing—I had better go immediately—or—"
"Or what?"
"Or I will, yes, I will, hold you to my heart, and swear to you, as true as I am an honest man, that I love you, and you alone, come what may, I can withhold myself no longer." Gottlieb suited the action to the word, and enfolded the blushing girl in his warm embrace.
"O, Gottlieb!" cried Nanna, weeping and laughing, "this is madness indeed!"
"No, on the contrary it is happiness!"
"But to-morrow you will repent it!"
"Never, Nanna, I sincerely believe that all is for the best. We can work hard; we have only a few needs, and it is such happiness to love each other."
"But—"
"You must accustom yourself to omit that disagreeable word. When my mind is once made up, I permit of no ifs nor buts. And as we do not require a great amount of money to defray our little domestic expenses, I think it would be wrong for us to waste the best part of our lives in useless delay. After one year has elapsed, the parson shall unite us as man and wife, and I shall take you from this valley, and we will look forward to all the joys and sorrows, which our Heavenly Father in his wisdom shall send us."
Nanna, who for a long season had battled against the intoxicating desire which had filled her heart, gradually assented to Gottlieb's words, and the interview terminated with a second agreement, which was directly contrary to the first one, for by it they bound themselves to love each other forever.
They agreed that this change from their former agreement should be concealed from all others. They alone should know the secret.