XV
Hertha awoke. The flies buzzed about in the purple duskiness; broad midday sunshine came through the chinks of the shutters and the red curtains.
"I must have dreamed it," she thought, laying her arm beneath her head and laughing up blissfully at the ceiling.
And then she slowly realised that this time it could be no dream. A warm glow flooded her face. She shut her eyes and didn't think. It seemed as if her body were drifting, and as if she must die of happiness. What had her existence been yesterday, and what was it to-day? A wild hoyden had been carried down the stream, and then he had found her, and made her a woman with the magic of his love.
She jumped out of bed with a sharp exclamation, and began to dress.
When she stood before the glass she contemplated herself for a long time.
"How funny!" she said. "I look the same as usual."
She passed Elly's bed on tiptoe. The girl was sleeping away her tears and fright of the day before in rosy, peaceful slumbers. A fly had alighted on the corner of one of her eyelids. Hertha flicked it off.
"And she talks about love," she thought, and shrugged her shoulders.
And, as was always the case when she tried to put herself in the place of her companion, with her childish, objectless mind, a deadening, flat feeling came over her, which robbed her of the courage to believe in the happy result of what had happened yesterday. Perhaps, on further consideration, he would find her wanting in seriousness, and would take back his declaration.
The next minute she was ashamed of her poor-spiritness. It was inconceivable that he had not perfectly understood how boundless her love for him was, and how, in spite of her extreme youth, her early experience of the sorrows and trials of life had ripened and strengthened her character.
Ten o'clock sounded from the clock tower. She was alarmed at its being so late. She would share every joy and sorrow and pursuit with the beloved in future, even early rising. And she resolved to get up with the call-bell, as of old, when she used to go to the milking.
Creeping about on naked feet, she went on with her toilette.
It was a mercy that Elly didn't wake. What torture it would have been if these first holy hours had had to be frittered away in idle chatter!
At first she thought of putting on her light batiste frock--the one with the whip-cord pattern--that suited her best, and looked so fresh and festive. Surely to-day was a festival--the behest of her life; and in half shame-faced joy her trembling soul scarcely dared look forward to the glory it was to bring forth. Then she gave up the idea. She wouldn't make herself gay and smart. Rather would she meet him modestly and neatly arrayed; so she chose a dress of dark tweed, and only relieved it with a jabot of pale blue and lace at the neck. This she thought gave her a sufficiently languishing look, and suited her complexion.
The St. Bernard's bark called her beneath the window. He was roaming about the garden masterless, sniffing along the gravel paths. She stretched her arms out to him joyously. Her tenderness for him knew no bounds.
"A pity he is not a man," she thought "I would love him as my brother."
Then she left the room with her high boots in her hand, for she did not dare put them on till she was in the corridor.
The dog sprang up at her boisterously from behind the garden door, where he had been waiting for her. She buried her face in his leonine coat, to hide her burning blushes. If she blushed at sight of the dog, simply because he had been a witness of yesterday's events, how should she be able to conceal the treacherous glow when she met his master?
The breakfast-table, with its snowy cloth, still stood on the terrace. Three unused cups shone in the sun. It looked as if he, too, hadn't been there.
Her heart beat louder. Did fate ordain that she should be absolutely tête-à-tête with him? What would he have to say to her? What she to him? The thought so frightened her that her knees trembled.
"In another quarter of an hour," she thought, "perhaps I shall be engaged."
It seemed quite terrible--almost incredible. And how should she conduct herself in this trying ordeal?
"I must not just fall into his arms," thought she, "so that he will think me crude in everything, and misunderstand me again."
She decided to cut a handful of roses. Instead of the usual "Good morning," she would greet him with these and a look that should say, "Take them, beloved. All is yours--all." She selected deep-crimson blooms, full grown with a wealth of curving petals. Each one would speak of love to him--of that wild, entrancing love of which poets sang so beautifully, from whose kisses one drank either eternal bliss or damnation. Nothing pale or faded should have a place in her bouquet.
But she did not adorn herself with a rose. Was he not to be for always the one and only ornament of her life?
Leo, the dog, trotted meanwhile behind her well satisfied, now and then rubbing his nose lovingly against her sleeve.
"Where is your master?" she asked him, with a sigh.
The beast looked up in her face with comprehending, melancholy eyes. For hours, since daybreak, he had been looking for him everywhere, but he had ridden off on a secret mission without asking his faithful friend to bear him company.
As she ascended the steps of the terrace grandmamma came to meet her.
She caught hold of the balustrade, trembling. What if he had already confided the news to his mother? Was she coming before her with a heart whose secret had been laid bare? She ran to her quickly, and hid her head on her breast so that she shouldn't be looked at.
The old lady patted her, full of solicitude "No cold, I hope--no fever?" she asked.
Hertha breathed more freely. Ah! she didn't know.
"Let me feel your pulse," grandmamma commanded.
Hertha wriggled away.
"I like that!" she thought. "To-day, of all days, to have my pulse felt! Next I shall be asked to put out my tongue!" And she barricaded herself behind the table.
Grandmamma made the best of a bad matter, but she was not going to let her off without a lecture. Hertha, with quivering lips and wandering eyes, let the mild outburst pass over her head. Her gaze was directed to Leo's empty coffee-cup, her ear towards the courtyard.
And then suddenly the hound gave a howl of delight. Ringing, clattering footsteps came echoing along the corridor.
Hertha felt her blood ebb from her veins, and as if she must, at his glance, fall dead from shame. She dashed the roses down on the table, and tore at hot speed into the garden; and grandmamma, whose lecture was in full swing, looked after her in consternation. There was a nook in the yew hedge which ran out from the castle into the garden where, unseen, it was possible to hear and see all that passed on the terrace. There she quickly concealed herself.
He stood framed in the glass door, heated and dusty, with a deep frown on his brow which terrified Hertha.
Grandmamma gently reproached him. How was it that it was nearly noon and nothing had been seen of him before?
"I had business to attend to," was his curt, gruff answer. Then he sat down and played carelessly with the scattered roses.
Hertha was grieved; thus her pretty little plan came to nothing. Of course, he didn't suspect how significant those roses were for him.
"What are the kids doing?" he asked.
Hertha started. She didn't deserve to be called by such a name as that. But she comforted herself with the thought that he was trying to hide his secret.
Grandmamma gave him the desired information. Hertha had put in an appearance, but Elly was still asleep. To-day she might have grace and sleep to twelve if she liked--the longer the better.
He was hungry, and crumbled the toasted rolls impatiently. "What incapable dog of a cook have we got now?" he grumbled.
Grandmamma stood up to go and see what had happened in the kitchen.
"Hertha is waiting too," she said.
"Where is the little one?" he asked.
"She has scampered away from you once more, like a frightened hare," responded grandmamma. "I will send her out if I see her." With which she went into the house.
Hertha saw how he smiled to himself for a moment, then wrinkled his brows again in heavy thought. With his head buried in his hands, he sat brooding there.
Infinite compassion awoke in Hertha. "He has been bothered by some new trouble," she thought, "and his cares make his head ache." From now on it would be her duty to stand by him in time of trial, whatever her mood might be.
And with resolute steps, digging her heels into the ground, she emerged from the yew hedge. But when she reached the foot of the terrace, she reeled and was obliged to pause for breath. She had never imagined that one could feel such unspeakable fear of the man one loved better than life itself.
Now she was at the top of the steps. But, still lost in meditation, he did not look up. He held one of the roses between his lips, and chewed the stalk.
She was trembling so much that she had to steady herself by holding on to the corner of the table. How should she greet him? A mere "Good morning" sounded too commonplace and everyday. She sighed.
Then at last he looked up. A friendly, quiet smile beamed on his face.
"Good morning; good morning," he said quite naturally. "Why that deep sigh? Have we caught cold--a touch of fever, eh?"
She gazed silently at him with great wounded eyes. These were almost exactly the same words as good old grandmamma had used. Perhaps he too was going to ask to feel her pulse. Her hand fluttered in his; then she sank into an armchair, still not speaking. Again the dread overcame her that, after thinking it over, he had decided she was too immature, and would treat yesterday as if it had never been. And she would have no means of combating his decision and making him act otherwise.
"Yes--yes, that was a quaint adventure," he went on, as he stretched himself and put his hand before his mouth to suppress a yawn of fatigue; "but we caught you neatly, you runaway."
Her fears increased. If only she had not been such a coward--such an unutterable coward--she would have drawn herself to her full height and exclaimed indignantly, "Why do you despise me to-day? Don't you know what you have done?" But she didn't dare move an eyelash, much less look up.
And as she still remained tongue-tied, he bent over her, and, stroking her forehead, asked her, grinning--
"Have we made peace at last, dear child?"
This was a ray of light. She thanked God for it, nodded, and tried to smile.
"Well, well," he ejaculated in doubt, as she had not spoken.
But instead of an answer, she gathered the roses together and offered them to him.
"Do they belong to me?" he asked.
"Yes, to you," she whispered, with a shy, tender light in her eyes, "dir".[[1]] He marked the expression, and a bitter sense of a marred happiness stabbed his soul. He seized the little brown hand in gratitude.
At this moment steps were heard in the dining-room, the glass door of which stood open.
"Grandmamma is coming!" exclaimed Hertha, shocked, snatching away her hand.
"Well, let her come," he said, in some surprise.
Then, as grandmamma appeared, followed by Christian, he relapsed again into reverie. He ate and drank, but it was like an automaton eating and drinking.
Her eyes did not move from his face. She dreaded to try and win a look from him, full of understanding and warm feeling, yet it seemed as if she had ceased to exist for him. She might be stupid, and of course she was, but this much she knew--that a man did not usually treat the woman of his choice in such a manner.
Meta Podewyl, for instance, and Hans Sembritzky were in love with each other for a long time before he declared himself. They called each other "Herr Baron" and "Gnädiges Fräulein" quite stiffly, and were outwardly like strangers; but their eyes could not deceive them. They spoke a glowing language which made all formality a pretence. And then how dreamily and blissfully they had smiled away into vacancy, when their eyes might no longer meet! But he--oh, he!
With a low murmur, he stood up, shot his shirt-cuffs, whistled to his dog, and strode away without vouchsafing her another look. Without another look!
Later the same thing repeated itself. Hertha sat through lunch in dull misery. Two tears fell on the hands that nervously crumbled her bread.
Grandmamma had been sharply observing her, and it had not escaped her that Hertha, whose healthy appetite was proverbial in the house, had to-day scarcely swallowed a morsel of meat.
She slipped noiselessly out of her seat, pushed Elly aside, and caught hold of Hertha's left hand.
She jumped up as if she had been pricked by a needle.
"Sit down, and give me your wrist," commanded grandmamma.
Further resistance was useless. And the pulse was indeed galloping feverishly. Then she was asked to show her tongue. This she wouldn't do.
"Grandmamma, please don't torment me," she begged, and flung her arms round her neck, bursting into tears.
But grandmamma would not allow herself to be trifled with in such important matters. "Show me your tongue," she insisted.
But the tongue was still not forthcoming. Then ensued a sharp tussle, in which Hertha was defeated.
And this was how she was treated, and her heartache misunderstood. She was ordered to bed; and told she must perspire.