A REBUFF AND A BETROTHAL.
When Lenz was gone, Pilgrim sat for a long time alone, staring at the lamp and twisting his moustaches. He was vexed with himself, he had said all he wanted, but he had said too much, and consequently failed in his object. He could not recall it, for it was all true; but what good had he done? He paced his room restlessly, and then sat down again and fixed his eyes on the light. What a strange world this is! How seldom a man attains his original object in life! We cannot believe this when we are young, and we think the old grumbling and morose, and at last we become just the same ourselves, and find that we must submit to this patchwork existence: no use complaining, we must not expect to have all we wish.
Pilgrim could not help recalling distant memories of his hidden life. When he left his native home ten years ago, he felt as if he had courage to conquer the whole world, and was inspired with a sensation of tranquil happiness. He had said nothing, he had made no sign, he had received no pledge, and yet he had no doubts nor difficulties in his mind. He loved the fair, slender Amanda, the Doctor's daughter, and she had deigned to regard him, as a princess would have done. She had condescended merely to glance down on him like a goddess; he helped her in holiday time to affix labels to the foreign plants, on which he had himself written the names distinctly, copied out of a book. She treated the poor forsaken boy like a good and benevolent spirit, and even when he grew to manhood, she often asked him to assist her in her garden; she was always equally amiable and kind in manner, and her every glance was treasured by Pilgrim. And when the day of his leaving home arrived, when he was passing the Doctor's garden, she held out her hand to him over the hedge, saying:—"I have a whole collection of remembrances of you in the flower labels, on which you wrote all the names. When you find these plants in the course of your travels, in their native soil, you will often think of our garden, and our house, where everyone feels an interest in you. Farewell! and return to us soon!"
Farewell! and return soon! These were words that went with the traveller over hill and dale, across the ocean and to foreign lands, and many an echo repeated the name of Amanda, with unconscious gladness in the air.
Pilgrim wished to become rich, to be a great artist, and thus one day to aspire to Amanda. He came home poor, and in tatters. Many received him with unfeeling derision, but Amanda said—she was grown taller and less slender, but her brown eyes still sparkled with kindness:—"Pilgrim, be thankful that you have not lost your health, and don't be downhearted, but keep up your spirits."
And he did keep up his spirits. From that time he accustomed himself to love her, and to admire her, in the same way that he did the stately old limetree in his neighbour's garden, or the stars in heaven. No one ever heard a word, or saw the slightest indication of his love, not even Amanda herself; and, like the legend of certain precious gems which shine in the night like the sun, so did his secret passion for Amanda, light up the life of Pilgrim. Often he did not see her for weeks, and when he did see her, his manner was as calm as if he had met a stranger. One thought, however, constantly occupied him; that of whose home she was to brighten. He wished to leave the world without her ever having divined what she had been to him; but he hoped to see her happy. Lenz was the only man to whom he could willingly give her up, for they were worthy of each other, and he wished to nurse their children, and to amuse them by his whole stock of jests. Now this hope was gone for ever, and Pilgrim firmly believed that Lenz stood on the brink of an abyss.
So he sat absorbed in a painful reverie, shaking his head from time to time mournfully, till he put out the lamp, saying:—"I never was of use to myself, so what chance have I to be of use to others?"
In the meanwhile Lenz was on his way homewards. He walked slowly. He was so weary, that he was forced to rest on a heap of stones beside the road. When he reached the "Lion" inn all was dark, and no star was shining, for the sky was covered with heavy clouds. Lenz stood still, and he felt as if the house must fall on him and crush him.
He went home: Franzl was asleep: he awoke her; he must positively have one human being to rejoice with him; Pilgrim seemed to have strewed ashes on all his glad hopes.