"Since the five months that you have been here I have often been on the point of speaking to you, and have as often stopped myself. There was something in you which--let me be sincere--that oppressed me, and kept me at a distance. However kind and obliging I saw you in the house, and everything thriving under your hands, I could not, nevertheless, banish the thought that you were intended for quite a different sphere of life. But I must speak out at last. You are young, beautiful, and richly gifted in every respect, I am already an elderly man, and have nothing to offer you but a simple house, modest circumstances, and the participation in the care of five children. Can the love of these children, the gratitude of a man, who honours and admires you with all his heart, atone for the sacrifice you will make by your consent--if so--then you will make me very happy."
Gertrud had listened silently with downcast eyes, her face had become very pale, but her voice was calm.
"Your offer honours me, Herr Pastor, but you do me wrong if you think that a simple life and duties are irksome to me. For the first time in your house I have once more known what it is to be surrounded with loving kindness; I--"
She raised her hand, and, as if struck by a sudden pain, laid it--not in that of the pastor, but upon her breast!
"Is anything the matter?" asked he anxiously.
She forced herself to smile.
"Oh, no, it is nothing. I only wished to ask you for a short time for consideration. You shall have my answer in a few hours."
The pastor seemed hardly to have expected his offer to have met with so favourable a reception. A short time for consideration is usually only a form of propriety, ending with an answer in the affirmative. With glad thankfulness he seized both her hands.
"As you will, liebes Fräulein, as long as you like. I do not wish to attribute your consent to a hasty decision. Consult your own heart undisturbed, and then tell me candidly what you have decided."
An hour had passed, Gertrud sat in her high storied room, lost in deep reflection. As before, she involuntarily pressed her hand on her heart. There was something there which still obstinately refused to bow to the outward calmness of her nature. It had sprung up in burning, trembling pain, when she had stood on the point of giving her consent, and had it not seemed to tear her back with warning fear as if from a precipice, and stopped the "Yes," which already trembled on her lips with a loud "No, no"? And yet this weakness must be overcome! If not quite forgotten, she had at least imagined that it was overcome, and had not guessed that she should have to probe herself with anxious, painful self-enquiries. Hermann had made no attempt to try and find her, or even send her a last word of farewell. He had fully recognised the earnestness of her decision, the truth of her words, and bowed firmly and strongly to the unavoidable, but--it tore the girl's heart that he could be so firm and strong. Then he had his future to make up for what was lost--for which he had surrendered her--and she?