“Engagé—they go together.”
“What is that?”
“Oh, they’re going to get married. Don’t you know?”
Walter was ashamed not to know such a simple thing; and, as is often the case, he was ashamed of being ashamed.
“Certainly, of course I know. I hadn’t understood right well. Emma—will you marry me?”
For the moment Emma was unable to accommodate him, as she was engagé with her mother; but as soon as she was free she would consider the matter, and Walter would probably be favored. She looked at him sweetly—and then the game called her to another part of the yard.
Love is the instinct for unity—and the instinct for multiplicity. As everywhere, nature is simple here in principle, but manifold in application. The love of a thief means: Come, we will go steal together. The servant of the Word unites with his loved one in prayer and psalm, etc., every animal after his kind.
Or is this instinct to share, to be together, to be united at the same the instinct for the good?
In Walter’s case it was, even though he himself did not know it. Had he not, in the name of Cecilia, liberated a bird that fluttered about its narrow cage in distress? Of course Cecilia had laughed and asked Walter if he was crazy. She did not know that there was any connection between his sympathy for the poor little bird and the beating of his heart when he scratched her name on the frozen window-pane in the back room. Perhaps she would have understood if she had loved Walter; but that was impossible, because he still wore his jacket stuffed in his trousers.
At all events, it was not possible for him to think of anything bad when he called “Omicron.” He had now forgotten Cecilia, and would have been greatly surprised if she had appeared in answer to his call. Little Emma would have come nearer meeting his requirements.