At the Ghost Hour. The House of the Unbelieving Thomas

by Paul Heyse

As she stood now outside, bent under her living burden and looking around at the crowd as it fell back, she espied their young friend and guest, who, with a cry of joy, dropped the beam and sprang toward her. A happy smile crossed her flushed face and the fresh lips faltered: "Good evening; Herr Doctor"--simple words enough, but they sounded to him like sweetest music. He could only say: "Thank God! O Gundelchen! To think that you are alive!" and would have caught them both in his arms but for the eyes which were turned upon them.

She had not yet put down her burden, and seemed uncertain whither to turn with it. In vain did Philip conjure the people to fetch a wheelbarrow, or even a push-cart. They turned away, shrugged their shoulders and murmured imprecations.

"Well, we must get one ourselves, Gundelchen, since these pious Christians cannot summon this much of neighborly kindness," said the young man, as he set the woman gently down upon the pavement, and, crossing his hands with those of the girl, raised the mother again on this swinging litter, bidding her put her arms around their necks. So they carried her submissively obedient, through the parting throng, which fell back at their approach, down the street as far as the marketplace.

There, as by accident, an empty cab came rattling sleepily along. Philip hailed it, put the two women into it, and swung himself up on the seat behind, telling the coachman to drive to a little inn by the river, a half mile distant, which served as the terminus for the summer evening walks of the better class families.

From Ghost Lane, which grew even ruddier with the glare of the fire, sounded a duller hum and tumult; and now they heard the roll of the hose-cart, which was at last on its way to the scene of the fire. From all sides, great and small were flocking to the ill-omened street; but soon they had left the last houses behind them and were driving along at a slow trot, through the star-lit night.

And now, for the first, the young doctor had time to regard the rescued pair more closely. The older woman, with closed eyes, lay back in one corner of the carriage as though she would collect her thoughts, and thank Heaven for the miracle of her deliverance. Her child sat beside her, a little ashamed of her own scanty attire, holding the shawl tightly about her shoulders and saying no word to the young man opposite. But the black eyes met his steadily, and only once, when the bare feet came into view beneath the short skirt, did the long lashes droop hastily. Philip asked if she were cold. She shook her head, but he drew his handkerchief from his pocket and wound it about her slender ankles. Then he stretched out his hand and she laid her own in it, with a charming look of confidence, and so they held each other's hands in a mute pledge until the carriage drew up before the little hostelry.

Here first the mother opened her eyes, but spoke no word and suffered Philip to lift her out and carry her into the house. Host and hostess were not a little astonished when they saw their singular guests, for whom the young man engaged a room in the upper story. He gave the landlord a gold piece and told him it would be to his advantage to attend carefully to the ladies, whom he had rescued from great peril by fire in the city.

The Frau Wirthin would help the Fräulein out with her wardrobe. Then he himself mounted to the room where Frau Cordula sat in an arm-chair, looking dreamily before her. He went up to her and said gravely: "Dear mother, I must leave you now and go back to the city. But first I want to clear up an important matter. Your daughter and I have silently plighted our troth during the journey hither. I beg now that you will give us your blessing. I promise to be a faithful husband to your child and a loving son to you."