"Max, my mother," said she, as she now left her mother and stood beside her lover.
She was about to utter his name, when the word died upon her lips.
Pale as death, with an expression of infinite pain, the mother swooned. Dr. Kuhl caught her in his arms, for Blanden stood as if motionless, staring at what seemed incredible to him. For a moment it appeared to him as if the sky, with all its stars, danced above him; as if this assembly adorned with flags, ribbons and garlands, was but a mirage, gliding down from out the clouds, and this strange, veiled, unconscious figure a ghost, that filled his soul with a shudder from the grave.
But though it all came over him with thoughts following quickly as lightning, like boundless pain, as though a yawning cleft went through his whole life--as though a ghost-like hand were thrusting him back when he hoped to attain peaceful bliss, and like the pressure of an ever-tightening rack, the thought suffused his whole soul that his betrothal was impossible.
And it was that, which the weak woman now raising herself, seemed to whisper into her brother's ear, who started back as if stung by an adder.
Tortured with unutterable fear, Eva hastened to and fro. Was that still the same glittering starlit sky, and the same moon-illumined world, still the same joyfully-excited crowd? The only sad secret of her life had risen up in all its magnitude, darkening everything, and casting unholy shadows upon the happiness of her love. The festive music, the merry circling dance, seemed to her like mockery. With ready presence of mind, Dr. Kuhl had given the signal for it to re-commence, so as not to interrupt the entertainment, and to conceal behind the enjoyment of the many, that mysterious, crushing occurrence.
"To-morrow, my daughter, to-morrow," said her mother, "to-day, I am ill, and will seek my room."
Eva looked round, as if imploring aid; all were silent on every side, and looked upon the ground; Blanden, too, was mute; not one comforting word that the betrothal should still be promulgated.
Was it then possible? Was it she herself--she--Eva Kalzow, the heroine of that day, the object of the congratulations, the fêted one, who must shrink away from this feast like a criminal, into whose face was cast the bridal wreath which had been snatched from her? What dishonourable deed had she committed? Did she not stand there as if in a pillory?
Did they not smile scornfully, maliciously--the seven Fräuleins Baute--at the interrupted feast? Did not her other female friends whisper mysteriously with speaking glances?