Withered Leaves: A Novel. Vol. 2 (of 3)

by Rudolf von Gottschall

"Do not be angry with me that I hesitated formerly, that I let you go away; I never wavered in my love, because whatsoever takes root in my mind has a firm foundation. I only wavered in my belief in the happiness that I could bring to you, such contradictions hovered in the air, and I became timid simply because I loved you. It is different now; I have shaken off all doubt, I feel the power within me to make you happy. And if there be underwood that blocks our path, I shall have the whole forest thinned or cut down, so truly as my name is Wegen. Will you be mine, dear Cäcilie?"

"First take my hand in token of my thanks and true friendship. But then grant me time for reflection, even if it only be for a few days. I, too, must see all quite clearly, and in me, also, everything wavering must become firm. You are sure of my hearty affection, and to which ever decision I may come, rest assured that I shall always count this day amongst the most beautiful in my life."

Wegen asked when he might come for her answer: Cäcilie would give it him in two days' time. He rose with downcast air; he had hoped, at least, this time to receive a kiss as a trophy of victory. And how polite and amiable, but how little cordial was all that Cäcilie said to him; how differently had he painted the meeting with his beloved one, as he ascended the stairs! Then, after his declaration, she had melted into tears, she had fallen upon his neck, she, too, had told him that she had already loved him for long, and could not live without him, then, for the first time, he had been permitted to press her passionately against his heart!

The slight outlines of this imaginary picture still stood before his mind; but how totally differently this meeting had passed off! No acquiescence, no loving effusions, no moment of sweet self-forgetfulness. Friendly, but distantly she stood before him; certainly as desirable, as charming as ever! Even in the more comfortable house attire, her slender figure was so seductively displayed; the polite smile upon her lips, the animated glance of her clever eyes, that supple fascination in her whole person, Wegen would have deemed himself to be the most felicitous of mortals if it had been vouchsafed to him to receive the word of assent from that delicate fairy who seemed to glide through life with elf-like steps, the assenting word which should give her to him as his own for evermore. Instead, however, he must take up his hat and collect all his emotions in one friendly shake of the hand, but he consoled himself with the thought that it must be hard for a girl to utter the decisive word, that from shyness and shamefacedness, she would prefer to entrust it first to a little scented note, and would then be able to let the unavoidable consequences of a declaration of love flow over herself with more mental composure. It is true that an inner voice told him again and again, as he descended the stairs, that in reality Cäcilie had no girlish modesty about her--and his grounds of consolation were scattered again outside like faded leaves in a November wind.

Wegen had barely left the room before Olga stepped forth from behind the curtain, and folded her sister to her heart amid warm felicitations. The mother, too, whom Olga's powerful voice had intelligibly informed of the joyful event, was too happy at the offer.

"You dispose of me too quickly," said Cäcilie, drawing back; "it needs mature consideration first."

And she seated herself in the causeuse in her boudoir, her head propped upon her arm; sometimes gazing out upon the trees of the Philosopher's dyke, tossed about and stripped of their leaves by a ruthless north wind.

Olga and her mother did not disturb her in her silent reflections, which were, however, of a very different nature from what the former imagined. Her mother, with a heavy heart, was already thinking of the outfit. Olga was touched by the handsome man's kindliness and goodness, which were visible in every one of his words. Cäcilie was unmoved by these advantages. The language of the heart, of homely feeling, was not adapted for her; she merely looked upon Wegen as a figure upon the chess-board, with whom she could make a good move.

Towards evening Olga announced that she should visit her friend Minna, the daughter of the Kanzleirath; half-an-hour later Cäcilie informed her mother that she wished to breathe the fresh air, and should enquire after Major Bern's youngest child, who was seriously ill.

That evening Dr. Kuhl was sitting in his laboratory, a vaulted apartment with barred windows, only one door communicating between it and his study. His mother, a widow of ample means, owned the house, and, after his father's death, he had fitted it up comfortably in his own way. His mother allowed him perfect liberty, she humoured all his whims and fancies, even when she did not approve of them and when they could not be brought into unison with social forms. To conduct an intrigue for her Paul, in perfect secrecy, gave her intense satisfaction, and it was not to be wondered at that her son, by means of these principles of education, attained such singularity that he was brought, more or less, into evil repute in every circle.