“A maiden stood musing, gentle and mild. I grasped the hand
of the friendly child, but the lovely fawn shyly
disappeared.... From the Rhine to the Danish Belt,
beautiful and lovely maidens are found in palaces and tents;
yet nobody pleases me.”--SCHMIDT VON LÜBECK.
The last day at home was Sophie’s birthday. In the afternoon the whole
family was invited to the Kammerjunker’s, where Jakoba and the Mamsell
were to be quite brilliant in their cookery.
A table filled with presents, all from the Kammerjunker, awaited Miss
Sophie; it was the first time that he had ever presented to her a
birthday gift, and he had now, either out of his own head or somebody’s
else, fallen on the very good idea of making her a present for every
year which she had lived. Every present was suited to the age for which
it was intended, and thus he began with a paper of sugar-plums and ended
with silk and magnificent fur; but between beginning and end there
were things, of which more than the half could be called solid: gold
ear-rings, a boa, French gloves, and a riding-horse. This last, of
course, could not stand upon the table. It was a joy and a happiness;
people walked about, and separated themselves by degrees into groups.
The only one who was not there was Eva. She always preferred remaining
at home; and yet, perhaps, to-day she might have allowed herself to have
been overpersuaded, had she not found herself so extremely weak.
Silently and alone she now sat at home in the great empty parlor. It
was in the twilight; she had laid down her work, and her beautiful,
thoughtful eyes looked straight before her: thoughts which we may not
unveil were agitating her breast.
Suddenly the door opened, and Wilhelm stood before her. Whilst the
others were walking he had stolen away. He knew that Eva was alone at
home; nobody would know that he visited her, nobody would dream of their
conversation.
“You here!” exclaimed Eva, when she saw him.
“I was compelled to come,” answered he. “I have slipped away from
the others; no one knows that I am here. I must speak with you, Eva.
To-morrow I set off; but I cannot leave home calmly and happily without
knowing--what this moment must decide.”
Eva rose, her checks crimsoned, she cast down her eyes.
“Baron Wilhelm!” stammered she, “it is not proper that I should remain
here!” She was about to leave the room.
“Eva!” said Wilhelm, and seized her hand, “you know that I love you! My
feelings are honorable! Say Yes, and it shall be holy to me as an oath.
Then I shall begin my journey glad at heart, as one should do. Your
assent shall stand in my breast, shall sound in my ear, whenever sin and
temptation assail me! It will preserve me in an upright course, it will
bring me back good and unspoiled. My wife must you be! You have
soul, and with it nobility! Eva! in God’s name, do not make a feeble,
life-weary, disheartened being of me!”
“O Heavens!” exclaimed she, and burst into tears, “I cannot, and--will
not! You forget that I am only a poor girl, who am indebted for
everything to your mother! My assent would displease her, and some time
or other you would repent of it! I cannot!--I do not love you!” added
she, in a tremulous voice.
Wilhelm stood speechless.
Eva suddenly rang the bell.
“What are you doing?” exclaimed he.
The servant entered.
“Bring in lights!” said she; “but first of all you must assist me with
these flowers down into the garden. It will do them good to stand in the
dew.”
The servant did as she bade; she herself carried down one of the pots,
and left the room.
“I do not love you!” repeated Wilhelm to himself, and returned to the
company which he had left, and where he found all gayety and happiness.
The supper-table was spread in the garden; lights burned in the open air
with a steady flame; it was a summer-evening beautiful as the October of
the South; the reseda sent forth its fragrance; and when Sophie’s health
was drunk cannon were fired among the lofty fir-trees, the pines of the
North.
The next morning those countenances were dejected which the evening
before had been so gay. The carriage drew up to the door. The dear
mother and sisters wept; they kissed Wilhelm, and extended their hands
to Otto.
“Farewell!” said Louise; “do not forget us!” and her tearful glance
rested upon Otto. Eva stood silent and pale.
“You will not forget me!” whispered Otto, as he seized Louise’s hand. “I
will forget your sister!”
The carriage rolled away; Wilhelm threw himself back into a corner. Otto
looked back once more; they all stood at the door, and waved their white
handkerchiefs.