Six months had passed, the winter had come in all its severity, and the
approach of Christmas was heralded by a heavy fall of snow. The mid-day
bells chimed from the village church tower, a sound welcome everywhere,
and joyfully greeted in the pastor's house as the crowd of merry
children came hurrying from the garden, (where they had been engaged in
a hot snow-ball contest), with greatly increased appetites. Five fresh
little faces, rosy with the cold, ranged themselves round the dinner
table, and began to attack with great interest and zeal the dishes set
before them.
The pastor, a man already past middle age, with a kind, gentle face,
seemed to-day unusually grave and reflective. He divided his attention
between the children and their governess, who sat opposite to him, the
two youngest children on either side. There was a loving care, as well
as a quiet firmness in the way which she quieted and kept in order the
little company, and the children seemed to be tenderly attached to her.
Fraeulein Walter was hardly able to rescue herself from all the
histories and relations which one little chattering mouth poured out
after the other. At last the dinner was at an end, and the little wild
troop, after receiving permission, stormed out again to occupy the hour
of play still left to them, with a more peaceful occupation, namely,
the building of a snow man.
Gertrud had taken up her key basket, and was on the point of leaving
the room, when the pastor detained her with the request that she would
follow him into his study for a few minutes, as he had something
important to speak to her about.
She willingly put down her basket and complied with his request. This
important matter was not difficult to guess at; Christmas was near, and
five little tables had to be planned for. But the introduction to this
harmless subject seemed to cost the Herr Pastor some difficulty, he
cleared his throat several times in an embarrassed manner, and at last
began with visible hesitation--
"First, Fraeulein Walter, accept my heartfelt thanks for all that you
have been to me and my children."
Gertrud looked surprised, the introduction sounded almost solemn.
"I only did my duty," replied she, quietly.
"Oh, no, you have done much, much more!"
The man's former embarrassment now gave place to warm heartiness.
"You merely undertook the duty of instructing the children, and you
have been the most loving guardian to them, the most faithful support
to my orphaned household. Only since you came have I once more known
that I possess a home, a happy domestic circle."
Gertrud was perfectly calm and unsuspecting.
"I have done what I could. But of course a stranger cannot ever fill
the mother's place."
"Ah, that was just what I wanted to speak to you about," interrupted
the pastor, hastily. "In spite of all your goodness, I cannot deny to
myself that my children need a mother, and my house the superintendence
of a lady, whilst I--" He suddenly stopped, for Gertrud had shrunk back
with an involuntary movement of fright. "Do you wish me to be silent?"
She had become pale, but she shook her head gently.
"Please go on."
He got up and seized her hand.
"Since the five months that you have been here I have often been on the
point of speaking to you, and have as often stopped myself. There was
something in you which--let me be sincere--that oppressed me, and kept
me at a distance. However kind and obliging I saw you in the house, and
everything thriving under your hands, I could not, nevertheless, banish
the thought that you were intended for quite a different sphere of
life. But I must speak out at last. You are young, beautiful, and
richly gifted in every respect, I am already an elderly man, and have
nothing to offer you but a simple house, modest circumstances, and the
participation in the care of five children. Can the love of these
children, the gratitude of a man, who honours and admires you with all
his heart, atone for the sacrifice you will make by your consent--if
so--then you will make me very happy."
Gertrud had listened silently with downcast eyes, her face had become
very pale, but her voice was calm.
"Your offer honours me, Herr Pastor, but you do me wrong if you think
that a simple life and duties are irksome to me. For the first time in
your house I have once more known what it is to be surrounded with
loving kindness; I--"
She raised her hand, and, as if struck by a sudden pain, laid it--not
in that of the pastor, but upon her breast!
"Is anything the matter?" asked he anxiously.
She forced herself to smile.
"Oh, no, it is nothing. I only wished to ask you for a short time for
consideration. You shall have my answer in a few hours."
The pastor seemed hardly to have expected his offer to have met with so
favourable a reception. A short time for consideration is usually only
a form of propriety, ending with an answer in the affirmative. With
glad thankfulness he seized both her hands.
"As you will, _liebes_ Fraeulein, as long as you like. I do not wish to
attribute your consent to a hasty decision. Consult your own heart
undisturbed, and then tell me candidly what you have decided."
An hour had passed, Gertrud sat in her high storied room, lost in deep
reflection. As before, she involuntarily pressed her hand on her heart.
There was something there which still obstinately refused to bow to the
outward calmness of her nature. It had sprung up in burning, trembling
pain, when she had stood on the point of giving her consent, and had it
not seemed to tear her back with warning fear as if from a precipice,
and stopped the "Yes," which already trembled on her lips with a loud
"No, no"? And yet this weakness must be overcome! If not quite
forgotten, she had at least imagined that it was overcome, and had not
guessed that she should have to probe herself with anxious, painful
self-enquiries. Hermann had made no attempt to try and find her, or
even send her a last word of farewell. He had fully recognised the
earnestness of her decision, the truth of her words, and bowed firmly
and strongly to the unavoidable, but--it tore the girl's heart that he
could be so firm and strong. Then he had his future to make up for what
was lost--for which he had surrendered her--and she?
She had made up her mind to accept the pastor's hand. What could she,
the solitary, homeless one, do better, than to take the home and hearth
offered to her, the love of an honourable man, and the perhaps heavy,
but still blessed cares connected with his children. Truly, he had been
right, there was an element in Gertrud's nature which strove against
this future in the isolation of the little village, and monotonous
round of household duties, so far from the busy world with its many
centres of interest--but Gertrud was tired of ever moving aimlessly and
with no settled future, from one place of dependence to another; she
longed for some sure, calm haven, though she knew that it would be the
grave of all that she called life.
The snow storm had begun once more, Gertrud opened the windows and
looked out, without regarding the cold--was it not the last free hour
of her life--the next would bind it for ever. Over there on the distant
country road, the sound of a post horn came through the falling snow.
Noiselessly and thickly fell the soft flakes from the grey winter sky
upon the hard earth. Everything around, the fields and valleys, the
boughs of the trees, and the roofs of the houses bore the cold,
shapeless garment of snow, and still and solitary lay the village, like
death, covered with a white robe.
But this calm was suddenly broken by an unusual event, the post horn
did not die away as usual in the distance, it came nearer and nearer,
loud and merry, and was presently joined by the rattle of wheels. Drawn
by four steaming horses, a post chaise worked itself with difficulty
through the snow, till it stopped before the pastor's door. A
gentleman, wrapped in furs, sprang out, and with a cry, half
consternation, half joy, Gertrud flew from the window.
"Hermann!"
Meanwhile this unexpected event, the arrival of a guest in an extra
post chaise with four horses, had alarmed the whole household below.
The flock of children rushed into the hall, the pastor's study-door was
hurriedly opened, voices were heard on all sides, till finally, a firm
voice, making itself heard above all the tumult, said--
"Do not trouble yourself, Herr Pastor. Fraeulein Walter will excuse me
if I present myself without being formally announced. I have important
news for her."
Steps were heard on the stairs, the door flew open, and Count Arnau
stood upon the threshold.
Gertrud could not utter a word of greeting; trembling in every limb,
she still stood on the same spot. He closed the door and approached
her.
"So you have flown from me to this distant, isolated village? Gertrud,
did you really think I should _not_ find you?"
His eyes rested gravely and reproachfully on her face.
She made an attempt to regain her self-command.
"Herr Graf, I do not know, indeed, what your sudden appearance means
after--"
"After my long silence? What, Gertrud, did not you know me better? You
thought I was weak and cowardly enough to accept your generous
sacrifice unconditionally?"
She dropped her eyes; a "No" to this answer would have been--a lie. He
came close to her and took her hand.
"I knew _you_ well enough to know that your declaration was made in all
earnestness, and that every attempt to dissuade you would meet with a
renewed refusal, and it is contrary to my nature to indulge in useless
complaints and assurances. I preferred to be silent till I could act."
"Act?"
She looked at him questioningly, doubtingly.
"Yes. Your farewell words were true, no one knew that better than
myself. In our little capital, where every scandal sleeps unforgotten,
to wake again through love of talk, to the ruin of some family--in our
own principality, where every important post depends upon favour at
Court, and in the midst of a nobility whose prejudices are not yet
touched by the faintest breath of advancing opinion, my career would,
indeed, have been shattered if Gertrud Brand had become my wife. A
union between us under _these_ circumstances would have been
impossible."
"And now--?"
"These circumstances had to be altered. I am free."
"Hermann! What have you done?"
His countenance lighted up with that expression which hitherto only she
had seen, and under which the hard features seemed so strangely mild.
In spite of her consternation there was an unspeakable amount of
confession in her words, which he had hitherto not been able to tear
from her; it was the first time she had called him by his name.
"I have bidden farewell to the past. Do not be frightened, I have all
the future before me. I am not one of those natures who are able to
vegetate from one year's end to another in the retirement of an estate,
allowing the world to go its own way as it will, and neither are you
suited for such a narrow sphere of life. Before the beginning of the
year I was asked to enter into the service of the State in another
country, but I then refused, because my connection and prospects gave
me certain hopes of the first place in our principality. Directly after
you left the offer was renewed. There are certainly some steps to mount
in order to gain such a position as that I have renounced, and it may
cost me more effort than hitherto, but I _will_ rise, be sure of that."
He said all simply and calmly; but Gertrud nevertheless felt deeply
what a sacrifice the ambitious man had made; her bosom heaved in joyful
pride, she knew now what she was to him.
"All is settled now," continued he, after a moment's pause. "I shall
enter upon my new office in B---- next month--but I shall not go there
without my wife. Gertrud, will you come with me?"
His arms closed passionately round the no longer resisting girl; she
leaned her head upon his shoulder.
"Do you think, Hermann, then, that there we--"
"We are strangers in B----. There no one knows of the crime and the
unhappy remembrances connected with it, and if, in the future, anything
should be heard--in the bustle and life of that great capital there
will be no lasting place for dim, distant reports of a past generation.
Besides this, I shall have no connection with the Court there; and if
it does not choose to receive my _buergerliche_ wife, it will be easy
for me to avoid it, and we shall find sufficient to make up for that in
other circles. _I_ will answer for the Graefin Arnau's fitting reception
and position in these."
A deep flush bathed Gertrud's cheeks at the last words; that name--once
so hated, she heard it now for the first time as her future one.
"And your grandmother?" asked she softly.
The Count's brow darkened.
"I had a hard battle with her, for she alone guessed the reason for my
determination. She must thank her own hardness and obstinacy if a
stranger's hand closes her eyes. We parted without reconciliation."
"O, Hermann, you are giving up all for my sake!"
He gently raised her head, and looked into her eyes.
"And you gave up what was most sacred to you, the only treasure you
possessed, to save me. Sacrifice for sacrifice! Gertrud, I am no longer
the cold egotist who knows nothing but ambition. You know what had made
me hard and bitter, what poisoned my youth, and took away, when I was
but a child, my love, my trust in men; give it back to me!"
The full, passionate look of love in her eyes answered him--
"I have one request, Hermann, it is my first. Let the past be buried
between us, let us never allude to it, even by a word. We will forget
it--for ever."
"For ever!"
Without, the snow still fell noiselessly, and laid itself thick and
cold on the hard earth; but here two hearts beat warm against one
another, ready to meet the future bravely. The old curse, which had so
long darkened the lives of both, and appeared as if it must separate
them for ever, had been banished by their own hands.
Not avenged, but expiated was the crime, and both now felt what the old
Praesidentin had said, as the last fragment of the fateful paper sank in
dust and ashes; "God be thanked! The evil is at an end!"
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Bridegroom.]
[Footnote 2: Belonging to the lower rank, common.]
[Footnote 3: Most gracious--a term used in addressing ladies in
Germany.]
[Footnote 4: Gracious Count.]
[Footnote 5: Betrothed, bride. A German lady is always called a bride
as soon as she is betrothed.]
THE END.
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