A BETROTHAL.
HE had loved her so patiently, and now he felt that he must have his
answer. It was only fair to her, and to himself too, that he should know
exactly where he stood in her affections. She had certainly given him
little signs here and there, which had made him believe that she was not
indifferent to his admiration. Little signs were all very well for a
short time; but meanwhile the season was coming to an end: she had told
him that she was going back to her work at home. And then perhaps he
would lose her altogether. It would not be safe now for him to delay a
single day longer. So the little postman armed himself with courage.
Wärli's brain was muddled that day. He who prided himself upon knowing
the names of all the guests in Petershof, made the most absurd mistakes
about people and letters too; and received in acknowledgment of his
stupidity a series of scoldings which would have unnerved a stronger
person than the little hunchback postman.
In fact, he ceased to care how he gave out the letters: all the
envelopes seemed to have the same name on them: _Marie Truog_. Every
word which he tried to decipher turned to that; so finally he tried no
more, leaving the destination of the letter to be decided by the
impulse of the moment. At last he arrived at that quarter of the
Kurhaus where Marie held sway. He heard her singing in her pantry.
Suddenly she was summoned downstairs by an impatient bellringer,
and on her return found Wärli waiting in the passage.
"What a goose you are!" she cried, throwing a letter at him; "you have
left the wrong letter at No. 82."
Then some one else rang, and Marie hurried off again. She came back with
another letter in her hand, and found Wärli sitting in her pantry.
"The wrong letter left at No. 54," she said, "and Madame in a horrid
temper in consequence. What a nuisance you are to-day, Wärli! Can't you
read? Here, give the remaining letters to me. I'll sort them."
Wärli took off his little round hat, and wiped his forehead.
"I can't read to-day, Marie," he said; something has gone wrong with me.
Every name I look at turns to Marie Truog. I ought to have brought every
one of the letters to you. But I knew they could not be all for you,
though you have so many admirers. For they would not be likely to write
at the same time, to catch the same post."
"It would be very dull if they did," said Marie, who was polishing some
water-bottles with more diligence than was usual or even necessary.
"But I am the one who loves you, Mariechen," the little postman said.
"I have always loved you ever since I can remember. I am not much to
look at, Mariechen: the binding of the book is not beautiful, but the
book itself is not a bad book."
Marie went on polishing the water-bottles. Then she held them up to the
light to admire their unwonted cleanness.
"I don't plead for myself," continued Wärli. "If you don't love me, that
is the end of the matter. But if you do love me, Mariechen, and will
marry me, you won't be unhappy. Now I have said all."
Marie put down the water-bottles, and turned to Wärli.
"You have been a long time in telling me," she said, pouting. "Why
didn't you tell me three months ago? It's too late now."
"Oh, Mariechen!" said the little postman, seizing her hand and covering
it with kisses; "you love some one else--you are already betrothed? And
now it's too late, and you love some one else!"
"I never said I loved some one else," Marie replied; "I only said it was
too late. Why, it must be nearly five o'clock, and my lamps are not yet
ready. I haven't a moment to spare. Dear me, and there is no oil in the
can; no, not one little drop!
"The devil take the oil!" exclaimed Wärli, snatching the can out of her
hands. "What do I want to know about the oil in the can? I want to know
about the love in your heart. Oh, Mariechen, don't keep me waiting like
this! Just tell me if you love me, and make me the merriest soul in all
Switzerland."
"Must I tell the truth," she said, in a most melancholy tone of voice;
"the truth and nothing else? Well, Wärli, if you must know . . . how I
grieve to hurt you . . . ." Wärli's heart sank, the tears came into his
eyes. "But since it must be the truth, and nothing else," continued the
torturer, "well Fritz . . . I love you!"
A few minutes afterwards, the Disagreeable Man, having failed to attract
any notice by ringing, descended to Marie's pantry, to fetch his lamp.
He discovered Wärli embracing his betrothed.
"I am sorry to intrude," he said grimly, and he retreated at once. But
directly afterwards he came back.
"The matron has just come upstairs," he said. And he hurried away.