"How many friends you have!" said Thoma; for they were often stopped on
their way through the crowded fair grounds, especially by Anton's old
comrades. "I wish we were alone," she added impatiently.
"Yes, love," answered Anton, "if we choose the day of the fair for our
betrothal, and show ourselves then for the first time together, we must
expect these congratulations, and I am glad to have them. Isn't it
delightful to have so many people rejoice with us in our happiness? It
adds to their enjoyment without taking from ours."
"Do you really believe they rejoice?" asked Thoma.
The conversation was interrupted by the handless beggar, who came up to
thank Thoma again, and tell her how astonished he was at such a gift.
He said he had been her father's substitute (for at that time
substitutes in the military service were still allowed).
Anton encouraged him to tell where he had lost his hand. It was on a
circular saw, in a mill on the other side of the valley. Anton told him
to come the next day, and perhaps he could give him work. While he was
speaking the judge's wife approached, and congratulated them heartily.
Thoma looked at her in surprise when she said:
"You are the new generation; preserve the honesty of the old, and add
to it the progressiveness of the present. I shall write to my son of
your betrothal."
Anton shook hands twice with the judge's wife.
"I beg you will give the lieutenant my most respectful greetings."
It was still difficult for the lovers to disengage themselves from the
crowd, for a group of Anton's comrades surrounded them, saying:
"At your wedding we are going to march in front of you with the flag of
the Club and the regimental music."
Anton thanked them, and said he would be much pleased.
He had scarcely got out of the throng, when a teamster in a blue
jacket, who was walking beside a four-horse wagon, called out, "Captain
Anton Armbruster! Hallo!" and came up to him and said:
"How are you? So you've got her, have you? Is that she? Is that Thoma?"
"Yes."
"Then I wish you happiness and blessing. How tall and beautiful she is!
Let me shake hands with you."
Thoma gave her hand with reluctance, and the teamster continued
jokingly:
"Get him to tell you what he did one night when we were before Paris.
We were lying by the camp-fire, roasted on one side, frozen on the
other. Anton, who was asleep, called out, 'Thoma! Thoma!' He wouldn't
own up to it afterwards, but I heard it plain enough. Well, good-by;
may God keep you both. Get up," he called to his horses, and drove on.
At last the lovers made their way out of the crowd to the quiet
meadow-path, where, for a time, they walked hand in hand, then stood
still. Any one who saw them must have thought they were speaking loving
words to each other. The youth's voice was full of tenderness, but he
spoke not of love, or, at least, not of love for his betrothed. He
began hesitatingly: "Let me tell you something, darling."
"What is it? What's the matter?"
"Just think of our being here together, and having each other, and
belonging to each other, and only a little while ago I was so far away
in France. There, in the field, on the march, or in the camp, thousands
upon thousands of us, we were like one man, no one for himself, no one
thinking of what he was at home. The brotherhood was all; and now, each
lives for himself alone."
"You are not alone, we are together."
"Yes, indeed. But you were going to ask me something."
"Oh, yes! How did it happen that you called my name in your sleep?"
"I'll tell you. Do you remember my passing your house when I was on my
way to the army as a recruit?"
"Certainly I remember it."
"Did you notice that I took a roundabout way over the mountain, so as
to pass it?"
"I didn't notice it then, but afterward I thought of it. When you gave
me your hand in farewell you looked at me with your fiery eyes, that
are so piercing."
"Yes, I wanted then to tell you how much I loved you, but I wouldn't do
it, for your sake. I said to myself, 'You had better say nothing, and
so save her from heart-ache and anxiety while you are in the war, and
from life-long grief if you should be killed.' It was hard for me to
keep silent, but after I had gone I was glad of it. And, do you
remember? you had a wild-rose in your mouth by the stem, and the
rose-leaves lay on your lips, just where I wanted to put a kiss; and at
your throat was a corn-flower as blue as your eyes."
"Oh, you flatterer! But go on, go on; what else?"
Anton drew her to him and kissed her, then continued:
"There! Shall I go on? Well, you took the two flowers in your hand, and
I saw you would like to give them to me, and I wanted to have them, but
even that I wouldn't ask. Often and often by day and by night, in the
field and on the watch, I thought of you, as the song says: and once,
when the teamster lay beside me, I spoke your name in my sleep."
"Oh, you are so dear and so good and so sweet," cried Thoma, "I'm
afraid I'm not gentle enough for you. In our home everything is rough,
we are not so----. But you'll see I can be different."
Her eyes moistened while she spoke, and the whole expression of her
face changed to one of humility and tenderness.
"I will not have you different," cried Anton, "you shall remain as you
are, for just as you are you please me best. Oh, Heaven! who in the
world would believe that Landolin's Thoma of Reutershoefen could be as
gentle as a dove."
"I gentle?" she exclaimed, laughingly, "I a dove? All right then, catch
me!" she cried, joyously clapping her hands and running quickly into
the forest, whither Anton followed her.