XV

Hertha awoke. The flies buzzed about in the purple duskiness; broad

midday sunshine came through the chinks of the shutters and the red

curtains.

"I must have dreamed it," she thought, laying her arm beneath her head

and laughing up blissfully at the ceiling.

And then she slowly realised that this time it could be no dream. A

warm glow flooded her face. She shut her eyes and didn't think. It

seemed as if her body were drifting, and as if she must die of

happiness. What had her existence been yesterday, and what was it

to-day? A wild hoyden had been carried down the stream, and then he had

found her, and made her a woman with the magic of his love.

She jumped out of bed with a sharp exclamation, and began to dress.

When she stood before the glass she contemplated herself for a long

time.

"How funny!" she said. "I look the same as usual."

She passed Elly's bed on tiptoe. The girl was sleeping away her tears

and fright of the day before in rosy, peaceful slumbers. A fly had

alighted on the corner of one of her eyelids. Hertha flicked it off.

"And _she_ talks about love," she thought, and shrugged her shoulders.

And, as was always the case when she tried to put herself in the place

of her companion, with her childish, objectless mind, a deadening, flat

feeling came over her, which robbed her of the courage to believe in

the happy result of what had happened yesterday. Perhaps, on further

consideration, he would find her wanting in seriousness, and would take

back his declaration.

The next minute she was ashamed of her poor-spiritness. It was

inconceivable that he had not perfectly understood how boundless her

love for him was, and how, in spite of her extreme youth, her early

experience of the sorrows and trials of life had ripened and

strengthened her character.

Ten o'clock sounded from the clock tower. She was alarmed at its being

so late. She would share every joy and sorrow and pursuit with the

beloved in future, even early rising. And she resolved to get up with

the call-bell, as of old, when she used to go to the milking.

Creeping about on naked feet, she went on with her toilette.

It was a mercy that Elly didn't wake. What torture it would have been

if these first holy hours had had to be frittered away in idle chatter!

At first she thought of putting on her light batiste frock--the one

with the whip-cord pattern--that suited her best, and looked so fresh

and festive. Surely to-day was a festival--the behest of her life; and

in half shame-faced joy her trembling soul scarcely dared look forward

to the glory it was to bring forth. Then she gave up the idea. She

wouldn't make herself gay and smart. Rather would she meet him modestly

and neatly arrayed; so she chose a dress of dark tweed, and only

relieved it with a jabot of pale blue and lace at the neck. This she

thought gave her a sufficiently languishing look, and suited her

complexion.

The St. Bernard's bark called her beneath the window. He was roaming

about the garden masterless, sniffing along the gravel paths. She

stretched her arms out to him joyously. Her tenderness for him knew no

bounds.

"A pity he is not a man," she thought "I would love him as my brother."

Then she left the room with her high boots in her hand, for she did not

dare put them on till she was in the corridor.

The dog sprang up at her boisterously from behind the garden door,

where he had been waiting for her. She buried her face in his leonine

coat, to hide her burning blushes. If she blushed at sight of the dog,

simply because he had been a witness of yesterday's events, how should

she be able to conceal the treacherous glow when she met his master?

The breakfast-table, with its snowy cloth, still stood on the terrace.

Three unused cups shone in the sun. It looked as if he, too, hadn't

been there.

Her heart beat louder. Did fate ordain that she should be absolutely

_tete-a-tete_ with him? What would he have to say to her? What she to

him? The thought so frightened her that her knees trembled.

"In another quarter of an hour," she thought, "perhaps I shall be

engaged."

It seemed quite terrible--almost incredible. And how should she conduct

herself in this trying ordeal?

"I must not just fall into his arms," thought she, "so that he will

think me crude in everything, and misunderstand me again."

She decided to cut a handful of roses. Instead of the usual "Good

morning," she would greet him with these and a look that should say,

"Take them, beloved. All is yours--all." She selected deep-crimson

blooms, full grown with a wealth of curving petals. Each one would

speak of love to him--of that wild, entrancing love of which poets sang

so beautifully, from whose kisses one drank either eternal bliss or

damnation. Nothing pale or faded should have a place in her bouquet.

But she did not adorn herself with a rose. Was he not to be for always

the one and only ornament of her life?

Leo, the dog, trotted meanwhile behind her well satisfied, now and then

rubbing his nose lovingly against her sleeve.

"Where is your master?" she asked him, with a sigh.

The beast looked up in her face with comprehending, melancholy eyes.

For hours, since daybreak, he had been looking for him everywhere, but

he had ridden off on a secret mission without asking his faithful

friend to bear him company.

As she ascended the steps of the terrace grandmamma came to meet her.

She caught hold of the balustrade, trembling. What if he had already

confided the news to his mother? Was she coming before her with a heart

whose secret had been laid bare? She ran to her quickly, and hid her

head on her breast so that she shouldn't be looked at.

The old lady patted her, full of solicitude "No cold, I hope--no

fever?" she asked.

Hertha breathed more freely. Ah! she didn't know.

"Let me feel your pulse," grandmamma commanded.

Hertha wriggled away.

"I like that!" she thought. "To-day, of all days, to have my pulse

felt! Next I shall be asked to put out my tongue!" And she barricaded

herself behind the table.

Grandmamma made the best of a bad matter, but she was not going to let

her off without a lecture. Hertha, with quivering lips and wandering

eyes, let the mild outburst pass over her head. Her gaze was directed

to Leo's empty coffee-cup, her ear towards the courtyard.

And then suddenly the hound gave a howl of delight. Ringing, clattering

footsteps came echoing along the corridor.

Hertha felt her blood ebb from her veins, and as if she must, at his

glance, fall dead from shame. She dashed the roses down on the table,

and tore at hot speed into the garden; and grandmamma, whose lecture

was in full swing, looked after her in consternation. There was a nook

in the yew hedge which ran out from the castle into the garden where,

unseen, it was possible to hear and see all that passed on the terrace.

There she quickly concealed herself.

He stood framed in the glass door, heated and dusty, with a deep frown

on his brow which terrified Hertha.

Grandmamma gently reproached him. How was it that it was nearly noon

and nothing had been seen of him before?

"I had business to attend to," was his curt, gruff answer. Then he sat

down and played carelessly with the scattered roses.

Hertha was grieved; thus her pretty little plan came to nothing. Of

course, he didn't suspect how significant those roses were for him.

"What are the kids doing?" he asked.

Hertha started. She didn't deserve to be called by such a name as that.

But she comforted herself with the thought that he was trying to hide

his secret.

Grandmamma gave him the desired information. Hertha had put in an

appearance, but Elly was still asleep. To-day she might have grace and

sleep to twelve if she liked--the longer the better.

He was hungry, and crumbled the toasted rolls impatiently. "What

incapable dog of a cook have we got now?" he grumbled.

Grandmamma stood up to go and see what had happened in the kitchen.

"Hertha is waiting too," she said.

"Where is the little one?" he asked.

"She has scampered away from you once more, like a frightened hare,"

responded grandmamma. "I will send her out if I see her." With which

she went into the house.

Hertha saw how he smiled to himself for a moment, then wrinkled his

brows again in heavy thought. With his head buried in his hands, he sat

brooding there.

Infinite compassion awoke in Hertha. "He has been bothered by some new

trouble," she thought, "and his cares make his head ache." From now on

it would be her duty to stand by him in time of trial, whatever her

mood might be.

And with resolute steps, digging her heels into the ground, she emerged

from the yew hedge. But when she reached the foot of the terrace, she

reeled and was obliged to pause for breath. She had never imagined that

one could feel such unspeakable fear of the man one loved better than

life itself.

Now she was at the top of the steps. But, still lost in meditation, he

did not look up. He held one of the roses between his lips, and chewed

the stalk.

She was trembling so much that she had to steady herself by holding on

to the corner of the table. How should she greet him? A mere "Good

morning" sounded too commonplace and everyday. She sighed.

Then at last he looked up. A friendly, quiet smile beamed on his face.

"Good morning; good morning," he said quite naturally. "Why that deep

sigh? Have we caught cold--a touch of fever, eh?"

She gazed silently at him with great wounded eyes. These were almost

exactly the same words as good old grandmamma had used. Perhaps he too

was going to ask to feel her pulse. Her hand fluttered in his; then she

sank into an armchair, still not speaking. Again the dread overcame her

that, after thinking it over, he had decided she was too immature, and

would treat yesterday as if it had never been. And she would have no

means of combating his decision and making him act otherwise.

"Yes--yes, that was a quaint adventure," he went on, as he stretched

himself and put his hand before his mouth to suppress a yawn of

fatigue; "but we caught you neatly, you runaway."

Her fears increased. If only she had not been such a coward--such an

unutterable coward--she would have drawn herself to her full height and

exclaimed indignantly, "Why do you despise me to-day? Don't you know

what you have done?" But she didn't dare move an eyelash, much less

look up.

And as she still remained tongue-tied, he bent over her, and, stroking

her forehead, asked her, grinning--

"Have we made peace at last, dear child?"

This was a ray of light. She thanked God for it, nodded, and tried to

smile.

"Well, well," he ejaculated in doubt, as she had not spoken.

But instead of an answer, she gathered the roses together and offered

them to him.

"Do they belong to me?" he asked.

"Yes, to you," she whispered, with a shy, tender light in her eyes,

"dir".[1] He marked the expression, and a bitter sense of a marred

happiness stabbed his soul. He seized the little brown hand in

gratitude.

At this moment steps were heard in the dining-room, the glass door of

which stood open.

"Grandmamma is coming!" exclaimed Hertha, shocked, snatching away her

hand.

"Well, let her come," he said, in some surprise.

Then, as grandmamma appeared, followed by Christian, he relapsed again

into reverie. He ate and drank, but it was like an automaton eating and

drinking.

Her eyes did not move from his face. She dreaded to try and win a look

from him, full of understanding and warm feeling, yet it seemed as if

she had ceased to exist for him. She might be stupid, and of course she

was, but this much she knew--that a man did not usually treat the woman

of his choice in such a manner.

Meta Podewyl, for instance, and Hans Sembritzky were in love with each

other for a long time before he declared himself. They called each

other "Herr Baron" and "Gnaediges Fraeulein" quite stiffly, and were

outwardly like strangers; but their eyes could not deceive them. They

spoke a glowing language which made all formality a pretence. And then

how dreamily and blissfully they had smiled away into vacancy, when

their eyes might no longer meet! But he--oh, he!

With a low murmur, he stood up, shot his shirt-cuffs, whistled to his

dog, and strode away without vouchsafing her another look. Without

another look!

Later the same thing repeated itself. Hertha sat through lunch in dull

misery. Two tears fell on the hands that nervously crumbled her bread.

Grandmamma had been sharply observing her, and it had not escaped her

that Hertha, whose healthy appetite was proverbial in the house, had

to-day scarcely swallowed a morsel of meat.

She slipped noiselessly out of her seat, pushed Elly aside, and caught

hold of Hertha's left hand.

She jumped up as if she had been pricked by a needle.

"Sit down, and give me your wrist," commanded grandmamma.

Further resistance was useless. And the pulse was indeed galloping

feverishly. Then she was asked to show her tongue. This she wouldn't

do.

"Grandmamma, please don't torment me," she begged, and flung her arms

round her neck, bursting into tears.

But grandmamma would not allow herself to be trifled with in such

important matters. "Show me your tongue," she insisted.

But the tongue was still not forthcoming. Then ensued a sharp tussle,

in which Hertha was defeated.

And this was how she was treated, and her heartache misunderstood. She

was ordered to bed; and told she must perspire.