The Lost Manuscript Part 111

"My mother," she said, softly, as she wept.

So touching was the expression of her grief, that Fritz said, sympathizingly:

"Do not grieve, Laura, about her, we will live where you like, and exactly as you think fit."

But even these kind words could not comfort the poor soul, whose maidenly anxieties cast a shadow over her future. The colored haze with which her childish fancy had invested her free life in the neighborhood of her loved one, had been dissolved.

She sat silent and sad.

The coachman stopped before a village inn to refresh himself and his horses. The young landlady stood at the door with her child in her arms; she approached the carriage and civilly invited them to alight.

Laura looked anxiously at the Doctor; he nodded, the carriage door was opened. Laura seated herself on a bench in front of the door, and asked the young woman questions about her family, in order to show the self-possession of a traveller. The woman answered, confidently:

"This is our first child, we have been married scarcely two years.

Excuse me, but I suppose you are a young married couple."

Laura rose hastily, her cheeks glowed a deeper red than the rising sun, as she answered with a low "No."

"Then you are engaged without doubt," said the woman, "that can be seen at once."

"How could you discover that?" asked Laura, without raising her eyes.

"One sees evidence of it," replied the woman, "the way in which you looked at the gentleman was significant enough."

"A good guess," exclaimed the Doctor, gaily; but he also colored slightly.

Laura turned away and struggled for composure. The secret of her journey was apparent to every one. It was known in the city and was spoken of in the villages. Her betrothal had been settled by the talk of strangers. Yet her parents had not laid her hand in that of her lover, nor had any of her friends wished her happiness, but now the stranger on the high road came and told her to her face what she was.

"If the woman had known all,--how that I was eloping secretly with Fritz Hahn, without betrothal or marriage,--how would she have looked upon me?" thought Laura.

She entered the carriage before the coachman had finished feeding the horses, and again tears flowed from her eyes. The Doctor, who did not antic.i.p.ate this change of mood, was about to enter, when Laura, quite beside herself, exclaimed:

"I beg of you to sit by the coachman, I feel very sad."

"Why?" asked Fritz, softly.

"I have done wrong," said Laura. "Fritz, I should like to return. What will that woman think of me? She saw right well that we were not engaged."

"But are we not?" asked the Doctor, astonished. "I consider myself as decidedly engaged, and the friends to whom we go will clearly look upon the affair in that point of view."

"I conjure you, Fritz, to leave me alone now; what I feel I cannot confess to any human being; if I become calmer I will knock at the window."

Fritz again climbed on the coach-box, and Laura pa.s.sed a sorrowful hour in the solitude of her carriage.

She felt something strange on her cloak, looked with alarm at the empty seat, and started when she saw the demon sitting next her, the enemy of her life, the red dog. He stretched out his forefeet, and raised his moustache high in the air, as if he would say: "_I_ am carrying you off. The Doctor is sitting on the box, and I, the mischief-maker, the misanthropist, who have caused so much sorrow to this poetic soul, who have been cursed in her journal in both prose and verse, I, the common and unworthy being who used to lie at her feet, sit by her side the gloomy figure of her fate, the spectre of her youth, and the bad omen of her future life. I lie in the place where, in her childish poetry, she has long dreamt of another, and I mock at her tears and anxiety."

He licked his beard and looked from under his long hair contemptuously at her. Laura knocked at the window, resolved to leave the carriage herself and sit upon the box.

Meanwhile the mothers sat anxiously in the hostile houses. Since her daughter had left, Mrs. Hummel trembled for fear of the anger of her husband. She knew from Laura that he had not objected to the journey to Bielstein, and only wished to appear unconscious of it in order to maintain his defiant character towards his neighbors. But of what was to follow, he would give no information; when it came to a decision as to what was to become of Laura and the Doctor, she felt there was everything to fear from him. Mrs. Hummel had encouraged the journey in order to compel the consent of the family tyrant; but now she felt distrustful of her own cleverness. In her sad perplexity she put her mantle on, over her morning dress, and hastened out of the house to seek consolation from her neighbor.

The heart of Mrs. Hahn was burdened with similar cares; she also was prepared, in her morning dress and mantle, to go over to Mrs. Hummel.

The women met outside the two houses, and began an exchange of motherly anxieties. They made use of the neutral ground that lay between the hostile domains for quiet intercourse, and forgot that they were standing in the street. The bells sounded and the church-goers returned, yet they were still standing together talking over the past and future. The comedian approached them elegantly dressed; as he drew near he made a dramatic salutation with his hand. Mrs. Hummel looked with anxiety at her favorite guest, she feared his conjectures and still more his sharp tongue. His face was radiant with pleasure and his gestures were sympathetic.

"What a surprise," he exclaimed, in the tone of a warm-hearted uncle; "what an agreeable surprise? The old quarrel made up; wreaths of flowers from one house to the other; the discord of the fathers is atoned for by the love of the children. I offer my hearty congratulations."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Hummel, perplexed.

"An elopement," exclaimed the comedian, raising his hands.

Both mothers looked terrified.

"I must beg of you, in your remarks, to have more regard for the real state of things," replied Mrs. Hummel with offended dignity.

"An elopement," again exclaimed the gentleman triumphantly. "Quite in conformity with the humor of this house; it is a master-stroke."

"I feel confident from our old friends.h.i.+p," said Mrs. Hummel, "that you do not mean to insult us; but I must earnestly request you to have regard, at least, for propriety."

The comedian was astonished at the reproaches of his patroness.

"I only repeat what I have just been informed of by post." He drew out of his pocket a neat letter. "I hope that the ladies will convince themselves." He read aloud: "'I beg to announce to you the betrothal of Dr. Fritz Hahn with my daughter Laura, and their elopement this morning from her parents' house. Yours humbly, Hummel.' This quite answers to the character of our humorous friend."

The ladies stood aghast. Then the rustling of a silk dress was heard, the G.o.dmother came up hastily, her hymn-book in her hand, and called out while yet in the distance:

"What does one not live to see? You naughty people! Is it right that the friends of the family should first learn from the preacher in the church what is happening here?"

"What do you mean?" asked both ladies, quite confounded.

"That the bans of your children have been proclaimed in church to-day for the first, second, and third time. There was general astonishment, and though you have acted in so unfriendly a way as to keep it a secret, all your acquaintances were delighted. Now the whole city is full of it."

Without speaking a word the two mothers flew into each others' arms in the open street, midway between the houses. The comedian stood on one side with his hand in his breast pocket, the G.o.dmother on the other with folded hands.

It was also a troublous Sunday on the estate of Ilse's father. During the previous night a waterspout had burst on the hills, and a wild flood poured down where formerly the brook ran between the meadows. The oldest people did not remember such a rush of water. Before this the brook had been much swollen by the rains of the previous week, now it roared and thundered through the narrow valley between the manor-house and the sloping hills, and overflowed the fields where it was not defied by the steepness of the country and rocks. Furiously did the water rush and foam over the rocks and about the heads of the willows, carrying away the hay from the meadows in its course, uprooting reeds and tearing off branches of trees, and also the ruins of habitations, which, though far above, had been reached by the flood. The people of the estate stood by the edge of the orchard, looking silently upon the stream and the ruins it bore along with it. The children ran eagerly along the side of the water, endeavoring to draw toward them with poles whatever they could reach. They raised loud cries when they saw a living animal floating along. It was a kid standing on one of the boards of the roof of its stall. When the little creature saw the people standing near, it cried piteously, as if begging to be rescued.

Hans put out a well-hook, caught hold of the plank, the kid sprang ash.o.r.e and was taken in grand procession by the children to the farmyard and there fed.

Ilse was standing at the new bridge leading to the grotto. It had only been built a few weeks, and was now threatened with destruction.

Already the supports were bending on one side. The force of the water worked against the lower end, and loosened the pegs. The foam of the water whirled round the projecting foot of the rock, which formed the vault of the grotto, and the power of the rising water made deep furrows in the flood.

"There comes some one running from the mountain," exclaimed the people.

A girl came hastily round the rock, with a large kerchief full of fresh-mowed mountain gra.s.s on her back. She stopped terrified on the platform of the rock, and hesitated about crossing the unsafe bridge.

"It is poor Benz's Anna!" exclaimed Ilse; "she must not remain there in the wilderness. Throw your burden away--be brisk, Anna, and come over quickly."