Part 4 (1/2)

Then he pa.s.sed out upon the steps with a joking speech to the company at the table, and she heard their laughing answers; but she herself remained behind in the garden-room.

Poor young man! how sorry she was for him; and how strange that she of all people should be the only one in whom he confided. What secret sorrow could it be that depressed him? Perhaps he, too, had lost his mother. Or could it be something still mote terrible? How glad she would be if only she could help him.

When Rebecca presently came out he was once more the blithest of them all. Only once in a while, when he looked at her, his eyes seemed again to a.s.sume that melancholy, half-beseeching expression; and it cut her to the heart when he laughed at the same moment.

At last came the time for departure; there was hearty leave-taking on both sides. But as the last of the packing was going on, and in the general confusion, while every one was finding his place in the carriages, or seeking a new place for the homeward journey, Rebecca slipped into the house, through the rooms, out into the garden, and away to the King's Knoll. Here she seated herself in the shadow of the trees, where the violets grew, and tried to collect her thoughts.--”What about the violets, Mr. Lintzow?” cried Miss Frederica, who had already taken her seat in the carriage.

The young man had for some time been eagerly searching for the daughter of the house. He answered absently, ”I'm afraid it's too late.”

But a thought seemed suddenly to strike him. ”Oh, Mrs. Hartvig,” he cried, ”will you excuse me for a couple of minutes while I fetch a bouquet for Miss Frederica?”--Rebecca heard rapid steps approaching; she thought it could be no one but he.

”Ah, are you here, Miss Rebecca? I have come to gather some violets.”

She turned half away from him and began to pluck the flowers.

”Are these flowers for me?” he asked, hesitatingly.

”Are they not for Miss Frederica?”

”Oh no, let them be for me!” he besought, kneeling at her side.

Again his voice had such a plaintive ring in it--almost like that of a begging child.

She handed him the violets without looking up. Then he clasped her round the waist and held her close to him. She did not resist, but closed her eyes and breathed heavily. Then she felt that he kissed her--over and over again--on the eyes, on the mouth, meanwhile calling her by her name, with incoherent words, and then kissing her again. They called to him from the garden; he let her go and ran down the mound. The horses stamped, the young man sprang quickly into the carriage, and it rolled away. But as he was closing the carriage door he was so maladroit as to drop the bouquet; only a single violet remained in his hand.

”I suppose it's no use offering you this one, Miss Frederica?” he said.

”No, thanks; you may keep that as a memento of your remarkable dexterity,” answered Miss Hartvig; he was in her black books.

”Yes--you are right--I shall do so,” answered Max Lintzow, with perfect composure.--Next day, after the ball, when he put on his morning-coat, he found a withered violet in the b.u.t.ton-hole. He nipped off the flower with his fingers, and drew out the stalk from beneath.

”By-the-bye,” he said, smiling to himself in the mirror, ”I had almost forgotten _her_!”

In the afternoon he went away, and then he _quite_ forgot her.

The summer came with warm days and long, luminous nights. The smoke of the pa.s.sing steams.h.i.+ps lay in long black streaks over the peaceful sea.

The sailing-s.h.i.+ps drifted by with flapping sails and took nearly a whole day to pa.s.s out of sight.

It was some time before the Pastor noticed any change in his daughter.

But little by little he became aware that Rebecca was not flouris.h.i.+ng that summer. She had grown pale, and kept much to her own room. She scarcely ever came into the study, and at last he fancied that she avoided him.

Then he spoke seriously to her, and begged her to tell him if she was ill, or if mental troubles of any sort had affected her spirits.

But she only wept, and answered scarcely a word.

After this conversation, however, things went rather better. She did not keep so much by herself, and was oftener with her father. But the old ring was gone from her voice, and her eyes were not so frank as of old.

The Doctor came, and began to cross-question her. She blushed as red as fire, and at last burst into such a paroxysm of weeping, that the old gentleman left her room and went down to the Pastor in his study.

”Well, Doctor, what do you think of Rebecca?”