Part 47 (2/2)

”Very well. But what shall we tie it with? We will wait till we find a strong gra.s.s blade.”

”No, I will not wait so long. And a gra.s.s blade is not good enough for me, it is too thick and coa.r.s.e. I want something fine. I know what, Lena, you have such beautiful long hair; pull out one and tie the bouquet with that.”

”No,” said she decidedly.

”No? And why not? Why not?”

”Because the proverb says 'hair binds.' And if I bind the flowers with it you too will be bound.”

”But that is superst.i.tion. Frau Dorr says so.”

”No, the good old soul told me herself. And whatever she has told me from my youth up, even if it seemed like superst.i.tion, I have always found it correct.”

”Well, have it so. I will not contradict you. But I will not have the flowers tied with anything else but a strand of your hair. And you will not be so obstinate as to refuse me.”

She looked at him, pulled a long hair from her head and wound it around the bunch of flowers. Then she said: ”You chose it. Here, take it. Now you are bound.”

He tried to laugh, but the seriousness with which Lena had been speaking, and especially the earnestness with which she had p.r.o.nounced the last words, did not fail to leave an impression on his mind.

”It is growing cool,” said he after a while. ”The host was right to bring you a jacket and a plaid. Come, let us start.”

And so they went back to the boat, and made haste to cross the stream.

Only now, as they were returning, and coming nearer and nearer, did they see how picturesquely the tavern was situated. The thatched roof sat like a grotesque high cap above the timbered building, whose four little front windows were just being lit for the evening. And at the same time a couple of lanterns were carried out to the veranda, and their weird-looking bands of light shone out across the water through the branches of the old elm, which in the darkness resembled some fantastically wrought grating.

Neither spoke. But the happiness of each seemed to depend upon the question how long their happiness was to last.

CHAPTER XII

It was already growing dark as they landed. ”Let us take this table,”

said Botho, as they stepped on to the veranda again: ”You will feel no draught here and I will order you some grog or a hot claret cup, shall I not? I see you are chilly.”

He offered several other things, but Lena begged to be allowed to go up to her room, and said that by and by when he came up she would be perfectly well again. She only felt a trifle poorly and did not need anything and if she could only rest a little, it would pa.s.s off.

Therewith she excused herself and went up to the gable room which had been prepared in the meantime. The hostess, who was indulging in all sorts of mistaken conjectures, accompanied her, and immediately asked with much curiosity, ”What really was the matter,” and without waiting for an answer, she went right on: yes, it was always so with young women, she remembered that herself, and before her eldest was born (she now had four and would have had five, but the middle one had come too soon and did not live), she had had just such a time. It just rushed over one so, and one felt ready to die. But a cup of balm tea, that is to say, the genuine monastery balm, would give a quick relief and one would feel like a fish in the water and quite set up and merry and affectionate too. ”Yes, yes, gracious lady, when one has four, without counting the little angel ...”

Lena had some difficulty in concealing her embarra.s.sment and asked, for the sake of saying something, for a cup of the monastery balm tea, of which she had already heard.

While this conversation was going on up in the gable room, Botho had taken a seat, not in the sheltered veranda, but at a primitive wooden table that was nailed on four posts in front of the veranda and afforded a fine view. He planned to take his evening meal here. He ordered fish, and as the ”tench and dill” for which the tavern was famous was brought, the host came to ask what kind of wine the Herr Baron desired? (He gave him this t.i.tle by mere chance.)

”I think,” said Botho, ”Brauneberger, or let us say rather Rudesheimer would suit the delicate fish best, and to show that the wine is good you must sit down with me as my guest and drink some of your own wine.”

The host bowed smilingly and soon came back with a dusty bottle, while the maid, a pretty Wendin in a woolen gown and a black head-kerchief, brought the gla.s.ses on a tray.

”Now let us see,” said Botho. ”The bottle promises all sorts of good qualities. Too much dust and cobweb is always suspicious, but this ...

Ah, superb! This is the vintage of '70, is it not? And now we must drink, but to what? To the prosperity of Hankel Ablage.”

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