Part 9 (1/2)
So they went, hand in hand, along the creek. Here and there a pair of summer-ducks came out of the reeds and flew, swift as an arrow, toward the woods. Fish sprang up in the crystal-clear water. The rushes waved.
The flowers and gra.s.s on the prairie swayed in the tepid wind. The sun poured down its golden rays. But it seemed to both as if there had fallen a veil over the clear, spring morning.
”I wish I had not told you this--at least not today,” said Lambert.
”And I thank you that you did so,” said Catherine. ”The happiness would be too great were our good fortune without a shadow. Did you not find me helpless, forsaken, poor as a beggar, pressed to the ground by care and grief, and did you not, without a moment's hesitation, stretch out your hand to pick me out of the dust? So I will hold it fast--your dear hand--and help you carry the cares and burdens of life, and with you go into the battle, if it must be, as good Aunt Ditmar did, whom may G.o.d bless for her bravery, and whose pardon I heartily beg for the injury I did her in my feelings. Now I can see why she who has suffered so dreadfully cannot, like other good people, heartily rejoice over the good fortune which comes to them before her eyes. Poor soul! She no longer believes in good fortune.”
”Perhaps it is also something else,” said Lambert thoughtfully, and after a short pause proceeded: ”See, Catherine, I love you so dearly, and have kept still so long, that I would like to tell you about everything that pa.s.ses through my mind. So I will also tell you this: I do not know, but I believe that my aunt would be better pleased were Conrad in my place. She has not forgotten that she carried the youngster, when a small and helpless creature, in her arms, and has always loved him as though she were his own mother. So Conrad has also hung to her; and, on account of the Ditmars, the difficulty arose between him and our father. Conrad wanted to go and live at Ditmar's, and father forbid it to the eleven-year-old youngster. The very Indian tribe to which Conrad fled had rescued the Ditmars. I believe he was himself present, though I do not know, since he has never said a word about it; nor has aunt, to whom he may have forbidden it. All this aunt has never forgotten.”
”And shall not forget it,” observed Catherine with animation. ”See, Lambert, now that we have honorably acknowledged that we love one another, I am no longer so timid. We must now be equally honest toward the others. Your aunt knows it, you say, and she will adapt herself to the actual state of affairs. Conrad must also know it, and then he won't be angry at you any longer. It perhaps sounds a little bold, but if I am indeed pleasing to him, let me manage it, Lambert. I will tame the young bear for you.”
Lambert shook his head, and had again to laugh as he now looked into the face of the beloved one, which beamed with happiness as before.
”Yes, yes, who could withstand you? Who would not willingly do what you wish?”
They had reached the block-house, and entered the open door. Lambert looked about the room with as much wonder as though he now saw it for the first time. About the hearth, on the shelves, there hung and stood kettles, pitchers and pots clean and burnished. They had heretofore always been in confusion. On the hearth itself the live coals glimmered under the ashes, and only needed to be uncovered and fanned again to start the fire. Near by lay the fire-wood carefully piled up. The table was brightly scoured. The chairs were set in order. The floor was sprinkled with white sand. The hunting and fis.h.i.+ng apparatus neatly hung against the wall. The small mirror which, dusty and dull, had hitherto leaned in a dark corner, had found a suitable place between the silhouettes of his parents, while they were encircled with simple garlands.
”You best one!” said Lambert, as with deep emotion he locked the beloved one in his arms. ”You will prove the good angel of us all.”
”To that may G.o.d help me!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Catherine. ”And now, Lambert, we must think about the obligations resting on us. While you go and feed Hans, I will prepare our noonday meal. After dinner we will start, for I suppose you mean to take me along. Now, no more talking; we have already trifled away too much time.”
She drove out the beloved one with kisses and scolding, and then turned to her work, which she pushed forward in a lively manner, though she often pressed her hand on her heart, which it seemed would burst with sheer happiness. Wherever she looked, she, in imagination, saw the form of her beloved--the true, good, thoughtful eyes; the face embrowned by exposure, with its handsome, clear expression; the powerful frame, which moved with such calm a.s.surance. In the crackling of the fire; in the measured tick-tack of the old Swartzwald clock, she seemed ever to hear his deep, friendly voice; and she mentally recalled the words he had said to her, and trembled with pleasure as she thought how her name rang out from his lips: ”Catherine!” So she had always been called. Her father, friends, neighbors, all the world had called her Catherine, and yet it seemed as though to-day she had heard it for the first time.
Oh! everything had turned out so different and so much better than she had dared to hope. How doubtingly she had looked toward the land with fixed eyes, which had already learned to weep on the torture-s.h.i.+p. What more could it bring her besides terrible, inconceivable misery? How unhappy she had yesterday felt on her arrival, and again this morning.
Could she then now be in reality happy, so very happy that her dear, dead father, were he still living, could wish for her nothing better--nothing more desirable?
Catherine bowed her head and folded her hands in prayer, and then looked up with brightened glances.
”Yes,” said she softly, ”he would have blessed our engagement with his fatherly, priestly blessing. I can call myself his before men, as I am before G.o.d and in my own heart. And though I have no friend, male or female, to rejoice with us and to wish us joy, I am on that account none the less his and he mine. But I will make friends of the whole world--the strange old aunt and the wild Conrad. I am no longer afraid of anybody--of anything.”
So spoke Catherine to herself as she was setting the table, and yet she was badly scared as, at that moment, she heard the stamping of a horse before the house, and a loud human voice calling:
”He, holla! Lambert Sternberg!”
Trembling, she laid down the plates and stepped to the door to see the caller, who again and again screamed: ”Lambert Sternberg! He, holla, Lambert Sternberg!”
CHAPTER VII
Before the house, on a long-limbed, lean horse, whose panting flanks and hanging head showed that he had just completed a long and rapid trip, a young man had stopped. On Catherine's appearance he forgot to shut the large mouth which he had opened in calling. His long, flaxen hair hung down in strands from under his large, three-cornered hat upon his narrow shoulders. The sweat poured from his freckled, saturated, long face, and his dull, water-blue eyes had a frightened look as Catherine, aghast, called out:
”For G.o.d's sake, what has happened?”
”Where is he?” stammered he on the horse, and turned his eyes in every direction.
”You are looking for Lambert Sternberg?” asked Catherine.
The rider bowed.
”I will call him. Dismount and rest yourself a moment. I will soon be back,” said Catherine.