Part 31 (1/2)

”Frau Nussler,” said Brasig, ”love is a thing which begins in some hidden way, perhaps with a bunch of flowers, or a couple say 'Good morning' to each other, and touch each other's hands, or they stoop, at the same time, to pick up a ball of cotton, and knock their heads together, and a looker-on observes nothing more, but after a while, it becomes more perceptible, the women often turn red, and the men cast sheep's-eyes, or the women entice the men into the pantry, and offer them sausage and tongue and pig's head, and the men come to see the women, dressed up in red and blue neck-ties, or, if it is very far gone, they go out walking on summer evenings, in the moonlight, and sigh. Anything of that sort with the little rogues?”

”I cannot say, Brasig. They have been in my pantry, off and on; but I soon sent them out, for I won't have people eating in the pantry, and I never noticed that my little girls turned red, though they have cried their eyes red, often enough, of late.”

”Hm!” said Brasig, ”this last is not without significance. Now I will tell you, Frau Nussler, leave it wholly to me, I know how to track them; I detected Habermann's confounded greyhound, in his love-affairs.

I am an old hunter; I can track him to his lair; but you must tell me where they have their haunts; that is, where I shall be likely to find them.”

”That is here, Brasig, here in this arbor. My little girls sit here in the afternoon, and sew, and the other two come and sit with them; I never thought any harm of it.”

”No harm in that,” said Brasig, and stepping out of the arbor he looked carefully around, and in so doing perceived a large Rhenish cherry-tree, full of leaves, which stood close by the arbor.

”All right!” said he, ”what can be done shall be done.”

”Dear heart!” sighed Frau Nussler, as went back to the house, ”what a miserable time we shall have to-day! Kurz is coming this afternoon, in time for coffee, he is bitterly angry with his son, and such a malicious little toad. You shall see, there will be a great uproar.”

”It is always the way with little people,” Brasig: ”the head, and the lower const.i.tution are so close together, that fire kindles quickly.”

”Yes,” sighed Frau Nussler, again entering the house, ”it is a misery.”

She had no idea that the misery in her house was already in full course.

While these transactions were going on below stairs the two little twin-apples sat up in their chamber, sewing. Lining sat by one window, and Mining by the other, and they never looked up from their work, they never spoke to each other, as in those old times, at the Frau Pastorin's sewing-school,--they sewed and sewed, as if the world were coming to pieces, and they, with needle and thread, were patching it together again, and they looked so solemn about it, and sighed so heavily, as if they knew right well what an arduous task they had under their fingers. It was strange that their mother had said nothing to Brasig of how their pretty, red cheeks had grown pale, and it must have been because she had not noticed it herself. But it was so, the two little apples looked as wan as if they had grown on the north side of the life-tree, where no sun-beams pierced to color their cheeks, and it seemed, too, as if they hung no longer on the same twig. At last Lining let her work drop in her lap, she could not sew any longer, her eyes filled, and the tears ran down her white cheeks; and Mining reached for her handkerchief, and held it to her eyes, and great tears dropped in her lap, and so they sat and wept, as if the fair, innocent world in their own bosoms had gone to pieces, and they could not patch it together again.

All at once Mining sprang up and ran out of the door, as if she must get into the free air; but she bethought herself, she could not run off without being seen and questioned by her mother, so she stood there, on the other side of the door, still crying. Lining sprang up also, as if she should comfort Mining, but she bethought herself that she did not know how, so she stood on this side the door, crying.

So is often interposed, between two hearts, a thin board, and each heart hears the other sighing and weeping, and the thin board has on each side a latch, that one needs merely to lift, and what has separated the hearts may be shoved aside; but neither will stir the latch, and the two hearts weep still.

But, thank G.o.d! such selfish pride towards each other these little hearts had not yet learned, and Mining opened the door, and said, ”Lining, why are you crying?” and Lining reached out her hands, and said, ”Ah, Mining, why are _you_ crying?” And they fell into each others arms, still crying, but their cheeks grew red as if the sunlight had reached them, and they clung fast to each other, as if they were again growing on the same stem.

”Mining!” said Lining, ”I will give him up to you, and you shall be happy with him.”

”No, Lining!” cried Mining, ”he cares more for you, and you are a great deal better than I am.”

”No, Mining, I have made up my mind; uncle Kurz is coming this afternoon, and I will ask father and mother to let me go back with him, for to stay here and look on might be too hard for me.”

”Do so, Lining; then you will be with his parents; and I will ask Gottlieb to get me, through his father, a place as governess, somewhere, far, far away, before you come back; for my heart is too heavy to stay here.”

”Mining,” said Lining, pus.h.i.+ng her sister back, and looking earnestly in her eyes,--”with his parents? whom do you mean?”

”Why, Rudolph.”

”You mean Rudolph?”

”Yes, of course; whom do you mean, then?”

”I? I meant Gottlieb.”

”No, no!” cried Mining, throwing her arms again about her sister's neck, ”how is that possible? Why, we don't mean the same one, after all!”

”Dear heart!” exclaimed Lining, ”and what misery we have made ourselves!”