Part 6 (1/2)

”I am afraid I have been a great trouble,” said I. ”I can only say that I am truly grateful.”

His good broad face reddened, and he moved a little uneasily.

”I don't see how I could have done otherwise than I----than we, did,”

replied he, in the soft German of the district. ”We were all glad enough to do what we could; I don't say it was a pleasure, because it is our busiest time of year,--but then,” said he, laughing a little awkwardly, as if he feared his expression might have been misunderstood, ”I don't suppose it has been a pleasure to you either, sir, to be laid up so far from home.”

”No, indeed.”

”I may as well tell you now, sir, that we had to look over your papers and clothes. In the first place, when you were so ill I would fain have let your kinsfolk know, if I could have found a clue; and besides, you needed linen.”

”I am wearing a s.h.i.+rt of yours though,” said I, touching my sleeve.

”Yes, sir!” said he again, reddening a little. ”I told Thekla to take the finest out of the chest; but I am afraid you find it coa.r.s.er than your own.”

For all answer I could only lay my weak hand on the great brown paw resting on the bed-side. He gave me a sudden squeeze in return that I thought would have crushed my bones.

”I beg your pardon, sir,” said he, misinterpreting the sudden look of pain which I could not repress; ”but watching a man come out of the shadow of death into life makes one feel very friendly towards him.”

”No old or true friend that I have had could have done more for me than you, and your wife, and Thekla, and the good doctor.”

”I am a widower,” said he, turning round the great wedding-ring that decked his third finger. ”My sister keeps house for me, and takes care of the children,--that is to say, she does it with the help of Thekla, the house-maiden. But I have other servants,” he continued. ”I am well to do, the good G.o.d be thanked! I have land, and cattle, and vineyards.

It will soon be our vintage-time, and then you must go and see my grapes as they come into the village. I have a '_cha.s.se_,' too, in the Odenwald; perhaps one day you will be strong enough to go and shoot the '_chevreuil_' with me.”

His good, true heart was trying to make me feel like a welcome guest.

Some time afterwards I learnt from the doctor that--my poor fifty pounds being nearly all expended--my host and he had been brought to believe in my poverty, as the necessary examination of my clothes and papers showed so little evidence of wealth. But I myself have but little to do with my story; I only name these things, and repeat these conversations, to show what a true, kind, honest man my host was. By the way, I may as well call him by his name henceforward, Fritz Muller. The doctor's name, Wiedermann.

I was tired enough with this interview with Fritz Muller; but when Dr.

Wiedermann came he p.r.o.nounced me to be much better; and through the day much the same course was pursued as on the previous one: being fed, lying still, and sleeping, were my pa.s.sive and active occupations.

It was a hot, suns.h.i.+ny day, and I craved for air. Fresh air does not enter into the pharmacopoeia of a German doctor; but somehow I obtained my wish. During the morning hours the window through which the sun streamed--the window looking on to the front court--was opened a little; and through it I heard the sounds of active life, which gave me pleasure and interest enough. The hen's cackle, the c.o.c.k's exultant call when he had found the treasure of a grain of corn,--the movements of a tethered donkey, and the cooing and whirring of the pigeons which lighted on the window-sill, gave me just subjects enough for interest. Now and then a cart or carriage drove up,--I could hear them ascending the rough village street long before they stopped at the ”Halbmond,” the village inn. Then there came a sound of running and haste in the house; and Thekla was always called for in sharp, imperative tones. I heard little children's footsteps, too, from time to time; and once there must have been some childish accident or hurt, for a shrill, plaintive little voice kept calling out, ”Thekla, Thekla, liebe Thekla.” Yet, after the first early morning hours, when my hostess attended on my wants, it was always Thekla who came to give me my food or my medicine; who redded up my room; who arranged the degree of light, s.h.i.+fting the temporary curtain with the s.h.i.+fting sun; and always as quietly and deliberately as though her attendance upon me were her sole work. Once or twice my hostess came into the large eating-room (out of which my room opened), and called Thekla away from whatever was her occupation in my room at the time, in a sharp, injured, imperative whisper. Once I remember it was to say that sheets were wanted for some stranger's bed, and to ask where she, the speaker, could have put the keys, in a tone of irritation, as though Thekla were responsible for Fraulein Muller's own forgetfulness.

Night came on; the sounds of daily life died away into silence; the children's voices were no more heard; the poultry were all gone to roost; the beasts of burden to their stables; and travellers were housed. Then Thekla came in softly and quietly, and took up her appointed place, after she had done all in her power for my comfort.

I felt that I was in no state to be left all those weary hours which intervened between sunset and sunrise; but I did feel ashamed that this young woman, who had watched by me all the previous night, and for aught I knew, for many before, and had worked hard, been run off her legs, as English servants would say, all day long, should come and take up her care of me again; and it was with a feeling of relief that I saw her head bend forwards, and finally rest on her arms, which had fallen on the white piece of sewing spread before her on the table. She slept; and I slept. When I wakened dawn was stealing into the room, and making pale the lamplight. Thekla was standing by the stove, where she had been preparing the bouillon I should require on wakening. But she did not notice my half-open eyes, although her face was turned towards the bed.

She was reading a letter slowly, as if its words were familiar to her, yet as though she were trying afresh to extract some fuller or some different meaning from their construction. She folded it up softly and slowly, and replaced it in her pocket with the quiet movement habitual to her. Then she looked before her, not at me, but at vacancy filled up by memories; and as the enchanter brought up the scenes and people which she saw, but I could not, her eyes filled with tears--tears that gathered almost imperceptibly to herself as it would seem--for when one large drop fell on her hands (held slightly together before her as she stood) she started a little, and brushed her eyes with the back of her hand, and then came towards the bed to see if I was awake. If I had not witnessed her previous emotion, I could never have guessed that she had any hidden sorrow or pain from her manner; tranquil, self-restrained as usual. The thought of this letter haunted me, especially as more than once I, wakeful or watchful during the ensuing nights, either saw it in her hands, or suspected that she had been recurring to it from noticing the same sorrowful, dreamy look upon her face when she thought herself un.o.bserved. Most likely every one has noticed how inconsistently out of proportion some ideas become when one is shut up in any place without change of scene or thought. I really grew quite irritated about this letter. If I did not see it, I suspected it lay _perdu_ in her pocket.

What was in it? Of course it was a love-letter; but if so, what was going wrong in the course of her love? I became like a spoilt child in my recovery; every one whom I saw for the time being was thinking only of me, so it was perhaps no wonder that I became my sole object of thought; and at last the gratification of my curiosity about this letter seemed to me a duty that I owed to myself. As long as my fidgety inquisitiveness remained ungratified, I felt as if I could not get well. But to do myself justice, it was more than inquisitiveness. Thekla had tended me with the gentle, thoughtful care of a sister, in the midst of her busy life. I could often hear the Fraulein's sharp voice outside blaming her for something that had gone wrong; but I never heard much from Thekla in reply. Her name was called in various tones by different people, more frequently than I could count, as if her services were in perpetual requisition, yet I was never neglected, or even long uncared-for. The doctor was kind and attentive; my host friendly and really generous; his sister subdued her acerbity of manner when in my room, but Thekla was the one of all to whom I owed my comforts, if not my life. If I could do anything to smooth her path (and a little money goes a great way in these primitive parts of Germany), how willingly would I give it? So one night I began--she was no longer needed to watch by my bedside, but she was arranging my room before leaving me for the night--

”Thekla,” said I, ”you don't belong to Heppenheim, do you?”

She looked at me, and reddened a little.

”No. Why do you ask?”

”You have been so good to me that I cannot help wanting to know more about you. I must needs feel interested in one who has been by my side through my illness as you have. Where do your friends live? Are your parents alive?”

All this time I was driving at the letter.

”I was born at Altenahr. My father is an innkeeper there. He owns the 'Golden Stag.' My mother is dead, and he has married again, and has many children.”