The Children of the World Part 61

Meantime Leah, absorbed in grief, was still sitting at the window, from which in the pale morning light she had waved a farewell to her departing husband. As soon as he had disappeared, all the suppressed anguish of the last few days had found vent in a flood of tears, but without relief to the poor aching heart. When the torrent was at last exhausted, she only gazed the more hopelessly into vacancy with burning eyes, as if staring into a grey, impenetrable mist, from which no familiar form emerged, no loving voice reached her ear. The week that Edwin was to be absent, now seemed to her like a respite. During that time she might groan in anguish and weep to her heart's content. When he returned, he should find her what she had always been to him--his brave friend, his faithful comrade, to whom his inmost soul was revealed, even if a pa.s.sion for a strange woman, the very root of which had seemed to have been destroyed, now flourished luxuriantly anew.

True, how could he know that she herself was only a weak woman, who felt all her wise thoughts and heroic reason vanis.h.i.+ng in a boundless longing for his love!

A strange reserve, or perhaps pride because he had never asked, had prevented her from telling him this.

But he _needed_ pa.s.sionate love--in her terror this had now become evident to her. The cooler his head was, the more vehemently his heart demanded boundless, self-forgetful folly, a love higher than reason. He had now found it--in the magic castle, where the old demon had resumed its sway over him. The enchantress herself had cast aside her black art to practise a more powerful and irresistible one--to throw herself into his arms in the guise of a poor helpless woman saying: "I am yours; do with me as you will." And was he to disdain all this and reply: "You come too late?"--Well, he _had_ said so. He knew what he owed to duty.

But to accept this martyrdom, to hold a man by an iron chain, against which every instinct of his blood rebelled--a feverish chill ran through her frame at the thought.

True, she might stake pa.s.sion against pa.s.sion, and see which would conquer, hers that was really no tamer and narrower than any ever offered by a woman to the man she loved, or the capricious one of this stranger, who now when it was too late, wanted to throw away a lost life, to regain her happiness in her saviour. But her pride rebelled against this also. Had he ever missed her pa.s.sionate love? Could he believe, now that she had so long denied it utterance, that it was really true and genuine, not an ebullition of jealous pain, rather than the outburst of one of the hidden powers of nature?

But amid all this tumult of thoughts, one emotion was ever absent from her mind--no feeling of anger toward the two persons who now made her suffer so bitterly, stirred in her soul. The woman who had no scruple in making her life desolate, in wresting from her, her only happiness, of whom she knew nothing, except that she had bewitched her beloved husband and yet had not satisfied his heart--what did she this stranger? And Edwin--had he deceived her? Did he not suffer most bitterly, because he esteemed and honored her too highly to make even an attempt to delude her about his condition?

But the very fact of his remaining loving, affectionate and honest to her, and continuing to give her a brotherly share in his fate was unendurable. She could not suffer it longer, for it mocked her heart, whose inmost depths were overflowing with pa.s.sionate love. Yet she did not know how to change it, what to say to him, when he should return with his wound nearly healed to place himself in her sisterly care--lest some day, by accident the wound should begin to bleed again and perhaps endanger his life. But did she not also owe something to herself and the child she bore under her heart? Could she suffer the poor thing to be greeted by its father with a joy only prompted by a sense of duty, and perhaps--who knows--secretly regarded as a new link in the oppressive chain that must be worn with the best possible grace?

At this thought, the mother's blood in her rebelled with such fierce indignation and wrath, that for a moment an odious shadow darkened even Edwin's image. But the next instant she shrank from her own impetuosity, and with all the power of her will repelled the hostile feeling.

For the first time in her life, since she had been united to Edwin, she felt unspeakably alone. What would she have given for a friend who might have aided her to disentangle the sorrowful confusion of her thoughts? She remembered Reginchen--Reinhold--and instantly felt that no one, even if bound by far closer ties, possessing a much deeper insight into her nature, could have been a mediator between her fate and her womanly pride, her husband and her inmost feelings.

For hours she remained hopelessly striving to quell the tumult in her soul; at length her thoughts grew weary, and she began to perform her few household tasks, which were speedily accomplished. Then she mechanically took up one of Edwin's works and commenced to read; for a moment she was soothed by the thought of how thoroughly she understood all that would have been above the comprehension of many women, only to throw aside the book the next instant with pa.s.sionate grief, as she remembered how powerless all the cultivation of the mind would be to the blind, unreasoning, elementary instinct of Nature, which conquers all freedom and befools the wisest. She herself felt this instinct in her heart more strongly than ever, and she remembered how happy she had been made by it only two evenings before--only to be rendered utterly wretched by it now since it had shown her the emptiness of her hopes.

Herr Feyertag's arrival roused her from this abstraction. The old man knew nothing about Edwin's departure, and came to say that he should return home that evening. He was in a comically mysterious mood, gave obscure hints of the reasons that had so suddenly recalled him to Berlin, but repeatedly declared that he felt as if he were new born, and people were never too old to go to school. As Mohr was also absent, he could indulge in the harmless pleasure of uttering many of the things he had heard yesterday from his clever physician of the mind--especially the theory of the oak trees and the soil of humanity--as the result of his own matured wisdom, in such a lofty, matter-of-course tone, that several times Leah, in spite of her sorrow could not help laughing, for she easily perceived their source.

"I'll tell you, little lady," exclaimed the eager old man, as he concluded his remarks about the necessity of first advancing public welfare in our own persons, "come with me to Berlin to-night. Why should you stay here alone? Your husband can have no objections to your devoting this week to your dear parents, and it will afford me the greatest pleasure to show you Berlin, the Museum, the theatre, and of course we'll go out to Sans Souci too; as a native of Berlin, you ought to be ashamed of knowing next to nothing of all these things. Just to consider how many means of culture are daily at hand, that we need only stretch out our hands for, and just because they're not a long distance off--"

She shook her head with a forced smile. "Thank you, dear Herr Feyertag.

But just now I really do not desire culture, so much as--rest, or whatever else you choose to call it. Give my parents the kindest remembrances from me, don't let them know that you found me with one of my bad headaches; when I come to Berlin, I want to bring with me clear eyes--and my husband."

The worthy old friend, who after all had not been very earnest in his proposal, could urge her no further, and after uttering all sorts of fine phrases, took leave of the young wife with unfeigned affection.

She declined the invitation to dinner which he pressed upon her in Reginchen's name. Her stupid head was not fit for company. She was most comfortable alone, where no one could notice if her thoughts sometimes grew confused.

The shoemaker was scarcely in the street again, when in spite of his sincere regard for Leah, he banished from his mind all the sympathy he had felt for her suffering, and with the facility peculiar to many theoretical philanthropists, turned his thoughts to his own plans. He therefore looked up in some little bewilderment, when a slender lady accosted him in a musical, but somewhat low voice, and inquired the way to the Frau Doctorin's residence. The stranger was closely veiled, but the old man's practised eye did not permit him to doubt for a moment, that the person who stood before him was young, charming, and high-bred. He also noticed a faint perfume of violets, which floated from the lady's lace veil. He very politely offered to accompany and show her the few steps to Edwin's house, in doing which he remarked that the Herr Doctor had just gone away on a little pedestrian tour, but that his wife was at home. "I know it," said the lady. "I only wish to see his wife. Shall I probably find her alone?"

The shoe-maker answered in the affirmative and racked his cunning brains for means to find out something more about the veiled lady who, as he was instantly convinced, could not be a resident of the place.

But unfortunately they had already reached the house, the stranger thanked him with a slight bend of the head, opened the door without ceremony, and disappeared in the dark hall.

Never had the old man been more bent upon the solution of a riddle or charade, over which he regularly pondered in the papers, than on discovering the cause of this visit. This was the only woman who wore a veil, that he had met in the little town. That she could be acquainted with Leah, while his daughter knew nothing about her, seemed to him incredible, so he determined to question Reginchen.

But this proved utterly useless. No lady answering to his description was known, even in the highest circles of society in the place. And yet, if it were a stranger, how could she know that Edwin had gone away and Leah was alone, facts that the friend and neighbor had just learned from her father?

The mystery must be solved in time, and Reginchen, like all people who are entirely in harmony with themselves, did not suffer in the least from curiosity, but even declined to send a servant to Leah to enquire about the matter. She had much graver cares, which were also connected with Edwin's household, but apparently had nothing to do with the accidental visit of a stranger.

However, in the course of the day the old man, who was not in the habit of keeping his mind long fixed upon one thought, also lost his curiosity, as no fresh incident occurred to excite it. Leah's name was not mentioned, nor the attempt to induce the lonely wife to join them at dinner again renewed. Papa Feyertag was very cheerful during the meal, talked of new inventions, of war and peace, and of the social question, but without any personal irritation, and spent the whole afternoon in drawing the most singular sounds from all sorts of imperfect wind instruments he had bought for the twins, to the great edification of his young auditors.

Reinhold, in his quiet fas.h.i.+on, seemed to be heartily pleased with this change of affairs, stopped his work half an hour earlier, and at seven o'clock was again in the sitting room to take tea with his father-in-law before his departure. The children had been put to bed, and the three adults had just seated themselves around the table, when the door opened and to the surprise of all, frequent as was the appearance of the visitor, Leah entered.

CHAPTER VI.

The lamp was not yet lighted, and the broad brim of her straw hat shadowed her face, yet all three noticed, though no one made any remark, that the young wife's features were strangely rigid and inanimate, like the face of a person who has endured severe sorrow and, with a certain savage indifference, is prepared for the worst.

She nodded to Reginchen, begged her in her usual tone not to disturb herself, and declining the chair the old man placed at the table, sat down in the window niche, with her face half averted. In reply to the question about her headache, she answered that it had pa.s.sed away entirely. She had taken a nap, then eaten her dinner, and had never felt better than now, so she had thought of Papa Feyertag's proposal again, and determined to accept it.

"What proposal?" asked Reginchen. The old man himself would have been sorely puzzled if he had been obliged to answer the question. But Leah replied in his stead.

"For," she hastily burst forth, "what better could I do? My father is old and does not like to travel. Edwin, will not return until the end of the week; I've nothing to detain me here, and who knows when I shall find another such opportunity. How long is it before the train starts?

A whole hour? Well, you must allow my presence here until then. At home--it's ridiculous--but I think if I had remained at home, my headache would have come on again. We're so weak, so irresolute when we're all alone, and yet nothing can be more sensible than this plan.

Edwin himself, if he were here--but no, then I should not be alone. You say nothing, Herr Feyertag. Do you repent having offered to be my escort? I'll not make you the slightest trouble, you can smoke and sleep as much as you choose, I--I'll go in the ladies' coupe, I hope to be able to sleep too; after such a headache as I've had all day, I am not very entertaining in conversation."

"How can you think of such a thing?" said the old man. Then all were silent for a long time. Nothing was heard but the clicking of a little pair of scissors, which Leah had taken from Reginchen's work table and was opening and shutting.

"Before I forget it," Leah carelessly remarked, "as it's possible Edwin may return a few days before me, I've written him a few lines. If meantime a letter should come from him containing his address, or he himself should arrive--at any rate, you'll doubtless do me the favor to see that this note reaches him."

"Give it to me, Leah dear," said Reinhold rising. "Father, will you have another gla.s.s of wine? But you're not eating anything."

"It's not my time. And your famous dinner--Well, I'll go and look after my baggage. I've only to shut my little trunk."

He hastily rose--he evidently did not understand matters--and left the room.

Reinhold had also risen. He had put the little note which Leah had given him, in his pocket and now said: "I'll accompany you to the station of course. I must first give some business directions, but I'll come back again directly." He exchanged a significant glance with his wife, and left the room. The two women were now alone, Reginchen on the sofa in the dark corner, Leah at the window with her back turned toward the room.

"Have you nothing else for me to do, dearest Leah?" asked the little housekeeper after a pause.

"Nothing, Ginchen. What should I have? I leave no children behind, and Edwin's books require no care. The cook will water the flowers. But you--your mother--hark! Didn't the clock strike eight?"

"Seven. There's still a full hour--Leah--"

"What is it, child?"

"Have you reflected upon this?"

"What a strange question to ask? What is there to consider? A journey to my parents! one falls asleep here, and on awaking finds oneself at home."

"_At home_, Leah?"

There was no answer from the window. No one who could have obtained even a side view of the face gazing fixedly out, would have expected these compressed lips, that seemed with difficulty to repress a groan, to open for any intelligible answer.

Suddenly two arms embraced the motionless figure, and a fair head in a neat little cap nestled to the pale cheek of the silent friend. "Leah,"

whispered Reginchen's voice, "if you love me, don't do it, don't go away; it can't be the right thing; or at least speak plainly first.

What, for G.o.d's sake, _what_ has happened, to drive you away so suddenly, as if--as if you were not _at home_ here."

She covered the eyes and cheeks of the rigid face with the tenderest kisses. The next instant Leah gently released herself.

"I don't know what you mean," she said coldly. "You're childish in your anxiety about me. What should have happened? Let me alone, little goosey. I know what I'm doing only too well; that this is the best, the only thing, now I'm all alone--"

"You're right, dear Leah," they heard Reinhold's voice suddenly exclaim. "Don't listen to this foolish woman, who can't believe any one can leave home for pleasure--that's what she means by not right. But we still have half an hour; I should like to speak to you; I have a little commission to be done in Berlin, with which I didn't want to trouble Father."