Stories by English Authors: Germany Part 14

She drew herself up as if Jupiter had suddenly armed her with his thunderbolts. If Charlie had seen her at this moment he would have quailed. He might by chance have told the truth, and confessed that all the wicked things he had been saying about woman's affection were only a sort of rhetoric, and that he had no sort of intention to flirt with poor Franziska, nor yet to extinguish and annihilate Dr. Krumm.

The heartbroken boy was in very good spirits at dinner. He was inclined to wink. t.i.ta, on the contrary, maintained an impressive dignity of demeanour; and when Franziska's name happened to be mentioned she spoke of the young girl as her very particular friend, as though she would dare Charlie to attempt a flirtation with one who held that honour. But the young man was either blind or reckless, or acting a part for mere mischief. He pointed the finger of scorn at Dr. Krumm. He asked t.i.ta if he should bring her a yellow fox next day. He declared he wished he could spend the remainder of his life in a Black Forest Inn, with a napkin over his arm, serving chopins. He said he would brave the wrath of the Furst by shooting a capercailzie on the very first opportunity, to bring the s.h.i.+ning feathers home to Franziska.

When t.i.ta and I went upstairs at night the small and gentle creature was grievously perplexed.

"I cannot make it out," she said. "He is quite changed. What is the matter with him?"

"You behold, madam, in that young man the moral effects of vulpicide. A demon has entered into him. You remember, in 'Der Freischutz,' how--"

"Did you say vulpicide?" she asks, with a sweet smile. "I understood that Charlie's crime was that he did _not_ kill the fox."

I allow her the momentary triumph. Who would grudge to a woman a little verbal victory of that sort? And, indeed, t.i.ta's satisfaction did not last long. Her perplexity became visible on her face once more.

"We are to be here three weeks," she said, almost to herself, "and he talks of flirting with poor Franziska. Oh, I never meant that!"

"But what did you mean?" I ask her, with innocent wonder.

t.i.ta hangs down her head, and there is an end to that conversation; but one of us, at least, has some recollection of a Christmas wager.

IV--CONFESSIO AMANTIS

Charlie was not in such good spirits next morning. He was standing outside the inn, in the sweet, resinous-scented air, watching Franziska coming and going, with her bright face touched by the early sunlight, and her frank and honest eyes lit up by a kindly look when she pa.s.sed us. His conscience began to smite him for claiming that fox.

We spent the day in fis.h.i.+ng a stream some few miles distant from Huferschingen, and Franziska accompanied us. What need to tell of our success with the trout and the grayling, or of the beautiful weather, or of the attentive and humble manner in which the unfortunate youth addressed Franziska from time to time?

In the evening we drove back to Huferschingen. It was a still and beautiful evening, with the silence of the twilight falling over the lonely valleys and the miles upon miles of darkening pines. Charlie has not much of a voice, but he made an effort to sing with t.i.ta:

"The winds whistle cold and the stars glimmer red, The sheep are in fold and the cattle in shed;"

and the fine old glee sounded fairly well as we drove through the gathering gloom of the forest. But t.i.ta sang, in her low, sweet fas.h.i.+on, that Swedish bridal song that begins:

"Oh, welcome her so fair, with bright and flowing hair; May Fate through life befriend her, love and smiles attend her;"

and though she sang quietly, just as if she were singing to herself, we all listened with great attention, and with great grat.i.tude too. When we got out of Huferschingen, the stars were out over the dark stretches of forest, and the windows of the quaint old inn were burning brightly.

"And have you enjoyed the amus.e.m.e.nt of the day?" says Miss Fahler, rather shyly, to a certain young man who is emptying his creel of fish. He drops the basket to turn round and look at her face and say earnestly:

"I have never spent so delightful a day; but it wasn't the fis.h.i.+ng."

Things were becoming serious.

And next morning Charlie got hold of t.i.ta, and said to her, in rather a shamefaced way:

"What am I to do about that fox? It was only a joke, you know; but if Miss Fahler gets to hear of it, she'll think it was rather shabby."

It was always Miss Fahler now; a couple of days before it was Franziska.

"For my part," says t.i.ta, "I can't understand why you did it. What honour is there in shooting a fox?"

"But I wanted to give the skin to her."

It was "her" by this time.

"Well, I think the best thing you can do is to go and tell her all about it; and also to go and apologise to Dr. Krumm."

Charlie started.

"I will go and tell her, certainly; but as for apologising to Krumm, that is absurd!"

"As you please," says t.i.ta.

By-and-by Franziska--or rather Miss Fahler--came out of the small garden and round by the front of the house.

"O Miss Fahler," says Charlie, suddenly,--and with that she stops and blushes slightly,--"I've got something to say to you. I am going to make a confession. Don't be frightened; it's only about a fox--the fox that was brought home the day before yesterday; Dr. Krumm shot that."

"Indeed," says Franziska, quite innocently, "I thought you shot it."

"Well, I let them imagine so. It was only a joke."

"But it is of no matter; there are many yellow foxes. Dr. Krumm can shoot them at another time; he is always here. Perhaps you will shoot one before you go."

With that Franziska pa.s.sed into the house, carrying her fruit with her.

Charlie was left to revolve her words in his mind. Dr. Krumm could shoot foxes when he chose; he was always here. He, Charlie, on the contrary, had to go away in little more than a fortnight. There was no Franziska in England; no pleasant driving through great pine woods in the gathering twilight; no shooting of yellow foxes, to be brought home in triumph and presented to a beautiful and grateful young woman. Charlie walked along the white road and overtook t.i.ta, who had just sat down on a little camp-stool, and got out the materials for taking a water-colour sketch of the Huferschingen Valley. He sat down at her feet on the warm gra.s.s.

"I suppose I sha'n't interrupt your painting by talking to you?" he says.

"Oh dear, no," is the reply; and then he begins, in a somewhat hesitating way, to ask indirect questions and drop hints and fish for answers, just as if this small creature, who was busy with her sepias and olive greens, did not see through all this transparent cunning.

At last she said to him, frankly:

"You want me to tell you whether Franziska would make a good wife for you. She would make a good wife for any man. But then you seem to think that I should intermeddle and negotiate and become a go-between. How can I do that. My husband is always accusing me of trying to make up matches; and you know that isn't true."

"I know it isn't true," says the hypocrite; "but you might only this once. I believe all you say about this girl; I can see it for myself; and when shall I ever have such a chance again?"

"But dear me!" says t.i.ta, putting down the white palette for a moment, "how can I believe you are in earnest? You have only known her three days."

"And that is quite enough," says Charlie, boldly, "to let you find out all you want to know about a girl if she is of the right sort. If she isn't you won't find out in three years. Now look at Franziska; look at the fine, intelligent face and the honest eyes; you can have no doubt about her; and then I have all the guarantee of your long acquaintance with her."

"Oh," says t.i.ta, "that is all very well. Franziska is an excellent girl, as I have told you often--frank, kind, well educated, and unselfish. But you cannot have fallen in love with her in three days?"

"Why not?" says this blunt-spoken young man.

"Because it is ridiculous. If I meddle in the affair I should probably find you had given up the fancy in other three days; or if you did marry her and took her to England you would get to hate me because I alone should know that you had married the niece of an innkeeper."

"Well, I like that!" says he, with a flush in his face. "Do you think I should care two straws whether my friends knew I had married the niece of an innkeeper? I should show them Franziska. Wouldn't that be enough?