Arms and the Woman Part 15

Gretchen laughed a merry laugh. The laugh said: "You are an amusing person!"

"Ah, the American is always after legends when he has tired of collecting antiquities. Was there a Princess born here? Perhaps. At any rate it is not a legend; history nor peasantry make mention of it.

Will Herr be so kind as to carry the ladder to the mantel so I may wind the clock?"

I do so. Even at this early stage I could see that Gretchen had the faculty of making persons forget what they were seeking, and by the mere sound of her voice. And it was I who wound the clock.

"Gretchen," said I, "time lags. Make a servant out of me this morning."

"Herr does the barmaid too much honor," with lowered eyes.

"I, am in the habit of doing anything I please."

"Ah, Herr is one of those millionaires I have read about!"

"Yes, I am very rich." I laughed, but Gretchen did not see the point.

"Come, then, with me, and you shall weed the k.n.o.blauch patch."

She was laughing at me, but I was not to be abashed.

"To the patch be it, then!" I cried. "An onion would smell as sweet under any other name."

So Gretchen and I went into the onion patch, and I weeded and hoed and hoed and weeded till my back ached and my hands were the color of the soil. Nothing was done satisfactorily to Gretchen. It was, "There, you have ruined the row back of you!" or "Pull the weeds more gently!"

and sometimes, "Ach! could your friends see you now!" I suppose that I did not make a pretty picture. The perspiration would run down my face. I would forget the condition of my hands and push back my hair, which fell like a mop over my brow, whereat she would laugh. Once I took her hand and helped her to jump over a row. I was surprised at the strength of her grasp.

"What does Herr do for a living, he works so badly as a gardener?"

"I am a journalist," I answered, leaning on my hoe and breathing heavily.

"Ach! one of those men who tell such dreadful stories about kings and princes? Who cause men to go to war with each other? Who rouse the ignorant to deeds of violence? One of those men who are more powerful than a king, because they can undo him?" She drew away from me.

"Hold on!" I cried, dropping the hoe; "what do you know about it?"

"Enough," sadly. "I read the papers. I always look with fear upon one of those men who can do so much good, and yet who would do so much evil."

I had never looked at it in that light before.

"It seems to me, Gretchen," I said quietly, "that you are about as much a barmaid as I am a weeder of k.n.o.blauches."

The color of excitement fled from Gretchen's cheeks, her eyes grew troubled and she looked away.

"Gretchen has a secret," said I. "It is nothing to me what Gretchen's secret is; I shall respect it, and continue to think of her only as a barmaid with--with a superior education." I shouldered the hoe.

"Come, let us go back; I'm thirsty."

"Thank you, Herr," was the soft reply. Then Gretchen became as dumb, and our return to the inn was made in silence. Once there, however, she recovered. "I am sorry to have put you at such a disadvantage,"

glancing at my clothes, which were covered with brown earth.

"Let that be the least of your troubles!" I cried gayly. Then I hummed in English:

So, ho! dear Gretchen, winsome la.s.s, I want no tricky wine, But amber nectar bring to me, Whose rich bouquet will cling to me, Whose spirit voice will sing to me From out the mug divine So, here's your toll--a kiss--away, You Hebe of the Rhine!

No goblet's gold means cheer to me, Let no cut gla.s.s get near to me-- Go, Gretchen, haste the beer to me, And put it in the stein!

I thought I saw a smile on her lips, but it was gone before I was certain.

"Gott in Himmel!" gasped the astonished innkeeper, as I went into the barroom. I still had the hoe over my shoulder.

"Never mind, mein host. I've been weeding your k.n.o.blauch patch as a method of killing time."

"But--" He looked at Gretchen in dismay.

"It was I who led him there," said Gretchen, in answer to his inquiring eyes.

A significant glance pa.s.sed between them. There was a question in his, a command in hers. I pretended to be examining the faded tints in the stein I held in my hand.

I was thinking: "Since when has an innkeeper waited on the wishes of his barmaid?"

There was a mystery after all.

CHAPTER IX

I took my pipe and strolled along the river bank. What had I stumbled into? Here was an old inn, with rather a feudal air; but it was only one in a thousand; a common feature throughout the Continent. And yet, why had the G.o.ds, when they cast out Hebe, chosen this particular inn for her mortal residence? The pipe solves many riddles, and then, sometimes, it creates a density. I put my pipe into my pocket and cogitated. Gretchen had brought about a new order of things. A philosophical barmaid was certainly a novelty. That Gretchen was philosophical I had learned in the rose gardens. That she was also used to giving commands I had learned in the onion patch. Hitherto I had held the onion in contempt; already I had begun to respect it.

Above all, Gretchen was a mystery, the most alluring kind of mystery--a woman who was not what she seemed. How we men love mysteries, which are given the outward semblance of a Diana or a Venus! By and by, my journalistic instinct awoke. Who are those who fear the newspapers?

Certainly it is not the guiltless. Of what was Gretchen guilty? The inn-keeper knew. Was she one of those many conspirators who abound in the kingdom? She was beautiful enough for anything. And whence came the remarkable likeness between her and Phyllis? Here was a mystery indeed. I had a week before me; in that time I might learn something about Gretchen, even if I could solve nothing. I admit that it is true, that had Gretchen been plain, it would not have been worth the trouble. But she had too heavenly a face, too wonderful an eye, too delicious a mouth, not to note her with concern.

I did not see Gretchen again that day; but as I was watching the moon climb up, thinking of her and smoking a few pipes as an incense to her shrine, I heard her voice beneath my window. It was accompanied by the ba.s.s voice of the inn-keeper.

"But he is a journalist. Is it safe? Is anything safe from them?"

came to my ears in a worried accent, a ba.s.s.

So the inn-keeper, too, was a Socialist!

Said an impatient contralto: "So long as I have no fear, why should you?"

"Ach, you will be found out and dragged back!" was the lamentation in a throaty baritone. Anxiety raises a ba.s.s voice at least two pitches.

"If you would but return to the hills, where there is absolute safety!"

"No; I will not go back there, where everything is so dull and dead. I have lived too long not to read a face at a glance. His eyes are honest."

"Thanks, Gretchen," murmured I from above. I was playing the listener; but, then, she was only a barmaid.

"And it is so long," went on the contralto, "since I have seen a man--a strong one, I wish to see if my power is gone."

"Aha!" thought I; "so you have already laid plans for my capitulation, Gretchen?"