With these words, Blanden had concluded his story. Without, the morning already lay sparkling over land and sea; Blanden started as a chance glance in the mirror showed him his own worn-out reflection.
Doctor Kuhl had merely interrupted his friend's tale now and again by a question or a remark, now he flung his finished cigar aside with the words, "The poor child!"
"And can you see no means of escape?" asked Blanden.
"No, one may bid defiance to laws, but not to one's personal feelings."
"Never have I been so helpless," cried Blanden, "so desperately helpless; I wander about like a criminal; I dare not approach either the mother or the daughter. May she learn the truth? What excuse is offered for my withdrawal, for behaviour that looks like a public insult?"
"Write a couple of lines to her now," said Kuhl, "but not all at once. The dose would be too severe. Leave the rest to the mother. And now go and sleep, my friend; you need a few hours' refreshment. I will forget the follies of human life, and simultaneously with the fire of the young sun plunge into the ocean tide. Until we meet again!"
The mother, after a violent attack of spasms, had fallen asleep.
Eva watched beside her bed; torn, its flowers crushed and mingling with her dishevelled locks, the blue-bell wreath hung around her brow; as if in mockery, the music of the interrupted feast resounded from afar; an old clock on the wall ticked second after second, and to Eva it seemed as if with each second her age increased by days, with each half hour by years, as though her life were running down with the noisy mechanism of the clock.
She put her hand to her burning temples; yes she must have become old, very old, during that night!
And was her mother not still young and beautiful--still now even, as she lay there with distorted features, with scorching breath, with violent throbbings of her pulses, in fevered dreams?
Eva gazed with infinite emotion upon the sleeping woman. All fond pictures of her childhood rose before her mind: she saw herself sitting at the window that looked out over meadow and river, her mother explained the pictures in her picture books; she still saw that lovely smile hover around those lips when they read aloud some merry verse which interpreted a gaily-coloured scene; then she saw herself with her mother in the evening light, in whose reflection the rafts glided along the river, and because everything was so beautiful and full of repose outside, and equally beautiful and calm her mother's countenance, she kissed and embraced that fondly beloved one with heartfelt fervour in a feeling of gratitude that knew no bounds, as though she must thank her mother for the glorious evening, and for every joy in her young life.