The Bride of Bullay.

A STORY OF THE MOSELLE.

It was Kirmess at Merl on the Moselle, and the little village was in an unusual stir. Its one street was lined on both sides with booths, at which every article which a German peasant could possibly desire was exposed. Some were furnished with rows of leather boots, whose thickness seemed to bid defiance to wear and tear, whilst others offered still more irresistible attractions to Teutonic Phyllises and Corydons, in the shape of bright-coloured ribbons and gaudy brooches and earrings for personal adornment, or gages d'amour.

The doors and windows of the principal inn, the Golden Eagle, were wide open, and a stream of pleasure-seekers passed unceasingly in and out. Strains of music and merry voices issuing from the hostelry assailed the ears of the crowd amongst the booths, and invited them, in a way which could not be refused, to enter. So all in turn yielded to the temptation, and, their bargains struck, went in; the young to dance, the elders to drink wine, gossip, and look on.

A young man who seemed to be a stranger stood hesitatingly and alone on the top of the inn steps. He was better dressed and had a generally superior appearance to the other frequenters of the fair. In fact, the truth was that he had been a student at the University of Bonn, and had lately come to the neighbourhood as confidential clerk to a flourishing wine merchant at the little ancient walled town of Zell, somewhat higher up the river. He was very lonely in his new life, where he missed his Burschen friends, and had not as yet progressed far in intimacy with any of the daily diners at the Belle Vue. So as this was a half-holiday with him he had strayed to the Fair at Merl, and was now standing by the inn-door, doubting whether or not he should go in.

After some few minutes' hesitation he made up his mind and entered. The rooms were crowded to overflowing, and the air reeked with tobacco, and the loud voices and heavily shod feet of the dancers made a deafening din. Our hero, however, was not delicate in these particulars, and stood his ground undauntedly. He leant against the wall, the floor beneath him vibrating to the bounds of the whirling crowd, and looked about him. His attention was soon attracted to a couple who were gyrating rapidly round and round the room, with every appearance of intense enjoyment.

"You must stop. I'm out of breath," gasped the girl, coming to a sudden standstill by his side.

Her partner, who looked as if he could have gone on for ever, was obliged to stop too. The stranger observed them more closely, and decided that the man was very much in love. As for the girl, he thought that was doubtful; but it was abundantly evident to him that if she were not, it was from no lack of endeavour on the part of the man to make her so. He felt interested in them, he hardly knew why, and experienced a certain sensation of pleasure when the girl, to his surprise, turning to him remarked:

"Mein Herr is a stranger in these parts?"

"Quite so," he replied. "I have come from Zell, where I have not been many weeks."

“That is why you do not dance ?" his interlocutor went on.

"Yes," he answered, "because I know no one; but if you would favour me

"Mit Vergnügen," she returned quickly, and in another minute they were spinning round together.

The stranger, who was called Brandt, did not fail to notice the shadow which came over the face of the discarded partner at the abrupt dismissal; nor the evidently deliberate intention of the girl to assert her independence.

They got on very well together with their dancing. The girl waltzed lightly and nimbly, and volunteered plenty of information to Brandt.

"That is Lottchen Braun," she said, "the girl with the dark eyes and yellow hair, and she's betrothed to that man at her side, Farmer Hiller, from Alf, who's old enough to be her father. And that's my especial friend Finchen Staub, who was married only three weeks ago to the schoolmaster at Pünderich; and she had her wedding-party at the Marienburg, and we came home from it by boat, and sang songs. all the way."

She was so anxious to put the stranger au courant of the domestic history of every one in the room, that it was some time before he managed to ask her who she was herself.

"Oh! I'm Lorchen Fey," she said, in answer to his inquiry; “my mother's a widow, and lives at Bullay, in the little yellow cottage by the riverside, close to where the ferry stops."

"And is that your Schatz?" He was emboldened to put the question by her readiness to give him information.

"That?-

"Who?" she asked, following the direction of his eye. That's Peter Schemmel. No, indeed, though I dare say he thinks so. Here was a plain statement of the case, and Brandt was amused, and the interest which he already felt in the girl was increased. She

was pretty too, after a German sort. She had a great quantity of fair hair, and soft light blue eyes. Though much sunburnt, her complexion was clear, and the blood came and went in her cheeks in quite a bewildering fashion. Before they separated Brandt had fully made up his mind to see her again, and possibly cultivate her acquaintance, and was therefore very ready to take the hint she gave him at parting: "Good bye, Herr Brandt" (she had asked his name), "we are going to the Marienburg on Sunday afternoon to drink a glass of wine."

Accordingly, when Sunday came, Brandt set off for the Marienburg. It is, as every one knows, the ruins of a once very important convent which, for all its ostensibly pacific character, often bade defiance to the foes of the Bishop-Elector of Trier. It was reserved, however, for the ubiquitous (ubiquitous, that is, in those regions of the Rhine and the Moselle) French to reduce it to its present state of ruin, in which those walls which once offered unflinching opposition to invading armies have now nothing fiercer to offer invading tourists and country folk than thin wine and uncooked ham. It was early in June, and the oak woods through which Brandt passed were still of a tender green. The leafy ferns waved in the soft summer air, and the scent of flowers and the hum of birds and insects delighted the senses.

The rest of the party had assembled when Brandt arrived. He was rather shy, as Lorchen Fey was the only person he knew, and the others stared at him with that absolute disregard of his feelings which characterises the pastoral manner. Lorchen was equal to the occasion, and presented him to all in succession. But the poor young man was too bewildered to gain any very clear idea of anybody or anything from her introductions. He had a confused jumble of names in his mind, that was all-of Hillers and Müllers, of Brauers and Lauers, of Linchens and Finchens, of Nettchens and Gretchens. Lorchen made room beside herself for him, and he thankfully took the proffered seat. The party was very merry, and they clicked glasses and ate raw ham and bread as if this was the first meal of their day. The only unhappy member of the group was Peter Schemmel, who scowled darkly at Brandt from the other side of the board table.

When a large quantity of wine and ham had been consumed, the assembly rose, and set off on their way homeward. They broke up into little knots of twos and threes, and Brandt found himself on one side of Lorchen, with Schemmel on the other. To Brandt, however, Lorchen addressed all her conversation, hardly vouchsafing a glance to Schemmel. The older acquaintance, notwithstanding, strode doggedly on, determined not to be routed by this upstart from towns. Indeed, when the path was too narrow for all three to walk abreast, Schemmel held his ground so firmly that Brandt was forced to drop behind.

Still, however, to the latter Lorchen addressed her remarks, turning her head that he might hear. There was a resolute look about her face which, to Brandt, flattered by her preference, seemed very bewitching; indeed, before they reached Merl, he had quite decided that he was in love with her and would win her if he could.

There were many subsequent similar meetings on Sundays and holidays, but not at all did Lorchen behave so kindly to Brandt. He on his part was more enamoured than ever, though there were days when Lorchen would treat him unkindly, hardly deigning to notice him, and making much of Peter Schemmel.

At last he determined to speak and know his fate, for he was tortured by her waywardness and could bear it no longer. They were again at the Marienburg, and on their homeward way Brandt lingered behind with Lorchen under pretence of looking at the famous view, which displays no less than seven twists of the meandering Moselle. This day Lorchen had been very gracious to him, and her demeanour had given him courage. So in the bright July evening, when the westering sun was flooding the landscape in a golden haze, just seven weeks after they had first met, the young man told his love. And Lorchen listened to him, the colour coming and going in her telltale face; and she let him take her hand, and even steal a kiss. She had been a coquette to her suitor, but she would not be coy to her avowed lover. She told him plainly that she loved him more than any man she had ever seen, and that she would willingly promise to be his wife.

They loitered so long in such happy talk that it was dark when they reached the ferry. The ferryman was not at his post, but the boat was, and Brandt pushed across. When they got to Bullay the place was beside itself. The men were chattering volubly in groups, and the women were weeping and wringing their hands. The French declaration of war had come, and a contingent from the Moselle villages was to proceed at once to Trier. Brandt, with a last squeeze of Lorchen's hand, ran off to Zell to hear if he was called. He could learn nothing that night, but the next morning he knew.

Yes! he was to go. In two days he was to be at Trier. With a heavy heart he set off to carry the sad news to Lorchen, and to urge her to consent to the betrothal taking place before he marched. The betrothal in Germany is a ceremony little less solemn and binding than marriage. It is advertised in the papers, and the contracting parties-henceforth called bride and bridegroom-exchange rings.

Lorchen consented, and the betrothal was celebrated-but not with any festivity at this sad time.

"You will write," she whispered, as she stood on the river bank at

Zell, in those few last precious minutes while the steamer that was to separate the new-made lovers was puffing up the stream.

The bitter moment came, and the tears streamed down Lorchen's cheeks. Brandt set his face like a flint: it would never do for a Prussian going to fight for Fatherland against the hated Frenchman to break down. He waved his handkerchief in farewell from the deck of the steamer till the windings of the river hid Zell from his gaze. Then Lorchen went home. The light seemed to have gone out of her sky, but she set herself bravely to her household tasks, and no one knew that she often dropped a tear on her betrothal ring.

She heard from Brandt at Trier, where he described himself as well and happy. Then came the news of the check at Saarbrücken, throwing the country into a fever of apprehension, and Lorchen into an agony of despair. Happily this sad intelligence was quickly followed by tidings of the victory of Weissenburg, and soon after a letter came for Lorchen. All was going well with her lover, who was one of the garrison of a captured town, and was in comfortable quarters. Now, as we know, began that long series of triumphs for the Prussian arms which ended fitly before the enemy's capital.

Lorchen had hoped to hear more frequently from Brandt since he was stationary; but in this hope she was disappointed, and the long summer and autumn days wore away without a line from him. This silence made her so wretched that she could hardly rejoice at her country's great victories, or join in the festivities that celebrated them. Her mother watched her closely, knowing that the girl was a prey to bitter anxiety, which might, the poor woman feared, develop the disease to which her husband and other children had fallen victims. And in truth Lorchen, eating her heart out with jealous forebodings, and wearing out her eyes with secret tears, was like the ghost of the happy Lorchen at the Merl Kirmess.

There is an old, disused, tumble-down church at Bullay, and hither in the evenings Lorchen would take her knitting, and creeping behind the building would sit on the well-worn steps, dreamily gazing with her tear-filled eyes in the direction of France. She could hear the chatter of the girls at the tree-shaded well hard by-hear but not heed. One evening, however, she had taken up her post as usual;it was almost dark, for now the days were short, and the clatter of voices from the well, lads and lasses quizzing and gossiping-broke the stillness. Lorchen's ears were with her heart, far away; but at last a sentence struck her :

"No wonder she looks ill with a bridegroom who takes no notice of her."

"Ah! yes, poor thing," said another, "if I had a bridegroom like that, wouldn't I send him to the right-about!"

"No, you wouldn't," put in a man.