III “Vergissnichtmein”
So, while they went away with this letter which was never to be mailed, old Liebereich sat by the fire in the fireplace which he had built, and rocked gently, and sang old German songs, and would not go to bed, but fell asleep there. And even in his sleep he was found singing:
“Blau ist ein Blümlein
Das heiszt Vergissnichtmein—”
None of us will ever agree with those old German wives, I think. How could old Liebereich ever be better off—how could any one—than singing old German songs by the fire and waiting for the coming of his wife—and Christmas?
And he got an answer to his letter. It told him very briefly not to worry, that she would be home at Christmas. It was signed “Emmy.”
For the wives had said among themselves that God would understand. Just as if they understood God! If He should take him, all would be well. If not, He would find a way.
It was because they thought God would understand that they had opened that pitiful letter of old Liebereich’s. He spoke of his loneliness; how he had waited for her without complaint; how, now, he could wait no longer. At the end he told her, with the imperiousness of a husband, that she must come home. They read this; they saw the childish blots; they knew where his half-palsied hands had missed the line, then recovered it; finally they read the boyish signature—with dry eyes.
Then they wrote that reply.
I hope that neither you nor I could have done this—with dry eyes.
But the night before Christmas arrived, and old Liebereich’s wife had not come. Nevertheless, he had no doubt. No one had ever lied to him except Mrs. Krantz. And he had never lied. And here was her letter. There was her name.
They came in and found him reading the letter.
“My Emmy never fooled me yit,” he told them exultingly. “She’ll come. Only she’s late a little.”
He put the letter in their eyes.
“Don’t it say she’ll be home at Christmas?”
And I hope that neither you nor I have ever had that happen to us—such a letter thrust into our eyes!
When they whispered among themselves he grew cunning, and pretended to sing, while he listened. What he heard made him think that she was already come, but was in hiding to surprise him. Something was to happen the moment he went to sleep. And he fancied that they meant to bring her in at that moment. Well, he liked that. No surprise he had ever planned himself was quite so fine. Emmy was to be his Christmas gift!
But what they had spoken about was the paleness of his old face, and how he had recently “failed.” For he could not sleep now, or eat, for watching and waiting.
And old Liebereich carried his cunning on to a desperate end. He pretended to be prodigiously sleepy. Yet, when they would have hustled him off to bed, he suddenly and savagely rebelled, stamped his feet, and put them out of the house, in a specious fury they could not withstand.
“I kin put myself to bed,” he cried happily after them. “I ain’t no dog-gone baby. I won’t be bossed in my own house!”
But the moment he had closed the door upon them he laughed.
And when he pulled down the blinds he did not know that he shut out their peeping eyes.
It all had made him tired.