The next few days proved how little he was in a position to live on his
own estate without her services. He was far more dependent on her than
she on him. Helpless as a shipwrecked mariner on a desert island, he
stole about the ancestral grounds. Though the mines and wolfs'-traps no
longer dogged his steps, finding his way among the chaos of smoked and
tumbling walls made him giddy, and decay had altered everything so
much, that the landmarks of his childish memories afforded him no
assistance. Even the park, where once he had known every tree and bush,
through long years of neglect, had become such a wilderness that at
every step he nearly lost himself in it.
When the first flush of his defiance and despair had subsided, the
question arose, "What was he to do next?" It was a problem that pressed
for solution, as the miserable rations of bread and meat in the cellars
were running out.
His pride prevented his seeking advice from Regina; he had not spoken
to her again. Apparently she understood the wisdom of making herself
scarce. But when he returned of a morning from the river, where he went
for a bath, he found the red-flowered counterpane of the canopied bed
neatly arranged, the floor swept, and strewn with sand and fragrant fir
spikes, and saw awaiting him on the gold-legged table (the fourth leg
of which was propped up with a brick) a steaming brown coffee-pot, and
dainty slices of black bread lying beside it.
His shyness at taking food from her hands had soon to be got over. At
first he had still hesitated a little to break bread that she had
brought him, but it looked so appetising, and bathing in the cold
autumn mornings sharpened his hunger, that at last his scruples had
gone to the wall.
At midday, a soup made of bread, and slices of roast meat, stood ready
for him, not to mention a bottle of good wine; and in the evening, by
some clever stratagem, another meal of a different character was
contrived out of the same unpromising materials. Thus she knew how to
keep house with nothing but the scanty larder he had found in the
cellar at her disposal.
He often saw her whisk past the window with pots and kettles, on her
way to wash them in the river. When she came back she would cautiously
peer with her lustrous eyes through the shrubs, to ascertain whether
the coast was clear. If he happened to be at the door, or looking out
of the window, she would immediately disappear in the wood.
She made the gardener's former workshop her domain. One morning when he
had watched her go down to the river, he went in to look at it. He
found a low, sloping room, with a roof composed of old greenhouse
frames. The green, dusty, lead-bordered panes were much cracked, and in
places let in the winds and rains of heaven. The ground was neither
floored nor paved, but covered with a dark moist garden soil resembling
peat. Attached to the walls were rude wooden shelves, once used by the
gardener for his flower-pots. They now held all the house's scanty
stock of crockery. Pots, plates, and dishes were arranged on them in
perfect order, and had been polished till they shone. A blackened door
off its hinges, evidently rescued from the fire, supported by two
wooden boxes about two feet from the ground, was spread with straw and
a haircloth, of the kind that are thrown over the backs of horses to
protect them from cold. This was her bed--"Many a dog has a better," he
thought. The brick fireplace was in the opposite corner; a home-made
contrivance of beams was meant to guide the belching smoke from the
hearth into its proper channel, but only partially succeeded.
In this smoky hole, with its cold damp floor, she was domiciled, and
desired nothing better. Here her heart was centred as in a dearly
cherished Paradise. Poor, wretched woman! and to be driven forth from
it meant to her death and perdition.
And then one evening she disappeared. He had at last made up his mind
to speak to her about the provisions, and went to call her. No answer
came. The kitchen was empty. He sought her in the park, among the
ruins, on the bridge, all over the island, but there was no sign of
her. Her name rang clearly out through the night air as he called her,
and had she been anywhere about she must have heard it. He became
suspicious. Probably after the hard work of her lonely days, she took
it out at night in the arms of a swain. She was, of course, well versed
in the arts of vice, and would not scruple to yield herself to the
embraces of some rustic gallant. Many of her persecutors below may have
desired the body they stoned. How otherwise could her obstinate
adherence to her present miserable mode of living, after his father's
death, be explained, except by the existence of a new sin--a sin which,
perhaps, had long been carried on hand-in-hand with the old. He was
filled with loathing and disgust at the thought.
"If she can't behave herself, I'll pack her off early to-morrow
morning;" and with this resolution he retired to rest. But he could not
sleep for thinking of what the future would be without her. To send her
away would involve going himself the same day.
At about six o'clock he was awakened out of a doze by a stealthy
opening of the outer door. He got up and dressed himself quickly,
determined to call her to account without loss of time. He entered the
kitchen and found her on the hearth with inflated cheeks, blowing the
pine logs she had just set alight into a flame.
She turned on him slowly, her eyes big with astonishment, and said,
"Good morning, _Herr_."
He trembled in angry excitement. "Where have you been all night?" he
thundered.
Her arms fell to her sides, and she shrank away terrified.
"Tell me at once."
"Ah, _Herr_," she stuttered, hanging her head, "I thought you wouldn't
notice I had gone, and that I should be back before the _Herr_ was
awake----"
"So, if I don't _notice_, you amuse yourself by running about all
night?"
She had retreated still farther from him.
"But--but--I was obliged to go," she said, stammering painfully. "There
was scarcely anything at all left--and--and the _Herr_ has eaten
nothing but salt meat for so long."
The scales fell from his eyes.
"You went, then, to fetch food?"
"Of course, _Herr_. I have brought veal and fresh eggs and butter--and
sausage and lots of things. It's all in the cellar."
"Where did you get it?"
"Oh, I told you, _Herr_--in Bockeldorf. I know a grocer there, who gets
ready a supply of what we want beforehand, and when I knock at nights
he lets me in at the back door. Not a living soul besides his wife
knows. And he's not very dear. Herr Merckel, down in the village,
charges a thaler a pound for meat, and swears at me into the bargain."
"And you have walked six miles there and back to-night, and carried all
those heavy parcels?"
Still frightened, she regarded him with surprise.
"I think you know, _Herr_, that I can do it, for I told you so before."
"But it's a physical impossibility. Don't lie to me, girl. From my
experience during the campaign, I know how much fatigue a _man_ can
stand."
Now that she saw he was no longer angry she dared to draw herself to
her full height. She exhibited her powerful arms proudly, and exclaimed
with a pleased smile--
"I can stand more than any man, _Herr_, else I should be no good at
all."
"For how long have you been going on these journeys, Regina?"
"For five years, _Herr_. Every week. Sometimes oftener. In summer it's
child's play. But in autumn and winter, when the snow lies two feet
thick in the wood, or when the meadows are flooded, it's no joke. But
there's one thing to be thankful for, the nights are long then, and at
least no one can see you. And I'd a hundred times rather walk the six
miles than go to that beast--I beg pardon, I mean Herr Merckel--who
takes a thaler for a pound of meat. Isn't that abominable? And in the
village----"
She paused suddenly, as if she feared being scolded for talking too
much.
"What were you going to say, Regina?" he asked in a kindlier tone.
"Oh, nothing, but I should like to beg the _Herr's_ pardon for having
gone without leave. But I thought he might perhaps like a change for
breakfast--a fresh egg----"
"Never mind, Regina," he said, turning away; "you are a good girl."
He went down to the river to bathe. When he came back he found his room
tidied as usual, only the coffee was not there.
"She is so tired out that she's fallen asleep," he thought, and
resigned himself to wait. At least, she should not be reprimanded any
more to-day.
But in consequence of his bath he was bitterly cold, and found he could
not forego the customary warm beverage much longer. So, in order not to
wake her he went on tiptoe into the kitchen to see to the fire himself.
But she was not asleep, though at the first glance it looked like it.
She sat on the edge of her couch, motionless, with her hands before her
face. Now and again a quiver passed through her frame, a symptom of the
sleep of exhaustion. Yet on regarding her closer, he saw that
glistening tear-drops were falling through her red, plump fingers, and
her breast was shaking with gurgling sobs.
"What's the matter, Regina? Why are you crying?"
She did not answer, but her sobs became louder.
"Have I hurt your feelings, Regina? I shouldn't have scolded you if I
had known where you had been."
She let her hands fall from her face, and looked at him with eyes
swollen from weeping.
"Ah, _Herr_!" she said in a voice half choked by tears. "No
one--ever--called me that before; and--it's not--true."
His mood changed and became harsh again. He was not conscious of having
used any abusive epithet. It was too ridiculous of this creature, who
was accustomed to being hounded about from pillar to post, to pretend
to be thin-skinned and fastidious.
"What isn't true?" he demanded.
"What you said."
"What did I say? Good heavens!"
"That I--I was a good----" She broke again into convulsive sobs that
stifled her voice.
He shook his head, perplexed at her distress. He had never looked very
deeply into the most complex problems of the human soul, and did not
know that even dishonour has its code of honour. Laughing, he laid his
hand on her shoulder.
"Don't cry any more, Regina; I meant no harm. And now get my breakfast
ready."
"May--I--bring it in?" she asked, still sobbing.
"Do you want me to come and fetch it?"
"I only thought I mightn't--" She moved to the hearth and began blowing
the smouldering fire, using her tear-stained cheeks as bellows.
After that she was no longer shy of entering his room when he was
there. Ever anxious to forestall his wishes, she seemed to read his
countenance without a question passing her lips.
Boleslav had found, in the recesses of the cellar in which money and
wine were stored, great masses of papers stuffed into chests, where
chaos reigned supreme. They contained the whole of his father's
correspondence, deeds, and documents of every description. His first
search among them had brought to light nothing less important than his
aunt's last will and testament, in which her Excellency bequeathed to
Boleslav von Schranden, the only son of her favourite niece, the whole
of her fortune, "to compensate him for the wrong," so ran the clause,
"from which he would suffer to the end of his days."
Boleslav's pleasure at first was not great; it was only when he
considered that here was a weapon put into his hand to use in the
coming struggle, that he began to appreciate the value of the gift. He
scarcely gave a thought to the giver, who had always been kindness
itself to him, so hardened had he become, so completely was his mind
engrossed by contemplation of the grim work that it was his duty to
carry on.
If only he could have seen a way clear before him, which he could have
pursued instantly, without looking to the right or left, with the
impetuous zeal characteristic of his nature! But for months the
prospect must be one of paralysing hopeless inaction. The war which he
had determined to wage against the Schrandeners must be conducted on an
ambitious scale, if it were not to end in the pitiful failure that had
soured and impoverished the last years of his father's life. It would
need an army of workmen to inspire the serfs, who had so long run wild,
with new respect. And where were these to be engaged, when there was
not a soul in the neighbourhood who would not have disdained to enter
his service? But nearly everything is attainable with money, and
doubtless many a swaggering patriot, who now spat at the mention of his
name, could be brought, cringing and servile, to heel, by the bribe of
a triple wage. Only, for this his means were not sufficient. The cash
that at the first glance had seemed such vast wealth, proved, on nearer
calculation, to be wholly inadequate to float his scheme. It was 4500
thalers, left from outstanding debts, that the old baron had hastily
saved from the conflagration, when the whole world must have appeared
to him to be melting into flame. For the sort of existence that,
following his father's example, he was now leading with Regina, such a
sum would last for years; but for the project he had in view, it was a
mere drop in the ocean.
Before the discovery of the will he had with a heavy heart entertained
the idea of offering the fine old timber, which had been the pride of
his ancestors, for sale, and to dispose of it below its value if the
need arose. Now he had abandoned the plan as impracticable. Granted
that he could find a market for it as easily as he hoped, it must be
months before the actual cash came into his hands. Besides winter was
at hand, one of those severe East Prussian winters, when work in the
open air is out of the question. For this year at least neither
building nor ploughing was to be thought of. Why, then, make a
sacrifice which with a little patience might be avoided altogether? If
on the first of April he claimed his legacy, and was able with full
pockets to enlist workers in his service, by May the building would be
in full swing, and possibly the ground ready for the sowing of crops.
But till then--till then--! How would he be able to support the barren
monotony of grey winter days spent in enforced and dreary idleness when
his hands were burning to be at work? How endure the thought that his
beloved was in the near neighbourhood and he unable to ask her the
fateful question on which his life and happiness hung? Would she wait?
Would she forgive? Would she steel her heart against the atmosphere of
hate and slander that surrounded her, and so keep her affection for him
unchanged?
The Madonna in the cathedral came back to him. He wondered if she still
resembled it. If only for one moment he might have gazed into her face!
There was a white and red mist before his eyes; he saw lilies and
roses, and a radiant virgin figure bending over them with a smile, but
the features of the girl he had loved he could only dimly recall.
Veiled from his sight, perhaps she was destined to be the invisible
guardian-angel who was to watch over his endeavours till his work was
completed, when she would set the crown to it by revealing herself. He
became gradually reconciled to the thought, and ceased to yearn for a
meeting; and one word or sign to assure him that his hopes in her
constancy were not ill-founded would have more than satisfied him.
More and more he buried himself in the chaos of papers, which seemed to
increase instead of diminish, in spite of his arduous sifting. The
yellowed parchments stood in great piles against the wall of his
sitting-room, reaching higher than the head of his beautiful
grandmother, and yet in the vaults there still remained chests and
boxes full, untouched. The whole archives of the family seemed to have
been gathered together at a moment's notice, and hurled into a place of
safety without the slightest regard to method or arrangement. Out of
this confusion he wanted to find documents relating to the property,
which were important, not to say indispensable. Among others, were
missing those that concerned agreements with the emancipated peasants
relating to land boundaries. The _canaille_ below were certain to have
grabbed from the domain that had become ownerless, more than their
legal share. He saw how law-suits would have to be fought over almost
every inch of ground, and he must be able to back his claim with
irrefragable documentary proof.
Nevertheless he felt an insuperable aversion to appealing to the
courts. The picture of his father, as he had seen him the last time
alive, stood out vividly in his memory; the ostracised baron, who had
been bold enough to seek the aid of the law, had then found every door
closed in his face. Truly Prussia at that time was not itself. The
walls of the State were tottering to their foundations, and the rats
were having it all their own way. But what guarantee was there that the
son of such a father would find the ear of justice less deaf to his
appeal? The law had shifts and resources in plenty by which an
unpopular person could be rendered powerless to benefit by its help,
and he did not doubt that he would fall a victim to such casuistry. His
deserted and forlorn position so distorted his view of things that law
and order took the form of wild beasts lying on the drawbridge in
ambush for their prey. Even his military duties had no interest for him
now. Lieutenant Baumgart was on the list of killed. Why trouble the
authorities with the work of his resurrection? They would not thank him
for it.
A text from the Bible came into his mind: "His hand shall be against
every man, and every man's hand against him." The curse that
accompanied Hagar's son through life, he by dint of stubborn defiance
would turn into a blessing.
Weeks went by, but he hardly observed the flight of time. He sat
immersed day after day in his papers, wandering forth of an evening to
stumble about the ruins, or to take a walk in the overgrown park. There
was only one place he carefully avoided. That was the path which led to
the Cats' Bridge. When he chanced to find himself nearing it, his heart
beat quicker, and he would hurry breathlessly by the shrubs that
concealed it from view. Yet he was tormented by a grim desire to stand
on the scene of the disaster, a desire which at length became almost
irrepressible.
It was one evening towards the end of September when, for the first
time since his return home, the moon was full. He roamed restlessly in
the glades of the park, the dry leaves rustled at his feet, and the
autumn wind shook the branches of the trees. The moonbeams shimmered on
the grass like flocks of white sheep. Before him the shrubs rose in a
dark, jagged line of wall. An impulse of sinister curiosity suddenly
got the better of the superstitious repugnance that had hitherto held
him back, and he plunged through the thicket that, with a sort of
protecting air, hid the path. The descent to the river was steep,
almost perpendicular, and the mirror-like surface of the water was
entirely concealed by alder-bushes. A faint rippling and splashing
below fell mysteriously on his ear. From the top of the precipice a
railed plank shot boldly out into mid-air. A rude scaffolding, planted
firmly in the rock of the precipice, supported it with iron bars. On
the opposite bank the trunk of a giant oak formed the support. In the
middle there was a yawning gap of from ten to twelve feet. Like two
arms longingly outstretched but never meeting, the planks branched
forth on either side above the abysmal depths.
If they had never reached each other the crime would never have come to
pass. But an easier job for a joiner could not be conceived. The plank
on this side had two loose boards, which, by means of a wedge, could
easily be pushed across; and the position of the hand-rail, by being
unhinged, could also be reversed. Everything seemed to have been
arranged expressly to facilitate the treacherous transaction. As a
memorial of eternal shame, the dark, crude structure loomed out through
the white mists of the brilliant night.
Beneath, the splashing from the invisible river grew more pronounced.
It sounded as if its waters were still foaming with rage at the deed
that so long ago had been enacted near at hand, and which death itself
could not consign to oblivion.
Like a man in a dream, he stepped on to the plank, and looked down on
the silver surface, which seemed to be emitting myriads of diamond
sparks. Then he beheld the figure of a woman, who stood up to her knees
in the water, with her skirts pinned round her waist. It was Regina,
doing her washing, and wringing out the articles among the sandbanks
and osiers.
His brows contracted. That he should encounter her _here_ of all
places! But in common justice he was obliged to admit it was not her
fault. Whenever she could she avoided him, and he had no reason to
complain that he saw too much of her.
He leant absently on the railing and watched her. She had no idea that
he was anywhere in the neighbourhood. She bent low over the water, the
muscles in her neck and arms strained by her exertions, and shook the
wet clothes with a will, sending up a spray of glistening drops. From
time to time she chanted the song on two notes, that he had heard her
hum while digging the grave, breaking off abruptly when the water
spurted into her nose and mouth.
What a hard worker she was! He had imagined her long ago gone to bed,
and here she was instead, at this time of night, washing as if her life
depended on it!
She started in alarm. His foot had disturbed some small pebbles, which
fell splashing into the water close to where she stood. Her first
thought was that some one was lying in wait for her among the shrubs,
and she moved suspiciously nearer the opposite bank. When at last it
occurred to her to look up at the Cats' Bridge, she gave a startled
cry.
"Don't be frightened, Regina," he called down to her. "I am not going
to hurt you."
Whereupon she returned calmly to her washing.
"How do you get down there?" he asked.
She wiped her face with her naked arm. "I'm a good climber," she said,
looking up at him for a moment with blinking eyes.
"Doesn't the water freeze you? So late in the year, too!"
She made some response that he did not understand. He was curious to
see how she would clamber up the steep declivity with her burden, so
remained where he was and continued to watch her.
In a few minutes she packed up her washing and climbed on the bank. The
moonlight cast a flashing halo round the masses of her hair, which
to-day had been combed till it was almost smooth. She looked as if she
wore a coronet. With one shy glance to ascertain that he was still
standing there, she dived into the shrubs, and he saw her dart rapidly
from branch to branch with the agility of a wild-cat. At the top she
let down her skirts, and would have flown with her basket, had he not
called her back.
"Why do you do your washing at night?" he inquired, making an effort to
look friendly disposed towards her.
"Because in the daytime they give me no peace."
"The villagers?"
"Yes, _Herr_."
"What do they do to you?"
"What they always do--throw things at me."
"Over the river?"
"Yes, _Herr_."
"The next time any one assaults you, come and fetch me."
She did not answer. "Do you understand?" She folded her hands, and
looked at him beseechingly.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Please, _Herr_, don't shoot at them," she stammered. "They like you to
do that. He--the _gnaediger Herr_, I mean--tried it once. Then they
began to shoot too, from the other side, and there was firing here and
firing there; the wonder was no one got shot. Don't you see, if they
get into the habit of carrying guns about with them always, they are
certain to hit me one day, for I'm obliged to go off the island
sometimes?"
It was the longest and most sensible speech he had as yet heard from
her lips. He had not suspected the existence of so much thoughtful
wisdom behind that low brow, in its frame of wild hair.
"You are right, Regina," he replied. "For your sake I must forbear from
provoking them."
He saw in the moonlight a dark flush suffuse her face.
"For my sake, _Herr_?" she said hesitatingly. "I don't quite understand
what you mean, _Herr_."
"Oh, well, never mind," he answered evasively. "What I wanted to ask
you, Regina, was--are you satisfied in my service? can I do anything to
make you more comfortable?"
She stared at him in dumb amazement.
"You mustn't think, Regina," he went on, "that I am unfriendly. My mind
is occupied with many things, and I prefer to be quite alone with my
troubles. So if I don't speak to you often you will understand how it
is."
Her eyes drooped. Her hands fumbled for the balustrade as if seeking a
support, then the next moment she turned, and leaving her basket in the
lurch, scampered off, as if driven by furies.
"Strange creature!" he muttered, as he looked after her. "I must be
kinder to her. She deserves it." Then he leant over the balustrade
again, and gazing into the silver water fancied he saw growing there a
garden of lilies and crimson roses.