The moonlight was so bright across the clock that it showed the time,
and its tick was solemn, as though the minutes were marching slowly by.
There was no other sound in the room except the breathing of Conrad, who
lay in shadow, sleeping heavily, his head a black patch among the
pillows. Mary's hair looked like gold in the pale light which reflected
in her open eyes. She had been lying so, listening to the tick and
watching the hands, for hours.
When they marked eleven she began to stir; her feet made no more sound
than shadows; the cold air struck her body like a strange element.
Conrad did not move as she went into the kitchen and softly closed the
door. She groped her way to the chair where she had left her clothes and
put them on, wrapped herself in a shawl, and slipped out.
There was no snow, but a keen cold as befitted the night of the 24th of
December, and between two fields the ice on the Northkill glittered. The
air was so clear that far away appeared the great black barrier of the
mountains. Across the sky, as across deep water, was a radiance of
light, serene and chill,--of clouds like foam, of throbbing stars, of
the moon glorious in her aura. In the towns at that hour the people were
ready to begin the coming day with prayer and the sound of bells: here
sky and earth themselves honored the event with light and silence in a
majestic expectation.
As she made her way over the frozen grass she looked as detached from
the world's affairs as some shrouded lady at her nightly journey along a
haunted path. The great Swiss barn was dead silent; its red front,
painted with moons and stars, looked patriarchal; it had its own
pastoral and dignified associations. She hesitated at the middle door,
then she lifted the wooden bar and pushed it back cautiously. The
darkness seemed to come out to meet her, and when she had shut herself
in she was engulfed as though the ready earth had covered her a few
nights too soon.
The straw rustled when she stepped on it, and she was afraid to risk a
movement, so she crouched and made herself small. The air was thick and
pungent, freezing draughts played upon her through the cracks of the
door, and her foot tingled, but she did not move. After a while she saw
two luminous disks which halted, glared, and approached, and she patted
the furry body until it curled up on her skirt and lay there purring.
She felt it grow tense at a tiny squeak and scuttle, but she kept still.
More than half an hour had gone when something happened. A horse
stamped, a cock set up a sudden chatter, the cat leaped to a manger, and
a cow scrambled to her feet. The darkness was full of movement,--wings
fluttered, timbers shook under kicking hoofs and rubbing hides, tossed
heads jarred the rings that held them fast. Then from the corner in
which stood the splendid yoke of black oxen, the pride of the farm,
there came a long, deep sound, as of something primeval mourning.
Two minutes after, Conrad was roused by a noise in the kitchen. The
house door stood wide, showing a great rectangle of moonlight, there was
a rush of cold air, and his bare foot struck Mary, doubled up where she
had fallen. He shouted, and an old woman ran in with her gray hair
flying.
"Conrad!" she exclaimed, almost in a scream.
"I don't know," he answered. He had his wife in his arms and held her
out like a child showing a broken toy.
The old woman bethought herself first. "Take her in and lay her on the
bed," she ordered. While she worked he began to hurry on his clothes,
moving as though he were stupid; then he came up to the bed.
"Aunt Hannah, what has she?" he begged. She gave him a look, and he
suddenly burst into a great storm of tears.
"Hurry!" she said. "Take Dolly and a whip and go to Bernville first. If
the doctor isn't home, go along to Mount Pleasant; but bring a doctor.
Ach!" she seized his hand in her excitement.
Mary's eyes were opening--blue, wide, and terrified. "Don't take Dolly,"
she said, quite loud. "Dolly knows too much." Then her eyes closed
again.
Conrad went into the kitchen, still sobbing, and the old woman followed.
"I must take Dolly," he whispered. "Aunt Hannah, for God's sake, what
has she?"
"I don't know what she means about Dolly. Maybe I can find out till you
get back. She'll soon come to. You better be careful going out of the
barnyard. It might worry her if she hears the hoofs."
The young man checked his crying. "I take her through the fields," he
said, and went out softly.
In the light of the candle which contended with the moonbeams Hannah's
wrinkled face looked witchlike as she bent over the bed. Presently Mary
started and her eyes searched the room with a terrified stare; she
seemed to be all at once in the midst of some dreadful happening.
"Aunt Hannah," she exclaimed, "don't let them come for me!"
The old woman bent over her. "How do you feel?" she asked, in her soft
and friendly Dutch.
"Don't let them come!"
"Nobody comes, Mary. It is all right, only you are not so good. After
while somebody is coming. Then you are glad!"
"Keep them out! I don't want to go!"
"You don't go off; you stay right here with me and Conrad."
"They said--"
"Who?"
"The oxen."
Hannah's hand shook, but she still spoke reassuringly. "Were you in the
barn, Mary?"
"Yes. You know how it is said that on Christmas eve, twelve o'clock, the
animals talk. I thought so much about it, and I made up my mind to go
and hear what they had to say. I was in the middle stable that's empty,
and I waited, and all of a sudden--" She stopped, trembling.
"Just don't think about it," Hannah urged, but she went on:
"All of a sudden--Dolly stamped--and they all woke up--the cows and the
sheep, and the cat was scared and the big rooster cackled,--and then the
oxen--Ach, Aunt Hannah! One of them said, 'They will carry out the
mistress in the morning.'"
"You don't go, for all," the old woman soothed her. "Think of who is
coming, Mary. That's a better thing to think about. It's so lucky to
have it on Christmas day. She will have good fortune then, and see more
than others."
The pinched face grew bright. The trembling soul was not to go out
alone before, becoming a part of the great current of maternity, it had
had the best of what is here.
"I take such good care of her. I look after her all the time," said
Mary.
* * * * *
The sun was gone, but the west was still as pink as coral and the
twilight gave a wonderful velvety look to the meadows. In the rye-fields
the stalks, heavy-headed already, dipped in the wind which blew the last
apple-blossoms about like snow. A row of sturdy trees grew along Conrad
Rhein's front fence, and there was a large orchard in the rear. The log
house was just the color of a nest among the pale foliage.
The place was so quiet that the irritable note of a couple of
chimney-swallows, swooping about in pursuit of an invisible purpose,
sounded loud. Hannah Rhein looked up from the small stocking she was
knitting to watch them. Her secular occupation was contradicted by her
black silk "Sunday dress," and there was a holiday appearance about the
little girl who sat very still, looking as though stillness were
habitual with her.
"You better run out to the gate. Maybe you can see them," Hannah said.
The child went, and stood looking down the road so long that she rolled
up her knitting and followed. "There they are!" she exclaimed. "Father
and Aunt Calista. Don't forget to give her a kiss when she gets out."
Conrad Rhein's austere face expressed no pleasure as he stepped from the
carriage and helped his companion, but she was not to be depressed by a
brother-in-law's gravity. Calista Yohe, moving lightly in her pink
delaine dress, resembled the prickly roses coming into bloom beside the
gate, which would flourish and fade imperturbably in accordance with
their own times and seasons. At present she looked as though the fading
were remote. She shook hands joyfully and seized the carpet-bag which
Hannah had taken.
"I guess I don't let you carry that," she said. "It's heavy."
The little girl put up her face, and Calista kissed her without speaking
to her, and went on talking:
"You are right, Dolly is hot. We drove good and hard. Conrad didn't want
to do it to give her the whip, but I don't like to ride slow. Let's sit
on the porch awhile."
The child placed her bench near the old woman's chair, but she watched
the young one admiringly. Calista did not notice her.
"How are the folks?" Hannah asked.
"They are good."
"Had they a big wedding?"
"I guess! It was teams on both sides of the road all the way down to
where you turn, and they had three tables. She wore such a nice dress,
too; such a silk it was, with little flowers in."
"How did it go while you were there?"
"Oh, all right; she's a nice girl and he and I could always get along;
but it wasn't like my home. If a man gets married once, he doesn't want
his sister afterwards," Calista said, cheerfully.
"Well, you stay here now. We are glad to have you. Conrad he is quiet
and I am getting along, so it's not such a lively place, but I guess you
can make out."
"Well, I think!" said Calista, "I like to work. Is Conrad always so
crabbed? He hardly talked anything all the way over."
"He hasn't much to say, but he is easy to get along with. He doesn't
look much to anything but the farm."
"Doesn't he go out in company?" Calista asked, eagerly.
"Once in a while, but not often. He doesn't look for that any more."
Hannah sighed and stroked the child's head, which rested against her
knee, and the movement caught Calista's eye.
"She favors Mary," she said. "All that light hair and her white skin.
That's a pretty dress she has on." She stooped and examined the blue
merino. "Did you work that sack?"
"No, I had it worked. I think she looks nice. Conrad bought her those
blue beads for a present. She was so glad."
"Does she always wear white stockings?"
"When she is dressed. Conrad he wants it all of the best."
"Does he think so much of her?"
"He doesn't make much with her; he is not one to show if he thinks much;
but would be strange if he didn't. And as well off as he is, and no one
to spend it on!"
Calista looked out through the orchard and across the fields of rye and
wheat over which the spring night was falling. "He has a fine place for
sure," she said. "He takes long in the barn."
"I guess he went off," said Hannah, peacefully.
"I didn't see him leave."
"It may be he went to Albrecht's."
"Who are they? Young people?"
"Yes. John Albrecht he is about Conrad's age, and his wife was such a
friend to Mary. They have two little ones come over sometimes to play
around."
"Is that all in the family?"
"His mother; she lives with her, a woman so crippled up she can't walk."
Calista looked as satisfied as a strategist who finds himself in control
of a desired situation: its difficulties made her spirits rise. Her eyes
wandered about and fixed upon the child again. "She gets sleepy early
for such a big girl," she said. "Wasn't she five on Christmas?"
"Yes. She wanted to see you, so I let her stay up to-night; and anyhow I
didn't want to be sitting up-stairs when you got here."
"Do you sit with her evenings?"
"Till she goes to sleep. If you leave her in the dark she is so scared I
pity her, and I don't want her to get excited. I have no trouble with
her other times. She listens to me, and she is real smart to help; she
can pick strawberries and pull weeds, and she always enjoys to go along
for eggs. She is like her father, she hasn't much to say. She will run
around in the orchard and play with her doll-baby the whole day, and
she is pretending all the time."
The little girl opened her eyes, very blue with sleep. With her rosy
color and the white and blue of her little garments she looked like a
cherub smiling out of the canvas of a German painter,--the soft
companion of an older and more pensive grace. Hannah watched her
tenderly.
"Now come, Mary, we go to bed," she said.
"I guess I'd make such a fuss with that child and sit with her nights!"
Calista thought, her prominent hazel eyes following in rather a catlike
fashion. They followed in the same way more than once during the next
few weeks. She would brush the little girl's hair when Hannah was busy,
or call her to a meal, but at other times she passed her by. At first
Mary was inclined to pursue the pretty stranger, and on the second
evening she ran up to her to show the results of the egg-hunting, but
she never did it again.
She was the only one whom Calista failed to please. The neighbors who
came to visit soon returned, and on Saturday night there were three
carriages at the gate and three young men in the parlor. Conrad did not
pay much attention to her, but one day he told her that one of her
admirers was "not such a man that you ought to go riding with," and she
said: "All right. It was two asked me to go to-night. I take the other
one." She went through the work singing, and Hannah sat on the porch
more than usual, and began to wonder how she had gotten on so long
alone.
Calista had been there only a few weeks when Hannah said at supper one
evening: "I guess I go to see your aunt Sarah, Conrad. It's six years
since I went. I couldn't leave the work before, but now Calista gets
along so good I can go a little."
"Just do it," said Calista, heartily. "Mary and I can keep house."
The child smiled and made a timid movement.
"All right," Conrad said. "I take you to the stage any time."
Mary cried when Hannah went, and the old woman was distressed. "I feel
bad to leave her," she said. "I would take her along if I had time to
get her ready."
"Ach, go on!" Calista said, laughing. "There is Conrad now with the
team. Mary will have good times. She can stem the cherries this
morning." She picked up the little girl and held her out to kiss her
aunt. "Don't you worry," she called, as the carriage started.
She came out on the back porch presently with a large basket of
ox-hearts.
"Now let's see how smart you can be," she said. "Sit down on the step
and I put the basket beside you. Pick them clean." Mary looked rather
frightened at the size of the task, but she set to work. She stemmed and
stemmed until her hands were sticky and her fingers ached. A thick
yellow sunbeam came crawling to her feet; the flies buzzed, diving
through the air as though it were heavy; the cat beside her slept and
woke. It seemed to the child that she had always been in that spot and
that there would never be anything but a hot morning and piles of
shining cherries. She was looking toward the orchard where her swing
hung empty when Calista hurried by the door. "Have you done them all?"
she called. "Not? Well, then you finish them quick."
The cherries lasted until dinner-time, and when that was over Mary
climbed on her father's bed and slept all afternoon. When she came out
the first thing she saw was the egg-basket piled full. "If you want to
go along for eggs you ought to be here when I am ready," said Calista.
The little creature made no noise, but her father looked at her hard as
he sat down to supper. "What's the matter?" he asked.
She did not answer, and Calista said, "Oh--!" with the peculiar German
inflection of contemptuous patience. Conrad said no more.
After supper Mary wandered out, and her aunt had to call her several
times. "Where were you?" she asked.
"Down there." The child pointed to the orchard. "A lady was there."
Calista went to the edge of the porch and shaded her eyes. "I don't see
her," she said. "Who was she?"
"I don't know."
"Did you never see her before?"
"No, ma'am."
"What did she look like?"
Mary thought hard, with the puzzled face of one who lacks words and
comparisons to convey an image that is clear enough. Calista walked a
little way into the orchard, then she looked up and down the road.
"Wasn't it Mrs. Albrecht?" she asked. "Well, I guess it makes nothing.
Come, you must go to bed. I stay with you." With a mocking expression
she held out her hand as to a very small child, and the little girl
walked into the house without a word, not noticing the hand.
When she was asleep Calista came back to the porch with some sewing.
Conrad appeared from the barn, stood about for a moment, and strolled
toward the orchard; then he walked in the garden for a while; finally he
sat on the step with his back to her, saying nothing and looking at the
sky. She preserved the silence of a bird-tamer.
"It's a nice evening," he said at last.
"Yes."
"Good weather for hay."
"Yes, fine."
"One field is about ready to cut. You better tell Aunt Hannah to come
home. It's too much work for you, with the men to cook for."
"Just you let her stay and enjoy herself. I get along all right."