THE HORSEMAN.
In the evening of the same day that John had ridden forth from
Zusmarshofen, Raven Zacky came to Farmer Rodel’s, and sitting with him
in his back room, read a letter to him in a low voice.
“A hundred dollars, crown dollars, I must have when the thing is
settled, and promised in writing too,” said Raven Zacky.
“I should think fifty were enough--that is a good bit of money.”
“No, not a groschen less than a round hundred--but then I make you a
present of double the sum; I do it willingly for you and your sister.
I could get in Endringen, or in Siebenhöfen, as much again. Your Rose
is a respectable farmer’s daughter; that cannot be denied--but for any
thing else they might ask she is not remarkable. What are a dozen such
worth?”
“Be silent--no more of that.”
“Yes, yes, I will be silent, and not disturb your writing. Now give me
the receipt.”
Farmer Rodel knew whom he had to deal with, and after he had written he
said, “What do you think; shall I tell Rose about this?”
“Indeed, it were best, but she must not let it be known to any one
in the place. We all have enemies. You and your sister no less than
others. Take my advice; tell Rose to wear her every-day dress, and to
milk the cows when he is here. I will introduce him to your house. You
have read what Landfried writes--‘that he has his own peculiar notions,
and would be off at once if he saw that any preparation had been made
for him.’ This very evening, you must send to Lauterbach for your
brother-in-law’s white horse. I will send the wooer with the broker to
look at the horse. Take care that you do not betray yourself.”
As soon as Raven Zacky had gone, Rodel called his wife and sister into
the back room, and told them, with strict orders to keep it secret,
that in the morning a suitor would come for Rose; a man like a prince,
who had a farm such as there was not a second in the country--in one
word, the son of Farmer Landfried of Zusmarshofen. He then gave them
the advice of Raven Zacky, and recommended the strictest secrecy.
After supper, Rose could not refrain from asking Barefoot if she would
not go with her as a servant when she was married; she would double her
wages, and then she need not go across the Rhine to work in a factory.
Barefoot gave an evasive answer, for she was little inclined to go with
Rose. She knew, beside, that she had some other motive in asking the
question. In the first place, she wanted to show her triumph, that she
had a suitor in view, and then she wanted Barefoot to take charge of
her housekeeping, with which she troubled herself very little. Barefoot
would have willingly done this for a mistress she loved, but not for
Rose; and if she once left her present service, she would go into a
factory with her brother.
As Amrie was going to bed, her mistress called her and intrusted her
with the secret, adding, “I know you have always been patient with
Rose; but now be doubly so, that there may be no noise in the house
while the expected suitor is here.”
“Yes, certainly, but I think it wrong that she should only this once
milk the cows. That will be deceiving the young man--beside, she cannot
milk.”
“Thou and I--we cannot alter the world,” said her mistress, “and I
think you have trouble enough of your own. Let others do as they will.”
Barefoot laid down with heavy thoughts, that people should thus,
without conscientious scruples, deceive each other. She knew not,
indeed, who the deceived might be, but she pitied the poor young man,
and it seemed still worse, when she thought, “Perhaps Rose will be as
much deceived in him as he is in her.”
In the morning, when Barefoot looked early from her window, she started
back as though she had suddenly received a blow. “Oh, heavens, what
is that?” She rubbed hastily her eyes, and looked again--then asked
herself whether she were not dreaming? “Ah, no! there is the horseman
who was at the Endringen wedding. He is coming to the village! He is
coming for me! No, he does not know me! But he shall know. Ah! no! no!
What am I thinking of? He comes nearer and nearer! He is here! But he
does not look up!” A full-blown pink falls from Amrie’s hand over the
window-sill, and strikes upon the mantle-sack of his horse, but he does
not see it--it fell upon the street, and Barefoot hastened down to
recover the treacherous signal. And now the fearful thought struck her,
that he is Rose’s suitor--that he it is whom she meant last evening.
She did not mention his name, but it can be no other! None! He is the
person to be deceived! In the stable, upon the green clover which she
had gathered for the cows, she knelt down and prayed fervently to God,
to save him from becoming the husband of Rose. That he should become
her own, she ventured not the thought; she could not indulge the hope!
Soon as she had finished milking, she hastened to Mariann to ask
her what she should do. Mariann was lying severely ill. She had
become extremely deaf, and could scarcely understand a connected
sentence, and Barefoot could not venture to shriek the secret which
she had partly trusted, and which the old woman had partly guessed,
so loud that people in the street might hear. Thus she had to return
uncounselled to her home.
She was obliged to go out into the fields, and stay the whole day,
planting. At every step she hesitated, trembled, and was on the point
of going back to tell the stranger every thing. Yet a feeling of duty
to her employer, as well as calmer reflection, held her to her task. If
he is so inconsiderate as to act without reflection, then he cannot be
helped; he will deserve no better. Engaged is not married. With this
she consoled herself--but she was all day uneasy. When she returned in
the evening to milk the cows, Rose sat with a full bucket before a cow
that had already been milked, and sang in a voice loud and clear, while
she heard the stranger in the neighboring stall consulting the farmer
about a white horse. But whence comes this white horse? Hitherto they
had none. Then the stranger asked, “Who is that singing?”
“That is my sister,” said the farmer. Hearing this, Amrie sang the
second part, thinking it would induce the stranger to ask whose was the
other voice? But her singing prevented her from hearing the question,
although he did really ask. As Rose went with her full pail across the
court-yard, where they were still looking at the horse, the farmer
said, “There--that is my sister. Rose, be quick! and see what there is
for supper. We have a relation for a guest. I will soon bring him in.”
“And the little girl who sang so well the second part,” asked the
stranger, “is she, also, your sister?”
“No, that is only an adopted child. My father was her guardian.” The
farmer very well knew, that such a benevolent action would give a good
report to a family, and therefore he avoided calling Barefoot a servant.
She was secretly rejoiced that the stranger had noticed her. If he is
prudent, she justly thought, he will inquire of me about Rose, and then
if the knot is not tied, he can at least be preserved from ill fortune.
Rose carried up the supper, and the stranger, not knowing that he was
expected, was much astonished that so excellent a guest’s repast could
be prepared at such short notice. Rose made excuses, saying, “He was
no doubt accustomed to much better fare at home.” She imagined, not
unwisely, that any thing complimentary to one’s home, was always well
received.
Barefoot remained in the kitchen to prepare every thing for Rose’s
hand. Again and again she besought her to say who the stranger was.
“Pray, Rose, tell me who he is? What is his name?” Rose gave her no
answer. At length the mistress solved the riddle by saying, “You should
know already--it is Farmer Landfried’s son John, from Zusmarshofen. Is
it not true, Amrie, that you have a remembrance from his mother?”
“Yes, yes!” said Barefoot. She was obliged to sink down upon the
hearth; her knees wholly failed her; she would otherwise have fallen.
How wonderful was it all! He was the son of her first benefactress!
“Now I must indeed help him,” she said to herself, “and if the whole
village should stone me for it, I can endure it.”
The stranger went forth; they would have followed him, but upon the
steps he turned again and said, “My pipe has gone out. I would rather
kindle it myself with a coal in the kitchen.” Rose pressed in before
him, and standing exactly before Amrie, who sat by the fire, she gave
him a coal with the tongs.
Late in the night when all were asleep, Barefoot left the house, and
ran up and down through the village, seeking some one whom she could
trust to warn John. But she knew no one. “Hold! There dwells the
Sacristan--but he is an enemy to Farmer Rodel, and would bring out
all the scandal. Go not to an enemy of thy master, much less of thy
own, and thou hast enemies enough since the sitting of the parish
council about Dami! Ah, Dami? He can do it. Why not? One man can speak
to another. He can reveal all. Then John--that is his name--will not
forget the service--then Dami will have an advocate. A good one--a
man--perhaps a whole family. Then he will succeed. Ah, no! Dami dare
not show himself in the village. Was he not expelled? But there is
Mathew? He can do it. Perhaps Dami may.”
Thus her thoughts wandered,--swift,--as she herself ran through the
fields, not knowing where; and it was frightful to her, as it always
is to those who know nothing of the world or of themselves. She was
frightened at every sound; the frogs in the pond croaked fearfully;
the grasshoppers in the meadow chirped scornfully, and the trees
stood, so black in the dark night. Towards Endringen there had been
a thunder-storm, and flying clouds hastened across the sky, through
which blinked the stars. Barefoot hastened from the fields into the
forest. She would go to Dami. She must at least speak with some one.
She must hear a human voice. “How dark it is in the forest! Was that a
bird that twittered? Like the black-bird when he at evening flies home
and sings, ‘I come, come, come, come home; come quick, come quick.’
And now the nightingale struck in--so breathless, so from the inmost
heart--welling, sparkling, softly rippling, like a wood fountain, that
from the deepest source wells forth.”
The longer she wandered, the more she became involved in the wreaths
and sprays that wound confusedly about her feet in the wood, as her
plans became confused in her head. “No,” she said at last, “it will
come to nothing--you had better go home.” She turned, but wandered
long after in the fields. She no longer believed in wandering lights,
“Will-o’-the-wisp,” but to-night it seemed to her that she was led
hither and thither, and impelled to follow them. She began to feel that
she had been all night barefoot in the night dew, and that fever burnt
in her cheeks. Bathed in perspiration, she reached at last her bedroom.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]