BANISHED AND SAVED.
In the morning when Barefoot awoke, she saw the necklace which had been
given to her by the wife of Farmer Landfried, John’s mother, lying upon
her bed. After some moments she recollected that she had taken it out
last evening, and looked at it for a long time. When she attempted to
rise, she found that she could scarcely move. She felt as though all
her limbs were broken. She clasped her hands together, “Oh, not now!”
she cried. “Oh, God forbid that I should be ill to-day! I have no time!
I cannot be ill to-day!”
As in scorn of her body, and exerting a powerful will she arose--but
when she looked in her little glass she started back, shocked at
looking so ill. Her whole cheek was swollen. “This is thy punishment,”
she cried, “for running about the fields all night, and for wishing
to take bad men into thy council.” She struck as for punishment her
painful cheek, and then she bound it up and went about her work.
When her mistress saw how ill she was, she advised her to go to bed
again, but Rose scolded and said, it was only ill-nature in Barefoot to
be ill now, when she knew there was so much for her to do. Barefoot was
silent, but afterwards, when she was in the stable putting clover in
the rack for her cow, a cheerful voice said, “Good-morning--so early at
work!” It was his voice.
“Only a little,” she said, and bit her lip with vexation that she was
so disfigured, it would be impossible for him to recognize her.
Should she make herself known, or should she wait?
As she was milking, John asked her many questions. “Whether the cows
yielded much milk, if it was sold, or if they made butter? If any one
in the house kept the accounts, etc.?”
Barefoot trembled. It was now in her power, merely by only telling the
truth, to rid herself of her rival. But how strangely interwoven are
the threads of our actions! She was ashamed to speak ill of those with
whom she lived, although it was only of Rose she could say any thing.
The others were good. She knew also, that a servant should not speak
of the interior of the house. She merely said, “It does not become a
servant, to judge his master’s family; good-hearted they all are,”
she added, with an inward sense of justice, for, in fact, Rose was
so, in spite of her violent and overbearing temper. Now it occurred
to her, that if she were to tell him exactly what Rose was, he would
immediately depart. He would be saved from Rose, but he would be gone
forever. She went on to say, “You appear to be prudent, as your parents
also are, and you know you cannot form a judgment even of an animal in
one day. I think you should remain a little longer, and we can learn to
know each other better; and if I can serve you in any way, I will not
fail to do so. I know not, indeed, why you ask me so many questions.”
“Ah, you are a little rogue, but I like you,” said John.
Barefoot started, so that the cow drew back from her, and nearly
overturned the milk-pail.
John put his hand in his pocket, but suffered the money he was going to
draw out to fall back again.
“I will say something more to you,” said Amrie, as she turned to
another cow--“the Sacristan is an enemy to this family, which you ought
to know, if he should say any thing about them.”
“Ah, yes, I see. But one may talk safely with you. You have a swollen
face, I see, and your head bound up; that will do you no good so long
as you go barefoot.”
“I am used to it,” said Barefoot. “But I will follow your advice. I
thank you.”
They heard steps approaching. “We will speak to each other again,”
said the young man as he went from the stable.
“Thank you, swelled-cheeks,” cried Amrie after he had gone, “you have
become a mask for me; under your disguise I can speak to him as they do
in the carnival, without being known.”
It was wonderful how this inward joy had driven away the fever; she
felt weary, inexpressibly weary, and it was with mingled pleasure and
sorrow that she saw one of the servants getting ready the Berner wagon,
and heard that the farmer was going away directly with the stranger.
She went into the kitchen, and there heard the farmer in the next
room say, “If you are going to ride, John, Rose can go with me in the
chaise, and you can ride by the side.”
“Will not your wife go with us?” asked John, after a pause.
“I have an infant to nurse, and cannot leave it,” said the wife.
“Nor do I like to go driving round the country on a week-day,” said
Rose.
“Oh, nonsense! When a cousin is here, you may surely make a holiday,”
urged the farmer. He wished John to be seen with Rose as they passed
by Farmer Furchils, that he might not cherish any hope for one of his
daughters; at the same time, he knew that a little excursion in the
country would bring the young people more together than a whole week
spent in the house. John was silent, and the farmer in his anxiety
touched his shoulder and said, in an undertone, “Speak to her. If you
ask her, she will go.”
“I think,” said John, aloud, “that your sister is right, not to go
driving about the country upon a week-day. I will put my horse with
yours into the wagon, and we can see how they will go together, and by
supper-time we shall return, if not before.”
Barefoot, who heard all this, bit her lips to keep from smiling at what
John said. Ah, she thought, you have not yet put on the halter, to
say nothing of the bridle, by which you would be led away, no more to
return. She was obliged to take the band from her face; joy made her so
warm.
This was a strange day in the house. Rose related, half pettishly, the
curious questions John had asked her, and Amrie secretly rejoiced; all
that he wished to know was of things which she could have answered for
in herself. But of what use was all this? He did know her, and if he
should inquire about her, she was only a poor orphan and a servant, and
nothing could come from such circumstances. “He does not know thee,”
she said sighing, “and he will not ask.”
In the morning when they both returned, Amrie had taken the cloth
from her brow, although her chin and temple still retained the broad
bandage.
John appeared to have neither word nor glance for her. On the contrary,
his dog kept close to her in the kitchen. She fed and stroked him and
said, “Ah, yes, if thou couldst only speak, thou wouldst tell him all
the truth.”
The dog laid his head in her lap, and looked into her face with soulful
eyes; then shook his head, as though he would say, “It is hard that I
cannot speak God’s truth.”
Barefoot went into the nursery and sang to the children, who were,
indeed, asleep; but she sang all her songs, and the waltz that she
had once danced with John, she repeated the oftenest. John listened
embarrassed, and betrayed his absence in his conversation. Rose went
into the chamber and told Amrie to be silent.
Late in the evening, as Barefoot was carrying water to Mariann, and was
near the house of her parents with the full pail upon her head, John,
who was going to his inn, met her. “Good-evening,” said Amrie, in a low
voice.
“Ei, is it you?” asked John. “Where are you going with the water?”
“To Mariann.”
“Who then is Mariann?”
“A poor bedridden woman.”
“Why! Rose told me there were no poor in the village.”
“Only too many. But Rose certainly only said it, because she thought it
a disgrace to the village to have many poor. She is good-natured you
may readily believe, and gives willingly.”
“You are a good advocate. But do not stand still with that heavy pail.
May I go with you?”
“Why not?”
“You are right, you are going upon a good errand, and are protected.
Beside, you need not be afraid of me.”
“I am not afraid of any one, and least so of you. I have seen to-day
that you are good.”
“How so?”
“When you advised me how to get rid of my swelled face. It has helped
me. I now wear shoes.”
“That is right that you take advice so readily,” said John much
pleased, and the dog appeared to remark his satisfaction, for he jumped
upon Amrie and licked her hand.
“Come away, Lux,” said John.
“No! let him stay,” said Barefoot, “we are already good friends. He has
been with me in the kitchen; all dogs love me and my brother.”
“So you have a brother?”
“Yes,--and might I venture to ask a favor of you; you would earn a
reward from heaven, if you would take him as a servant. He would serve
you faithfully.”
“Where is your brother?”
“There in the forest. He is at present a coal-burner.”
“We have little wood, and, indeed, no coalery. He would suit me better
as a herdsman.”
“That he could easily be. But here is the house.”
“I will wait till you come out,” said John.
Amrie went in to place the water, lay up the fire again, and to make
Mariann’s bed afresh for her. When she came out John was waiting for
her, and the dog sprang to meet her. They stood long together under
the service-tree, whose branches rocked, and whose leaves whispered
above them, and they talked of many things. John praised her sense and
prudence, and at length said, “If you wished to change your service,
you would just suit my mother.”
“That is the greatest praise a man could give me,” said Barefoot.
“I have already a remembrance from her.” She related to him the
circumstance that took place in her childhood, and they both laughed,
when she said, “Dami never would forget that his mother had promised
him a pair of leather breeches.”
“He shall have them,” said John.
They walked back together into the village, and John gave her his
hand when he wished her good-night! He went reflecting with confused
thoughts to his lodgings in the Heathscock Inn.
Barefoot found, the next morning, that her swollen cheek had vanished
as though under a charm. Cheerful songs were heard all day through
house and court, stall and shed. To-day something must be decided.
To-day John must declare himself. Rodel would not allow his sister
to be any longer the subject of remark, when, perhaps, nothing might
result from it.
Indeed, the whole day, John sat in the house with Rose, who was
sewing upon a man’s shirt. Towards evening the farmer’s father and
mother-in-law and some other friends came in.
It must be decided!
In the kitchen the roast meat hissed, the pine wood snapped, and
Barefoot’s cheeks burned with the fire from the hearth, fanned by the
deeper heat of inward burning. Raven Zacky went up and down, in and
out, as though full of business, and smoked Farmer Rodel’s pipe as
though he had been at home.
“It is then all decided!” Barefoot said to herself sorrowfully.
It had become night again, and many lights were burning throughout the
house. Rose, gayly dressed, went from parlor to kitchen, but did not
prepare any thing. An old woman who had formerly been cook in the city,
was hired to get ready the supper. All was now ready.
The young farmer’s wife said to Barefoot, “Now go up and put on your
Sunday dress.”
“Why should I do so?”
“Because you must wait at table, and you will get a better present.”
“I had much rather remain in the kitchen.”
“No--do as I bid you--and make haste.”
Amrie went into her chamber, and weary to death, she threw herself
down for a minute upon her trunk. Oh, she was so weary, so tired, so
discouraged. Could she only fall asleep and never wake again! But her
duty summoned her, and scarcely had she taken her Sunday dress in her
hand, when joy awoke in her heart, and the glow from the evening sky
which threw a clear beam into the humble garret room, trembled upon the
heightened color of Amrie’s cheek.
“Put on your Sunday dress.” She had only one, and that was the dress
she had worn at the wedding in Endringen. Every fold and rustle of
that garment awoke the memory of the dancer, and the joy she had felt
in that dance. But the night soon sank into the room, and as Amrie
fastened her dress in the darkness, her joy vanished and timidity
returned. She said to herself, “that as she dressed herself to do honor
to John, she would show that she prized his family also,” and she put
on the necklace, the present from his mother.
So Amrie came down from her chamber adorned as she was at the dance in
Endringen. Rose cried, “What is this? Why have you dressed yourself
thus? Why have you put your whole fortune on your back? Is it a servant
who puts on a necklace? Go, instantly, and take it off.”
“No! that I will not, for his mother gave it to me when I was a little
child, and I wore it when I danced with him at Endringen.”
They heard a noise upon the steps, but Rose continued, “So you
good-for-nothing creature; you, who would have perished in rags if we
had not taken pity on you--and now you will take away my bridegroom
from me!”
“Do not call him so before he is,” said Amrie with a strange, faltering
voice; and the old cook cried from the kitchen, “Barefoot is right, a
child should not be named before he is christened. He will meet with
misfortune else.”
Amrie laughed, and Rose shrieked--“Why do you laugh?”
“Why should I cry?” said Amrie. “Indeed I have reason enough; but I
will not.”
“Wait, I will show you what you must do,” shrieked Rose, beside
herself--“so--and so.” She had torn Amrie down to the ground, and
struck her in the face.
“Oh, let me go, let me go!” cried Amrie, “I will undress myself,”--but
Rose without this promise had stopped, for, like a spectre sprung from
the ground, John stood before her.
He was pale as death--his lips quivered, and he could not bring out a
word. He laid his hand protectingly upon Barefoot, who was yet upon the
ground.
Amrie was the first who spoke. She cried, “John, believe me, she was
never so before--never in her whole life. I am to blame.”
“Yes, you are to blame! But come, go with me. And wilt thou be mine?
Wilt thou? I have at last found you without seeking for you. And now
you will remain with me. Will you not, and be my wife? It is God’s
will!”
What mortal eye has ever looked steadily upon the lightning from
heaven? Wait for it ever so firmly, when it comes it blinds the human
eye. There are lightnings also in the eyes of men, that no one can
look upon. Such was the lightning now from Barefoot’s eyes. There
are also emotions in the human heart that no one can at the moment
understand--they rise far above the earth, and cannot be caught by
others. A lightning glance of ecstasy, as though heaven opened upon
her, flashed from Amrie’s eyes; then she covered her face with both
hands, and the tears gushed forth between her fingers. John still held
his hand upon her.
All the friends collected about them, and looked astonished at what was
passing.
“What is the matter there with Barefoot? What has happened?” said
Farmer Rodel, coming forward.
“So you are called Barefoot,” said John, laughing merrily; and again he
urged, “Come, say only that you will be mine. Say it here where there
are witnesses who will establish it. Say yes, and death only shall
divide us.”
“Yes--death only shall divide us,” and she threw herself upon his neck.
“Take her instantly from this house,” shrieked Rodel, foaming with rage.
“Ah, yes,” said John, “that you need not have said. But I thank you,
cousin, for your hospitality, which, if you will come to us, we will
gladly return.” Then pressing with both hands his head, he cried,--“Oh,
God--Oh, mother! mother! How wilt thou rejoice!”
“Go up, Barefoot, instantly, and take away your trunk. Nothing of yours
shall remain another hour in the house,” said Rodel.
“Yes, but with less noise,” said John. “Come, Barefoot, I will go up
with you. But tell me, what is your real name.”
“Amrie.”
“I was once to have had an Amrie! Huzza! Huzza! Come, I will see your
chamber--the chamber where you have lived so long--but soon you shall
have a larger house.”
The dog went round and round Rodel with bristling, erect hair; no doubt
he saw that the farmer would willingly have throttled his master; and
only when John and Barefoot reached the top of the stairs did Lux
follow them.
John left the trunk, for he could not take it upon his horse, and
packed every thing belonging to Barefoot in the sack inherited from her
father; she all the time telling him what wonders had already occurred
in connection with that sack; but to her, all the world had come
together in one moment, and was a thousand-yeared wonder. She looked
on, astonished, when John seized her writing-book, preserved from her
childhood, and with joy kissed it, exclaiming, “This will I bring to my
mother; she foresaw this. Ah, there are yet miracles in the world!”
Barefoot asked no further. Had not all that had happened to her been
a miracle? As she knew that Rose would instantly tear up her flowers
and throw them into the street, she passed her hand caressingly over
the plants, till she felt it cooled with the night dew. She went down
with John, and as she was leaving the house, she felt a silent pressure
of her hand in the dark. It was the farmer’s wife, thus bidding her
farewell!
Upon the threshold where she had so often dreamily leaned, she laid her
hand upon the door-post and said, “May God restore to this house all
the good it has done to me, and forgive, as I do, all the ill.” But
scarcely had she gone a few steps when she exclaimed, “Oh, dear! I have
forgotten all my shoes. They stood upon an upper shelf.” The words were
hardly out of her mouth, when the shoes came flying after her upon the
street.
“Run in them to the devil,” cried a harsh voice, which was nevertheless
the voice of Rose.
Barefoot gathered up her shoes, while John took the sack upon his back,
and thus they went together to the inn. The moon shone as clear as
day, and the village lay quiet in the moonlight. Barefoot would not
remain in the inn.
“I would much rather go on,” said John.
“I will remain with Mariann,” said Amrie. “It is my parents’ house, and
you will leave your dog with me. Come, Lux, you will stay with me? I
fear, to-night, they may do me some mischief.”
“I will watch before the house,” said John, “but it were better that we
went on immediately; why would you remain here?”
“Oh! above all, I must go to Mariann. She has been a mother to me, and
I have not seen her this whole day. I have done nothing for her to-day,
and she is very ill. Ah, it is cruel that I must leave her all alone!
But what can I do? come with me to her.”
They went hand in hand together, through the sleeping moonshine. Not
many steps from her parents’ house, Amrie stood still and said, “Look!
here thy mother gave me the necklace and a kiss.”
“Ah! here is another, and another!” Blessedly the lovers embraced each
other. The service-tree rustled all its leaves above them, and from the
forest the nightingales’ sweetest tones joined in the harmony.
“Ah! that is enough. Now you must go with me to Mariann. Oh, how she
will rejoice, as from the seventh heaven!”
They went into the house together. When Amrie opened the door of the
room, the moonbeam as the sun once before shone upon the head of the
angel upon the stove, and it appeared to smile upon them. Barefoot
cried with loud joyful voice: “Mariann! Mariann! Wake up! Here is
joy--blessing and joy--Wake up! Wake up!”
The old woman arose in her bed. The moonbeam fell upon her face and
neck. She opened her eyes wide and asked, “What is it? What is it? Who
calls?”
“Rejoice, rejoice! I bring you my John!”
“My John,” shrieked the old woman. “My John! Oh, God, my son? How
long--how long! I have thee! I have thee! I thank thee, oh! my God!
A thousand and a thousand times! Oh, my child, I see thee at last! I
see thee with a thousand eyes, a thousand times over! There, there thy
hand! Come close, come close! There in that chest is thy portion! Take
my hand! My son! My son! Yes, yes--it is my son! John, my son, my dear
son!” She laughed convulsively, and fell back in her bed. Amrie and
John had been kneeling at her bedside, and as they rose and bent over
her, the old woman breathed no more.
“Oh, God, she is dead! Joy has killed her,” cried Amrie. “She took thee
for her own son. She died happy, then! God be praised! Oh, how every
thing goes! All in this world!”
She sank down by the bed and wept and sobbed bitterly. At length John
raised her up, and Barefoot closed the eyes of the dead. They stood
long, silently together, by the bed. Then Amrie said, “I will wake some
one in the village to watch by her. How good God has been. She had no
one to take care of her after I had gone, and God has given her the
greatest joy in her last moment. Oh, how long she had waited for this
joy!”
“Yes! But now you can stay here no longer,” said John. “Now you will
come with me, and we will go on immediately.”
Barefoot waked the wife of the Sacristan, and sent her to Mariann. She
was herself so wonderfully self-possessed, that she charged the woman
to have Mariann’s flowers planted upon her grave, and not to forget to
place her hymn-book, and that of her son, beneath her head, as Amrie
had always promised her.
As at last every thing was placed in order, she turned to John and
said, “Now all is ready, but forgive me, thou good soul, that I have
brought you to this miserable scene, and forgive me also, that I am
now so sad. I see that it is all good, and that God has done all for
the best, but the shock is yet in all my limbs. I tremble from head to
foot--for death is a frightful thing. You would not believe how much
my thoughts and my fears have dwelt upon it. But now it is all well.
I shall soon again be cheerful, for am I not the happiest bride on
earth?”
“Yes, you are right!” said John. “But come, now we will go. Will you
sit with me upon the horse?”
“Yes, is it the white horse that you rode at Endringen?”
“Certainly--the same.”
“And, oh, for Farmer Rodel. Did you know he sent to Lauterbach for
a white horse, to induce you to come to the house? Gee, whoa! White
horse, go again home!” she cried, almost cheerful again. And so from
thought and emotion, they returned again to common every-day life, and
learnt again to know and feel the blessedness of their lot!
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