"After it had lasted half an hour and more, it began to bore me. I had
no place to rest my feet on, for the water splashed about at the bottom
of the boat. When the houses of Newferry came in sight I thought to
myself, now my troubles will end, and I called out and yelled at the
top of my voice, but all in vain. The hole is called Newferry, but not
a sign of a ferry-boat was to be seen anywhere. Well, then I simplified
matters by jumping into the water."
"Girlie, you must have been possessed by a demon," he cried, half
angry, half laughing.
"So the people thought in the village," she replied; "because when I
bobbed up at the dyke they all ran away from me. It was a good thing
that I happened to know the people at the inn. They used to rent
our ... that is to say ... _the_ public-house at Halewitz."
He mentioned the name that occurred to him.
Yes. Buttkus; that was it. And then she told him of the miserable
plight she had found the house in. The woman lay in bed delirious from
fever; the landlord in desperation had resorted to the brandy bottle.
"I sent the fellow off on the spot to Muensterberg to fetch the doctor,"
she concluded, "and I shall stay here till he comes back, whether you
think that I ought or not."
And she gave him a challenging look as if she saw herself being carried
out of the place by force.
But he at once soothed her. Nothing was farther from his thoughts than
to disturb her in her noble work of charity.
"One question you must answer, however," he said.
"Well?"
"An hour ago you were here?"
"Certainly I was."
"Didn't you hear your name being called?"
She seemed embarrassed, reflected a little, and then said in a decisive
tone--
"Yes."
"And why didn't you answer?"
There was silence.
She took the kettle off the tripod and poured the water, which was
boiling, into a stewpan, from which rose the fragrant scent of elder
flowers.
"You'll allow me at least to take the woman her tea?" she said. "The
poor thing has such shivering fits."
And without waiting for his response she went out at the door, holding
the handle of the hot stewpan deftly between two fingers.
Leo devoured with his eyes the slender virginal figure in its rough
costume as it disappeared into the darkness.
He seated himself on an oak stump which, chopped up, was used for
firewood, and let his fingers idly run along the teeth of the hatchet,
turned into an instrument of gold by the flickering firelight.
The St. Bernard looked up at him with intelligent eyes.
"Like a fairy tale," she had said. And this was like being in a fairy
tale, too. The walls were covered with rough household utensils. The
huge open chimney-place was all encrusted with glittering flakes of
soot that struggled upwards in fantastic zigzag shapes, and when
loosened from the velvet cloud of smoke, rained down on to the hearth
in a shower of metallic scales. Above the fire of crackling logs, along
which the blue flames greedily felt their way before plunging into
their heart, the steaming flower-patterned blouse belonging to the
careless child wreathed the hearth with a festive-looking garland. The
quivering reflection of the flames shot up brilliantly and filled the
room one moment, the next they sank, giving place to dark shadows, his
own shadow most conspicuous, magnified to gigantic proportions on the
wall and rising to the ceiling, with a black hatchet grasped in his
hand ... a grim sentinel.
Like this shadow, he thought, holding the hatchet and waiting a chance
to bring it down, was that old sin. There was no path along which it
did not follow him. Where he was, it was, too. In this hour it would
not tolerate for a moment that he should forget it. He looked at the
clock. Ten minutes past eleven; and still there was no sound of the
carriage coming.
He rose and went out on tiptoe up to the dyke to look round. As he came
to where his mare was standing, he saw with alarm that its smoking body
was convulsed with cold shivers.
"Well to be born a landed proprietor," he reflected. "If I was my groom
this negligence would cost me my situation and bread."
Hurriedly he went back and found in a corner of the kitchen a patchwork
square such as the poor people use instead of carpet. In this he
wrapped the shaking animal, after he had dried its legs and flanks with
a towel.
Far and wide darkness and silence reigned. Only on the other side of
the stream a torchlight came and went, and reappeared in another place.
Probably nocturnal crab-catchers were abroad. The mist had thickened,
and appeared to be heavy on the river. Bluish-white tags detached
themselves now and then, and melted in the starry sky, or hung about
the bushes and shrubs, whose blurred blackness rose out of a milky
surface. He heard a soft trickling sound coming from the trees near.
The dew was falling. He shivered in his damp clothes.
"God be praised that I have got her safe," he thought, and turned back
to the house. As he stepped softly over the threshold, he fancied he
heard Hertha speaking his name. He stood still in astonishment.
"Leo ... my dear, dear, _dear_ Leo!"
He had never heard any words in his life so fervid, so full of awed and
hesitating tenderness.
But the problem was soon solved. She was sitting on the oak stump,
bending down caressing the dog whose head rested between her feet,
which were now shod in stockings and wooden shoes.
He was inwardly vexed, and laughed. But she, when she heard him coming,
sprang up with a cry as if she had been doing something very wrong.
"I was so big a blockhead for a minute," he confessed, laughing, "as to
think that was meant for me."
A fresh wave of colour swept her cheeks. Then, shrugging her shoulders,
she said, "You are mistaken."
"Yes, I always am being mistaken," he answered; and turning to the dog,
he added, "You are lucky, old boy. Your master is treated _en
canaille_, but you who are _canaille_ itself get caresses and
endearments."
"Uncle Leo," she began, with flashing eyes, "I hope that you will be
chivalrous enough, to-day at least, not to take advantage of my
helpless position to scoff at me."
"But, my dear child, ..." he said soothingly.
"Don't call me your dear child. I am not your dear child.... I am a
stranger to you, as much as any one else. I am a lonely forsaken girl,
whom you found receiving hospitality under your roof; you let her stay,
because you cannot very well tell her to go. But simply because I am
still your guest, I beg that you will not speak to me now, but go away.
Leave me to my fate. I dare say that I can find my way home, though
after that I am not quite certain what I shall do."
She stood leaning against the inglenook biting her lips, and stared at
the fire, which cast a golden glow over her flowing hair and naked
brown arms. He was quite unmanned by the loveliness of the picture.
He came close to her, and smiling into her amazed eyes, stroked her on
the forehead and cheeks three times.
She gazed up at him motionless, with half-open mouth. She seemed
scarcely to comprehend what was happening. For it was the first time
any man had ever stroked her cheek.
"What's the matter, sweet one, dearest? What have I done to you?" he
asked in a low voice, leaning over her. "Tell me why you rage so
furiously against me."
She tried to speak, but her lips would not obey. She wanted to guard
herself, but her arms sank to her sides.
"Listen," he continued, "I delight in you, every hour that I see you.
Every day you grow dearer to me. You are the sunshine of the house, but
you keep up your feud with me, just as if I were positively your
arch-enemy, or God knows what monster."
She shut her eyes, and swayed as if she must lie down and fall asleep.
"And look here," he began again. "If I have teased you a little now and
then, you must take it in good part. While I have been away, all of you
have just got into the habit of doing what you like. But I want to
inculcate method and order; and you, too, my dear child, I would have
fall in with my rules. And that won't be so difficult, for I shall
require nothing very dreadful of you. Will you agree? Say yes, please.
Do me the favour."
Whereupon she dropped down on the wooden stump, and covering her face
with her hands, began to cry bitterly.
"What a quaint young thing it is," he thought. "Instead of throwing
herself into my arms, which I, as a good uncle, deserve, she sits down
and howls."
He placed himself beside her, and looked down on her head. Slowly, half
uncertain, he raised his left hand. "May I?" he wondered, and let it
glide gently over her damp hair, which shone, red as a fox, in the
firelight.
Then she clung with both hands to his arm, and leaning her head against
it, whispered, still sobbing--
"Why--why are you so horrid to me?"
"When have I been horrid? I have always meant to be good to you,
child."
"Really! Will you really be good to me?"
"Of course, my child."
He stooped, and was going to kiss her on the forehead; but as at this
moment she moved her head sideways, it happened that their lips rested
on each other.
"How innocently she lets herself be kissed," he thought.
And then suddenly she jumped up, and tore out of the room as fast as
her clattering pattens would permit.
He ran both hands through his hair, and strode like one possessed up
and down the uneven tiles of the kitchen.
A childlike, foolish blissfulness filled his soul. He felt as if he was
again fifteen years old, in jackets and with curly hair, coming home
triumphant from his first rendezvous, when Felicitas had given him her
first kiss.
Felicitas!
Like the stab of a knife the thought of her pursued him. But the next
minute he laughed out loud, and raised his hands in proud confidence to
the ceiling. The kiss of the innocent child had opened founts of
youthful gladness within him.
If he dared hope one day to win this young heart for his own, then all
would be made right again. Then the burden of guilt, borne for years,
would fall of itself. Then what filled his life with vague uneasiness,
and made him sometimes not know himself, would yield to peace and a
happy state of mind. It would die away--die like that flickering,
greedy, leaping flame, which now, at last, had sunk, and lay at rest in
a dull red-hot glow. And when he turned round he saw that the grand
spectre which had cast its shadow, hatchet in hand on the wall, had
gone too.
His mood became pleasantly dreamy. He rested his head in his hands, and
his foot on the body of the dog that lay stretched full length on the
hearth luxuriating in the warmth. As he stared at the red ashes, an
earnest of how his future was to shape itself made him feel as if a
cool hand were laid soothingly on his brow.
He must have sat musing thus for quite a quarter of an hour, when the
St. Bernard barked. Carriage-wheels sounded without, and voices.
"How glad I am they didn't come before," he thought, full of gratitude
for the blessings the last hour or so had rained upon him. He went out.
A long waggonette full of men and lights stood on the dyke, and close
behind it one of the smaller Halewitz carriages, from which his
mother's voice greeted him, half choked by tears.
"Found!" he cried, gleefully.
There was great rejoicings at the news. His mother climbed down from
the carriage followed by the stout lady-help, who was laden with a
supply of dry clothes.
Elly had, of course, given wrong directions. For two hours the
carriages had been driving about from village to village.
His mother went into the house with the clothes, and begged him to wait
outside.
"Don't scold her," he called after her on the threshold. "She has
already had her share."
"I hope that you were not too hard on her!" she exclaimed.
He felt that he was growing red, and did not meet her glance.
It was a long time before any one came out again. The servants stamped
on the dyke to keep their feet warm. The brandy bottle circulated. The
maids let themselves be tickled, and gave a suppressed squeal when the
lads went too far. Some of them hummed now and again a snatch of song.
He leaned against his grey mare. Sounds and shadows passed before his
consciousness like a dream. At last, after about half an hour, she
appeared, holding his mother's hand, in the doorway, her head wrapped
in a woollen shawl and a wide fur-cloak flung round her.
The servants wanted to cheer, but he forbade any demonstration.
"Just think," protested grandmamma, while her eyes beamed with delight;
"the little rogue did not want to come away a bit. Only when I had
promised that Mamselle should stay and tend the sick woman, would she
graciously condescend to follow me."
Hertha cast down her eyes and was smiling coy dreamy smiles. When she
came into the light of the lanterns he saw that her whole face was
radiant with great excitement. Her cheeks seemed rounder, her mouth
like a flower.
"What a charming metamorphosis," he thought. "A woman all in a minute,
before she has become a woman."
And when they had settled her comfortably in her corner, they began the
homeward journey. He put a short pipe in his mouth, and rode in the
wake of the carriage.
A soft breeze had risen, and drove the mist in his face. The
grasshoppers were silent, and a great stillness lay on the world.
Slowly he recalled one sweet picture after the other, and as they
passed before his mind's eye, one in particular arrested him.
How expectantly her lips had been rounded to receive his threatened
kiss, and to return it with emphasis.
He felt the impression of it still, he felt, too, the thin outline of
the slight young form as his arm had encircled it.
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" something spoke within him. "Don't
hurt the child. Don't carry on a 'bud' flirtation."