She trembled and seized hold of his clenched hand; she must win him, he must help her, he had no right to refuse her his help, what should she do then? Thoughts flew like lightning through her brain; the first of December, the first of December, oh, Martin would run away from her much earlier than that, he was even now like a young bird trying its wings, and she would soon not be able to hold him any longer. Martin, Böhnke--Böhnke, Martin, all ran together. She could not think clearly, she was beside herself with terror. She threw her arms round the schoolmaster's neck and, putting her lips close to his ear, sobbed, "You must, you must, I implore you!"
Her face, which in spite of hot tears and cold dew was still so alluring, so dazzling, was quite close to his. Then he caught hold of her with all his strength. "You've made me a drunkard," he jerked out, from between his clenched teeth, and strained her to his heart, so that she lost her breath, "and you're making me a murderer--but by God, I love you, I love you!"
Winter had come during the night.
Even yesterday the gossamer had flown across the fields and hung fast to the bare bushes and tops of the few remaining turnips; to-day the first snow lay on the ground. There was not much of it, but still it was wet and cold.
The young men, who were sowing the last seeds, finished their day's work in silence, a silence that was as heavy as the grey, lowering sky overhead, and as sad as the damp, sullen-looking fields in November. They had nothing pleasant to say to each other. Martin's thoughts were far away, he was longing to leave Starydwór, leave it far behind him; and Mikolai was also deep in thought.
The happiness that Mikolai had felt during the summer was a thing of the past. Although a farm of one's own is not to be despised, he would much rather be servant somewhere else than master at Starydwór. How awful his father was! Why, he was out of his mind! If only he could catch that fellow Böhnke by the throat, he thought to himself, clenching his fists in fury. Why did he come creeping to the farm day after day, locking himself in with his father? They never let anybody in, but they would drink and drink, until they had not as much sense left as the cattle. Mikolai swore to himself as he thought of it. And then his stepmother even expectedhim to put the horses in and drive that drunken rascal home when he felt too tired to have a chat with Marianna. Let him sleep himself sober in the first ditch he came across; it was quite good enough for him. But instead of that he had to be hoisted up into the cart and driven at a walking pace along the pitch-dark road, so that he, Mikolai, was frozen and wet to the skin and felt thoroughly annoyed. What could she see in the schoolmaster to make her so patient and calm that she put up with his visits, which were certainly not doing his father any good?
The young fellow felt very surprised, and now and then something like suspicion awakened within him. How could his stepmother always be smiling? Was it not rather a thing to cry about? But who could know if her smiles came from the heart? She was, no doubt, to be pitied too. It was wrong of Marianna to speak so unkindly of her mistress. She ought not to shrug her shoulders and make faces, but it was just like a servant. That was another cause of annoyance to the young man. If there had been anything between the schoolmaster and his stepmother, he would, of course, have noticed it of his own accord, he was no longer a foolish boy. Rosa gave him much more to think of than that. He felt very uneasy about her, she was so strange. He could not dissuade her from that confounded wish of hers to go into a convent. She persisted in it more than ever. He had already tired himself out with talking to her about it. She would listen quietly, with her eyes fixed on her hands lying idly in her lap, and then, when he knew of no other argument to bring forward, she would say softly, but more decidedly than if she had spoken in a loud voice, "I shall go into a convent, all the same."
What a pity the girl was so holy. "Holy," thatwas what Marianna called her. If only Becker and she had married, how nice it would have been. Mikolai still harped on this, and it was this disappointment that grieved him most of all. Why did Martin not care for Rosa?
As they were returning home together in the early twilight, Mikolai once more took courage. He was certainly not going to offer Rosa again to Becker--he felt too sorry for her to do that--but he wanted to hear why his beautiful plan could not be realized. So he said, "The snow has come, now you'll soon be going," and cast a covert glance at his friend to see what he would say to it.
Martin answered quite simply, "I shall soon be going."
"There's still a fortnight," said Mikolai.
"There's still a fortnight," repeated Martin, and then gave a deep sigh of relief as one who again breathes light, fresh air after it has been sultry and oppressive for a long time.
Mikolai sighed too.Psia krew, how difficult it was to sound the fellow. Although he thought he had introduced the subject so cunningly, he saw he would have to be still more explicit. So he continued, "Only a fortnight longer, a very short reprieve. We shall all miss you, Rosa especially. Well, well!" He paused for a moment, and then cast another covert glance at Martin.
The latter's face, however, was inscrutable; it was as though it were hewn out of stone, and he could learn nothing from it. But what was that? It seemed to Mikolai as though his friend's pale face had suddenly flushed. Then he turned his head from side to side, as if his collar were too tight, and swallowed a few times as if he were gulping something down, and thenthe corners of his mouth drooped as though something were grieving him. At last Mikolai could no longer restrain himself. Why this dissimulation? He put his arm round the other's shoulders and said in a low, cordial voice, "Marry my sister, do. She's good and pretty and has also expectations. We three will be very happy together. Take her, Martin, I beg of you."
"Let me go!" cried the man, pushing Mikolai away as though he had said something more than unkind. Then he strode over to the other side of the road and kept his head obstinately turned towards the field. He did not look at his friend again, so that Mikolai, who was completely nonplussed, grew silent too.
So they walked along in silence through the soft mud and deep ruts, each on his side of the road. Mikolai's eyes suddenly felt wet. The deuce, what was that? He rubbed them angrily, but they were wet the next moment again. Here, here they had driven last summer--only a few months ago--with hay and flowers on the wagon, and had been so gay. And now? His lips trembled, he felt unstrung. At last he had really seen that things must take their course.
When they reached the farm the house lay in darkness. There was only a light in Mr. Tiralla's room to the right of the passage; they could see it shining through the closed shutters.
What, was that confounded Böhnke there again? If you had a sharp ear you could hear somebody speaking in a subdued voice, almost a whisper, and a gurgling sound as though they were drinking quickly and then putting their glasses down. Mikolai flew into a rage; he felt just in the humour to pitch the fellow out. It was not exactly the thing he cared to do, for a guest is sacred; but that cad was no guest, he wasa monster. He was ruining his father entirely. Mikolai lifted the latch angrily, but the door did not yield, it was locked. Then he shook it in his fury, "Hi, open the door!" He banged and scolded. But everything remained quiet in the room, nobody answered and nobody opened the door.
Then he rushed out of the house and into the barn in his anger, threw himself down on the straw, clenched his fists and wept aloud until he fell asleep.
When the schoolmaster left the farm at a late hour that evening Mr. Tiralla was quite drunk. He had only enough sense left to whisper in a tender voice, "Little Böhnke, friend, take care. If Mikolai catches you, he'll chop you into small pieces, perhaps with the hatchet, perhaps with the chopper. Ugh! he's a brute--they're all brutes here--ugh! my friend, you don't know what brutes they all are. My dear, beloved friend." Mr. Tiralla fell on the other's neck, kissed him and stammered in a hiccoughing voice, while he stroked his cheek, "If I--I--ha--hadn't you--God--bless--you--it would--b--be all--up--with me."
Böhnke left the room filled with a strange emotion. He was not so drunk as Mr. Tiralla--he could still collect his thoughts, if he took the trouble to do so--and he was thinking of the man who loved him as a friend and son. But very soon Mrs. Tiralla took entire possession of his thoughts. He looked around and listened for her step, and strained his eyes so in the dark that they watered. Was he to leave the house without a single kiss?Psia krew, he would not do that. He swore in an undertone, for he had suddenly grown brutal. He would be paid, paid for every visit. It was no pleasure to him to get drunk with that fellow. If she did not come now, then---- There was stilltime to go away and never come back, to become again as he had been before. If he were to ask to be removed and left the neighbourhood, and never more put his foot inside the door at Starydwór? Let Mr. Tiralla drink himself to death, alone. But if he were never to see this woman again?
The fresh air in the yard cooled his brow as he stepped out of the house. "Ah!" He drew a deep breath; air, thank God. There was still time, still time.
At that moment he heard the rustle of a dress in the dark passage, a furtive whisper of "Pan Böhnke!" and turning round he stretched out his arms in a transport of delight. "My darling, my sweet one!"
She did not respond to his kisses, but he did not notice it in his joy; and he did not see either in the dark how she pressed her eyes together and screwed up her face. All he heard was her whisper in his ear, "How are you getting on? I hope you've filled his glass frequently? How is he? Please tell me, will it still last long?"
He did not answer her; he had buried his mouth in her hair, and his lips were glued to its silky waves like those of a thirsty man. When she wanted to free herself in her impatience, "Speak, why don't you tell me, how much longer?" he clasped her still more closely without replying. There was no escape for her. They were standing like a pair of lovers, almost melted into one; her head was lying on his breast as though welded to it by the pressure of his arms. Thus her eyes and ears were closed, and he--he only felt her.
At that moment the door of Mr. Tiralla's room was gently opened and the old man stuck his head out timidly. Had his little Böhnke, his friend, succeeded in escaping?
The sick man was tortured by the idea that they wanted to kill the schoolmaster just because he was his, Pan Tiralla's, brother and friend, his only friend. If they were to do something to him? If they were to attack him in the dark yard? His terror on his friend's account had given strength to his shaking limbs, and he had been able to stand upright and walk.
He peered around like an owl that is dazzled by the glare; the light from the open door fell on the passage. Ha! who was standing there? The murderers! the murderers! Save yourself, little Böhnke. He was on the point of crying out aloud for help when his voice suddenly snapped--why! it was only Marianna. A grin full of pleasant memories appeared on his wrinkled face--ha, ha! it was Marianna standing there with a lover. But all at once the pleasant grin turned into a terrified grimace; it was not Marianna after all, it must be Sophia, and with her?
The idiot's eyes had suddenly become clear, and he had recognized his friend, his brother. Böhnke was holding his wife in a close embrace, and they were standing like a pair of lovers, breast to breast. Alas, alas! Mr. Tiralla fell back as though a gleaming knife were pointed at his face. The two were talking away so busily, so softly, that they had not noticed him. What were they whispering about? His teeth chattered. Murderers, murderers! Ugh! they were taking counsel together how they were to kill him--little Böhnke and Sophia--Sophia and little Böhnke. Little Böhnke! His friend, his only friend!
The man's wrinkled face shrivelled up more than ever, and his figure became quite small. Closing the door carefully and bolting it in trembling terror, he shuffled back to the table, groaning.
His little Böhnke, his friend, his only friend!
The man looked round the empty room with a wild glance, as though his terror were pursuing him. There, there, there! He stared at the chair near him; his friend, his only friend had just been sitting there, close to him.
Then he began to cry bitterly, that is to say, his red eyes could no longer weep tears, but he puckered up his face like a whimpering child, and a hiccoughing sob raised his chest in jerks. And then he drank what remained in all the bottles.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mikolai started up out of the straw in bewilderment--what was he doing in the barn, why was he lying there? He had had such awful dreams. Was it evening, night, or already morning? It was no good looking at his watch in the dark. He got up, and rubbing his swollen eyes staggered out of the barn. The moon was already high above the farm; it must be near midnight. Who was that creeping off to the gate?
"Stop. Who goes there?"
Could that be Böhnke? "Psia krew!" All at once the young fellow recollected how miserable he had been.
"Heigh, stop!" He set out in pursuit of the man who had just gone out of the gate.
Böhnke heard neither the calls nor the panting man who rushed after him. He was staggering across the fields as though intoxicated with joy, repeating the words, "My darling, my sweet one!"
At that moment somebody caught hold of him by the nape of his neck, and as he was walking very shakily, he fell down without any show of resistance and without a cry, so that Mikolai, who had whirled him round and was now kneeling on his chest, had aneasy time of it. "It's I, Mikolai," he panted. "I'll teach you!"
Mikolai had hardly ever given anybody such a thrashing before; it was such a relief to him to get rid of his misery in this way. He flogged the man until his arm was stiff, and then threw him into the ditch at the side of the field and went home satisfied. He whistled as he walked back to the farm. There, now he had given that fellow a good reminder; he would have a few bruises to show. And if he felt inclined to bring an action against him, then let him; he would never repent of what he had done. He felt much brighter now. He looked about for Marianna; how tiresome, she was no doubt sleeping upstairs by now. He went round to the gable and began to whistle, but nobody opened the window, and no eager "Yes, yes!" reached his ear. How tiresome! The woman was sleeping like a badger in his hole. He would have to enjoy the thought of his successful stroke by himself, then, and he pressed his fists against his mouth and hopped about on one leg with joy.
When he came round to the front door again he noticed a light gleaming through the shutters in the big room. What, was somebody still awake? Was his father not asleep yet? Perhaps in his drunken condition he had forgotten to put out the lamp. Then it would be smoking the whole night through, as it had done a short time before, when the smelling thing had only gone out for want of paraffin. Did the old fool really want to set fire to the whole concern? How dreadful it would be to have a fire with all that straw in the barn. The man cast an anxious look at the streak of light which found its way through the shutters; it seemed twice as broad as usual. What was the old man up to? He would be doing some mischiefsome day, that was certain. Seized with an unaccountable uneasiness, Mikolai groped in the dark passage for the door-handle. "Psia krew!" Of course, it was locked on the inside. He knocked; then he called, "Father!" He rattled the handle. "The deuce, why can't you open?"
Still no answer, and no bolt was withdrawn.
He shook the door with all his strength. "I shall break the door open if you don't unlock it at once."
The door creaked and groaned, and Mikolai's loud voice echoed through the house, so that one would have thought it would have awakened the dead--bat there was no sound in the room.
Then a fear gripped him; what should he do now? He was still pondering when he heard his stepmother's voice.
Mrs. Tiralla had gone to bed, but she had not slept. Her face had burnt like fire, for she had been rubbing and washing it, so as to wash the kisses off which she had been obliged to put up with in the dark passage. Her forehead pained her as though there were a fresh scar on it, for the man had strained her so forcibly to his breast that his watch-chain had left a mark there. Oh, that stigma! She passed her hand over it again and again, but however much she rubbed it did not disappear. She wrung her hands in impotent fury. But then she clenched her teeth; no, no complaint, for she had done it for Martin's sake. Was it not a joy in spite of all this agony to think that she was suffering for his sake? Who could sympathize with her feelings? No one except the Lord. He had wrestled in the Garden of Gethsemane; He had endured Judas's kiss.
"O Lord," she raised her hands in the dark to the picture on the wall of the Saviour holding His flamingheart in His hand, "Thou art acquainted with every suffering, Thou seest my sufferings, have mercy!"
It was probably the first time in her life that Mrs. Tiralla had not used the prescribed form of prayer, that her heart had cried out in its own words. Then she whispered, "Martin, Martin," as if the beloved name were a form of conjuration, and stretched out her arms longingly in her cold, dark room. Oh, how warm and bright it had been at Starydwór! Suddenly a smile spread itself over her troubled face; it was as though a feeling of sweet peace had come to her from afar, and had told her that it would be warm and bright again. The certainty of this in the near future consoled her and made her patient. She pressed her hand to her heart--hope, hope!
Then she grew calmer, the burning sensation in her face had become less acute, she had said her prayers for the night, and prepared herself for sleep with her hands folded across her breast like a child. Soon, soon! The smile was still on her face.
At that moment the loud noise in the passage had startled her.
What could it be so late at night? She ran out of the room in her petticoat with no shoes on her feet; she was seized with a sudden fear--Martin, if it were Martin who wanted to run away. She must go to him, take hold of him, cling to him, he must not go! But then the thought struck her that there was no need to fear, he would not be leaving with so much noise. But still, if Mikolai were holding him, if they were quarrelling, struggling with each other, the one wanting to go, the other endeavouring to hold him back? Hark, what a noise! How Mikolai was shouting!
"What is it, what is it?" cried Mrs. Tiralla, as she stood in front of her stepson, panting. Mikolaihad lighted a kitchen lamp, and they gazed at each other in the dim light with haggard faces.
"Where, where is he?" She caught hold of her stepson's arm. But then she bethought herself. Martin was nowhere to be seen, and this was not his bedroom door; this was Mr. Tiralla's, on which Mikolai was thumping, and before which he now stooped down and tried to look through the chinks.
"I don't know, I don't know," cried Mikolai, shaking the handle once more. "There's a light burning in the room; but everything is so quiet, and father isn't snoring."
"Oh, leave him!" It was no longer a matter of any importance to her, and she was going upstairs again. "He's fast asleep, that's all."
But Mikolai held her back in his fear. "Do stop," he begged, and there was a strange note of anxiety in his voice as he added, "Father always snores so at other times. I wonder if he could have had a stroke?"
Could it be possible! The woman's cold face grew hot.
"Father!" cried Mikolai once more, rattling the latch with all his might, but the bolt did not move. "I'll fetch a hatchet," he whispered; "we shall have to break open the door. You wait here and look out." He ran to the shed, where the axe lay by the block.
She remained standing in front of the door, whilst an eager desire to learn her fate almost tore her asunder. Her eyes nearly started out of her head. Everything was as quiet as death in there--at other times he always snored so--what would she see in there? God be praised! She could hardly await the spectacle.
She threw herself against the door with all her weight; she pressed her hands and knees so firmly against it that she, the weak woman, succeeded in doing what the strong man had not been able to do.The rotten framework gave way, and the door, lifted off its hinges, fell with a dull crash into the room. The woman fell with it.
At first she saw nothing, stunned as she was by the fall and blinded by the dust from the rotten wood. But how soon she saw it all!
There was Mr. Tiralla hanging from the hook in the centre beam, which had once been destined to carry a chandelier, close to the table with bottles and glasses. The man had made a noose of his handkerchief; the ceiling was low and his toes almost touched the chair, but still he was dangling.
"O God!" She uttered a heartrending scream and sprang forward. There he was, dangling, quite blue in the face and with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. How awful, how terrible! She did not give herself time to consider whether he was alive or not, or whether he would recover; all she did was to look round for help.
At that moment Mikolai returned. He stood motionless, staring with open mouth, the hatchet in his hand. The woman tore it out of his hand, swung it like lightning, the sharp edge cut the noose--and Mr. Tiralla fell on the floor with a dull thud.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was a terrible night at Starydwór. Everybody had come running, awakened by the noise of the falling door and Mikolai's cries.
Marianna howled as though she were out of her mind; both she and Mikolai had lost their self-command. Rosa had only given one short scream, and then, with upraised hands, had fallen down in a deep faint.
Mrs. Tiralla was the only one who remained calm. She had helped the two men to put the body on thebed, and now she stood looking on, mute and motionless, whilst Martin rubbed the stiffened limbs and moved the man's arms up and down, as he had been taught to do when he was a soldier. Was Mr. Tiralla dead?
"He's not dead yet." It was Martin who spoke, and she heard what he said without answering a word. She closed her eyes; how compassionate his voice--the beloved's voice--sounded. Did he feel sorry for her--or himself? No, he only felt sorry for Mr. Tiralla.
She opened her eyes wide. "Fool, idiot!" she could have shouted to him in her fury. But then she hid her face in her hands and staggered to a corner, where she broke down and groaned. She was the fool, the idiot, for she had cut him down herself. Why? She did not know.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Martin carried Rosa upstairs. Mr. Tiralla was breathing again, and now the young man had a feeling as though he would have to fight once more for a life--but a young and innocent life this time.
He carried the unconscious girl tenderly in his arms. She had only very little clothing on, and he felt how thin and slender her limbs were. Her bushy mane--not smooth and silky like his love's beautiful hair-- tickled his cheek, but there was a perfume about her dry locks and about her whole person that reminded him of the perfume of the fields in spring-time, which he was so fond of ploughing. He carried her as carefully as though every movement could harm her, as though she were a soap-bubble which disappears if over-curious fingers touch it. And still he clasped her tightly. Once he thought he could feel her nestlingagainst him; but it must have been imagination, for she had swooned and she hardly breathed.
On reaching the door of her room he entered almost timidly. A light was flickering there. There was no help for it, he had to lay her down on her bed, for the people downstairs had lost their heads, but he did it shyly. There she lay, and as he bent over her--was he dreaming?--she flung her arms round his neck.
She dragged his head down to her lips and he felt her hot breath as she whispered, "Always united--many years--and many children--my Saviour, my Redeemer--oh, my beloved one, come, kiss me."
Her whispering made him shudder. Why did she mix so strangely what was in the Prayer-book with what lovers whisper in the dark? Would she be saying any more? He could not help it, he had freed himself, but he remained standing at her bedside, listening.
"Oh, I know, I know it very well," she wailed. Then she gave a deep sigh, "Alas, alas, how beautiful you are, mother--Mary, Holy Virgin--alas, so lovely, a thousand times more beautiful than I. If only I were dead--dead like daddy." She was crying softly, and her hands were locked as though in pain or prayer. "I shall go into a convent." Then she wrung her hands and cried in a loud voice, "Have mercy on me, have mercy on me! Mary, Holy Virgin, help me, let me hold the Christ Child on my lap! Oh, don't turn away--help, have mercy on me!"
She stretched out her hands--oh, dear, was she going to catch hold of him? How her hands trembled, how red her pale face had become.
Martin heard no more, he fled in horror. Oh, this Starydwór, this Starydwór, if only he were hundreds of miles away from it!
What had happened at Starydwór soon became known in Starawieś. How could Marianna have kept silent about it?
She had told Jendrek with many sighs the very next evening behind the stable door, when he had rushed over for a quarter of an hour from the settlement, and her apron had been quite wet with tears. The dear, good master! Jendrek really ought to have seen how the poor man hung. Like that. And she turned up the whites of her eyes and let her red tongue hang loosely out of her mouth, so that the inquisitive man still shuddered when he thought of it.
Ugh! But how did Mr. Tiralla look now?
Oh, just as usual, you could not see that anything had been the matter with him. He crept about again as he had always done, yellow and thin. But the strangest thing of all was that he did not know anything about it.
Did not know anything about it? Jendrek would not believe that. How can a man hang himself and afterwards know nothing about it?
That astounded everybody. People came running to see Mr. Tiralla and press his hand in mute condolence whilst they gazed at him with curious, disappointed eyes. There were so many visitors the next and following Sunday as Starydwór had not seen within its walls for many a day.
Mr. Jokisch and Mr. Schmielke came, as well as the forester and the gendarme and all their friends from Starawieś and Gradewitz. Even the priest was there. The big room was quite full of visitors. Refreshments were brought in, Tokay and beer, and Mrs. Tiralla herself smilingly handed everybody a glass of gin, which was very welcome in that cold, unhealthy weather. Mikolai offered cigars, and soon the room was dark with thick, blue clouds of smoke, through which every now and then a quick glance was cast at Mr. Tiralla, as though the men suddenly recollected why they had come to Starydwór. There was much laughing and talking.
Mr. Tiralla sat staring in front of him without saying a word, or taking any interest in what was going on. It was as though he were no longer one of them.
Yes, the man was in a bad state of health, they all saw that. What had the doctor said?
They had not had one so far, said Mrs. Tiralla, casting down her eyes. Then she added softly, with trembling lips, that up to now she had only prayed and prayed.
The priest nodded. But when he soon afterwards left and she accompanied him to the front door, he took hold of her hand in the passage and pointed out to her that it was her duty to send for a doctor. "My dear Mrs. Tiralla," he said, "invoking divine help is certainly--h'm"--he cleared his throat, those wide-open, staring eyes made him quite confused--"divine help is certainly the chief thing, but human help is not to be dispensed with. Your husband seems very ill, really dangerously ill, why won't you have a doctor? You must absolutely send for one."
She followed him with her eyes as he walked away and there was a peculiar smile on her face. So--so hesaid that? Surely he did not believe that a doctor could change what had been decided upon in heaven? Very well, she could, of course, send for a doctor. But the man might prescribe whatever he liked, Mr. Tiralla would still be tottering to his grave with every step he took.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"A strong-minded woman," remarked the visitors, as they walked home across the fields. "Terrible," they said then, and shivered as though they felt cold.
The wind whirled round them, and a flock of ravens, startled at their approach, flew out of the furrows screeching and cawing just over their heads. What a horrible noise! The men stood still involuntarily. Look, look! they all flew back to Starydwór and settled on the roofs. Those birds of ill omen!
Psia brew, how awful it must be there at present, to be every day with that man. Why, he was quite idiotic. Mr. Tiralla had never been very bright, and he had always had a hankering after drink. Well, well, your sin is sure to find you out. Poor woman! She was the only one who deserved to be pitied. It was really admirable how she kept up her courage.
"H'm, it's taken a great deal out of her, nevertheless," remarked Mr. Schmielke with a long--drawn whistle. He had suddenly grown very cool in his feelings towards her. "Sophia Tiralla's reign is over and done with. Did you notice the hollows in her cheeks? And then her eyes, how sunk they were. H'm, that lanky, red-haired girl, who dared not show herself at her mother's side a short time ago, is almost nicer-looking now. She's really not at all bad."
"You had better keep your fingers off her," said some one. "She's going into a convent."
"Tut, tut, don't talk nonsense. She--withthoseeyes?"
But the gendarme knew it for a fact, for the priest had mentioned quite a short time ago that the Ladies of the Sacred Heart at the Wallischei had been told of Rosa Tiralla's coming.
"Very well then, I shan't," said Schmielke. He made no more of his frivolous remarks, but grew silent as the others had gradually done. They all felt out of tune, thoroughly depressed. Starydwór seemed to be running behind them, now that they had left the place. In their mind's eye they continued to see the black birds on the gloomy-looking roofs, and the man who had hanged himself and was still alive, and the woman who had cut him down and who still smiled.
All at once they hastened their steps, and not another word was spoken until they reached the first house in Starawieś.
Then they began to speak of the schoolmaster. That was another of them, he and Tiralla were a couple. Both of them were being ruined by drink. But it was a great shame of Böhnke, for he ought to be a pattern to the children, as the priest very rightly had said. How could such a fellow teach children, a man who drank so much that he had been found in the ditch like a tramp, his clothes torn, and bleeding and dirty? It was a great disgrace.
The gendarme could tell a tale about that. He had many a time seen the schoolmaster coming home at dawn, and had watched him trying to poke his key into the lock; he had many a time had to help him to open the door. But when he had picked him out of the ditch on his way home from a round in the Przykop, looking no better than a drunken vagabond whom youlook up, he had felt obliged to speak about it. Father Szypulski would perhaps have preferred him to have hushed it up, but it surely would not do for the village schoolmaster to be found lying drunk and bruised in a ditch. It would have been found out sooner or later, and then nobody would have any respect for him. Of course, the man could not stop at Starawieś, and who knows, perhaps he would have to give up being a schoolmaster altogether. The priest, who as a rule was so loquacious, had never said a word about it.
As they came past the house where Böhnke lived, they looked at it askance. What did the man feel like? He had not shown himself for days--had he already left? The priest had said "as soon as possible."
They all felt they had never liked the schoolmaster; he had always been so conceited, so proud of his learning. Here you could plainly see it, "Pride goeth before a fall."
They knocked at the door. The shutters in front of the schoolmaster's window were closed. Had he really left, or was it because he felt so ashamed of himself?
The schoolmaster had indeed left, so the old woman, his landlady, who lived on the other side of the house, told them. Oh, dear, she complained, now her lodger had gone, and she had not got another one. "And what had he done?" she cried, clenching her fists in her fury. "Let those be struck by lightning who have slandered him. Dear, dear, how he wept. When I said to him, 'Don't weep, Panje Böhnke, my husband, thestas, also drank himself to death,' he did nothing but repeat, 'Oh my mother, my mother!' and groaned so that he made my heart come into my mouth. His mother is said to be a schoolmaster'swidow and very poor. She won't be pleased when her son comes home like that. God have mercy on us all. Oh, Mr. Böhnke, Mr. Böhnke, what a good lodger he was." And the old woman began to sigh and weep so for her former lodger that the men got away as speedily as possible.
How disagreeable everything was, and then the weather was so raw. The only thing for them to do would be to make themselves comfortable at the inn. And they did so.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Marianna carried the news to her mistress that the schoolmaster had been turned out of Starawieś in disgrace, in a voice full of malice and scorn. Pan Böhnke had gone to the devil, what did the Pani say now, eh? She cast a covert glance at her--what would she look like, pale or red, happy or sorry?
But Mrs. Tiralla looked quite unconcerned. At any other time she might perhaps have rejoiced, but now it did not even surprise her. So the schoolmaster was no longer in her way? Good. She knew that her guardian angel was keeping his wings spread over her.
She felt so calm at present that she was often surprised at it herself. Her heart no longer throbbed and ran riot as it had formerly done. She had been a fool and even a sinner, when she had caught hold of her guardian angel's arm, and had cut her husband down when he was dangling; but she felt that the saints had already forgiven her. She saw more plainly day by day--almost hour by hour--that Mr. Tiralla was drifting quickly, uninterruptedly to his end. She often longed to fold her hands in her exceedinggratitude; she went about the whole day with prayers of thankfulness on her lips.
Marianna was rather astonished to find that her mistress took the schoolmaster's departure so coolly. Had there never been anything between them? Neither formerly nor lately? Anyhow, she seemed very indifferent about it. Now Mr. Mikolai had a much softer heart, for he was very much cut up when he heard that the man had left. At first he had opened his eyes in surprise, but then he had pressed his hands to his head and groaned, "I would never have thought it; oh, dear, if I had only known it!" What a good fellow Mikolai was. He would in time be just what his father used to be. And Marianna was more attentive than ever to him.
Meanwhile Mikolai went about looking very troubled. He had certainly not wanted to do that, he had only wanted to give Böhnke a reminder when he thrashed him and threw him into the ditch. It also grieved him bitterly for his father's sake; the old man had been so fond of the schoolmaster, who used to spend hours with him like a friend. And now his little Böhnke would never come again. He felt so sorry for his father that he thought he must speak to him about it.
But Mr. Tiralla listened to his son's stammering excuses without understanding them. "Schoolmaster--schoolmaster?" He shook his head. "I don't know any schoolmaster. Friend--friend? Have--no--friend."
Mikolai shuddered when he looked at his father. There he sat with loose, hanging lip, and eyes the eyeballs of which looked as rigid as though he could not move them any more. He was not like a human being any longer. Did he not remember anything?He seized the old man by the shoulder and shook him, "Father!" Then Mr. Tiralla shrunk together in his corner like a hedgehog when you put the tip of your finger near it, and shot nervous glances at his son, glances in which there was malevolence as well as fear.
Mikolai felt desperate; the man only answered with a grunt now, it was impossible to explain anything to him. He felt as though something were choking him, he was obliged to run out of the stuffy room into the biting north-east wind that swept across the yard from the open fields and whirled the straw and chaff and feathers about that were lying around.
How terrible it was! The old man was spoiling both house and farm for him. He clenched his fists and a sigh of indignation was wrung from him; why, it would have been better if his stepmother had not cut him down!
He made the sign of the cross as though to confirm the thought. Then he turned to go indoors again. What could he do out there? There was no work to be done, a grey, heavy November mist hung over everything. What had become of Martin? He could no longer understand his friend. How well they had formerly assisted each other to kill time during these dark days. But now Martin could find no rest at Starydwór, he took no pleasure in anything, all he thought of was the first of December, when he was to leave them.
The lonely man shivered. Rosa would also be leaving after Christmas; even now she sat in her room upstairs as if it were a cell, and she was happy only when praying alone. She hardly ever appeared downstairs, she seemed to shun everybody. How different it all might have been, how splendid! But his father had ruined everything, everything.
The man uttered a curse as he entered the house. He went in search of his friend. Martin, however, was not pleased to see him; he had begun to turn his drawers and looked up disagreeably surprised when Mikolai came so unexpectedly into the room.
"What do you want?" he asked in an angry voice, hastily throwing a bundle of clothes into his box which he locked.
"Are you already packing?" inquired Mikolai. Then he added, "I suppose you can't await the day of your departure? But it hasn't come yet."
Martin cast an uncertain glance at his friend. "I know that," he said softly, and then added hastily and in a louder voice, as though he wanted to convince himself and friend of the truth of what he was saying, "I'm not thinking of it either. There's plenty of time; I'm not in any hurry."
Who believed that? Mikolai no longer believed his friend; why did he not look him in the face?Psia krew, something had come between Martin and him which he could not fathom, but it was there, nevertheless.
He felt very dejected as he left the room, the walls of which had so often echoed with their laughter. Now no laughter resounded within the thick walls of the old house. He stumbled up the dark stairs to Rosa's room; he would go to her and say, "Come, laugh with me, Röschen, or at least talk to me. I can't bear it any longer."
But when he suddenly burst into the room his sister jumped up with a terrified, eager look. She had been sitting near the low window, through whose curtained panes there hardly came a gleam of light. Some needlework had been lying on her lap, but it had slipped down and lay on the floor, and there was aflushed, expectant look on her face. Who was that?
"Oh, it's you." It sounded as if she were disappointed. She grew pale, and her lids drooped wearily, but she forced herself to smile. "Good morning, Mikolai."
"Good morning, sister mine." He took hold of her hands and gazed at her. She seemed so tall--or had she looked like that for some time? "Pretty girl," he said playfully, and pinched her cheek that felt like velvet.
"Don't talk nonsense." She freed herself indignantly and her face darkened. But when she noticed that he looked put out, she smiled a wan smile, and whispered as she clung to him, "Don't be cross. I must be preparing myself, you know, and such things are no longer for me."
"What rubbish, what nonsense." He grew seriously angry. "I've had enough of these goings-on here. The old man drinks the whole day, you pray the whole day, and there's not a bit of happiness in the house.Psia krew, let the lightning----"
"Sh!" She laid her hand on his mouth soothingly. "You mustn't swear, Mikolai," she begged softly, "it's sinful. Come, sit down."
She drew him with her to her chair near the window, the only seat in the narrow room except the stool beside Marianna's bed. Her delicate fingers forced him down and he squatted in front of her, whilst she put her arms round his neck.
"When I shall no longer be with you--it won't be long now, only three, four, five weeks more." She counted and then sighed, "No, still six."
"So you count like Becker," he interrupted her angrily. "You're longing to get away like he is. Nice love and friendship that, I must say."
She had flushed when he mentioned his friend's name, and a restless look had come into her eyes, but she soon grew calm again. She gazed at her brother with eyes full of love as she said, "You'll miss me, Mikolai, I know that very well. And I shall miss you too. But I'll pray for you. Oh, dear"--her voice was very sad, and big tears began to trickle down her cheeks--"I have to pray for so much, for so many." She wrung her hands. "My life will not be long enough for it all."
"Oh, yes, for father," he said in a low voice, and his head drooped.
She nodded: "And for mother too."
"What do you mean?" He looked at her in surprise. "She'll earn her seat in heaven by her own merits, she won't require your prayers."
"Who knows!" There was an expression of doubt in the girl's pure face, and she stared straight in front of her as though she saw something that others could not see. She trembled, and her voice was full of agony as she continued, "Who can know for certain that she does not require anybody to pray for her? Look, look!" She seized her brother's hand, and he shuddered at the peculiar expression in her eyes, that had become even more fixed than before. "I see mother in a white dress--oh, how beautiful she looks--I see her flying up to heaven--but look, look! There are spots on the hem of her dress. All those dark spots--do you see them, Mikolai?--are dragging her down. I'm not sure of it, not sure of it"--she shook her head, and there was a troubled gleam in her eyes and a terrified look on her face--"I love her so, I love her so, but there's something." She passed her hand over her eyes. "I can't wipe it away, it's there and it tortures me. Mikolai, brother!"She threw her arms round his neck, sobbing bitterly, and her tears wetted his cheek. "You must love me, love me dearly."
Her trembling lips sought his and imprinted a long kiss on them. He kissed her tenderly in return; his dear little sister, and she wanted to leave him?
"Speak to the old man," he begged. All at once he felt convinced that his sister would be able to alter everything. "Talk to him," he said ingenuously, "remonstrate with him, point out to him how wrong it is to drink, and he won't do it any more. Then all will be right. And you needn't go into a convent."
"I'll speak to him. I'll remonstrate with him. But I shall go into a convent all the same," she added in a low voice.
He did not hear her last words, he was too happy at the thought of her speaking to their father. Yes, there was some truth in it, there was something holy about Rosa, she could convert heathens, he felt sure.
He whistled as he went downstairs.
Martin Becker gave a start when he heard his friend's clear tones. How happy he seemed to be. An embarrassed smile crossed his face; to-morrow by this time Mikolai would not be whistling so contentedly, for he, Martin, if God were merciful to him, would be away over the fields, far away, almost there where the setting sun had left a yellow streak in the sky. "Mikolai will have to forgive me," he murmured, and went on with the occupation in which he had been disturbed before.
He had secured himself against interruption now, for he had bolted the door. He was packing his belongings. He had arranged and hung up his things in the room as though he had intended remaining at Starydwór for ever. But now he tore down his parents'photographs and those of his sisters and brothers, which he had hung up over his bed, and the picture of Mikolai and himself as soldiers, and the gay-coloured calendar which had looked so nice on the wall--no, he would have to leave the calendar, Mikolai would miss it too much.
He squeezed everything into his wooden box, and, as it would not close at once, sat down on it impatiently. How fortunate it was that it was no bigger, and that he could carry it comfortably on his shoulder!
He used to awake every night when the old clock in the passage struck the hour of midnight. What had become of his blessed sleep? To-night he would wake as usual, and then he would lie with open eyes and listen--one o'clock, two o'clock--and when everybody was lying in that deep, sound sleep which comes in the early hours of the morning, he would quietly put on the rest of his clothes--he would not undress himself entirely--and steal out of the room in his socks with his boots in his hand and his box on his shoulder. Softly, very softly. But that would hardly be necessary, for Mikolai always slept soundly, and there was nobody else downstairs except Mr. Tiralla, and he no longer counted, of course. So he could easily get away, for the key was in the front door and the farm gate was quickly opened. Then he would run across the fields--it would be dawn by that time and he would be able to see the path--away, away to Starawieś. And then through Starawieś, where everybody would still be asleep, away, away to the station in Gradewitz. The first train left at eight o'clock, he could easily catch it. And when he was in the train, then--the man drew a deep sigh of relief--then God had been merciful to him, then he was saved.
Martin did not take into consideration that he wastreating his friend badly. True, the thought had occurred to him for a moment that he had given Mikolai his word and hand, but his duty to himself seemed of more importance to him. His everlasting salvation was at stake. He had felt that since the last time he had gone to confession, and he felt it daily with renewed pangs of conscience. But he also felt that he was paying a high price for his salvation. How she crept round him with her soft footsteps, making the circles smaller and smaller. Had she not brushed past him in the passage the day before, and whispered so close to his ear that her breath had tickled him, "Are you coming?" If she were to repeat that again and again, would he continue to have sufficient strength of will not to follow her? She knew how to talk and make excuses. How sweetly she could talk. Had she no anxiety about her own salvation? On thinking it over, he could not remember ever having heard her say anything irreverent or impure. When she sat opposite him at table, quieter now than she had ever been before, and mutely raised her big eyes to the ceiling, she looked exactly like the pictures of the Virgin Mary whose heart is pierced with seven swords owing to her grief for her Son. Oh, no, she was no bad woman, she was a good woman--and still, it was a sin to remain near her any longer.
Martin had lain awake a long time the night before, for the words, "Are you coming?" still rung in his ears and made his blood course through his veins like fire. There was such a pricking restlessness about him, that he felt as if he could not remain in bed any longer. But when he had at last fallen asleep after tossing about for a long time, he had dreamt of his dead mother. She had appeared to him, and thatportended something. And she had held up her finger as if in warning--or had he only thought of that later on? He could not be sure, but next morning, when he felt as tired, as heavy, and as worn-out as though he had been dragging something that had been too heavy for him, it came over him like a divine inspiration; this could go on no longer, he would have to leave at once and not wait for the time that had been fixed. His mother had come to fetch him, her anxiety for her child left her no peace at the throne of God.
And Martin felt that he would have to go away secretly, without any leave-taking. If she were press her lips to his, if her tearful eyes were to implore him with a look like that of a wounded hind, if she were to say, "My sun, my love, remain in my sky. It is God's will that the sun shall remain in the sky, for otherwise it would be dark night, and then I should die"--then he would not go. He would remain, and then--well, then? He uttered an incoherent prayer. He was sorry for Mikolai; he felt a stab in his heart when he heard him whistling. But he was glad he had not seen Rosa that day. If only he did not see her again.
Martin shunned Rosa. He did not know himself whether the feeling he had for the girl was a pious awe, because she was destined for the convent, or an awe in which there was something like shame, shame because he had listened to her when she lay on her bed and whispered her innermost thoughts aloud.
The man sighed as he passed his hand over his brow on which the sweat was standing. How deeply he had sunk, more deeply than in the deepest pond in the Przykop. The only thing that could help him nowwould be to tear himself away from Starydwór by force, without any consideration for anybody.
He remained in his room the whole morning, but when he heard the rattling of plates and Marianna's call to dinner he stole past the sitting-room door and out into the yard. He did not care to eat. He stumbled about among the trees in the Przykop where nobody could see him, and gave a start every time an animal stirred, or a dry leaf fell to the ground. His heart felt broken, but the hope of salvation shone feebly before his eyes. He would soon be away. If only this day were over!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was a short day in November, but still it seemed endless at Starydwór. Mrs. Tiralla was full of anxiety and impatience. Martin had spent the morning in his room, and he had not come to the midday meal. Where was he? She had sought him everywhere and had not found him. She was trembling--where could he be? The calm which she had lately acquired had all at once disappeared; she forgot that the saints held her fate in their hands; all she could think of was that Martin had gone away without a word. Was he coming back?
She wandered about in an agony of fear, she could not remain a quarter of an hour in one place. She ran up and down stairs, from her room down into the passage and then up again, then out into the yard, where she stood at the gate without cloak or shawl, and where the cutting wind caught hold of her apron and spread it out like a sail, whilst she looked about for Martin. But she could not find the one her heart was longing for.
The fields lay desolate, the Przykop yawned like agrave in which there is no living thing to be found Where had he gone? She sought his footprints, as a dog seeks those of his master, but the rain and snow had obliterated them, and her eyes, full of tears, soon saw nothing but a grey, impenetrable mist.
She ran back into the house and began to question Mikolai. Where had Martin gone? He must know, for between him and his friend there was always a perfect understanding.
Her stepson stared at her in amazement. Why was she so angry? Becker would be sure to come back when it grew dark. Maybe he had gone to the village; it was long since he, Mikolai, knew anything about his whereabouts.
That did not add to the woman's peace of mind. So Martin kept away from Mikolai too. He was separating himself more and more from them all. "O God, have mercy! let him come back, let him come back!" She was like a hunted hind that is seeking a place of shelter.
So she ran to Rosa. It was long since she had been to her room; she had not found time to go. But why had Rosa kept away from her? Surely it was more fitting for the child to come to her mother than the mother to her child? Now, however, in her great anxiety she fled to her tender-hearted daughter.
At first Rosa was somewhat reserved. There was something shy and strange in her behaviour towards her mother, but the latter did not notice anything; all she wanted was a soul, a friend to share her anxiety.
"I don't know where Becker is," she began. "It's already dark and he hasn't returned yet. He has never gone away like this before, never stopped away so long without saying a word. O God, surely nothing can have happened to him?" she cried, pressing herhands to her temples with an expression of dread. "Oh, this fear, this fear!"
The woman no longer thought of hiding her feelings; there was a look of wild terror in her eyes, and her agitated voice was full of despair.
Rosa's face had flamed when her mother came into the room, but she turned deadly pale now. She did not answer, but she gazed at her mother as though she were trying to read her soul.
A shot was heard in the Przykop. Mrs. Tiralla gave a shrill scream.
"A gamekeeper is shooting," said Rosa.
"They surely can't have hit him? Oh, if he were in the Przykop and they had wounded him? But that"--Mrs. Tiralla gave an excited laugh--"would not be the worst. If only he comes back, if only he comes back! Do you think he could go away without saying good-bye?" she asked her daughter eagerly, casting an imploring glance at her. If only the girl would say, "He'll come back, mother, don't grieve, he'll come back to you." If only Rosa with her innocent lips would beseech the Almighty to give him back to her.
"Pray, my child," stammered Mrs. Tiralla, as she pressed her daughter's folded hands between her own. "Pray. Let us pray together."
A convulsive movement passed over Rosa's pure face. It looked as though she were going to thrust her mother away. But the struggle only lasted a moment. Fixing her eyes on a crucifix that she had hung over her bed, she said with shining eyes, "What shall I say?" just as she had spoken as a child, when her mother, tortured and full of hate, had knelt in the evenings at her bedside and wakened her with her tears and sighs.
"Pray, pray."
But Rosa's voice had lost its childish cadence; the clear, silvery ring had gone, and there was something austere and coolly calm in it now. "What do you wish me to say?"
"Oh, you know," groaned her mother. "Pray for him--oh, my fear, my fear. Pray that he may return to me. Child, my child, pray for me."
Freeing herself from her mother's clinging hands Rosa began to repeat theSalve Regina. "Hail, Queen, Mother of mercy. Thou our life, our sweetness, our hope, hail!" Her voice gradually rose and lost more and more of its cool austerity, as though she were intoxicating herself with the sweet beauty of the words, until it became warm and soft and melting as she said, "To Thee we call, to Thee we sigh, as we grieve and weep in this vale of tears." And then passing from the Salve to another prayer, she raised her voice in fervent supplication until it almost became a cry, "Be gracious to him! Spare him! Deliver him from all evil, from all sin!"
"Be gracious to him--spare him--deliver him!" repeated her mother mechanically. She did not know what she was praying, she did not understand that the words her daughter had been repeating were from the litany for a departing soul.
"We, poor sinners, pray Thee to hear us." The mother and daughter mingled their voices in fervent prayer, whilst the words, "Martin, Martin, what has become of you?" echoed in their hearts and rose like a twofold cry from the narrow little room that was gradually growing darker and darker.
"Stop, stop!" The woman sobbed aloud, she could not pray any longer. She threw her arms round her daughter's neck and wept. "Rosa, Rosa, he'snot coming back. Rosa, darling,"--she pressed wild kisses on her daughter's face that was uplifted so piously--"pray, pray--how am I to thank you? No, don't pray any more, rather tell me--hark, there he is!"
In a second she was on her feet, and had rushed to the door, which closed with a bang behind her.
Rosa remained alone in the darkness.
She heard Martin's voice downstairs, and then Mikolai--and then her mother's happy laugh.
But Rosa continued to pray fervently; it was as though she were holding fast to the words of her prayer. The stars had long ago come out above the farm, the new moon was just over the gable, but she still lay on her knees praying. But now it was a soft whisper to the Lord, a blissful communing with the Bridegroom of her soul.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was night at Starydwór. The moon had disappeared, and black clouds, driven along by the boisterous wind, were chasing each other over the house-top and hiding the stars.
Mr. Tiralla was sitting alone in his room. It was really time for him to go to bed, but there was nobody to assist him; Marianna had not come, and he was unable to go to bed alone. At first he had moaned and growled, but now he was calm. The few thoughts he had left were creeping after the servant. Ha, ha! how she was racing; she was running to meet a sweetheart. It amused him to picture her to himself.
What a good thing it was that his thoughts were his own, that they had not taken them from him as well as everything, everything else. He made a grimace as he clenched his fists. "That woman!"There she had stood--there at the writing-desk, and had wanted to steal his money--no, not his money, the powders, his powders. They were worth more than money. She had wanted to get him out of the way by the help of them. Ha, ha!--he chuckled to himself--but he had hidden them well, she would not be able to find them now.
Next time little Böhnke came he would show him where he had hidden those dear, precious things--no, he would not even show little Böhnke, for who knows, perhaps they would make his mouth water, and he would kill him so as to get them, and then eat them all up himself.
"Now, now, little Böhnke," said the man, shaking his finger at an imaginary person in the corner of the room. Then he added, "No, I'm not angry with you, in spite of your not having been to see me for so long. Take a seat, brother, there, sit down." He dragged a chair nearer with his heavy foot, and smiled at the schoolmaster, who was sitting near him with such a pale face and such hollow eyes.
"Drink, friend, drink," said Mr. Tiralla, as he seized his glass and finished it in one gulp. "Pooh!" He made a gesture of distaste. It did not taste at all nice--or did it taste nice? "No, no!" He raised his fist and struck the glass so hard that it broke into pieces. There, that did him good. Nowthatenemy could not harm him again.
"Ha, ha!" He chuckled to himself again, and did not notice that the blood was trickling down his finger. "Why are you so quiet, little Böhnke?"
No answer. But the wind moaned round the house and rushed down the chimney screeching, "Oo-hoo, oo-hoo," like an owl.
The man had been accustomed all his life to thiswintry music round Starydwór, but now it terrified him. He attempted to make the sign of the cross and glanced round timidly. The schoolmaster had gone, he was alone, quite, quite alone.
"Who's there?" He started up in terror; he wanted to scream, but he could only utter a few inarticulate sounds. Somebody had opened the door. He blinked and tried to discover who the intruder was, but his eyes had grown very dim. Somebody was coming in, but it was not little Böhnke. Who else could be coming to see him? A man--a woman?
"You?" he shouted, seizing hold of the bottle so as to defend himself with it. What did Sophia want? Was she coming to kill him now in the night? He hurled the bottle and it broke into bits on the floor.
"It's I, father," said Rosa, and she knelt down and collected the broken pieces of glass.
"Oh, it's you." He drew a long breath. Yes, now he could see it, it might be Rosa. The lamplight fell on her curly, reddish hair, and he bent a little forward as she knelt before him and took hold of it. "No, it's not Sophia," he said with a sigh of relief. But he was still suspicious. "What--what do you want?" he stammered.
She was glad to think that he at least recognized her. How unutterably heavy her heart felt. She had knelt in her room until her knees had ached, and had prayed and prayed. There had been no Marianna to groan on account of her everlasting whispering and sighing, for the girl had gone out. And when she had at last finished her prayers, she had sat down on her bed with her hands folded and waited patiently until there was not a sound downstairs. She wished to speak to her father quite alone, without being disturbed by any one. And if he had already gone to bed, shewould sit down on his bed. How often she had had to do that as a child, and he had always been so affectionate to her in those days. Then she would say "Daddy," and stroke his hair as she used to do. Oh, she was quite sure it would be all right, for she had been praying for it so fervently.
But when her father stared at her with his dull, yet fierce eyes, she lost her assurance. "I wanted--I----" she stammered. She would have liked to cry aloud, he looked so awful. No, that was not her daddy, whose hair she had smoothed, on whose cheeks she had imprinted kisses--first on the right cheek and then on the left--her daddy who had called her, "My star, my little red-haired girl, my wee birdie, my sun, the key which is to open the door of heaven for me, my consolation."
She did not know how to begin, so she sat on the other chair near the table and gazed at him intently with her sad eyes. She had thrown the pieces of glass, which she had collected in her apron, into the peat basket near the stove, and now she wrapped her apron round her hands, for she shivered with cold, although the room was so stifling. What she had undertaken to do was too difficult after all; oh, it was her dread of him that made her feel so cold. She had never, never seen anything so horrible as this man who was her father. He used to be big, but now he seemed to have grown small; his coat was much too large for him across the shoulders and hung round him. A horrid grin made his lips droop, and his purple nose positively shone in his pale face, that was of a dirty yellow colour. The rims of his eyelids were puffy and turned outwards. But the worst of all was his eyes. Oh, those eyes!
Rosa felt as though she must protect herself fromthat well-nigh lifeless glance, which at that moment, however, had something glittering, even brutish, in it.
What was her father thinking of? Whom did he take her for? She gave a start. "Ha, ha! Marianna," he chuckled, stretching out a shaking finger towards her.
He touched her. "Ha, ha!--hope you're enjoying yourself--ha, ha!"
She had to keep a firm hold of herself so as not to scream aloud, and her hands closed over each other tightly under her apron. The mere fact of folding her hands calmed her. She had so often prayed for strength, and she was sure that He would not forsake her now. She felt as though she were the maiden whom she had been so fond of reading about in the book of holy legends, who had entered the fierce lion's cage undismayed, and had gladly given her blood for the sake of her Heavenly Bridegroom.
"Lord Jesus," she cried loudly and fervently, then, pressing her folded hands to her heart, she smiled at her father. "Daddy, my daddy."
For a few seconds the old man's grin grew even broader, but then his face became calm. Daddy? He looked at his daughter in astonishment and stammered, "Little Böhnke has gone--who's speaking--so kindly?"