"Mistress" Afra brought out breathlessly, "thou's said a thing that I cannot let pass, for it touches my character--what did thou mean by saying I had a good heart towards the lads? I will know what lay behind those words!"
"Dost wish to make a quarrel with Wallburga Stromminger," cried Wally, and her flashing eyes looked straight down upon the girl. "Dost think I'd enter into strife with such a one as thou?"
"With such a one as me," cried the girl, "what sort of one am I then? I'm a poor maid and have had none to care for me, but I've done no one any harm, nor set fire to any one's house. I've no need to put up with anything fromthee--know that."
Wally started as though stung by a snake.
"A wench art thou, a shameless servant wench that throws thyself on a lad's neck before every one," she cried, forgetting herself and every thing, so that the people crowded round her.
"What? who? whose neck?" stammered the girl, turning pale.
"Shall I tell thee? Shall I?"
"Yes, speak out; I have a good conscience, and the mistress of the Lamb here, she can testify that it is not true."
"Indeed--not true! is it not true that two years ago, when thou hardly knew Joseph, he dragged thee with him over the Hochjoch, and had to carry thee half the way because thou made as though thou could walk no farther? Is it not true thou'st never let him be since, so that everyone names him and thee together? Is it not true thou keeps Joseph away from other maids that have better right and were better wives for him than thou--a vagabond serving-girl? Is it not true that only the other day, when he had fought the bull, thou fell on his neck before the whole village as if thou'd been his promised wife? Is none of that true?"
Afra covered her face with her hands, and wept aloud, "Oh, Joseph, Joseph, that I should have to put up with this."
"Be quiet, Afra," said the good natured landlady consolingly, "she has betrayed herself, it's only her anger because Joseph doesn't run after her and won't burn his fingers for her like the other lads. If only Joseph were here he would make her tell a different story."
"Yes, I can well believe that he wouldn't leave his pretty sweetheart in the lurch," said Wally, with a laugh so terribly sharp and shrill that the sound re-echoed from the hills like a cry of pain. "Such a sweetheart, who hangs about his neck, is no doubt more convenient than one who must first be won, and with whom it might come to pass that he'd have to take himself off again with scorn and mockery. The proud bear-hunter would no doubt sooner mate with such a one than with the Vulture-Maiden!"
The innkeeper now stepped forward. "Hearken," he said, "I've had enough of this; the lass is a good lass--my wife and I, we answer for her, and we'll let no harm come to her. Do thou take back thy words; I order it--dost understand?"
Again Wally laughed aloud, "Landlord," she said. "Did thou ever hear tell that the Vulture lets itself be ordered by the Lamb?"
Everyone laughed at the play of words, for the host of the Lamb was proverbially called a "Lamperl,"[1]because he was a weak good-natured man who would put up with anything.
"Aye, thou deserves thy name, thou Vulture-Wally--that thou dost."
"Make way there," Wally now exclaimed, "I've had enough of this--this threshing of empty straw. Let me pass!" and she would have pushed Afra on one side under the doorway.
But the innkeeper's wife held Afra by the arm.
"Nay, thou's no call to make way--get thee in first; thou'rt no worse than she is," she said, as she tried to press through the door with Afra in front of Wally.
Wally seized Afra by the waist, lifted her up and flung her from the door into the arms of the nearest bystander. "First come the mistresses, and after them the maids," she said; then passing before everyone into the room she seated herself at the head of the table.
Everyone chuckled and clapped their hands at the audacious jest. Afra cried and was so abashed that she would not go in, and the innkeeper and his wife took her home.
"Only wait, Afra," said the good woman consolingly on the way home, "I'll send Joseph to her, and he will take her in hand." But Afra only shook her head and said no one would do her any good; disgraced she was, and disgraced she must remain.
"Well, but why must thou needs begin a quarrel with that bad girl of Stromminger's," said the landlord, scolding her good-naturedly, "every one keeps out of her way that can."
Meanwhile Wally sat within and looked out of window at Afra departing with her companions; her heart beat so that the silver pendants to her necklace tinkled softly.
She was called upon to eat, the vermicelli soup was getting cold; but she found the soup bad and the mutton as tough as leather; she tossed a gulden on the table, would take no change, and in the face of all the astonished peasants rustled out of the house.
Just as she had done after her confirmation five years before, she tore off her fine clothes when she got home, and flung them into the chest. The silver necklace with its filigree work she trampled into a shapeless mass. What good had her splendour done her? It had not helped her to please the only one whom she desired to please. And, as once before, she threw herself on her bed, angrily chafing against the holy images. A piercing torment tortured her soul as if with knives. Her eyes fell on the carved image of Wallburga above her, and then she thought that the pain she was enduring might be the knife of God working on her, to make out of her a Saint--as the curé had said. But why should she be made a saint? She would so much rather be a happy woman. And that might have been done so easily; the good God would not have needed to carve her out for that--she would already have been quite right just as she was!
So she murmured and rebelled against the knife of God.
For some time Wally's moods had been almost unendurable. The whole night through she would wander about in the open air; by day she was full of unceasing and indomitable energy, labouring restlessly early and late, and expecting every one else to do the same--an impossibility for most people. Vincenz might now venture to call again, for he always knew the latest news in the valley--and Wallburga had all at once grown eager for news. When Vincenz perceived this, he made it his express business to enquire far and near, so as always to have some new thing to retail to Wally, who thus became gradually accustomed to see him every day. He soon observed that she always showed more curiosity about Sölden and Zwieselstein than about any other place, and cunning as he was, he easily discovered the reason. He constantly brought word of the continued intimacy between Joseph and Afra; it was news that threw Wally into the most frightful agitation, but he feigned not to perceive this, and cautiously avoiding any mention of his own love, succeeded in making her feel secure and trustful with him. But he was consumed with jealousy of Joseph; that Hagenbach was the curse of his life. There was no glory in which he had not anticipated him, no deed of valour in which he had not stood before him, no match at skittles or at shooting at which he had not carried off the prize, and now he had taken from him Wally's heart also--Wally's heart, which his persistent suit might perhaps have won, had not Joseph been there. "Why does God Almighty pour everything down on one man and deal so niggardly with another?" growled Vincenz, and tormented himself secretly as much as Wally did. If they had only done their lamentations and grumbling together, it would have been enough to desolate the whole Oetz valley!
One evening--it was in haytime--Wally was helping to load a large hay-cart; the load was ready and only the great crossbar had to be set in its place, but the hay was piled so high that the men could not throw it across. When they had got it half way up, they let it slip again, laughing and playing foolish tricks the while. Wally's patience all at once gave way. "Get out, you blockheads," she exclaimed, and mounted on the waggon, pushing the men to right and left out of her way; then drawing in the rope, she pulled up the crosstree, seized hold of one end of it with both her rounded arms, and with a single jerk hoisted it on to the waggon. A shout of admiration broke from all; the girls laughed at the men for not being able to do what a woman had done, and the men scratched their heads and thought that all could not be as it should be with the mistress, and that the devil must have a hand in it.
Wally stood on the waggon, and looked at the red setting sun. In her attitude and on her features was an expression of proud satisfaction; once more she had felt the certainty that not one was her equal, and strong in her sense of power, she was ready to challenge the whole world.
At that moment Vincenz came up. "Wally," he called out to her, "thou looks like Queen Potiphar on the elephant. If Joseph had seen Potiphar like that, for certain he'd not have been so bashful."
Wally turned crimson at these offensive words, and sprang down from the waggon. "I forbid such jests with me," she said, when she was on the ground.
"Nay," disclaimed Vincenz, "I meant no harm; but thou looked so handsome up there, it came out without thinking: it shall not happen again."
They walked on silently together.
"What news is stirring?" asked Wally at last, according to custom.
"Not much," said Vincenz; "they say that Hagenbach is going to take the maid Afra to the dance at Sölden on St. Peter's Day. I heard it from the messenger who had had to fetch a new pair of shoes from Imst for Afra, and a silk neckerchief, and Joseph paid for them." Wally bit her lips and said nothing, but Vincenz saw what was passing in her mind.
"I tell thee what," said Vincenz, "we also do things in style on St. Peter's Day, and if the peasant-mistress would come, there would be a feast to be talked of far and wide; come for once with me to the dance."
Wally gave her head a short toss. "I'm the right sort to go to dances," she said.
"Nay go, Wally," urged Vincenz, "just for once, if it's only to spite people."
"Much I care for them," said Wally, laughing contemptuously.
"But think a bit, people say--" he paused.
Wally stood still. "What do they say?" she asked, looking at him piercingly.
Vincenz shrank back at the expression on her countenance, "I only mean that they say thou's got some secret trouble. The upper servant says thou wast out the whole night, and goes wandering about like a sick chicken. And folk say thou'st everything heart can desire, and suitors as many as the sand on the seashore, so if thou's not content with that, there must be some love-sorrow on thy mind--and ever since what happened at the Procession--"
"Well! go on!" said Wally huskily.
"Since then they say that Joseph is the only lad in the Oetz valley that thou cares to catch--and that he won't bite."
He darted a lightning glance at Wally as he said the words; they touched her to the quick. She had to stand still and lean her forehead against the trunk of a tree, the blood throbbed so in her temples.
"And if it is so, if they do say such things behind my back--" she gasped, but she could not finish; a sudden mist seemed to cloud and confuse all her thoughts.
Vincenz gave her time to recover herself; he knew what it must be to her, for he knew her pride. After a time he said,
"Look here, it seems to me thou'd best come with me to the dance; that were the best way to stop peoples' mouths."
Wally drew herself up. "I go with no lad to the dance that I don't mean to marry--that I tell thee once for all!" she said.
"If I was thee, I'd sooner marry Vincenz Gellner than die an old maid for love of Hagenbach," said Vincenz sneeringly.
Wally looked at him with newly-awakened aversion. "I wonder thou'rt not tired of that," she said; "when thou knows well it's all of no good."
"Wally, I ask thee for the last time, can thou not bring thyself to think of me as a husband?"
"Never--never! sooner will I die," she said.
Vincenz' sharp and prominent cheek bones became white spots on his yellow face; he looked almost like the vulture, glancing sideways at Wally, as at some defenceless prey. "I'm sorry, Wally," he said, "but I've somewhat to say to thee--something that I'd fain have spared thee, but thou forces me to it. I've given thee a twelvemonth, and now I must speak." He drew a written sheet of paper from his pocket. "It's nigh upon a year since thy father died, and if thou doesn't marry me at the year's end thy right to the farm is over."
Wally stared at him.
He unfolded the paper. "Here's thy father's will, by which he appoints that if thou don't marry me by a twelvemonth after his death, the farm and all belonging to it is mine, and thou gets no more than he was bound by law to leave thee. There'll be an end then of the proud peasant-mistress. As yet, no one knows of this. Thou can turn it over once more, and in the end I fancy thou'll give in, sooner than go with me before the justices, and have the will carried out."
Wally stood still, and measured Vincenz from head to foot with a single glance of cold contempt, then said with perfect calmness: "Oh thou pitiful fool! Inthisnet then thou'st thought to catch the Vulture-maiden? You are a pair, thou and my father, but neither one nor the other of you knew me. What do I care for money or property? That which I want cannot be bought with gold, and so I care nothing for it. On Monday will I pack up my things, and go away again, for thy guest I'll never be--no, not for an hour. And if it gives me pain to leave this farm, where I first saw the light--still, I've been no happier as mistress than when I minded the cattle--and as much a stranger here as there. So it's all for the best, and I'll leave the place, and go away as far as I can."
Calmly she turned towards the house. A wild anguish seized Vincenz; he threw himself at her feet, and clasped her knees. "I never meant that," he cried, "thou mustn't go away,--for God's sake, don't serve me so--what do I want with the farm? I only meant--my God, my God--only to try everything!" With one hand he held Wally fast, with the other he thrust the paper into his mouth, and tore it with his teeth. "There, there, see, there goes the scrawl--I'll have none of the farm, if thou'll not stay--there--there--" he strewed the fragments to the wind, "I want nothing--nothing--only don't thou serve me so--don't go away!"
Wally looked at him in wonder. "I pity thee, Vincenz, but I cannot help thee--no more than I myself am helped. Keep thou the farm and all that belongs to it; my father left it to thee, and that remains the same, although thou hast torn up the will--I'll take nothing as a gift from thee. Everything here is hateful to me, even now--why should I wait? No one is any good to me, nor I to any one. I'll take my Hansl, and go up again to the mountain--that is where I belong. But if I might ask thee one thing--tell no one till I'm gone that the farm was never mine; for thou seest--there's one thing I cannot bear--that folk should make fun of me. That--that drives me mad. Think of the pointing, and the scorn when they know that the proud Wally Stromminger has been turned out of house and home like a maidservant--I couldn't live through it. Let me at least go forth as mistress."
"Wally," cried Vincenz, "where thou goest, I will go. Thou cannot hinder me--the roads are free to all, and he who will, may run. If thou'rt resolved to leave--I go with thee."
Wally looked at him with amazement, as he stood there raving before her, and she shuddered as though she had raised some evil spirit. "What will come of it all?" she murmured helplessly.
At this moment the messenger from Sölden was seen coming across the meadows from the house straight towards Wally. He had a big nosegay in his hat and in his Sunday-coat, like a bridal messenger.
"He's come to bid thee to Joseph and Afra's wedding," cried Vincenz with a wild laugh. Wally's foot stumbled against something; she caught hold of Vincenz, and he seized her round the waist and held her.
Meanwhile the messenger came up, and took off his hat to Wally. "Good day to thee, Mistress. Joseph Hagenbach sends thee friendly greeting, and asks thee to the dance on St. Peter's Day. If it's thy pleasure, he will come up at noon and fetch thee down to the Stag. Thou'lt send an answer by me."
If Heaven itself had opened before Wally, and Hell before Vincenz, it would have been much the same thing.
Then it was not true about Afra! He had come to Wally--he had come after five years of sorrow and suffering--at last, at last! The word was spoken--the winds bore it triumphantly onwards, the breezes echoed it back again, the white glaciers smiled at it in the evening sunshine; Joseph the Bear-hunter bade the Vulture-maiden to the dance! The labourers in the field shouted, the waggons swayed beneath their loads, the vulture on the roof flapped his wings for joy--the two who belonged to one another were come together at last!
Joy to all mankind: the race of giants would live again in this one pair. And smiling graciously, like a Queen beneath the myrtle crown, Wally bowed her beautiful head and told the messenger, half-bashfully, that she should expect Joseph.
Vincenz leaned against a tree, distorted, faded, mute--a ghost of the past.
Wally threw him a compassionate glance--he was no longer to be dreaded: she bore a charmed life, none could hurt or harm her more. She hastened into the house, and the servants looked at her wonderingly, such rapture lay in her expression. But she could not stay indoors; she took money, and went through the village like a bliss-bestowing fairy. She entered all the poorest huts, and gave with liberal hand out of that which she could rightfully and lawfully call her own,[2]for she had decided irrevocably that the farm should belong to Vincenz. She was still rich enough to give to Joseph, and to all around her--even her rightful share of Stromminger's estate was a fortune. She must do good to all; she could not bear alone her newly-learnt, immeasurable happiness.
The two days before St. Peter's festival were like a fairy tale to all the villagers. Who could now recognize the morose and bitter Vulture-maiden in the beatified girl who moved about as though borne on invisible wings? It had needed but this one ray of sunshine, and the hail-stricken, frost-bitten blossom had sprung up again. An inexhaustible power made itself felt in her bosom, a power for love as for hatred, for joy as for pain, for self-sacrifice as for defiance. All around her breathed more freely; it was as though a spell had been taken off them since Wally's dark repining spirit, that had weighed like a storm-cloud upon everything, had melted away.
"When one is as happy as I am, every one else should rejoice too," she said; and soon it was known everywhere that it was because Joseph had asked her to the dance--which was almost the same as asking her in marriage--that Wally was so changed. Why should she conceal it, when in so few days it would be known? why should she deny that she loved him with all her heart, above everything? he deserved it all, and he loved her in return, or he would not be coming to fetch her to the dance. It was well for her that she dared to show all that she felt. If she met a child she took it in her arms, and told it how, on St. Peter's Day, Joseph the bear-hunter was coming--Joseph, who had slain the great bear, and saved the innkeeper's little Lieserl from the mad bull, and how they would all open their eyes, he was so tall, and so beautiful to look at--they had never seen such a man, for there was not such another in all the wide world. The children were quite excited, and played all day at Bear and Joseph the bear-hunter. Then she joked with Hansl, threatening him playfully. "Thou'rt to behave thyself when Joseph comes, else something will happen--that I can tell thee!" and Klettenmaier and all the best of the servants had new holiday-clothes--they knew well enough the reason why; but Wally let them chatter as they would about it, and was not angry.
Then again she would sit for hours quietly in her room, doing nothing, wondering only how it had happened that Joseph had so suddenly changed his mind; but however much she thought and thought she could not understand why the unhoped-for happiness, so sudden, so full, so complete, had come upon her; and she looked up at her holy images, no longer with enmity, but with friendly eyes, and thanked them for all the good that they had brought to her. But when she looked at the cards that were nailed up above her bed, she laughed aloud. "Well, what do you now say? Own that you knew nothing of what was coming!" and like enchanted spirits that no liberating spell can call forth again into the light, the secrets of the future stared unintelligibly at her from these mute tokens. If only old Luckard had been there, she could have told what it was the cards replied to Wally--but to her they were dumb, like a cipher of which the key is lost. If Luckard had been alive, how rejoiced she would have been! Wally would have liked to lie down and sleep till the day of the festival, so that the time might not appear so long. But there was no question of sleep; she could not even close an eye by day or by night for impatience. She was always counting, "Now so many hours more--now so many--"
At last the day was come. After breakfast Wally went to her room, and washed herself, and combed her hair without end. Once more she was a woman--a girl! Once more she stood before the glass, and adorned herself, and looked to see if she were fair, if she might hope to find favour in Joseph's eyes; and once more she had procured a new necklace, even more beautiful than the first, and filigree pins for her hair as well. The box was on the table before her, she took out the ornament, and tied it above her bodice; the bright silver was as white as the snowy pleated sleeves of her chemise and tinkled like clear marriage-bells, and through the rose-coloured chintz curtains a dim rosy light shed a tender mist of bridal-glow over the girl's noble figure. When she was ready, she took from its case a meerschaum pipe heavy with silver, such as no peasant of the country had far and wide--a really splendid pipe--and yet she held it long in her hand, doubting whether it were good enough for Joseph. And still there was something else, that she took out slowly, almost timidly, looking at the door to see if it were securely fastened; it was a small round box, and in it there lay--a ring. She trembled as she took it out, and a tear of unutterable joy and thankfulness glistened in her eye. She held the ring in her folded hands, and for the first time for many days she knelt down, and she prayed over it that the beloved one might be linked to her for ever. And she no longer heard the rustle of her silks, and the tinkle of her silver ornaments; she was lost in the passionate fervour of her prayers; she pressed forward as it were to the presence of God with the vehemence of a thankful child whose father has granted its warmest desire.
"The mistress will never have done with dressing herself to-day," said the maids outside, as Wally did not appear.
Already the peasants were flocking to the Stag. Whoever had feet to go on, and Sunday-clothes to go in, would be there to-day, for the whole village was stirred by the great event of the peasant-mistress going to the dance with Joseph Hagenbach. The road swarmed with people, and the landlord of the Stag had done his best, and sent for musicians to come from Imst.
The upper maid-servant stood at the dormer-window above, and looked down the road by which Joseph must come. Wally stood ready dressed in her room; her heart beat like a sledge-hammer, her cheeks glowed, her hands were icy-cold, she held her white neatly-folded handkerchief pressed tightly to her heart--it had been her mother's wedding handkerchief. The pipe and the ring for Joseph she had hidden away in her pocket; so she waited motionless whilst the minutes passed by, and this silent pause of expectation, in which her breath almost failed her for impatience, was certainly one of the hardest experiences of her life.
"They're coming, they're coming!" cried the maid at last. "Joseph and a crowd of other lads from Zwieselstein and Sölden, and the landlord of the Lamb--it's a regular procession!"
Everyone ran out into the courtyard; already the noise of the approaching steps and voices could be heard in Wally's room. She came out, and a general "Ah!" of admiration broke from all as she appeared.
At the same moment the procession approached the farm-gate, Joseph at its head. She went forward to meet him, modestly but with the beaming loftiness of a bride who is proud of her bridegroom--proud to have been chosen by such a man.
"Joseph, art thou there?" she said, and her voice sounded soft and loving as she had never spoken before. Joseph glanced at her with a strange, almost a shamefaced look, and then cast his eyes down again.
Wally was startled--was it on purpose, or was it by accident? Joseph had placed his black-cock feather upside down, as the young men are in the habit of doing when they seek a quarrel. It could only have happened from an oversight today!
Every one stood round and watched her; she was so anxious that she could say no more, and he also was silent. She looked at him with eyes full of fervent moisture, but his avoided hers. He was as much embarrassed as she was, she thought.
"Come," he said at last, and offered his hand. She laid hers in it, and they silently walked as far as the Stag. The strangers and all the servants closed the procession.
As, sometimes, when we have gazed at the sun, all grows black before us, even in full daylight, so now with Wally in the midst of her happiness, all suddenly grew dark to her soul. She knew not how it was; she was bewildered and hardly knew herself--it was all so different from what she had imagined.
A noisy countrydance was beginning as they entered the Stag, and as Wally passed down the long rows of dancers with Joseph, she heard the people say: "There is not a handsomer couple in the whole world." She now saw for the first time how many strangers had come with Joseph, and that all her rejected suitors were there also. Once more she silently compared them with Joseph, and she could truly say there was not one of them who came up to him for stature and beauty. He was a king among the peasants, a mortal of quite another stamp to the ordinary men who stood around him, and her eye rested with silent delight on the tall figure, from his broad chest down to his slender knees and ankles. Any one seeing him thus must surely understand that him only would she have, and none other.
As she looked round, her glance met two piercing black eyes directed like daggers at Joseph. It was Vincenz, wedged in among the crowd. And not far off was another melancholy face--that of Benedict Klotz, who observed her thoughtfully. As she passed him, he pulled her gently back by the sleeve. "Mind what thou'rt about, Wally," he whispered, "there's some plot against thee--I don't know what, but I forebode no good."
Wally shrugged her shoulders carelessly. What harm could happen to her, when Joseph was at her side?
The sets formed for the dance, and Joseph and Wally were to begin; every one wanted to see them dance together. No couple had yet been watched with such envious eyes as this well-dressed, distinguished-looking pair. Joseph, however, moved away from Wally's side, and stood before her with something of solemnity in his air.
"Wally," he said aloud, and the music stopped at a sign from the host of the Lamb, who stood behind them, "I hope that before we dance together, thou'lt give me the kiss that no one of thy suitors has yet been able to win from thee?"
Wally coloured and said softly, "But not here Joseph, not before everyone."
"Precisely here, before everyone," said Joseph, with strong emphasis.
For a moment Wally struggled between desire and sweet embarrassment; to kiss a man before all these people was to her chaste and half-defiant spirit a severe humiliation. But there he stood before her, the man so dear to her heart; the moment for which she would joyfully have given a year of her life--nay her life itself--was there, and should she reject it for the sake of a few bystanders who could do her no harm, if she did kiss her bridegroom? She raised her beautiful face to his, and his eyes were fixed for a moment on the full and blooming lips that approached his own. Then with an involuntary movement, he pushed her gently from him, saying softly,
"Nay, not so; a true hunter shoots his game only on the spring or on the wing--that I told thee once before. The kiss I'll wrest from thee, not take it as a gift. And were I a maid like thee, I'd give myself away less cheaply. Defend thyself, Wally, that I may win no easier than the others, else my honour is lost."
A scarlet blush overspread Wally's face; she could have sunk into the ground for shame. Had she then so completely forgotten what she owed to herself, that her lover must remind her of it? She was crimson to her very eyes--it was as though a wave of blood were surging to her brain. Drawing herself up to her full height, with one flaming glance she measured herself with him. "Good," she said, "thou shalt have thy will--thou also shalt learn to know the Vulture-maiden. Look to thyself, whether now thou'lt get the kiss!"
She was almost suffocated. She tore off her neckerchief and stood there in her silver-clasped velvet bodice and white linen chemise, so that Joseph's eyes rested in amazement on her beautiful bare neck. "Thou'rt handsome--as handsome as thou'rt wicked," he muttered, and springing on her, as a hunter springs on a wild animal to give the death-blow, he threw his strong arms round her neck. But he did not know the Vulture-maiden. With one powerful wrench she was free, and there was a laugh of derision from all those with whom it had fared no better, that maddened Joseph. He seized her round the waist with arms of iron, but she struck him such a blow on the heart, that he cried out and staggered backwards. Renewed laughter! With this blow, of which she knew the value, she had always defended herself against her importunate suitors, for none had held out after it. But Joseph smothered his pain, and with redoubled fury threw himself again on the girl, seized her by the arms with both hands, and so tried to approach her lips; but in an instant she bent herself down on one side, and now ensued a breathless struggle up and down, to and fro, an oppressive silence broken only by an occasional oath from Joseph. The girl bowed and twisted herself hither and thither like a snake in his arms, so that he could never reach her mouth. It was no longer a strife for love--it was a struggle for life and death. Three times he had got her down to the ground, three times she sprang up again; he lifted her in his arms, but she always twisted herself round, and he could not touch her lips. Her fine linen hung in rags, her silver necklace was all broken to pieces. Suddenly she freed herself, and flew to the doorway; he overtook her, and like a stormwind tore her back into his arms. It was a fierce and glowing embrace. His breath floated round her like hot steam; she lay on his breast; she felt his heart beat against her own; her strength left her, she fell on her knees before him, and said, as if fainting with pain, and shame, and love, "Thou hast me!"
"Ah!" a heavy sigh broke from Joseph. "You have all of you seen it?" he asked aloud--he bent down and pressed his mouth upon her hot and quivering lips. A loud hurrah filled the room. She got up and sank almost senseless on his breast.
"Stay!" he said in a hard voice, and stepped back a little, "ONEkiss is enough--no need of more. Thou'st seen now that I can master thee--and no further will I go."
Wally stared at him, as if she could not understand his words. She was of an ashy paleness.
"Joseph," she stammered, "why then art thou come?"
"Didst think I had come to woo thee?" he answered. "Lately at the procession thou'st said before everyone that Afra was my sweetheart, because she was so easy to be had,--and that Joseph the bear-slayer had not the heart to try and win the Vulture-Wally. Didst truly think a lad with any spirit in him would let such things be said of him and of an honest girl? I only wished to show thee that I can master thee as I can a bear, or a mad bull, and the kiss I have won from thee, that will I take to Afra, as a kiss of atonement for the wrong that thou hast done her. Now take heed to thyself another time when thy haughty temper moves thee. Henceforth, perhaps, thou'll forego the pleasure of holding up a poor and honest girl to scorn and derision--now that thou'st felt what it is to be a laughing-stock thyself."
A shout of laughter from all sides closed Joseph's speech, but he turned with displeasure from the applause. "You have seen that I've kept my word," he said, "and now I must go to Zwieselstein to comfort Afra. The good soul wept to think that I should play the peasant-mistress such a shabby trick. God keep you all."
He went, but they all ran after him; it had been too good a joke. Joseph was something like a man. He had shown the proud peasant-mistress that she had a master.
"It will do her good!"
"It will serve her right!"
"Joseph, that's the best day's work thou's ever done."
"No one'll have anything to do with her, when this is known."
Thus laughed the chorus of rejected suitors, as they crowded joyfully round Joseph.
The dancing-floor was deserted--only two persons remained with Wally, Vincenz and Benedict. Wally stood still in the same place and did not stir; it was as if she were lifeless.
Vincenz watched her with folded arms. Benedict went up to her and took her gently by the arm. "Wally, don't take it so to heart--we are here, and we'll get satisfaction for thee. Wally--speak. What shall we do? we are all ready, only say what thou'd have us to do."
Then she turned round, her large eyes had a ghostly gleam in them, her face was ghastly pale. She opened and closed her lips once or twice, one word there was she struggled to utter, but it seemed as if the breath to speak it failed her. At last she brought it out, as from the very depths of her being,--more a cry than a word: "DEADwould I have him!"
Benedict drew back. "God forbid, Wally!" he said.
But Vincenz stepped forward with flashing eyes. "Wally, art thou in earnest?"
"Ay, in bloody earnest!" She lifted her hand at the oath, her hand was quite stiff and the nails blue, as in one dead. "He who lays him dead at his Afra's feet--him will I marry, as truly as I am Wallburga Stromminger."
All through the night a strange and measured sound was audible throughout the silent, sleeping farm-house. Now and then the maids awoke and listened, without knowing what they heard, then turned to sleep again. The boards cracked and the beams trembled, slightly but unceasingly.
It was Wally who paced backwards and forwards with heavy, unpausing steps, her sinking heart engaged in a death-struggle with herself, with Fate, with Providence. All around was shattered--her clothes flung about the room, on the floor the carved St. Wallburga, the crucifix, the holy images, all broken to fragments in impotent wrath.
She had half-undressed, and her hair fell loose and disordered on her bare shoulders. A red gleaming pine-torch flickered in its socket, and in the trembling shadows the features of the broken figure of Christ looking distorted and living. She stayed her steps, and looked down on the fragments.
"Ay, thou may grin," she said, "thou's always taken me for a fool. You're of no good, none of you; idols you are of wood and paper, and no help to any one. Neither prayer nor curse can you hear. And them for whom you stand, hide themselves, God knows where, and would laugh if they could see how we kneel down before a piece of wood." And she pushed the fragments under the bed, that they might not be in her way as she walked to and fro.
A shot was heard in the distance.
Wally stood still and listened; all was silent. She must have fancied it. Why should the sound have taken her breath away? She was not even sure that it was a shot. The thought flashed through her like lightning, "Suppose Vincenz should have shot Joseph!" It was mere folly, Joseph was safe at home--or perhaps at Zwieselstein with his Afra!
She beat her head against the wall in nameless agony at the thought, and pictures rose before her that drove her frantic. If only he were dead--dead so that she need never think of him again! She flung the window open that she might breathe more freely.
Hansl, who was asleep on a tree outside the window, woke up and fluttered in half-stupid with sleep. "Ah, thou!" cried Wally, and stretched out her arms to him; she clasped him to her breast, he was all--all that was left to her in the world.
Again--a second shot, and this time distinctly in the direction of Zwieselstein; she let go of the vulture, and pressed her hand to her heart, as though she herself had been struck. Why this terror? The trifling incident had suddenly brought before her the whole terrible deed which yesterday she had sworn to. She could not help thinking again and again how it would be if the shot she had just heard had shattered Joseph's head, and a wild and frenzied joy came upon her. Now he belonged to her only, now none other could claim his kiss, and as she thought upon it, it seemed to her as though it had really happened; she saw him lying on the ground in his blood, she knelt down by him, she took his head in her lap, she kissed the pale face--the beautiful pale face--she saw it actually before her. And then suddenly pity overwhelmed her for the poor, dead man, a burning, unutterable pity; she called him by every loving name, she shook him, she chafed his hands--in vain, he was no more. Unspeakable anguish filled her soul; no, this must not be, he must not die--sooner would she part with her own life!
She felt as if an icy cramp had been grasping and crushing her heart, so that no warm human blood could flow in her veins, and that now the grip was at last relaxed and the hot flood streaming into her heart again. She must go out, she must see whether Vincenz was at home, she must speak to him at once, before daybreak, she must tell him that the ghastly deed must not be done--she was in a fever, all her pulses throbbed. She had desired the deed, commanded it, but already the idea that it might have been done, extinguished her wrath--and she forgave.
She threw a neckerchief on her shoulders, and hastened across the courtyard and through the garden to Vincenz' house. What would he, what would everyone think of her? It was all one--what did it matter now?
She reached the house. There was a light in Vincenz' room on the groundfloor; noiselessly she glided up, she could see through the parted curtains--her heart stood still--the room was empty, the pine-torch almost burnt away. She went round the house; the door was unfastened, she opened it softly and went in. All was still as death, the men and maids fast asleep; she crept through the whole house, nothing stirred--Vincenz was away! The blood curdled in her veins; she went into his bedroom, the bed was disturbed--he must have laid himself down, then risen again; his Sunday clothes were hanging up, but his work-day clothes were missing, nor was his hat in its place. She looked into the sitting-room; the nail where his rifle usually hung was empty.
Wally stood as if paralysed; she never knew how she got outside the house again. At the door she dropped on to a bench; her feet would carry her no further. She tried to reassure herself: most likely, restless as he was, he had gone out after some night game--what could he do to Joseph, quietly asleep somewhere--she shivered--on a soft pillow? And by day when everyone was up and about, nobody could touch or harm him.
It was her evil conscience that pursued her with these terrors, and she hid her face in her hands. "Wally, Wally, what art thou become?" Shamed, scorned, degraded in the eyes of men, and a sinner in the eyes of God. Where was water enough to purify her? Down below, there rushed the torrent--that--yes, that would clear her from every stain; if she threw herself into that cold flood, all would be washed away, her sorrow and her guilt--the whole unblest existence created only to horror and to strife at once done away with--annihilated. Yes, that were redemption--why did she hesitate? Away with the useless shell that held the soul in fetters of guilt and suffering! She started up, but she could not move, she fell back upon the bench. Was this down-trodden, deadened spirit still held to life then by some invisible thread?
There, God be praised! a footstep on the grass. There came Vincenz. Now she could speak with him; all might yet be well.
"Saints above us!" exclaimed Vincenz, as she went forward to meet him, "is it thou?" He gazed at her as if she were a spirit. Wally saw in the morning twilight that he was pale and disturbed. His gun was on his shoulder.
"Vincenz," she said in a low voice, "hast thou shot anything?"
"Aye."
"What?" She looked at his game-bag, it was empty.
"Noble game," he whispered.
Wally shivered. "Where is it?"
"He lies in the Ache!"
Wally seized him by the arm, in her eyes was a gleam of frenzy. "Who?" she said.
"Dost need to ask?"
"Joseph!" she cried, and staggered back against the wall.
"It was a hard job," said Vincenz, wiping his brow; "I never thought he'd have come so soon within shot. The devil knows what brought him out and about by night. I thought I'd get up early, so as to be down in Sölden before he was stirring, and at the first step he walks right into my hands. But it was still so dark that the first shot missed, and the second only grazed him, but he must have turned giddy, for he stumbled on the bridge, and held on by the railing. I made the best of the chance,--I sprang behind him and pushed him over the rail."
A groan like a death-rattle burst from Wally, and as a vulture swoops upon his prey, she flew at Vincenz and seized his throat with both hands. "Thou liest, Vincenz, thou liest--it is not true, it cannot be--say it is not true, or I'll murder thee."
"On my soul, it's true;--didst suppose Vincenz'd think twice when there was ought to do for thee?"
"Oh murder! most cruel and dastardly murder," sobbed Wally, trembling from head to foot, "so underhand, so cowardly, so base--that I never meant; in fair fight I meant that he should die. Cursed be thou in time and in eternity!--outcast and accursed now and hereafter. What can I do to thee? With tooth and nail thou ought to be torn in pieces."
"So these are the thanks I get?" said Vincenz between his teeth. "Did not thou bid me do it?"
"And if I did--what then? Was that a reason?" cried Wally wildly, "often one says in anger what afterwards one rues in bitterness. Could thou not wait till I had come to myself again after the awful shock? Joseph, Joseph!--wild and wicked I may be, but no murderess. Oh, why could thou not wait, only a few hours? Thy own wickedness it was that drove thee on, and thou could never rest till thou had worked it out."
"That's right, lay it all on me," growled Vincenz; "and yet thou's thy share in the mischief too."
"Aye," said Wally, "I have--and with thee I'll atone for it. For us two no mercy remains. Blood cries for blood--" She ground her teeth, and seizing Vincenz by the collar, dragged him forward with her.
"Wally, leave go of me!--what dost thou want? My God, are these the thanks I get? Mercy--Wally, thou'rt choking me--where art thou dragging me to?"
"To where we two belong," was the gloomy answer, and on she went as though borne by a whirlwind, up the ascent, on to the bridge where the sheer precipice overhangs the torrent--where the deed was done. "Down," was the one fearful word she thundered in his ear, "we two--together."
"God above us!" shrieked Vincenz in terror, "thou swore that if I did the deed thou'd be my wife, and now wilt thou murder me?"
Wally laughed her fearful laugh of scorn. "Thou fool, when I fling myself down yonder with thee, shall not we two be together to all eternity? will thou try to save thy wolfish life?" And with the strength of a giant she grasped him in her arms, and hurried him forward to the low parapet that she might throw herself with him into the twilight gloom of the abyss.
"Help!" shrieked Vincenz involuntarily, and--
"Help!" sounded feebly, ghostly, like an echo from the depths.
Wally stood as if turned to stone and let go her hold of Vincenz. What was that? Some mocking goblin? "Did thou hear it?" she said to Vincenz.
"It was the echo," he said, and his teeth chattered.
"Hark--again!"
"Help!" sounded once more like a passing breath from the abyss.
"All good spirits be praised, it is he--he lives--he is clinging somewhere--he calls for help! Yes--I am coming, Joseph, only wait, Joseph--I am coming!" she shouted out with a voice like a trumpet into the depths, and with a voice like a trumpet-call she hailed the sleeping village as she flew along the street, knocking at every door. "Help, help--a man is perishing, save him--help, for God's sake, help--it's life or death!" And at the cry everyone sprang from his bed, and threw open the windows.
"What is it? what's the matter?"
"It's Joseph Hagenbach--he's fallen into the ravine," cried Wally, "ropes--bring ropes--only come quick--it may already be too late--it may perhaps be too late by the time we get there."
She flew like the wind, home to the farm, into the barn, collected all the ropes that were there, and knotted them together with trembling hands; but all she could tie together, ropes and lines and cords, were still not enough to reach into the depths where he lay--God only knew where.
Meanwhile the men came running together half-incredulous, half-amazed at the terrible news, and brought with them ropes, and hooks and lanterns--for it seemed as if to-day it would never be light--and there was questioning and advising and helpless bewilderment, for in the memory of man no one had ever fallen over the cliff, and here on the broad Plateau they were not provided with ready means of rescue as they are in places where the dizzy precipices and yawning clefts and chasms every year demand their victims. Thus they came at last to the spot, and a chill terror seized even the most cold-blooded as they bent over the railing, and looked down into the mysterious depths of the abyss in which nothing could be seen but the surging mists that rose up from the water. Vincenz had disappeared; all was solitary and silent as death far and wide, above and below. Wally gave a halloo so shrill that the air trembled; all listened with suspended breath--no answer.
"Joseph--where art thou?" she cried once more with a voice in whose tone the anguish of all suffering and desperate humanity seemed concentrated. All was still.
"He doesn't answer--he is dead!" sobbed Wally, and threw herself in despair upon the earth. "Now all is over!"
"Perhaps he's lost his senses, or is too weak to answer," said old Klettenmaier consolingly, then whispered in her ear. "Mistress, think of all the people."
She raised herself and pushed her disordered hair off her forehead. "Tie the ropes together; don't stand there doing nothing--what are you waiting for?" The men looked at her doubtingly. "We must at least try if he's not to be found," said Klettenmaier.
The men shook their heads, but began to fasten the cords together. "Who will let himself down by the rope?" they said.
"Who?" said Wally. Her black eyes flashed out of her pale face. "I will!" she said.
"Thou, Wally--thou's out of thy senses--the rope will scarce bear one, much less two."
"It need bear only one," said Wally gloomily, and seized the rope that it might be done quicker.
"It's impossible, Wally--thou'll have to tie thyself and him to it to come up again," said the men, dropping their arms helplessly; "the only thing to do is to send into the villages, and collect more ropes--"
"And meanwhile he'll fall to the bottom if he's lost his senses, and all will be too late," cried Wally desperately. "I'll not wait till more comes--give it me here--unwind the rope, and see how long it is--go on--unwind!" She shook out the coils of rope, and tried its length and strength; involuntarily the men took hold of it again, they unwound the huge coil, the preparations began to take shape and order. The men stepped out to make a chain. "It may reach far enough, but it'll never bear two."
"If it won't bear two, I'll send him up alone. Where he has room to lie, I shall have room to stand. As soon as I've found a footing, I'll untie myself, and tie the rope round him; then draw him up, and I can wait till the rope comes down again--"
"Nay--that won't do--if he's weak or senseless he can't be pulled up alone; he'll be dashed and crushed against the cliff if there's no one with him to hold him off."
Wally stood as if thunderstruck--she had not thought of that. Again, then, she was thwarted--she was not to reach him, except down yonder, perhaps, in the cold bed of the Ache! The rope would not bear two, that she herself could see. "In the name of God," she said at last, and in spite of the fever that shook her, she stood there dignified and commanding in her firm resolve. She tied the rope round her waist, and took her Alpenstock in her hand. "Let me down, that I may at least seek him. If I find him, I'll stay with him and support him till you've brought another rope, and let it down to us. I'll wait patiently down there, even if I've to wait for hours hanging between earth and heaven till the other rope can come."
Old Klettenmaier fell on his knees before her. "Wally, Wally, don't thou do it, they all say the rope isn't safe. If it must be done, let me go--what does my old life matter? If I can do no good, at least thou'll see if the rope holds, and if it breaks, it'll only be me that's killed--not thee."
"Aye, Wally, hear him," said another, "he's in the right; don't thou go. Only wait, bethink thyself a little till help comes from the villages."
Wally threw up her arms, so that they all fell back. "When I was but a child, I did not wait to think before I took the vulture from its nest down the precipice--and shall I wait now when I go to seek Joseph? Speak no more to me--I will, I must go to him. Now--step back, unwind, hold fast!" And even as she spoke, she had sprung over the railing, whilst the men who formed the chain had to hold back with all their might, so great was the strain upon the rope.
"God Almighty help us," said Klettenmaier crossing himself, then ran off, as if Wally's words had reminded him of something. All gazed after her with horror as she slowly sank lower and lower into the sea of mist till it had swallowed her up and closed over her, never perhaps to be seen again. All stood speechless round the spot where she had disappeared, as round a grave; the tightly-strained rope alone gave intelligence of the movements of the death-defying diver in this sea of clouds, and on it every eye was fixed--would it break?--would it bear? And each time one of the hastily-tied knots was paid out, every heart beat louder--"Would it hold?"
The beads of sweat fell from the brows of the men who formed the chain, and involuntarily each tried once more the knots on which a human life depended. So passed minute after minute, heavy as lead,--as if time also were bound to some rope that dark powers refused to let go. Still the rope strained and swayed, still she must be hanging to it; she had not yet found a footing.
"It's coming to an end," cried the last man of the chain, "it's not long enough."
"God help us!" they all cried together, "not long enough!"
Only a few yards remained, and still no sign from below that Wally's end was attained. The men pressed together as close as they could to the edge of the precipice, paying out as much of the rope as they dared. If it were not long enough;--if all had been in vain;--if they should be obliged to draw up the hapless Wally, to set forth once more on the way of death!
There--there, the rope is suddenly loosened--it is slack--a fearful moment! Has it given way, or has its burden touched the ground?
The women pray aloud, the children cry. The men begin slowly to pull in, but only a little way--the rope is tight again. It is not broken, Wally has found a footing, and now, listen! An echoing cry rises from the depths, and a quivering response bursts from every throat. Again the rope is slack, they wind it in, and again it is loosened once or twice; it would seem that Wally is climbing up the precipice. Meanwhile the day has broken, but a fine, cold rain is drizzling down and the swirl of fog below is thicker than ever. Now the rope sharply jerked to the right takes a slanting direction; the men follow it and pass from the left to the right side of the bridge. Wally seems to mount higher and higher; they continue to haul in.
"God be praised!" said some, "he cannot have fallen so deep; if he lies so far up, he may still live." "Perhaps she's only looking for him," said others. Now another pull at the rope, and then a sudden slackening, and a soul-piercing scream.
"It's broken!" shrieked the people.
No, it is taut again--perhaps it was a scream of joy--perhaps she has found him. The women fall on their knees, even the men pray, for though all hated the haughty "peasant-mistress"--still, for the devoted girl who hangs down there in the chaos between life and death, every one that has a human heart trembles. If only a ray of sunshine would pierce the gloom for one single moment! All stand looking down, but they can distinguish nothing; they must leave it to time that passes with such slow reluctance, to reveal the event.
The rope remains immovable, but not another sound reaches them from below. Is it broken and caught on some point of rock, while Wally lies dashed to pieces below? Why is there no signal, no call? And hours must pass before they can get help from the villages round.
No one dares to speak a word--all stand listening with suspended breath. Suddenly old Klettenmaier comes running up, beckoning and shouting.
"See what I've got," he called out, showing a whole length of stout rope thrown over his shoulders. "Thank God, when Wally spoke of the vulture, it all at once struck me that old Luckard had had the rope laid by that Stromminger let Wally down to the vulture's nest with;--and there sure enough I found it, in the loft under a heap of old lumber."
"That is a find!" "Klettenmaier, that's a real godsend," cried the people confusedly. "God grant it may yet be of use," said the patriarch of the village, looking despondingly at the cord of deliverance, "she gives no farther sign!"
"The rope is pulled!" shouted the foremost man of the chain, and at the same moment a cry came up, so close at hand, that when all was silent they could catch the words: "Is there no more rope?"
"Ay, ay, plenty!" resounded joyfully from every side. A grappling iron was fastened for an anchor on to the end of the rope, a fresh chain of men was formed, and it was cast into the impenetrably shrouded abyss. The oldest of the peasants gave the word of command--for the ropes must be paid out exactly together, so that Wally might be close to the injured man and support him. Not half so far down as Wally had gone at first, the rope was caught below, and held fast.
"Let out!" said the leader, in order that Wally might have a few more yards to fasten round Joseph. "Enough," he called out then, and like soldiers at the word of command, the men stood awaiting the next order. Again a few minutes' pause; she must make the loop securely and carefully, so that the senseless man, now so nearly saved, might not fall again into the abyss.
"Tie it fast, Wally," panted Klettenmaier, half beside himself
"Yes, for God's sake, let her make it fast," echoed the people.
A thrice-repeated pull at both ropes at once. "Haul in!" commanded the leader, and his voice trembled as he spoke. The men at both ropes set their feet firmly in the ground, the veins swell in legs and arms and brows, sinewy hands are stretched forward to pull, and the lifting of the heavy loads begins. A fearful and responsible task!--if one fails, all is lost.
"Steady," warns the leader, "watch each other."
It is a solemn moment. Even the children dare not stir; nothing is audible far or near but the deep breath of the toiling men.
Now!--now they appear through the mist, more and more distinctly.--Wally emerges with one arm supporting the lifeless body that hangs to the saving rope, whilst with the other she powerfully bears off from the precipice with her Alpenstock, to keep herself and him from being dashed against it. In this way, as if rowing, she ascends upwards through the sea of clouds. And at last they are there, close to the edge,--one pull more, and they can be lifted up.
"Steady," says the leader--every breath is held--the last moment is the worst--if the rope were to break now!
But no, the foremost of the chain stoop and seize them with a firm grasp, those behind hold fast to the rope.
"Up!" cry the men in front. They are raised--they are there--they are on firm ground, and a ringing shout of joy relieves the long-oppressed hearts of the bystanders. Wally has sunk speechless on the inanimate body of Joseph. She does not see, she does not hear, how all crowd round her and praise her--she lies with her face upon his breast--her strength is gone.