CHAPTER VIII.
"WHEN WOMEN HOLD THE REINS."
Breathless with rage, the Worronska descended the stairs and left the house. A groom was driving a splendid carriage-and-four up and down before the house. She beckoned to him; he drove up and sprang down to assist his mistress, who, mounted upon the box, took the reins and whip, and, relieved by being able to vent her wrath upon some living thing, cut viciously at her impatient horses. The groom sprang nimbly into his place behind her, and away like the wind went the modern Victory in her triumphal chariot, as if rushing to breathe vengeance and hate into hosts fighting upon the battle-plain.
"Is it possible that that hectic, ill-tempered girl can rival me with such a man as Möllner?" she said to herself. "But shame on me!" she instantly added, "let me not, in my anger, prove a slanderer! She is beautiful, and a thousand times wiser than I,--but, curse her! I could strangle her with this hand!"
The passionate woman felt hot tears coursing down her cheeks. She struggled for composure; her chest heaved with the effort to breathe freely. She encouraged her horses to still greater speed, so that her carriage fairly rocked from side to side. She was glorious to behold in her wrath, as she both urged and restrained the spirited animals,--fit emblems of her own wild passions.
"But I will show her who she is and who I am," she murmured. "That I should be insulted by this German prude!" And she gave the near horse a cut with her whip, making him rear wildly and then drag on the others in his headlong career. In a few minutes the village was passed through, and the village curs desisted from barking at the horses' heels, and retired growling to their homes. The steep descent of the hill upon which the village was built was close at hand.
"Madame," said the groom to her in Russian, "look there!" He pointed to a sign-post by the wayside, warning travellers of the steep road. But it was too late; the countess needed both hands and all her strength to hold in her steeds, and could not reach the handle of the brake.
"We shall get down safely," she cried, holding the heads of the four noble animals well in rein. But as the road made a slight turn she recognized in the foot-path before her a well-known form. Her face flushed crimson,--it was Möllner. She no longer saw the steep descent,--she did not see that she must pass the church, where service was held at the time and all vehicles were required by law to pass at a walk; she only saw Johannes, whom she would overtake at all hazards. She gave the horses the rein, and they rushed on as if for their lives. Then Johannes turned his head towards her and made signs to her, but she did not understand them. He stood still. She thundered past the church, and two or three peasants, disturbed in their devotions, came running out and looked menacingly after her. Johannes made signs to her again, more earnestly than before, and now she saw that he meant she should look where she was going,--in the road just before her there was a group of children playing. She tried to turn aside--tried to hold in her horses, but in vain. Neither horses nor carriage could be guided or restrained in the impetus that they had gained from the steep descent, and they tore madly on directly towards the children. Johannes, in the greatest alarm, jumped over the hedge dividing the foot-path from the road. The children scattered in terror.
There was a shriek. The countess looked around,--no child was near. Whence came that cry? It came from under her wheels. At that moment Johannes reached the carriage, seized the leaders by their bridles and brought them to a stand-still. Then he stooped down and drew forth from beneath the carriage a lovely little girl, quite senseless. With a wrathful glance at the countess, he took the child in his arms, and murmured, "I thought so!"
"Is she dead?" asked the countess, pale with fright, and restraining with difficulty her excited steeds, while the groom put large stones in front of the wheels.
"Not dead," replied Möllner, "but no doubt severely injured."
"Oh, what an unfortunate accident!" cried the countess, quite beside herself.
"It was no accident!" Johannes rejoined severely, "but the inevitable consequence of your furious driving, Countess Worronska."
He leaned against the hedge, and began, without a word more, to look into the extent of the child's injuries. "This is what comes of it," he muttered with suppressed indignation, "'when women hold the reins.'"
"Möllner, do not reproach me," the countess entreated. He paid her no attention,--he was engrossed with the poor little victim upon his knee.
"Whose child is it?" he asked of her playmates, who came flocking around him.
"It is Keller's Käthchen!" cried the children. "Ah, our dear little Käthchen!"
Some crowded about Johannes, others ran to the church to call the parents. Johannes tenderly bound up the child's bleeding forehead with his pocket-handkerchief, and carefully drew off its thick jacket to examine the shoulder-joint, that seemed to be broken.
The Worronska devoured the scene with envious eyes. She saw him only,--the grace of his motions, the tender care that he lavished upon the child,--and, like molten lava, the words burst from her lips, "Oh that I were that child!"
Johannes did not even hear her.
"The arm must go," he said sadly. "The best that you can do. Countess Worronska, is to drive to town as quickly as you can and send out Professor Kern or some other skilful surgeon."
"Möllner," she implored, "I cannot go until you have forgiven me!"
"I pray you make haste, madame. Your first duty is to do what you can for the child; and I am afraid you will suffer from any delay, for there come the enraged peasants."
Like bees disturbed in their hive, a menacing, murmuring throng came flocking out of the church, and in a minute surrounded the strangers.
"What has happened?"
"Who is hurt?"
"A child run over!"
These words ran from mouth to mouth, and every one pressed forward to know whether it was his child. But alarm soon gave way to indignation,--for Käthchen, pretty little roguish Käthchen Keller, was the pet of the village. All loved her, and were shocked and grieved to see the blooming flower so ruthlessly cut down. The child had never harmed a living thing. Every one had been gladdened by her bright smile and taken delight in her chubby innocent face. And that this dear, artless little creature should be sacrificed to the mad humour of an arrogant stranger! What business had this crazy woman in their quiet village, disturbing the repose of their holiday and destroying the poor peasants' most precious possessions?
Maledictions were the answers to all these questions, that arose instantly in the minds of the villagers, already heated by wine, and their next thought was of revenge.
"Curses upon the vile woman," began one aloud, "to drive so madly!"
"Where were your eyes?" asked another. "Such a child is not a dog, to be driven over! Could you not turn aside?"
"She thought a peasant's child was of no consequence," said a third.
"Who ever saw four horses harnessed together!" exclaimed several.
"There is no end to the insolent pranks of these city folk."
"Thunder and lightning!" cried a sturdy, broad-shouldered peasant. "Stop talking, and let us have her before the magistrate."
"Yes, yes! to the burgomaster's!" shouted the crowd.
Johannes was in a most trying position. He still had the child in his arms, no one had taken her from him. He could not carry her away,--he dared not leave the defenceless woman to the insults of the mob. He tried to speak to the people, but in vain; they paid no attention to him. They had heard and seen the countess rattle past the church a few minutes before, and all their fury was concentrated upon her.
Johannes made a sign to the countess, who stood up in her carriage, regarding the people with contempt, to drive on instantly; but she cried, "Croyez-vous que je craigne la canaille? Je ne quitterai pas cette place sans que vous veniez avec moi!"
Then a voice shrieked, in the midst of the tumult, "Holy Mother! my child, my poor child!" and a woman rushed up, tore the little girl out of Johannes's arms, and covered her with tears and kisses.
A handsome young peasant followed her, and gazed, wringing his hands, and stupefied with horror, at his senseless child. "God in heaven! what have we done, that we should be visited so heavily?" he murmured, and would have fallen, had not two of his friends supported him.
"Her eyes should be torn out!" shrieked the mother, metamorphosed to a fury, while she pressed her child to her breast, as if to guard her darling from the danger to which she had fallen a victim. "To jail with her, abandoned, God-accursed wretch that she is!" And she kissed the child and bathed it in tears.
"Do not curse," said her husband gloomily,--"it's sinful on a holiday. God will one day," and he pointed to Käthchen, "demand this life at her hands. She will not escape punishment."
"May it soon overtake her!" sobbed the woman.
The priest now approached from the church, with all the consolation that the occasion required of him, and the schoolmaster humbly followed.
"See, see, reverend father, what they have done to my child," the mother cried, when she saw them. "And Herr Leonhardt too,--ah, she was his pet. What is to be done?"
"What a piteous sight!" said Herr Leonhardt, stooping over his little favourite, while the tears dropped from his poor eyes, and all the women wailed in chorus. But the priest felt called to utter a few solemn words of consolation in season.
"Give thanks, my dear Frau Keller," he said, raising his hands,--"give thanks for the abundant grace of our blessed mother Mary, in that she has so distinguished you above others as to call your dear child to be a holy angel in a better world, upon the very day of her own most blessed Assumption."
"Reverend father," said Johannes, "this gratitude is not necessary, thank God, as yet, for the child lives, and will live,--I will answer for it."
"Ah!" wailed the mother in despair, "you do not know what it is to bring such a child into the world, to love it and work for it night and day until it grows big, to go without many a bit yourself that it may have enough, and, when it has got to be a joy and pleasure to you, to pick it up here all crushed and broken! God punish her! God punish her!" With these words the woman hurried away, her husband supporting her trembling arms, that were scarcely able to sustain the child's weight, and yet would not resign it. The pastor and the schoolmaster went with her.
"Here," called the Worronska after the retreating parents, "take this for the present. You shall have more by-and-by." She held out a heavy, well-filled purse.
"Keep your money, we do not want it," said the husband with sullen rage, and went on without turning his eyes from his child.
The countess looked down, pale and agitated.
"He is right, we do not want money, but justice," shouted the mob, and pressed so close around the carriage that Johannes reached it with difficulty. He hastily kicked away the stones from beneath the wheels, and cried out to the Worronska,
"Drive on, in Heaven's name! Would you expose yourself to useless insults?"
"Don't let her go," was the cry. "Take out the horses! Go for the burgomaster!"
"If one of us drives over a cat, he is carried off to the lock-up,--let the great folks fare the same."
Some even began to unharness the horses,--but Johannes interposed with iron determination, snatched the whip from the countess, who never took her eyes from him, gave the noble animals the lash, and away they went through the living wall that was closing around them. A shout of rage arose, the carriage was pursued for a short distance, but it was out of sight in a few minutes, leaving behind only the unfortunate groom, cowering terrified in the middle of the road.
Then the universal indignation was turned upon Johannes, who stood quietly there with the whip in his hand. He had delivered the stranger from just punishment, and had assisted her to escape,--he was in league with her.
"You are one of her friends. You shall answer for her to us!"
"I certainly will, good people," said Johannes calmly and kindly. "First let me do all that I can for the poor child, and then I will go with you to the burgomaster's or wherever else you choose." This simple answer entirely disarmed the rage of the crowd.
"The gentleman is right, I know him," cried a newly-arrived peasant. It was the same man with whom Johannes had spoken upon his first visit to the castle.
"Why did you help that bad woman to escape?" asked some.
"Because she should be dealt with in an orderly manner. I promise you satisfaction, and much greater satisfaction than you would have in maltreating a woman."
"He is a just gentleman, a brave man!" said the people one to another.
"He takes it all upon himself,--that is honest!"
"Come, then, good people, and show me where the Kellers live,--afterwards we will have a word together."
The peasants assented, well content. "Yes, yes! that's all right!"
They had not far to go to the wretched straw-thatched hut of the day-labourer Keller.
A wooden flight of steps upon the outside of the hut led to the upper story,--the space beneath was used as a stable, and the one room above it, that served for sleeping room and dwelling-room, contained a large bed, an earthenware stove, two wooden chairs, and a table. Over the bed hung a carved crucifix, with a skull, and a vessel for holy water, and in the bed little Käthchen lay quiet and patient, almost smothered beneath the heavy coverlet, gazing at the by-standers with bewildered eyes. Her mother knelt by the bedside, weeping. Several women were trying to comfort her, telling her how quickly and well the broken limb would heal if she would only have a model of it in wax hung before the picture of the Holy Mother of God in the church. The waxen limbs of all kinds that already hung like a wreath around the sacred picture bore witness to the efficacy of this pious custom. Frau Keller must lose no time in presenting her offering,--for it was especially efficacious upon Assumption day.
Frau Keller shook her head. She was obstinate in her grief, and did not believe in this kind of cure.
"Kaspar," she said, "hung up a leg before the Holy Mother, and paid a gulden for it. And what good did it do? Did he not die of the trouble in his leg after he went to town?"
The priest stood at the foot of the bed, listening to the conversation and shaking his head. "Columbane, Columbane," he now began, "you blaspheme! Do you not remember the cause of Kaspar's death? Do not accuse the Blessed Virgin,--how could she help the man when he would not wait for her aid, but listened to the evil counsel of the Hartwich and had his leg cut off? He did not die of disease, but because he made friends with an enemy of the Holy Mother."
"Well, then," said one of the women, "perhaps the Holy Mother of God drew him to her again by that very leg."
"What? Then perhaps she might draw my little Käthchen to her in the same way," cried Frau Keller defiantly. "No, no! let me keep my child, crippled though she be, if she only lives. I am strong, and can work for her. No, Käthi dear, you do not want to go to heaven. You will stay with father and mother, even if they have only a crust for you."
"Yes, mother dear, I will stay with you," said the child in her sweet voice, leaning her head wearily upon her mother, who, sobbing, stroked the pale little cheeks. "Mother dear," she said, and there came the sweetest expression into her eyes, "do not cry so,--it does not hurt me much."
A dull cry of anguish broke from the mother's breast, and she hid her face among the bedclothes. "My child! my child! complain,--only be naughty and fret,--your patience breaks my heart,--you seem already on the way to be a blessed angel."
Upon the other side of the bed, that stood with its head to the wall, were two silent figures, the father and the schoolmaster. The latter gazed down upon the child with hands clasped as if in prayer, while the father leaned against the wall, his face hidden in his hands. He looked up now, and said with emotion but with resignation, "Be quiet, wife, and let us bear it as well as we can. If we must lose the child, she is too good for us,--I almost believe so now."
"Father dear," said Käthchen, "if you talk so, I must cry, and then you will cry more."
Herr Leonhardt plucked the man by the sleeve, and whispered, "The child ought to be kept perfectly quiet. Rouse yourself, and send these women away."
"So I say," said Johannes, who had stood for a few minutes unobserved upon the threshold of the door. "I pray you, good women, leave us to ourselves. So many people in this small room worry the child. Your friendly interest is very grateful; show it now by withdrawing."
The kindly neighbours willingly departed, he was such a handsome, pleasant gentleman who requested them to do so. The priest also look his leave; the schoolmaster only, at a sign from Johannes, remained.
Outside, there was no end to the questions and answers, as to how all was going on within, and how Käthchen, usually so nimble, could have got under the carriage-wheels. She was indeed a good little child, for it was at last ascertained that she had escaped herself and was perfectly safe, when she turned back to rescue a smaller child, a neighbour's little boy, who was standing still in the middle of the road. The boy escaped, but his poor little preserver was thrown down by the horses, and so severely injured.
"She is a dear pet--Käthchen," the men declared; and the women cried, "Oh, if you could see her now lying there in bed, you would believe that she was half in heaven already."
She was indeed in heaven, as is every true, pure child; for there is a heaven so close to the earth that only little children can walk beneath its canopy. We have grown up away from it; its glories are veiled from our eyes; it lies below us, like golden clouds around a mountain upon whose summit we are standing.
"Well, Käthchen, how are you now?" asked Johannes, stepping up to the bedside.
"Very well, thank you," said Käthchen dutifully, as she had been taught to reply.
There was something exquisitely touching in the half-unconscious self-control of the child. Johannes was moved by it. He stooped down and kissed the pretty lips.
"One more!" she entreated, putting her unhurt arm around his neck.
"Our Käthchen," said Herr Leonhardt, "is a good little girl. Do you know, Herr Professor, that the other day she was the only one in the whole school who would give Fräulein von Hartwich a kiss?"
At mention of that name a slight flush passed over Johannes's face. He sat down upon the edge of the bed and looked tenderly at the child. "Indeed! Did you do that, you angel?" he whispered, and again he kissed the lips, that seemed dearer to him after what the schoolmaster had told him. Profound silence reigned in the room. The parents looked on without a word. Herr Leonhardt alone saw Johannes's emotion. The little chest rose and fell more regularly. Johannes pillowed the head upon his warm, soft hand, and the child dropped asleep beneath the gentle gaze of her protector. He looked at the clock. The surgeon, whom the countess was to send, could not arrive for a long while yet. Nevertheless, he determined to wait for him.
"Husband," whispered Frau Keller, "I have a strange thought. When the schoolmaster said just now that Käthi had kissed the Hartwich, I suddenly remembered how the child came home and told me all about it, and complained that the other children had jeered her, and told her that something would certainly happen to her,--that the Hartwich would bewitch her! 'Sh!--be still!--don't let the schoolmaster hear; he would be angry; but, for the life of me, I can't help thinking it very strange!"
The man looked thoughtfully at his wife, and scratched his head. After a little he whispered, "It is not worth while to say anything about it; but you are right,--it is very strange. Deuce take the Hartwich! What business had she to kiss our child? There's something wrong about her."
"Speak to the priest about it, and see what he thinks, but don't let the schoolmaster know that you do so. Go. Say you want some beer. The child is asleep now."
The man slipped out as softly as he could upon his hob-nailed shoes, to consult the priest upon so grave a matter.
CHAPTER IX.
VOX POPULI, VOX DEI.
When Keller, on his way to the priest, reached the village inn, he went in to refresh himself with a mug of beer, and found the priest whom he was seeking in the inn parlour, surrounded by a circle of auditors from the village and neighbouring farms. The Protestant pastor was also present, for the occurrence of the morning was a subject for universal discussion. The host was busy supplying the company with beer-mugs and bottles, secretly congratulating himself upon the accident that had brought him so much custom.
"Ah, here is the poor father! Well, what news? How is she now?" were the words that greeted Keller's entrance.
"Bad," he replied. "The child will be a cripple."
A murmur of compassion was heard.
Keller turned to the priest and asked to be permitted a word with him in private. His request was willingly granted.
"Your reverence," began the peasant, "Columbane thinks the Hartwich has been the cause of all this."
The priest clasped his hands. "What do I hear? Why does she think so?"
Keller told him what had happened.
The priest shook his head, and said in a loud voice to his Protestant brother, "Does it not seem, respected brother, as if we were forbidden by the visible finger of the Lord from holding any communication with this unholy woman, who has crept in among us like a poisonous serpent?" He then repeated, so that all could hear, what Keller had just told him.
The Protestant divine, who was always in harmony with his colleague when there was a common enemy to do battle with, also considered the matter a very serious one. "It would of course be superstition to believe that the Hartwich had bewitched the child, but it stands written, 'Cursed are the ungodly,' and the curse must cleave to all who come in contact with any such."
There was instantly a great commotion among the peasants drinking in the room.
"This much is certain," cried the pastor with great emphasis, "that every misfortune comes, directly or indirectly, from the Hartwich!"
"Yes, yes," resounded from all parts of the room. "Whom has she benefited in any way?"
"No one, no one!"
"Has she not tried to sow among you the seeds of her sinful doctrines? has she not, like the serpent of Eden, hissed into the ear of the sufferers to whose bedside she was admitted dreadful doubts, instead of pouring into them the balm of divine consolation?"
"Yes, yes,--she always spoke disrespectfully of our pastors and their office."
The clerical gentlemen looked mournfully at each other.
"She has tried to stir up rebellion against the Church!" cried the priest. "She even turned me ignominiously from the doors when I went, in all the dignity of my office, to administer extreme unction to her servant Kunigunda, and she pretended in excuse that the maid was not going to die, and the ceremony would excite her and make her worse. She could not bear the sight of the Crucified beneath her roof. She is an outcast from God and His Church. Centuries ago, such as she were burnt alive; there was good reason for it. But we all suffer, and must continue to suffer, from their presence among us. The devil has put on the cloak of philanthropy, beneath which he hides all such sinners, so that we cannot touch them."
"She is a poisonous sore in our flesh," added the Protestant pastor, "and it stands written, 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out;' but we dare not cut out this sore that offends us."
"Why not?--what is to hinder us?" shouted the excited peasants.
"Then you really believe that she has done this mischief to our poor child?" said Keller with horror.
"Well, if we cannot exactly believe that," replied the Protestant pastor, "we must confess that we see in the accident a sign from Providence that we should avoid her. This much is certain, that the stranger who drove over the child had been visiting the Hartwich, so that, if she had not dwelt among us, the accident would most assuredly never have occurred, for that furious woman would never have come here."
"The Hartwich is to blame for it all!" growled the drunken throng.
"She is, in one way or another," continued the expositor of Christian love. "I repeat, with my respected brother, every misfortune among us is her work."
"Yes, every misfortune is the work of the Hartwich!" yelled the chorus.
"Gracious heavens! See! look there!" cried one, pointing to the windows.
All looked out.
"'Tis the Hartwich herself!"
"Does she dare to come down here?"
"She wants to see the misery she has caused!"
"Holy Mother!" cried Keller, "she is going to my house!" And he rushed out.
Like fermenting wine from a cask when the stopper is removed, the whole drunken throng rushed after him into the street.
Priest and pastor remained behind, looking at one another. "What shall we do?" asked one. "Ought we not to follow them, to prevent mischief?"
"Let the people rage, my worthy friend," replied the other. "It is not for us to interfere in such matters. She is not worthy of our protection, and the just indignation of the people will find vent in words, that will not harm her, but that it will be well for her to hear. Vox populi, vox Dei!"
"True, true," assented the other. "We should not interfere with the public sense of right in such a case. She would not listen to us. Let her hear the truth from the mouths of the peasants; perhaps it will have more effect upon her coming from them than from men of culture like ourselves!"
"Let us hope so," said the Catholic father devoutly, as he seated himself by his Protestant colleague at an empty table, and filled his glass from the bottle of old wine that the host placed before him.
"What is that?" asked Johannes softly, as a distant hum of approaching voices was heard. He sat with his hand still patiently supporting Käthchen's head, and would not draw it away, lest he should awaken the child.
The schoolmaster went on tiptoe to the window and looked out. "I cannot tell what is the matter," he said. "An excited crowd is rushing to and fro in the street, but I cannot see who they are or what it is all about."
"The people have not recovered from the event of this morning," said Johannes.
Meanwhile the noise drew near. Various abusive words were heard, and it seemed as if stones were thrown and fell upon the pavement. Shrill female voices cried quite distinctly, "Not in here!" "Go away!" "Put her out!" Boys shouted and whistled through it all.
"Good heavens!" cried the schoolmaster, "they are persecuting a lady! Oh, yes! Herr Professor, look! she is trying to escape into the houses! The women thrust her out and shut their doors upon her----"
"Brutes!" exclaimed Johannes, beside himself with rage, for one glance from the window had shown him how matters stood.
"Holy Maria! they are throwing stones and apples at her!" cried Frau Keller.
Johannes had rushed from the room as the schoolmaster turned towards him with the words, "It is Fräulein von Hartwich!"
But, just as Johannes reached the stairs, Keller burst in, pale and agitated, and locked the door after him.
"What do you mean?" cried Johannes. "Do you wish to shut me in here?"
"Ah, sir!" implored Keller, blocking up the passage, "do not open it,--the Hartwich wants to come in----"
"Well, then, let her in instantly! why do you delay?"
"For God's sake, keep her out!" said Keller.
"Are you mad," cried Johannes, "that you would close your doors upon a fellow-being imploring protection? Open the door, or I will force the lock."
"Sir, sir, my house is my own, if I am only a poor peasant!" cried Keller still blocking the entrance. "This is the abode of honest labour, and no accursed foot shall cross its threshold."
The uproar without seemed stationary before the house. A shower of stones against the door showed that the persecuted woman had fled hither. Johannes was no longer master of himself. His blood boiled in his veins, his heart throbbed to bursting. With the strength of a giant he seized the burly peasant by his broad shoulders and hurled him aside--almost into the arms of the schoolmaster, who was coming to the rescue also. Then he tore open the door, and Ernestine fell half fainting at his feet. He caught her in his arms, and, as he stood thus shielding her, cried, in a tone that left no doubt in the minds of his hearers as to the truth of his words, "I'll knock down the first man who dares to come near this lady."
A dull murmur arose. "Let him try to stop us," cried several, and clenched fists were shaken at him.
"Yes, I will try it,--but the man who dares me to try it will repent the trial!" threatened Johannes. And so commanding were his words and bearing that no one ventured further than to throw a stone or two, accompanying them with abusive epithets. Johannes drew Ernestine more closely to his side. "Shame on you, cowards that you are!" He turned to Keller. "Will you still refuse a shelter to this lady?--you see that she can scarcely stand."
Keller looked at his wife, who had run out to them. "Do not let her in!" she cried. "For God's sake, keep her out! has she not done us harm enough?"
Keller looked at Johannes and shrugged his shoulders. "You see my wife will not allow it."
Johannes stamped his foot in despair.
"Are you human?"
"We hope so, sir," said Keller, insolently thrusting his hands in his pockets.
"And far better than the friends of that woman there," shouted the mob, and a small stone flew close past Johannes.
"If I were as crazy as you are," cried he, "I should throw down upon you the stones that you have thrown at me here, and my aim would be better than yours. But I will not contend with drunken men or do battle with people who are not responsible for their actions; all I ask of you is to give way and allow me to take this lady to her home."
The crowd maintained its place in a compact mass, and only replied by unintelligible words, from which, however, Johannes gathered that Ernestine's punishment was not yet considered sufficient, and that she was not to be allowed to escape so easily.
"I will pay you whatever you ask, if you will only afford Fräulein von Hartwich shelter until I have quieted this tumult," said Johannes to Keller.
"You'll get nothing out of me, sir! Neither money nor fine words will get her across my threshold."
"Mother, let her come in," suddenly cried a voice that had a wonderful effect upon the mob. Käthchen had slipped from her bed unperceived, and in her distress had run out to her mother. She threw her uninjured arm around Ernestine's knees, and looked up at her weeping. "They shall not hurt you; I love you so dearly!"
"Jesus Maria!" shrieked Frau Keller. "My child! my child!" She tore the little girl away from Ernestine, and, followed by her husband, carried her into the house.
"Do you want to kill yourself?" cried the father in despair.
"No! I want the lady, I want the lady," the child was still heard wailing from the room.
A commotion now began, which threatened to be serious indeed. "There, now, you see it with your own eyes,--the sick child even crawls out of bed to her. Don't you see now that she is bewitched? The Hartwich must leave the place this very day, or we'll hunt her out of the village."
"Men! men! for God's sake, what are you doing?" said a gentle voice behind Johannes.
"Oho, the schoolmaster!" was now the cry. "Let him come down,--we've had our eyes upon him for a long time. Come down, schoolmaster, you shall be ducked for your friendship for the witch." And again the human flood overflowed the lower step of the stairs at the head of which Johannes was standing.
"Back!" commanded Johannes, resigning Ernestine to the schoolmaster, "back! now you see my arms are free."
Involuntarily the foremost recoiled at sight of his menacing attitude.
"Deluded people," cried Johannes, beside himself with indignation, "is there nothing sacred from your frantic rage,--neither a defenceless girl nor the gray head of your teacher? What has he done, except spend his life in the thankless endeavour to make reasonable human beings of you?"
"He is friends with the Hartwich,--it is his fault that she kissed the child. His house ought to be burned over his head!"
"Yes, yes!" roared the mob, "their holes should be burned out and destroyed--his and hers. Blasphemers! Unbelievers! They shall yet learn to believe in God."
"This is too much!" thundered Johannes. "Would you prove your religion by becoming incendiaries? Woe upon you if you lay a finger upon what belongs to either of these people! Do you know the penalty for arson? And, depend upon it, I will see to it that you do not escape."
A shout of rage arose at these words.
"Herr Professor," said Leonhardt imploringly, "do not aggravate these people further,--we cannot convince them. Children," he called down to them, and his voice trembled with pain, not with fear,--"children, I have grown old among you; I know you better than you know yourselves. You are too wise to do anything that would subject you to the penalty of the law, and too kind to commit an outrage upon people who have never harmed you. You do not believe that I am an unbeliever. Have I not educated your children to be useful, God-fearing men and women? Have I not stood your friend in every time of trouble? The little house, that you in your blind fury would destroy, has afforded many of you a peaceful shelter,--it is a sacred spot to your children, and could you lay a finger upon it? Go to the church-yard and see if there is a single grave there of your loved ones that has not been adorned by flowers from my garden, and would you bury it beneath the ruins of my dwelling? No, do not try to seem worse than you are." He placed Ernestine gently down upon the landing and stood in front of her. "You know that your old master loves all God's creatures, and would you condemn him for taking compassion upon the unhappy maiden whom no one pities, whom all hate? Do you call me godless because I hoped to lead this erring but noble nature to find her God again? Yes, take up your stones,--look! I will take off my cap and expose my white head to your aim. Where is the hand that will lift itself against it?"
The old man stood with uncovered head, holding his cap in his clasped hands. The evening breeze played amid his silver locks, and the stones that had been picked up were gently dropped again.
Then his arm was drawn down by his side and a kiss was imprinted upon his withered hand. It was Ernestine. Johannes saw the act, and his eyes were moist She could be grateful. He exchanged a happy glance with the old man to whom she had just paid such a tribute.
"He is only a weak old man," muttered the people,--"let him alone. He means well."
"I will go and bring their pastors," said Leonhardt softly to Johannes, and he descended the steps. He walked quietly through the midst of the crowd, that opened before him, but closed up again when he had passed through.
"Come," said Johannes, raising Ernestine from the ground, "let us try to put an end to this wretched scene." He carried rather than led her down the steps. "Make way there!" he called in a commanding tone.
The foremost in the mob gave way. Just then Frau Keller appeared at the door. She held the cup of holy water, which usually hung above the bed, and she sprinkled with its contents the spot where Ernestine had been standing. Her pious act was greeted with a shout of applause. Ernestine saw her, and trembled and turned pale, while large tears gathered in her eyes; she grew dizzy, and would have fallen had not Johannes supported her.
"Courage, courage," he whispered,--"do not let such folly distress you."
"Look, look! she cannot bear the holy water. She didn't mind the stones,--but a few drops of water are too much for her." Thus shouted the mob, and the uproar began again.
"Is this possible?" cried Johannes, casting prudence to the winds. "Is it possible that in the nineteenth century, and in a civilized country, such utter barbarian stupidity should exist? Do you really believe, if Fräulein Hartwich were in league with the devil, that she would have borne your abuse, that she would not have thrown her spells over you long ago, and escaped your brutality? Do you think that she listens to you from choice, and likes to have stones thrown at her? Why, the very patience and resignation with which she has endured your outrageous insults might prove to you that she has no supernatural power at her command,--that she has not even the protection of a bold nature, like the other lady, with whom you were justly indignant. But let me tell you that I am neither feeble nor weak, and that my patience is exhausted, and my power, although not supernatural is quite sufficient to punish such excesses as this, and to conjure up among you a host of evil spirits in the shape of a detachment of gens-d'armes. Therefore be quiet, and let us pass on our way. Every moment of delay increases the weight of the charges that I shall bring against you before the magistrate."
So saying, he put one arm about Ernestine, and with the other cleared a path for himself through the throng, who were somewhat quelled by his last words, and gave place grumbling.
And now the clergymen, followed by the schoolmaster, appeared, with every sign of hurry and amazement.
"You come too late, gentlemen, to prevent what must cover those under your charge with shame," said Johannes with severity. "I supposed such scenes impossible in our day. You, gentlemen, have taken care that I should be better informed, and have prepared a rich page in the history of our civilization. I am well aware from what source the insults heaped by these misguided people upon Fräulein Hartwich draw their inspiration, and I consider you, gentlemen, responsible for the restoration of order and the safety of this lady." He drew Ernestine's arm more firmly within his own, and walked on without waiting for a reply from the reverend gentlemen, who stood there speechless with alarm and embarrassment, looking after him with a degree of respect that they could not control.
In silence the pair reached the castle and entered the garden. Ernestine passively allowed herself to be led through the shady walks. Involuntarily Johannes turned towards the little eminence where he had seen her for the first time. He had resolved not to leave Ernestine here, but to place her that very evening beneath his mother's protection. How should he persuade her to such a step? This was the question that he propounded to himself, breathlessly searching for the answer.
Ernestine was for the time incapable of speech. She could not raise her eyes to her protector. Mortification, profound mortification, overpowered her. How thoroughly she had recognized his position as a man, and her own as a woman! She admired him,--she was ashamed of herself. What a feeling it was!--yes, it was the same self-humiliation that she had felt once before, beneath the oak tree where, when flying as to-day from insults and sneers, she had met the handsome lad who had given her the prophetic book. But when would the prophecy in the fairy-tale be fulfilled? When should she cease to be laughed at, despised, and insulted? When should the lonely, persecuted, weary swan unfold its plumage upon calm waters in sunshine and peace? And in an access of pain she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. She sank down upon the mound and sobbed like a child. Johannes stood silent before her. His mind was filled with the same thoughts, the same memories, and, like an answer to her mute soliloquy, there came from his lips, in tones of melting tenderness, the words, "Poor swan!" Ernestine's hands dropped from her face, she stared at him with wide-open eyes,--then sprang up, and, while her pale cheeks flushed, and her whole frame trembled, gazed at him still, as if she would look him through, her agitation increasing every moment. "There--there is only one person on earth who knows that," she faltered.
"What?" asked Johannes with a beating heart.
"What I was thinking of--about the swan!" she articulated with difficulty, for her voice failed her.
Johannes, who stood somewhat below Ernestine, looked up at her expectantly. "And who is that person?" he asked gently.
Ernestine could not reply,--a strange thrill passed through her, and she awaited the issue of the miracle of the moment.
"Ernestine, do you remember the lad who once rescued a wild, timid girl from mortal peril?"
She bowed her head in assent. "Ernestine, did you ever then for one moment in your childish heart think of him with love?"
She raised her eyes to the twilight skies, and was silent for a moment; then she breathed a scarcely audible "Yes."
A light, feathery cloud hovered above her head. Was it the little mermaid, dead for her beloved's sake, and, dissolved in foam, borne away by the daughters of the air to eternal bliss? Could it return again,--that fair, half-forgotten love-dream of her childhood,--the only one she had ever dreamed?
And she looked after the floating cloud as it grew thinner and thinner, until it was gradually dissolved in air, and the gentle radiance of the evening star appeared where it faded.
"Ernestine, do you know me now?" said Johannes. "See, this is the second time that God has placed me by your side to rescue you from a self-sought peril, and, as when I then brought you down from the broken bough, so now I open wide my arms to you, and pray you, 'Seek refuge and safety here!' Oh, little dryad, you are the same as then, for all that you have grown so tall and beautiful! There are the same mysterious dark eyes, the same strange, lonely spirit imprisoned in the delicate frame, bewailing its Titan descent. I knew then that there was only one such creature in the world,--and I should have recognized you among thousands as I recognized you when you stood alone upon this hill. Wondrous and fairy-like creature that you are, if you do not dissolve in air at the touch of a mortal, come to this heart; if an earth-born being may approach you with earthly love, take mine and learn to love a mortal. Yes, pure, aspiring spirit, for whom this earth has never been a home, I am only a man,--and yet a faithful, true, and loving man. Can you love me again?"
Ernestine stood immovable. She had raised her hands to her forehead, as one is apt to do at hearing the mysterious, the incomprehensible.
"You do not speak; have you no words for me? Look, Ernestine, do you not remember the boy about whose neck you once clasped your trembling arms so willingly?"
At last she stretched out both hands to the earnest speaker, with a look of unrestrained delight. "Johannes," she cried, as tear after tear coursed down her cheek, "Johannes Möllner,--my childhood's friend,--I know you now."
He hastened to her side, and opened his arms to clasp her to his heart, but she recoiled with such a burning blush, with such childlike alarm painted upon her face, that Johannes controlled himself, and only pressed her delicate hands to his lips. Her maidenly reserve was sacred to him.