The Undying Past Part 25

"Where is Hertha?" he burst forth.

His sister with a sob pointed to the stream.

He saw nothing but green and yellow sparks dancing before his eyes.

"Drowned?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

She shook her head, but it was some time before he could get a clear account of what had happened.

"Why did you not instantly make for home and fetch help?" he demanded, his hand tightening on the bridle.

"You really mustn't shout at me like that, I am so awfully afraid of you," was her plaintive reply, accompanied by one of her practised glances from tear-filled eyes which would have melted a heart of stone.

He laughed, half annoyed, half mollified, and gave her orders to drive home at express speed and tell the bailiff to send a conveyance with servants and lanterns immediately to Newferry, the nearest village, three-quarters of a mile away in the valley.

She climbed obediently into the cart, and he lashed his horse and tore over stubble, marsh, and sedge into the dusk; his gaze fixed on the stream, which, glowing and vapouring as if covered with burning petrol, ran beside him on the other side of the reed-wall. Every sandbank and every drifting plank stood out black and sharply defined from the fiery gold channel beneath. Yet night was drawing on apace. In another quarter of an hour even, it would be impossible to discern the little craft, driven on noiselessly through the shadows. And from the side of the reed-hedge a quarter of the stream's breadth was hidden from view already. He drew up, and called her name through the silence. There was no answer, except the barking of his hound, who had taken advantage of the pause to go off on a hunt for birds' nests and nocturnal vermin sneaking amongst the wheat and stubble.

He rested in his stirrups, and surveyed the landscape.

From this point the river could be seen for a quarter of a mile, but there was not a sign of a boat upon it, for during the summer droughts s.h.i.+pping was at a standstill, and what lighter craft might be about sought a haven at nightfall in the little landing-places of the inns, where the shrubs and woodwork protected them from the current.

He rode on.

The surface of the water became darker and darker, and his uneasiness increased. If she spent the night on the mist-enveloped stream, sitting in the little boat half-filled with water, she would probably catch her death.

The bank which, so far, had sloped down to the reeds in slight declivities, became lower here. A d.y.k.e made by human hands replaced the natural one of boscage.

Now the prospect was more open, but this availed nothing, for the face of the stream had become a monotonous dark blue. The moon had sunk, and only the reflection of a star here and there trembled, softly gleaming on the waters.

Once more his call rang out into the distance. Croaking frogs held their tongues, and that was the only result. Here the outlying houses of Newferry showed in black outline near the d.y.k.e. Two or three mongrels rushed out of the yards, and set up a furious yapping, which Leo the hound received in lofty silence, till they, growing more impertinent, ventured to touch him. Then he seized them one after the other by the back, and administered a sound shaking. There was a faint whine, and all was still again. In the houses every one seemed to have gone to bed. The inn itself lay dark and deserted. Nowhere did a boat cast its shadow on the bank.

Nevertheless, he stopped and called her name across to the house. He listened awhile, but no sound came except the renewed barking of the dogs.

There would be time enough on his way back to wake the people of the inn, if he had not found her before that. He resumed his gallop over the loamy ground of the d.y.k.e, the black line of which uncoiled itself like a serpent before him, and was lost in the bluish haze down-stream.

He pa.s.sed more villages, two, three altogether, and met with the same luck everywhere.

A cloud of steam rose from his horse's haunches, its head was sticky from sweat, and great flecks of foam flew about from its snorting nostrils. The dog's breath came in short, panting gasps, as if he too apparently had begun to come to the end of his powers.

Leo calculated that he had ridden about two miles along the bank of the river. Further than this it would be impossible for her to have reached in the last four hours. Somewhere, then, within this compa.s.s she must yet be afloat, if she was not making her way home to Halewitz. He sent the dog into the reeds and began to ride back at a walking pace. The late-summer night slowly spread its white damp veil over the landscape.

The crickets chirruped, and now and then there was a swish in the water, as a water-rat shot out from the sh.o.r.e into the mirror-like surface.

By the time he had reached Newferry again, he had given up the search, and resolved to raise the alarm among the inhabitants. The conveyance from Halewitz had not arrived, for the inn still lay in darkness and silence.

He got off his horse, tied the bridle to the sunk fence over which sunflowers poked their round faces, like night-capped women giving a sleepy and sulky greeting. He stretched his limbs with a groan, for they had become damp and stiff from riding through the mist.

He regarded the excitement of the last few hours almost in the light of a blessing, for it had taken his mind off the one eternal thought that had tormented it for weeks. Now, of a sudden, it came back and then was gone again, like an arrow whizzing past the ear as a reminder from a hidden enemy.

"When once I have found her," he thought, "I don't mind what I go through into the bargain."

He would never have thought it possible that the strange young creature, whose stony defiance and noisy, boisterous tricks had alternately annoyed and amused him, could have become so dear to his heart.

He walked with stiff legs in high riding-boots along the dark wooden palings to the front door, on the stone threshold of which the dog, stretched on all fours, was howling and scratching as if he wanted to bore his way inside like a mole. The low door yielded to a push. He stumbled down into a dark vestibule, but through the door beyond a fire flickered brightly on the open hearth, and, lifting his eyes, he beheld the lost girl standing before him illuminated by the flames.

She wore a short red gathered peasant's skirt, from beneath which her naked feet shone forth. She held a coa.r.s.e woollen crossover with her thin brown arms tightly round her bosom. The short sleeves of a rough, yellowish linen chemise of the kind that peasants spin themselves showed under it. She stared aghast at the intruder, her face deadly pale. The dog sprang up on her with a yelp of pleasure, but she did not touch him.

"My dear, dear child," cried Leo, stretching his hands out to her in unfeigned gladness, "I have found you. Thank G.o.d--found you."

The blood came rus.h.i.+ng back into her cheeks, and she cast down her eyes, but made no sign of taking the hands held out to her.

Then she said in a low voice, without lifting her eyes from the floor--

"Will you be so kind. Uncle Leo, as to tell the dog to be quiet. The woman here is ill, and her husband is gone to Munsterberg for the doctor."

A motion of his foot sent the dog into a corner.

"But how about you, my child?" he exclaimed, "you don't speak of yourself."

She had been quite prepared for a scolding, and was not sure in what tone she should answer this overwhelming friendliness. A wavering smile, alike defiant and pained, played about the corners of her mouth.

"Well, you see what I am doing," she said, evading his glance. "I am here brewing elder tea for the sick woman."

A kettle stood on the tripod near her on the hearth, licked by the ruddy flames.

"And what have you got on?" he asked.

She stepped quickly out of the circuit of light cast by the fire, and drew the shawl, with her left hand, closer round her throat.

"I had to put on just what I could find," she stammered, "so please don't look at me."

There hung drying above the fire on a clothes' line a wet skirt, which still steamed, and near it a draggled rag, which was the light cotton blouse she had been wearing that day.

"You were upset!" he exclaimed, hardly able to master his horror.

She tried to shrug her shoulders indifferently, but looked rather piteous as she did so.

"Upset?" she said; "well, what of that? I simply swam ash.o.r.e."

"In those clothes?" he asked. "What woman could ever swim in clothes?"

"Good gracious!" she exclaimed, with her eyes still on the floor; "why not? The things I could do without I left in the boat.... To-morrow they will turn up somewhere."

"Now, child, tell me all about it," he urged.

"What am I to tell you?" she replied. "You will only scold me;" and her lips curled saucily.

"I promise I won't," he a.s.sured her.

"Then, here goes," she said, and fetched a deep breath as if to gain courage for the task. "When I found, all at once, that I had got into the current, and saw that with one wretched oar I couldn't get out again, I thought to myself, 'G.o.d's will, be done. At any rate, you will enjoy the beautiful evening till some one comes to pick you up;' but no one came. But I didn't mind that either. It was really so wonderful to see reeds and banks rus.h.i.+ng by. It was like being in the middle of fairyland."