The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume Viii Part 19

"Yes, but I consider it wrong that she wants to milk the cows just this once; that's deceiving the worthy man, for she can't milk at all."

"You and I cannot alter the world," said the mistress. "I think it's hard enough for you to bear your own lot--let others do what they will."

Barefoot lay down, mournfully reflecting how people cheat one another without the least scruple. She did not know who the suitor was who was going to be deceived, but she was inwardly sorry for the poor young man.

And she was doubly bewildered when she thought: "Who knows, perhaps Rose will be just as much deceived in him as he in her?"

Quite early in the morning, when Barefoot was looking out of her window, she suddenly started back as if a bullet had struck her forehead.

"Heavens! What is this?" She pa.s.sed her hands over her eyes hastily, then opened them wide, and asked herself as if in a dream: "Why, it's the stranger of the wedding at Endringen! He has come to the village! He has come to fetch you! No, he knows nothing of you! But he shall know!--but no, what are you saying!"

He comes nearer and nearer, but does not look up. A fullblossomed carnation falls from Barefoot's hand, but lands on the valise behind him; he does not see it, and it lies there in the road. Barefoot hurries down and recovers the treacherous token. And now the truth comes over her like the dawning of a terrible day. This is the suitor for Rose--this is he of whom she spoke last evening. And is this man to be deceived?

In the barn, kneeling on the clover which she was going to feed the cows, Barefoot fervently prayed to Heaven to preserve the stranger from ever marrying Rose. That he should ever be her own, was a thought she dared not entertain--and yet she could not bear to banish it.

As soon as she had finished milking, she hurried across to Black Marianne; she wanted to ask her what she should do. But Black Marianne was lying grievously ill; furthermore she had grown very deaf, and could hardly understand connected words. Barefoot did not dare to shout the secret that she had half confided to her and that the old woman had half guessed, loudly enough for Marianne to understand it, for people in the street might hear her. And so she came back, not knowing what to do.

Barefoot had to go out into the fields and stay there the whole day planting turnips. At every step she hesitated and thought of going home and telling the stranger everything; but the consciousness of her subordinate position in the house, as well as a special consideration, kept her to the duty that she had been called upon to perform.

"If he is foolish and inconsiderate enough," she soliloquized, "to rush into this affair without a thought, then there's no helping him, and he deserves no help. And--" she was fain to console herself at last--"and besides, engaged is not married anyway."

But all day long she was restless and unhappy. In the evening when she had returned from the fields and was milking the cows, and Rose was sitting with a full pail beside a cow that had been milked, she heard the stranger talking with Farmer Rodel in the nearby stable. They were bargaining about a white horse. But how came the white horse in the stable?--until then they had had none.

"Who is that singing yonder?" the stranger now asked.

"That's my sister," answered the farmer. And at the word Barefoot joined in and sang the second voice, powerfully and defiantly, as if she wanted to compel him to ask who _that_ was over yonder. But her singing had the disadvantage that it prevented her from hearing whether or not he did ask. And as Rose went across the yard with her pail, where the white horse had just been led out for inspection, the farmer said:

"There, that's my sister. Rose, leave your work, and get something ready for supper. We have a relative for a guest--I'll bring him in presently."

"And it was the little one yonder, who sang the second voice?" inquired the stranger. "Is she a sister of yours, too?"

"No--she, in a way, is an adopted child. My father was her guardian."

The farmer knew very well that charity of this kind conduced to the credit of a house, and he therefore avoided saying outright that Barefoot was a maid.

Barefoot felt inwardly glad that the stranger knew something about her.

"If he is wise," she reflected, "he will be sure to ask me about Rose.

Then an opportunity will come for me to save him from a misfortune."

Rose brought in the supper, and the stranger was quite surprised to find that such good fare could be made ready so quickly--he did not know that it had all been prepared beforehand. Rose apologized by asking him to make s.h.i.+ft with their plain fare, though he was doubtless accustomed to better things at home. She reckoned, not without acuteness, that the mention of a well-deserved fame would be gratifying to any one.

Barefoot was told to remain in the kitchen that day, and to give all the dishes into Rose's hands. She entreated over and over again: "For goodness sake, tell me who he is! What's his name?"--but Rose gave her no answer. The mistress, however, at last solved the mystery by saying:

"You can tell her now--it's John, the son of Farmer Landfried of Zumarshofen. Amrei, you've a keepsake from her, haven't you?"

"Yes, yes," replied Barefoot; and she was obliged to sit down by the hearth, for her knees trembled under her. How wonderful all this was!

And so he was the son of her first benefactress! "Now he must be told!

If the whole village stones me for it, I shan't bear it!" she said to herself.

The stranger started to go, and his hosts escorted him to the door; but on the steps he turned about and said:

"My pipe has gone out--and I like best to light it for myself with a coal."

He evidently wanted to see how things looked in the kitchen. Rose pushed in ahead of him and handed him a coal with the tongs, standing, as she did so, directly in front of Barefoot, who was still sitting on the hearth by the chimney.

[Late that night Barefoot went out to find somebody whom she could get to warn the stranger not to marry Rose. She knew of n.o.body to whom she dared intrust so delicate a commission; she thought of Damie, but remembered that he was not allowed to enter the village. Finally, wet and chilled, as a result of wandering about through the fields barefoot, she returned home and went to bed.]

CHAPTER XV

BANISHED AND RELEASED

The following morning, when Barefoot awoke, she found the necklace that she had once received from Dame Landfried lying on her bed, and she had to think for some time before she remembered that she herself had taken it out the night before, and had looked at it a long, long time.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WHILE SHE WAS MILKING JOHN ASKED HER ALL KINDS OF QUESTIONS]

When she started to get up, all her limbs felt numb; and clasping her hands with difficulty, she moaned:

"For Heaven's sake let me not be ill now! I have no time for it--I mustn't be ill now"--as if in anger at her bodily weakness.

Determined to overcome it by force, she got up; but how she started back when she looked at herself in the gla.s.s! Her whole face was swollen!

"That's your punishment," she said, half-aloud, "for running about so last night, and wanting to call upon strangers, even bad people, to help you!" She beat her disfigured face as if to chastise herself, and then tied a cloth around it tightly and went about her work.

When the mistress saw her, she wanted to put her to bed again at once.

Rose, on the other hand, scolded, and declared that it was a bit of spite on Barefoot's part, this being ill just now--she had done it out of meanness, knowing that she would be wanted. Barefoot made no reply.

When she was out in the cow-shed, putting clover into the mangers, she heard a clear voice say:

"Good morning! At work so early?"

It was _his_ voice.

"Not very hard," replied Barefoot; and she ground her teeth with vexation, more on account of the tormenting demon who had disfigured her face, so that it was impossible that he should recognize her, than anything else.

Should she make herself known now?--it was better to wait and see.

While she was milking, John asked her all sorts of questions; first he inquired about the quant.i.ty of milk the cows yielded, and whether any of it was sold, and how; then he wanted to know who made the b.u.t.ter, and if anybody in the house kept an account of it.

Barefoot trembled. It was now in her power to put her rival out of the way by declaring what kind of a person she was! But how strangely involved and tangled are the strings of action! She was ashamed of the idea of speaking evil of her master's family, though, in truth, she would have spoken so only of Rose, for the others were good. But she was aware that it was shameful for a servant to betray the faults of the inner management of the house. She therefore secured herself from this by saying to herself:

"It does not become a servant to judge his master. And they are all good-hearted," she added, prompted by her strong sense of justice. For, in truth, Rose, too, was good-hearted, in spite of her hot temper and domineering spirit. And now a good idea occurred to her; if she were to tell the truth about Rose now, he would go away directly and would certainly escape from Rose--but then he would be gone. Therefore, with wonderful good sense, she said:

"You seem to be a prudent man, and your parents have a name for prudence, too. Now, you know that in one day one cannot get to know even a horse properly, and so I think you ought to stay here a little while.

Later on we two will get to know each other better, and one word will bring on another, and if I can be of service to you, I will not fail you. I don't know, however, why you question me like this--?"

"You are a little rogue--but I like you," said John. Barefoot started so that the cow winced and almost over-turned the milk-pail.