  As they drew near the house, they could hear the neighing of the white foal. "That's a good beginning," cried Hansei. The grandmother placed the child on the ground, and got her hymn-book out of the chest. Pressing the book against her breast with both hands, she went into the house, being the first to enter. Hansei, who was standing near the stable, took a piece of chalk from his pocket and wrote the letters C. M. B., and the date, on the stable-door. Then he, too, went into the house, his wife, Irma and the child following him. Before going into the sitting-room, the grandmother knocked thrice at the door. When she had entered, she placed the open hymn-book upon the open window-sill, so that the sun might read in it. There were no tables or chairs in the room. Hansei shook hands with his wife and said, "God be with you, freeholder's wife." From that moment, Walpurga was known as the "freeholder's wife," and was never called by any other name. And now they showed Irma her room. The view extended over meadow and brook and the neighboring forest. She examined the room. There was naught but a green Dutch oven and bare walls, and she had brought nothing with her. In her paternal mansion, and at the castle, there were chairs and tables, horses and carriages; but here-- None of these follow the dead. Irma knelt by the window and gazed out over meadow and forest, where the sun was now singing. How was it yesterday--was it only yesterday?--when you saw the sun go down? Her thoughts were confused and indistinct. She pressed her hand to her forehead; the white handkerchief was still there. A bird looked up to her from the meadow, and, when her glance rested upon it, it flew away into the woods. "The bird has its nest," said she to herself, "and I--" Suddenly she drew herself up. Hansei had walked out to the grass plot in front of Irma's window, removed the slip of the cherry-tree from his hat, and planted it in the ground. The grandmother stood by and said: "I trust that you'll be alive and hearty, long enough to climb this tree and gather cherries from it, and that your children and grandchildren may do the same." There was much to do and to set to rights in the house, and, on such occasions, it usually happens that those who are dearest to one another are as much in each other's way as closets and tables which have not yet been placed where they belong. The best proof of the amiability of these folks was that they assisted each other cheerfully, and, indeed, with jest and song. Walpurga moved her best furniture into Irma's room. Hansei did not interpose a word. "Aren't you too lonely here?" asked Walpurga, after she had arranged everything as well as possible in so short a time. "Not at all. There is no place in all the world lonely enough for me. You've so much to do now; don't worry about me. I must now arrange things within myself. I see how good you and yours are; fate has directed me kindly." "Oh, don't talk that way. If you hadn't given me the money, how could we have bought the farm? This is really your own." "Don't speak of that," said Irma, with a sudden start, "never mention that money to me again." Walpurga promised, and merely added that Irma needn't be alarmed at the old man who lived in the room above hers, and who, at times, would talk to himself and make a loud noise. He was old and blind. The children teased and worried him, but he wasn't bad and would harm no one. Walpurga offered, at all events, to leave Gundel with Irma for the first night; but Irma preferred to be alone. "You'll stay with us; won't you?" said Walpurga hesitatingly. "You won't have such bad thoughts again?" "No, never. But don't talk now, my voice pains me and so does yours, too. Good-night! leave me alone." Irma sat by the window and gazed out into the dark night. Was it only a day since she had passed through such terrors? Suddenly she sprang from her seat with a shudder. She had seen Black Esther's head rising out of the darkness, had again heard her dying shriek, had beheld the distorted face and the wild, black tresses.--Her hair stood on end. Her thoughts carried her to the bottom of the lake, where she now lay dead. She opened the window and inhaled the soft, balmy air. She sat by the open casement for a long while, and suddenly heard some one laughing in her room above her. "Ha! ha! I won't do you the favor! I won't die! I won't die! Pooh, pooh! I'll live till I'm a hundred years old and then I'll get a new lease of life." It was the old pensioner. After a while, he continued: "I'm not so stupid; I know that it's night now and the freeholder and his wife are come. I'll give them lots of trouble. I'm Jochem. Jochem's my name, and what the people don't like, I do for spite. Ha! ha! ha! I don't use any light and they must make me an allowance for that. I'll insist on it, if I have to go to the king himself about it." Irma started, when she heard the king mentioned. "Yes, I'll go to the king, to the king! to the king!" cried the old man overhead, as if he knew that the word tortured Irma. She heard him close the window and move a chair. The old man went to bed. Irma looked out into the dark night. Not a star was to be seen. There was no light anywhere; nothing was heard but the roaring of the mountain stream and the rustling of the trees. The night seemed like a dark abyss. "Are you still awake?" asked a soft voice without. It was the grandmother. "I was once a servant at this farm," said she. "That was forty years ago; and now I'm the mother of the freeholder's wife, and almost the head one on the farm. But I keep thinking of you all the time. I keep trying to think how it is in your heart. I've something to tell you. Come out again. I'll take you where it'll do you good to be. Come!" Irma went out into the dark night with the old woman. How different this guide from the one she had had the day before! The old woman led her to the fountain. She had brought a cup with her and gave it to Irma. "Come, drink; good cold water's the best. Water comforts the body; it cools and quiets us; it's like bathing one's soul. I know what sorrow is, too. One's insides burn as if they were afire." Irma drank some of the water of the mountain spring. It seemed like a healing dew, whose influence was diffused through her whole frame. The grandmother led her back to her room and said: "You've still got the shirt on that you wore at the palace. You'll never stop thinking of that place till you've burned that shirt." The old woman would listen to no denial, and Irma was as docile as a little child. The grandmother hurried to get a coarse shirt for her and, after Irma had put it on, brought wood and a light, and burnt the other at the open fire. Irma was also obliged to cut off her long nails and throw them into the fire. Then Beate disappeared for a few moments, and returned with Irma's riding-habit. "You must have been shot; for there are balls in this," said she, spreading out the long, blue habit. A smile passed over Irma's face, as she felt the balls that had been sewed into the lower part of the habit, so that it might hang more gracefully. Beate had also brought something very useful--a deerskin. "Hansei sends you this," said she. "He thinks that maybe you're used to having something soft for your feet to rest on. He shot the deer himself." Irma appreciated the kindness of the man who could show such affection to one who was both a stranger and a mystery to him. The grandmother remained at Irma's bedside until she fell asleep. Then she breathed thrice on the sleeper and left the room. It was late at night when Irma awoke. "To the king! to the king! to the king!" The words had been uttered thrice in a loud voice. Was it hers, or that of the man overhead? Irma pressed her hand to her forehead and felt the bandage. Was it sea grass that had gathered there? Was she lying alive at the bottom of the lake? Gradually all that had happened became clear to her. Alone, in the dark and silent night, she wept. And these were the first tears she had shed since the terrible events through which she had passed. It was evening when Irma awoke. She put her hand to her forehead. A wet cloth had been bound round it. She had been sleeping nearly twenty-four hours. The grandmother was sitting by her bed. "You've a strong constitution," said the old woman, "and that helped you. It's all right now." Irma arose. She felt strong and, guided by the grandmother, walked over to the dwelling-house. "God be praised, that you're well again," said Walpurga, who was standing there with her husband; and Hansei added: "Yes, that's right." Irma thanked them, and looked up at the gable of the house. What words there met her eye? "Don't you think the house has a good motto written on its forehead?" asked Hansei. Irma started. On the gable of the house, she read the following inscription: Eat and Drink: Forget not God: Thine Honor Guard: |
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