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CHAPTER XIII
OUT OF A MOTHER'S HEART

While Barefoot was dreaming and working and worrying in village, field, and wood, sometimes feeling a strange thrill of joy, at other times thinking herself completely deserted, two parents were sending their child forth into the world, in the hope, to be sure, that he would return to them the richer. Yonder in Allgau, in the large farm-house known, by the sign over the door, as the "Wild Clearing," sat Farmer Landfried and his wife, with their youngest son. The farmer was saying:

"Listen, John; it's more than a year since you came back, and I don't know what's gotten into you. You came home that day like a whipped dog, and said that you would rather choose a wife here in the neighborhood—but I don't see any signs of your doing it. If you will follow my advice once more, then I won't say another word to persuade you."

"Yes, I will," said the young man, without looking up. "Well then, make one more trial—one trial is no better than no trial. And I tell you, you will make me and your mother happy if you choose a wife from our region. I may say it to your face, wife; there's only one good breed of women in the world, and they come from our part of the country. Now, you are a sensible lad, John, and you will be sure to pick out a good one, and then you'll thank us on your death-bed for sending you to our home to find a wife. If I could get away, I would go with you—together we would find the right one surely—but I can't go. I've spoken to our George, however, and he says he'll go with you if you ask him. Ride over, and speak to him then."

"If I may say what I think," answered the young man, "when I go again, I'd rather go alone. You see, it's my way; in such a matter a second pair of eyes is superfluous—I should not like to consult any one else. If it were possible, I should even like to make myself invisible while I am looking around; but if two of us went together, we might as well have it proclaimed abroad, so that they would all dress themselves up to receive us."

"As you will," said the father; "you always were a strange fellow. Do you know what? Suppose you start at once; we want a mate for our white horse, so do you go out and look for one—but not in the market, of course. And when you are going about from house to house, you can see things for yourself; and on your way home you can buy a Bernese chaise-wagon. Dominic, in Endringen, they say, has three daughters as straight as organ-pipes; choose one of them—we should like to have a daughter from that house."

"Yes," the mother observed, "Ameile is sure to have nice daughters."

"And it would be well," continued the father, "if you went to Siebenhofen and took a look at Amrei, the Butter Count's daughter. She has a farm of her own that one could easily sell; the farmers of Siebenhofen have got their eyes on it, for they want to have more land. But it's a question of cold cash, and none of them can raise it. But I'll say nothing more, for you have eyes of your own. Come, set out at once, and I'll fill the money-belt for you—two hundred crowns will be enough, but if you should have to have more, Dominic will lend you some. Only make yourself known; I could never understand why you did not tell people who you were that time at the wedding. Something must have happened then—but I won't ask any questions."

"Yes, because he won't answer them," said the mother, smiling.

The farmer at once set about filling the money-belt; he broke open two large paper rouleaux, and it was manifest that he enjoyed counting out the big coins from one hand into the other. He made twenty piles of ten dollars each, and counted them over two or three times to be sure that he had made no mistake.

"Well, I am ready," said the young man, standing up as he spoke.

He is the strange dancer whose acquaintance we made at the wedding in Endringen. He went out to the stable, and presently returned with the white horse already saddled. And as he was fastening his valise to the bolster, a fine, large wolf-hound began jumping up at him and licking his hands.

"Yes, yes, I'll take you with me," said the lad to the dog; and for the first time his face looked cheerful, as he called out to his father:

"Father, can I take Lux with me?"

"Yes, if you like," sounded the answer from within, amid the jingling of coins. The dog seemed to understand the question and the answer, for he ran around the yard in circles, barking joyously. The young man went into the house, and, as he was buckling on the money-belt, he said "You are right, father; I feel better already, now that I am getting myself out of this aimless way of living. And I don't know—people ought not to be superstitious—but somehow I was glad when the horse turned around and neighed to me when I went out into the stable just now—and that the dog wants to go too. After all, they're good signs, and if we could ask animals, who knows if they could not give us good advice?"

The mother smiled, but the father said:

"Don't forget to look up Crappy Zachy, and don't go ahead and bind yourself until you have consulted him. He knows the affairs of all the people for ten miles around, and is a living information bureau. And now, God be with you! Take your time—you may stay away as long as ten days."

Father and son shook hands, and the mother said:

"I'll escort you part of the way."

The young man, leading his horse by the bridle, then walked quietly beside his mother until they were out in front of the yard, and it was not until they reached the turn in the road that the mother said, hesitatingly:

"I should like to give you some good advice."

"Yes, yes, let me have it—I'll listen to it gladly."

The mother then took her son's hand, and began:

"You must stand still—I can't talk while I am walking. Look; that she should please you is, of course, the first thing—there's no happiness without love. Well, I am an old woman, and so I may say what I think to you, may I not?"

"Yes, surely."

"Well, if it doesn't make you happy, if it doesn't make you feel as if it were a boon from heaven to kiss her, then it's not the right kind of love. But—why don't you stand still—but that kind of love is not enough; there may be something else concealed beneath it, believe me." Here the old woman blushed crimson and hesitated. "Look you," she went on, "where there is not the right feeling of respect, when a man does not feel rejoiced that a woman takes a thing in hand in just one way, and not in another, and does it just in this way, and not in that—it's a bad sign. And above all things, notice how she treats her servants."

"I'll take what you have to say, and change it into small coin for you; for talking is hard for you. What you have just said, I understand; she must not be too proud, and not too familiar."

"That, certainly. But I can tell by looking at a girl's mouth, if that mouth has used bad words and scolded and stormed, and is fond of doing it. Yes, if you could see her weeping with vexation, or come upon her unawares, when she is angry, that would be the best way of knowing what she is. For then the inward self that we conceal springs out, and often that self is armed with claws, like a devil. Oh, child, I have had much experience, and have seen many things. I can tell by the way a woman puts out a candle what she is, and what kind of a temper she has; she who puts it out hurriedly as she goes by, regardless of whether it blows sparks or sputters or not, she is one who prides herself upon her bustling industry, and who does things only by halves, and has no peace of mind."

"But, mother, you're making it too hard for me; after all, it's a lottery, and always will be one."

"Yes, yes, you need not remember all I say—I mean it only in a general way. If it should come before you, you'll know what I meant. And then you must notice if she can talk and work at the same time, if she has something in her hand while she is talking to you, and if she stops every time she says a word and only pretends to be working. I tell you that industry is everything in a woman. My mother always used to say: 'A girl should never go about empty-handed, and should be ready to climb over three fences to pick up a feather.' And yet she must be calm and steady in her work, and not rush and rampage about as if she were going to pull down a piece of the world. And when she speaks and answers you, notice whether she is either too bashful or too bold. You may not believe it, but girls are quite different when they see a man's hat from what they are among themselves. And those who look as if they were all the time saying, "Don't eat me!" are the worst—but, no—those who have such sharp tongues, and think that when anybody is in the room their tongues should never rest, those are worse still."

The lad laughed and said:

"Mother, you ought to go about the world preaching, and give lectures for girls only."

"Yes, I could do that," replied the mother, also laughing. "But I have brought out the last part first; you must, of course, notice how she behaves to her parents and to her brothers and sisters. You are a good son yourself—I need not tell you anything about that. You know the Fourth Commandment."

"Yes, mother, you may rest easy there—I look out for a special sign in regard to that; where they make a big fuss about love for parents, it means nothing. For filial love is best shown by deeds, and those who chatter very much about it, when the time comes for deeds, are tired and weary."

"Why, how wise you are!" cried the mother; and she laid her hand on her bosom and looked up at her son. "May I tell you something more?"

[Mother and son continue to discuss the qualifications of good wives for some time, until the son begins to show signs of impatience to be off.]

"Yes, yes," said the mother, "I talk too much, and you need not remember it all. It's only to remind you, if it should come before you. The gist of what I say is this: the chief thing is not what a woman has or inherits, but what she uses. And now, you know that I have always let you go your own way quietly; so then, open your heart to me, and tell me what it was that made you come back from the wedding at Endringen like a man bewitched, and why it is that you have never since then been the same lad that you were before. Tell me, and perhaps I can help you."

"Oh, mother, you cannot do that—but I will tell you. I saw some one there who would have been the right one, but she was the wrong one."

"For heaven's sake! You did not fall in love with a married woman?"

"No, but still she was the wrong one. Why should I make many words about it? She was a servant-girl."

The son drew a deep breath, and for some time both he and his mother were silent. At last the mother laid her hand on his shoulder, and said:

"Oh, you are good! And I thank God that He has made you so. You did well to put that out of your mind. Your father would never have consented to it, and you know what a father's blessing means."

"No, mother, I will not make myself out better than I am. I myself was annoyed that she was only a servant; I knew it would not do, and therefore I went away. But it is even harder than I expected to get her out of my mind—but now it's over, it must be over. I have promised myself not to make any inquiries about her, not to ask anybody where she is, or who she is, and, God willing, I shall bring you home a worthy farmer's daughter."

"Surely you acted fairly by the girl, and did not put any foolish notions into her head?"

"Mother, there's my hand—I have nothing to reproach myself for."

"I believe you," said the mother, and she pressed his hand repeatedly.

"And now, good luck, and my blessing go with you!"

The son mounted his horse, and his mother looked after him. But suddenly she called out again:

"Stop—I must tell you something else. I have forgotten the most important of all."

The son turned his horse around, and when he got back to his mother, he said, smiling:

"But mother—this is the last, eh?"

"Yes, and the best test of all. Ask the girl about the poor people in her town, and then listen to what the poor people have to say about her. A farmer's daughter who has not taken some poor person by the hand to help her, cannot be a worthy girl—remember that. And now, God keep you, and ride forth bravely."

As he rode off the mother spoke a prayer to speed him on his way, and then returned to the farm.

"I ought to have told him to inquire about Josenhans's children, and to find out what has become of them," said the mother to herself. She felt strangely moved. And who knows the secret ways through which the soul wanders, or what currents flow above our wonted course, or deep beneath it? What made the mother think of these children, who seemed to have faded from her memory long ago? Was her present pious mood like a remembrance of long-forgotten emotions? And did it awaken the circumstances that had accompanied those emotions? Who can understand the impalpable and invisible elements that wander and float back and forth from man to man, from memory to memory?

When the mother got back to the farm and found the father, the latter said:

"No doubt you have given him many directions how to fish out the best one; but I, too, have been making some arrangements. I have written to Crappy Zachy—he is sure to lead him to the best houses. He must bring a girl home who has plenty of good coin."

"Plenty of coin doesn't constitute goodness," replied the mother.

"I know that!" cried the farmer, with a sneer. "But why shouldn't he bring home one who is good and has plenty of coin into the bargain?"

The mother sat silent for a time, but after awhile she said:

"You've referred him to Crappy Zachy. It was at Crappy Zachy's that Josenhans's boy was boarded out."

Thus her pronouncing the name aloud showed that her former remembrances were dawning upon her; and now she became conscious what those remembrances were. And her mind often reverted to them during the events that were soon to occur, and which we are about to relate.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said the farmer. "What's the child to you? Why don't you say that I did the thing wisely?"

"Yes, yes, it was wisely done," the wife acquiesced. But the tardy praise did not satisfy the old man, and he went out grumbling.

A certain apprehension that things might go wrong with his boy after all, and that perhaps he had been in too great a hurry, made the farmer gruff, for the present, toward everybody about him.

CHAPTER XIV
THE RIDER ON THE WHITE HORSE

On the evening of the same day that John had ridden away from Zumarshofen, Crappy Zachy came to Farmer Rodel's house and sat with the proprietor in the back room for a long time, reading a letter to him in a low voice.

"You must give me a hundred crowns if I put this business through, and I want that down in writing," said Crappy Zachy.

"I should think that fifty would be enough, and even that is a pretty bit of money."

"No, not a red farthing less than a round hundred, and in saying that I am making you a present of a hundred. But I am willing to do that much for you and your sister—in fact, I am always glad to do a kindness to a fellow-townsman. Why, in Endringen or in Siebenhofen they would gladly give me double the money. Your Rose is a very respectable girl—nobody can deny that—but she's nothing extraordinary, and one might ask, what's the price of a dozen such?"

"Be quiet! I won't have that!"

"Yes, yes, I'll be quiet, and not disturb you while you're writing. Now, write at once."

Farmer Rodel was obliged to do as Crappy Zachy wished, and when he had done writing, he said:

"What do you think? Shall I tell Rose about it?"

"Certainly, you must do so. But don't let her show that she knows about it, nor tell any one in the place; it won't bear being talked about. All people have their enemies, you and your sister like the rest, you may believe me. Tell Rose to wear her everyday clothes and milk the cows when he comes. I shall have him come to your house alone. You read what Farmer Landfried writes; the boy has a will of his own, and would run away directly, if he suspected that there was anything being prepared for him. And you must send this very evening to Lauterbach and have your brother-in-law's white horse brought over here; then I'll get somebody to send the suitor over to you in quest of the horse. Don't let him notice that you know anything about it either."

Crappy Zachy went away, and Farmer Rodel called his sister and his wife into the little back room. After exacting a promise of secrecy, he imparted to them that a suitor for Rose was coming the next day, a prince of a man, who had a first-rate farm—in fact, it was none other than John, the son of Farmer Landfried of Zumarshofen. He then gave the further directions which Crappy Zachy had recommended, and enjoined the strictest secrecy.

After supper, however, Rose could not refrain from asking Barefoot, if, in case of her marrying, she would not go with her as her maid; she would give her double wages, and at the same time she would then not have to cross the Rhine and work in a factory. Barefoot gave an evasive answer; for she was not inclined to go with Rose, knowing that the latter had selfish motives for making the proposal. In the first place she wanted to boast of the fact that she was going to get a husband, and, indeed, a first-rate one; and in the second place she was anxious to get Barefoot to manage her household affairs, about which she had until then scarcely bothered herself at all. Now Barefoot would have been very glad to do this for a mistress who was kind to her, but not for Rose. And besides, if she were to leave her present mistress, she did not intend to be a servant again anyway, but would work for herself, even if it were in a factory with her brother.

Barefoot was just going to bed, when her mistress called her and intrusted the secret to her, adding:

"You have always had patience with Rose, and now while her suitor is here, have double patience, in order that there may be no disturbance in the house."

"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 passed 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 shift 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 nobody 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.]