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 Moellner?" 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 Moellner. 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 Moellner, "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.'"

"Moellner, 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 Kaethchen!" cried the children. "Ah, our dear little Kaethchen!"

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."

"Moellner," 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 Kaethchen, pretty little roguish Kaethchen 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 Kaethchen, "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 Kaethchen 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 Kaethchen 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, Kaethi 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 Kaethchen, "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 Kaethchen, 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--Kaethchen," 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, Kaethchen, how are you now?" asked Johannes, stepping up to the bedside.

"Very well, thank you," said Kaethchen 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 Kaethchen," 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 Fraeulein 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 Kaethi 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.