CHAPTER IX.

VOX POPULI, VOX DEI.

When Keller, on his way to the priest, reached the village inn, he went in to refresh himself with a mug of beer, and found the priest whom he was seeking in the inn parlour, surrounded by a circle of auditors from the village and neighbouring farms. The Protestant pastor was also present, for the occurrence of the morning was a subject for universal discussion. The host was busy supplying the company with beer-mugs and bottles, secretly congratulating himself upon the accident that had brought him so much custom.

"Ah, here is the poor father! Well, what news? How is she now?" were the words that greeted Keller's entrance.

"Bad," he replied. "The child will be a cripple."

A murmur of compassion was heard.

Keller turned to the priest and asked to be permitted a word with him in private. His request was willingly granted.

"Your reverence," began the peasant, "Columbane thinks the Hartwich has been the cause of all this."

The priest clasped his hands. "What do I hear? Why does she think so?"

Keller told him what had happened.

The priest shook his head, and said in a loud voice to his Protestant brother, "Does it not seem, respected brother, as if we were forbidden by the visible finger of the Lord from holding any communication with this unholy woman, who has crept in among us like a poisonous serpent?" He then repeated, so that all could hear, what Keller had just told him.

The Protestant divine, who was always in harmony with his colleague when there was a common enemy to do battle with, also considered the matter a very serious one. "It would of course be superstition to believe that the Hartwich had bewitched the child, but it stands written, 'Cursed are the ungodly,' and the curse must cleave to all who come in contact with any such."

There was instantly a great commotion among the peasants drinking in the room.

"This much is certain," cried the pastor with great emphasis, "that every misfortune comes, directly or indirectly, from the Hartwich!"

"Yes, yes," resounded from all parts of the room. "Whom has she benefited in any way?"

"No one, no one!"

"Has she not tried to sow among you the seeds of her sinful doctrines? has she not, like the serpent of Eden, hissed into the ear of the sufferers to whose bedside she was admitted dreadful doubts, instead of pouring into them the balm of divine consolation?"

"Yes, yes,--she always spoke disrespectfully of our pastors and their office."

The clerical gentlemen looked mournfully at each other.

"She has tried to stir up rebellion against the Church!" cried the priest. "She even turned me ignominiously from the doors when I went, in all the dignity of my office, to administer extreme unction to her servant Kunigunda, and she pretended in excuse that the maid was not going to die, and the ceremony would excite her and make her worse. She could not bear the sight of the Crucified beneath her roof. She is an outcast from God and His Church. Centuries ago, such as she were burnt alive; there was good reason for it. But we all suffer, and must continue to suffer, from their presence among us. The devil has put on the cloak of philanthropy, beneath which he hides all such sinners, so that we cannot touch them."

"She is a poisonous sore in our flesh," added the Protestant pastor, "and it stands written, 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out;' but we dare not cut out this sore that offends us."

"Why not?--what is to hinder us?" shouted the excited peasants.

"Then you really believe that she has done this mischief to our poor child?" said Keller with horror.

"Well, if we cannot exactly believe that," replied the Protestant pastor, "we must confess that we see in the accident a sign from Providence that we should avoid her. This much is certain, that the stranger who drove over the child had been visiting the Hartwich, so that, if she had not dwelt among us, the accident would most assuredly never have occurred, for that furious woman would never have come here."

"The Hartwich is to blame for it all!" growled the drunken throng.

"She is, in one way or another," continued the expositor of Christian love. "I repeat, with my respected brother, every misfortune among us is her work."

"Yes, every misfortune is the work of the Hartwich!" yelled the chorus.

"Gracious heavens! See! look there!" cried one, pointing to the windows.

All looked out.

"'Tis the Hartwich herself!"

"Does she dare to come down here?"

"She wants to see the misery she has caused!"

"Holy Mother!" cried Keller, "she is going to my house!" And he rushed out.

Like fermenting wine from a cask when the stopper is removed, the whole drunken throng rushed after him into the street.

Priest and pastor remained behind, looking at one another. "What shall we do?" asked one. "Ought we not to follow them, to prevent mischief?"

"Let the people rage, my worthy friend," replied the other. "It is not for us to interfere in such matters. She is not worthy of our protection, and the just indignation of the people will find vent in words, that will not harm her, but that it will be well for her to hear. _Vox populi, vox Dei!_"

"True, true," assented the other. "We should not interfere with the public sense of right in such a case. She would not listen to us. Let her hear the truth from the mouths of the peasants; perhaps it will have more effect upon her coming from them than from men of culture like ourselves!"

"Let us hope so," said the Catholic father devoutly, as he seated himself by his Protestant colleague at an empty table, and filled his glass from the bottle of old wine that the host placed before him.

"What is that?" asked Johannes softly, as a distant hum of approaching voices was heard. He sat with his hand still patiently supporting Kaethchen's head, and would not draw it away, lest he should awaken the child.

The schoolmaster went on tiptoe to the window and looked out. "I cannot tell what is the matter," he said. "An excited crowd is rushing to and fro in the street, but I cannot see who they are or what it is all about."

"The people have not recovered from the event of this morning," said Johannes.

Meanwhile the noise drew near. Various abusive words were heard, and it seemed as if stones were thrown and fell upon the pavement. Shrill female voices cried quite distinctly, "Not in here!" "Go away!" "Put her out!" Boys shouted and whistled through it all.

"Good heavens!" cried the schoolmaster, "they are persecuting a lady! Oh, yes! Herr Professor, look! she is trying to escape into the houses! The women thrust her out and shut their doors upon her----"

"Brutes!" exclaimed Johannes, beside himself with rage, for one glance from the window had shown him how matters stood.

"Holy Maria! they are throwing stones and apples at her!" cried Frau Keller.

Johannes had rushed from the room as the schoolmaster turned towards him with the words, "It is Fraeulein von Hartwich!"

But, just as Johannes reached the stairs, Keller burst in, pale and agitated, and locked the door after him.

"What do you mean?" cried Johannes. "Do you wish to shut me in here?"

"Ah, sir!" implored Keller, blocking up the passage, "do not open it,--the Hartwich wants to come in----"

"Well, then, let her in instantly! why do you delay?"

"For God's sake, keep her out!" said Keller.

"Are you mad," cried Johannes, "that you would close your doors upon a fellow-being imploring protection? Open the door, or I will force the lock."

"Sir, sir, my house is my own, if I am only a poor peasant!" cried Keller still blocking the entrance. "This is the abode of honest labour, and no accursed foot shall cross its threshold."

The uproar without seemed stationary before the house. A shower of stones against the door showed that the persecuted woman had fled hither. Johannes was no longer master of himself. His blood boiled in his veins, his heart throbbed to bursting. With the strength of a giant he seized the burly peasant by his broad shoulders and hurled him aside--almost into the arms of the schoolmaster, who was coming to the rescue also. Then he tore open the door, and Ernestine fell half fainting at his feet. He caught her in his arms, and, as he stood thus shielding her, cried, in a tone that left no doubt in the minds of his hearers as to the truth of his words, "I'll knock down the first man who dares to come near this lady."

A dull murmur arose. "Let him try to stop us," cried several, and clenched fists were shaken at him.

"Yes, I will try it,--but the man who dares me to try it will repent the trial!" threatened Johannes. And so commanding were his words and bearing that no one ventured further than to throw a stone or two, accompanying them with abusive epithets. Johannes drew Ernestine more closely to his side. "Shame on you, cowards that you are!" He turned to Keller. "Will you still refuse a shelter to this lady?--you see that she can scarcely stand."

Keller looked at his wife, who had run out to them. "Do not let her in!" she cried. "For God's sake, keep her out! has she not done us harm enough?"

Keller looked at Johannes and shrugged his shoulders. "You see my wife will not allow it."

Johannes stamped his foot in despair.

"Are you human?"

"We hope so, sir," said Keller, insolently thrusting his hands in his pockets.

"And far better than the friends of that woman there," shouted the mob, and a small stone flew close past Johannes.

"If I were as crazy as you are," cried he, "I should throw down upon you the stones that you have thrown at me here, and my aim would be better than yours. But I will not contend with drunken men or do battle with people who are not responsible for their actions; all I ask of you is to give way and allow me to take this lady to her home."

The crowd maintained its place in a compact mass, and only replied by unintelligible words, from which, however, Johannes gathered that Ernestine's punishment was not yet considered sufficient, and that she was not to be allowed to escape so easily.

"I will pay you whatever you ask, if you will only afford Fraeulein von Hartwich shelter until I have quieted this tumult," said Johannes to Keller.

"You'll get nothing out of me, sir! Neither money nor fine words will get her across my threshold."

"Mother, let her come in," suddenly cried a voice that had a wonderful effect upon the mob. Kaethchen had slipped from her bed unperceived, and in her distress had run out to her mother. She threw her uninjured arm around Ernestine's knees, and looked up at her weeping. "They shall not hurt you; I love you so dearly!"

"Jesus Maria!" shrieked Frau Keller. "My child! my child!" She tore the little girl away from Ernestine, and, followed by her husband, carried her into the house.

"Do you want to kill yourself?" cried the father in despair.

"No! I want the lady, I want the lady," the child was still heard wailing from the room.

A commotion now began, which threatened to be serious indeed. "There, now, you see it with your own eyes,--the sick child even crawls out of bed to her. Don't you see now that she is bewitched? The Hartwich must leave the place this very day, or we'll hunt her out of the village."

"Men! men! for God's sake, what are you doing?" said a gentle voice behind Johannes.

"Oho, the schoolmaster!" was now the cry. "Let him come down,--we've had our eyes upon him for a long time. Come down, schoolmaster, you shall be ducked for your friendship for the witch." And again the human flood overflowed the lower step of the stairs at the head of which Johannes was standing.

"Back!" commanded Johannes, resigning Ernestine to the schoolmaster, "back! now you see my arms are free."

Involuntarily the foremost recoiled at sight of his menacing attitude.

"Deluded people," cried Johannes, beside himself with indignation, "is there nothing sacred from your frantic rage,--neither a defenceless girl nor the gray head of your teacher? What has he done, except spend his life in the thankless endeavour to make reasonable human beings of you?"

"He is friends with the Hartwich,--it is his fault that she kissed the child. His house ought to be burned over his head!"

"Yes, yes!" roared the mob, "their holes should be burned out and destroyed--his and hers. Blasphemers! Unbelievers! They shall yet learn to believe in God."

"This is too much!" thundered Johannes. "Would you prove your religion by becoming incendiaries? Woe upon you if you lay a finger upon what belongs to either of these people! Do you know the penalty for arson? And, depend upon it, I will see to it that you do not escape."

A shout of rage arose at these words.

"Herr Professor," said Leonhardt imploringly, "do not aggravate these people further,--we cannot convince them. Children," he called down to them, and his voice trembled with pain, not with fear,--"children, I have grown old among you; I know you better than you know yourselves. You are too wise to do anything that would subject you to the penalty of the law, and too kind to commit an outrage upon people who have never harmed you. You do not believe that I am an unbeliever. Have I not educated your children to be useful, God-fearing men and women? Have I not stood your friend in every time of trouble? The little house, that you in your blind fury would destroy, has afforded many of you a peaceful shelter,--it is a sacred spot to your children, and could you lay a finger upon it? Go to the church-yard and see if there is a single grave there of your loved ones that has not been adorned by flowers from my garden, and would you bury it beneath the ruins of my dwelling? No, do not try to seem worse than you are." He placed Ernestine gently down upon the landing and stood in front of her. "You know that your old master loves all God's creatures, and would you condemn him for taking compassion upon the unhappy maiden whom no one pities, whom all hate? Do you call me godless because I hoped to lead this erring but noble nature to find her God again? Yes, take up your stones,--look! I will take off my cap and expose my white head to your aim. Where is the hand that will lift itself against it?"

The old man stood with uncovered head, holding his cap in his clasped hands. The evening breeze played amid his silver locks, and the stones that had been picked up were gently dropped again.

Then his arm was drawn down by his side and a kiss was imprinted upon his withered hand. It was Ernestine. Johannes saw the act, and his eyes were moist She could be grateful. He exchanged a happy glance with the old man to whom she had just paid such a tribute.

"He is only a weak old man," muttered the people,--"let him alone. He means well."

"I will go and bring their pastors," said Leonhardt softly to Johannes, and he descended the steps. He walked quietly through the midst of the crowd, that opened before him, but closed up again when he had passed through.

"Come," said Johannes, raising Ernestine from the ground, "let us try to put an end to this wretched scene." He carried rather than led her down the steps. "Make way there!" he called in a commanding tone.

The foremost in the mob gave way. Just then Frau Keller appeared at the door. She held the cup of holy water, which usually hung above the bed, and she sprinkled with its contents the spot where Ernestine had been standing. Her pious act was greeted with a shout of applause. Ernestine saw her, and trembled and turned pale, while large tears gathered in her eyes; she grew dizzy, and would have fallen had not Johannes supported her.

"Courage, courage," he whispered,--"do not let such folly distress you."

"Look, look! she cannot bear the holy water. She didn't mind the stones,--but a few drops of water are too much for her." Thus shouted the mob, and the uproar began again.

"Is this possible?" cried Johannes, casting prudence to the winds. "Is it possible that in the nineteenth century, and in a civilized country, such utter barbarian stupidity should exist? Do you really believe, if Fraeulein Hartwich were in league with the devil, that she would have borne your abuse, that she would not have thrown her spells over you long ago, and escaped your brutality? Do you think that she listens to you from choice, and likes to have stones thrown at her? Why, the very patience and resignation with which she has endured your outrageous insults might prove to you that she has no supernatural power at her command,--that she has not even the protection of a bold nature, like the other lady, with whom you were justly indignant. But let me tell you that I am neither feeble nor weak, and that my patience is exhausted, and my power, although not supernatural is quite sufficient to punish such excesses as this, and to conjure up among you a host of evil spirits in the shape of a detachment of gens-d'armes. Therefore be quiet, and let us pass on our way. Every moment of delay increases the weight of the charges that I shall bring against you before the magistrate."

So saying, he put one arm about Ernestine, and with the other cleared a path for himself through the throng, who were somewhat quelled by his last words, and gave place grumbling.

And now the clergymen, followed by the schoolmaster, appeared, with every sign of hurry and amazement.

"You come too late, gentlemen, to prevent what must cover those under your charge with shame," said Johannes with severity. "I supposed such scenes impossible in our day. You, gentlemen, have taken care that I should be better informed, and have prepared a rich page in the history of our civilization. I am well aware from what source the insults heaped by these misguided people upon Fraeulein Hartwich draw their inspiration, and I consider you, gentlemen, responsible for the restoration of order and the safety of this lady." He drew Ernestine's arm more firmly within his own, and walked on without waiting for a reply from the reverend gentlemen, who stood there speechless with alarm and embarrassment, looking after him with a degree of respect that they could not control.

In silence the pair reached the castle and entered the garden. Ernestine passively allowed herself to be led through the shady walks. Involuntarily Johannes turned towards the little eminence where he had seen her for the first time. He had resolved not to leave Ernestine here, but to place her that very evening beneath his mother's protection. How should he persuade her to such a step? This was the question that he propounded to himself, breathlessly searching for the answer.

Ernestine was for the time incapable of speech. She could not raise her eyes to her protector. Mortification, profound mortification, overpowered her. How thoroughly she had recognized his position as a man, and her own as a woman! She admired him,--she was ashamed of herself. What a feeling it was!--yes, it was the same self-humiliation that she had felt once before, beneath the oak tree where, when flying as to-day from insults and sneers, she had met the handsome lad who had given her the prophetic book. But when would the prophecy in the fairy-tale be fulfilled? When should she cease to be laughed at, despised, and insulted? When should the lonely, persecuted, weary swan unfold its plumage upon calm waters in sunshine and peace? And in an access of pain she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. She sank down upon the mound and sobbed like a child. Johannes stood silent before her. His mind was filled with the same thoughts, the same memories, and, like an answer to her mute soliloquy, there came from his lips, in tones of melting tenderness, the words, "Poor swan!" Ernestine's hands dropped from her face, she stared at him with wide-open eyes,--then sprang up, and, while her pale cheeks flushed, and her whole frame trembled, gazed at him still, as if she would look him through, her agitation increasing every moment. "There--there is only one person on earth who knows that," she faltered.

"What?" asked Johannes with a beating heart.

"What I was thinking of--about the swan!" she articulated with difficulty, for her voice failed her.

Johannes, who stood somewhat below Ernestine, looked up at her expectantly. "And who is that person?" he asked gently.

Ernestine could not reply,--a strange thrill passed through her, and she awaited the issue of the miracle of the moment.

"Ernestine, do you remember the lad who once rescued a wild, timid girl from mortal peril?"

She bowed her head in assent. "Ernestine, did you ever then for one moment in your childish heart think of him with love?"

She raised her eyes to the twilight skies, and was silent for a moment; then she breathed a scarcely audible "Yes."

A light, feathery cloud hovered above her head. Was it the little mermaid, dead for her beloved's sake, and, dissolved in foam, borne away by the daughters of the air to eternal bliss? Could it return again,--that fair, half-forgotten love-dream of her childhood,--the only one she had ever dreamed?

And she looked after the floating cloud as it grew thinner and thinner, until it was gradually dissolved in air, and the gentle radiance of the evening star appeared where it faded.

"Ernestine, do you know me now?" said Johannes. "See, this is the second time that God has placed me by your side to rescue you from a self-sought peril, and, as when I then brought you down from the broken bough, so now I open wide my arms to you, and pray you, 'Seek refuge and safety here!' Oh, little dryad, you are the same as then, for all that you have grown so tall and beautiful! There are the same mysterious dark eyes, the same strange, lonely spirit imprisoned in the delicate frame, bewailing its Titan descent. I knew then that there was only one such creature in the world,--and I should have recognized you among thousands as I recognized you when you stood alone upon this hill. Wondrous and fairy-like creature that you are, if you do not dissolve in air at the touch of a mortal, come to this heart; if an earth-born being may approach you with earthly love, take mine and learn to love a mortal. Yes, pure, aspiring spirit, for whom this earth has never been a home, I am only a man,--and yet a faithful, true, and loving man. Can you love me again?"

Ernestine stood immovable. She had raised her hands to her forehead, as one is apt to do at hearing the mysterious, the incomprehensible.

"You do not speak; have you no words for me? Look, Ernestine, do you not remember the boy about whose neck you once clasped your trembling arms so willingly?"

At last she stretched out both hands to the earnest speaker, with a look of unrestrained delight. "Johannes," she cried, as tear after tear coursed down her cheek, "Johannes Moellner,--my childhood's friend,--I know you now."

He hastened to her side, and opened his arms to clasp her to his heart, but she recoiled with such a burning blush, with such childlike alarm painted upon her face, that Johannes controlled himself, and only pressed her delicate hands to his lips. Her maidenly reserve was sacred to him.