On the Heights Part 74

"About now? Dear me, it seems two years since I left there. By this time, the lamps have been lit in all the pa.s.sageways, and downstairs, where the king and the queen are, they're just about leaving the table.

But we have nothing to do with that. Mademoiselle Kramer is reading her book. She reads a book through every day; and my prince. O you poor child--"

Walpurga burst into tears. At the same moment, her own child began to cry and the two women hurried in.

"It was only dreaming," said the mother softly. "The child must feel that the right mother is come."

Walpurga again felt conscious of the double life she was leading.

Although she was at home, her thoughts were still at the palace.

Everything seemed confused and indistinct, and when she found herself again sitting on the bench at her mother's side, she was obliged to stop and consider where she was.

"It seems to me," said the mother, "that those who possess so many worldly gifts as the king and queen and the quality have, can't take much time to think of the heavenly life hereafter."

Walpurga told her how pious they all were at court, and that the queen, although a Protestant, was especially so.

They conversed with each other in calm and gentle tones. Walpurga rested her head against her mother's heart and, at last, fell asleep there. The mother held her in her embrace, scarcely venturing to breathe, lest she might waken her. After they had been sitting there awhile, she awakened Walpurga and told her that she might catch cold and had better go to bed. Walpurga scarcely knew where she was and, while still rubbing her eyes, she asked: "Isn't my husband home yet?"

"Just go to bed, I'll help you," said the mother, and she undressed Walpurga, as if she were a little child. Then she sat down by the bed and, taking her daughter's hand in hers, said: "You see, it's a queer thing when people who belong together have lived apart for a long time.

They've become used to getting along without each other, and the only thing to do is to wait till they grow used to each other again. Take precious good care that you never speak an unkind word, and don't dare to think to yourself: 'If I only were away again, and out in the world.' If you harbor such thoughts, you'll be like a tree cut off at its roots and transplanted--it must die. Mind what I tell you! Whenever you can change anything according to your own notion, do so; but you'd better not attempt to alter what can't be altered. Make up your mind that it's got to be as it is, and submit. There's nothing so silly, in all the world, as to wish for what you can't have. When the wind blows and the rain descends, you'll often hear people say: 'If it were only fine weather to-day.' We can't change the weather outside of us; but we can see to it that there's fair weather inside. And what I was going to say is: see that you have fair weather within yourself and then all will be well."

"Yes; but what am I to do?"

"Make an effort this very night. Promise me, faithfully, that if you're awake when your husband comes home, you'll say to him, cheerfully, 'G.o.d greet you, Hansei!'"

"I can't do that, mother; indeed, I can't."

"But I tell you you must be able to do it, or else you're not a true wife and mother, and every piece of gold you've brought home with you will be as if a fiery demon were lurking in it. You promised to obey me, and at the very start you refuse."

"Yes, mother; I'll try my best."

"Well, then, good-night," said the mother, and returned to her room.

Walpurga lay there in silence. Anger and sorrow kept her awake. Her child had become estranged from her, her husband had acquired bad habits and preferred the society of his comrades to hers. For whose sake had she imposed the heavy burden upon herself? For whose sake had she gone among strangers to earn all that she had brought home with her, and for whom had she kept herself so pure? She wet her pillow with bitter tears. But suddenly an inner voice said to her: "Do you mean to take credit to yourself for having been honest? Were you honest for yourself, or for others? and weren't they obliged to suffer, too, in taking everything upon themselves? Oughtn't you to thank G.o.d that they didn't die of grief?--Yes, that was all very well; but now they ought to be heartily glad and grateful--I can't expect it of the child, for that's too young to know; but my husband--he has sense enough when he feels like it. And have I gained all this only to be a hostess to the whole world? No, I've earned it, and I've a right--For G.o.d's sake! A right? There's the trouble. When the one always insists upon claiming his rights from the other, it's just like h.e.l.l itself--I don't want any rights; I've got no rights; I want nothing at all. All I wish is to be an obedient wife and a good mother--Dear Lord, a.s.sist me if I'm not one."

Heavy steps were heard approaching. Hansei entered and, with cheerful voice, Walpurga exclaimed: "G.o.d greet you, Hansei! I'm glad that you've found me still awake."

"I've won the bet! I've won it!" exclaimed Hansei with a loud voice.

"There's two men standing out there under the window. We had a wager together and I've won six measures of wine from them. They said that the best proof of a wife is the way she receives her husband when he returns from the tavern, or when he awakes her out of her sleep. I told them: 'I know my wife. When I get home, she'll be kind and friendly to me.' But they wouldn't believe a word of it. And so we've had a wager, and I've won it; and if all the wine in the whole world were mine, it wouldn't please me half so much as to know that I was right."

Hansei opened the shutters of the window toward the lake, and called out: "Now you've heard it, friends. You can go now; I've won the wine.

Good night!"

Walpurga pulled the cover over her head. There was laughter outside, and the two men departed. For a minute or two, the bright moonlight shone into the lowly cottage, and then the shutter was closed again.

CHAPTER V.

When Hansei awoke the next morning, the cows were already milked, and the house looked so bright and clean that it seemed as if one of the kind fairies that dwelt on the mountains had been putting things to rights. A pot of blooming, scarlet pinks stood in the center of the table, over which a neat, white cloth had been spread; and, as if to hide the dingy flower-pot from view, a garland of leaves had been twined around it.

"You've been industrious," said Hansei, and Walpurga answered: "Yes, my thoughts wandered far away into the world, and have come back again.

You see, the quality have all that one can wish for, but do you know what they haven't got?"

"No."

"They've no Sunday; and do you know why?"

"I don't know that, either."

"Because they've no real workdays. In the palace, when you get up in the morning, your boots and shoes are ready at your door just as if they had blackened themselves. The coffee is ready of itself, the bread has baked itself, the paths have swept themselves clean, and everything is attended to, one hardly knows how. But to do everything with your own hands--Just see! to-day, I've already put my hand under your feet; I've cleaned your shoes."

"You mustn't do that; that's no work for you. Don't you do it again."

"Very well, I won't do it again. But to-day I've done everything, and I can hardly tell you how happy I felt when I went after the first pail of water. It went hard at first, but I managed it, after all. And now I'm longing for breakfast. Since the day I left home, I've never once been so hungry as I now am."

When the grandmother came, bringing the child with her, she, too, was surprised, and said: "Walpurga, you'll turn our cottage into a palace."

With joyful mien, Hansei told her of all that Walpurga had been doing, and the mother said: "She's right; an industrious home is the happiest home, and now, just because you've got some means, you must work so much the more. For where there's idleness riches take wings to themselves; but if you're always adding something, no matter how little, to your store, the old is likely to stay."

"I don't think we need go to church to-day," said Hansei, "mother's giving us the best benediction."

"Yes, but we'll go to church, for all that," replied Walpurga. "All the time I was away, I've looked forward to this first going to church.

What a fine day it is! I don't believe there ever was such lovely weather." Their intercourse was full of happiness. The only drawback was that the child still refused to go to Walpurga.

Walpurga told her mother that everything had been well attended to during her absence, but she was displeased at one thing.

"What is it? what have I done?"

"Why, you didn't get yourself a servant."

The old woman smiled. She could never do that. She didn't know how she could ever order a servant about. And now Hansei said he wouldn't allow his wife to overwork herself, and that there must be a servant in the house.

The grandmother recommended one of her brother's children from over the mountains. So it was decided that they should send word to Uncle Peter to come, and bring one of his daughters with him.

The morning was clear and bracing, and Hansei, who had put on his snow-white shirt, said, while lighting his pipe:

"Walpurga, let your mother work a little while, and come out into the garden."

He was sitting on the bench under the cherry-tree. Walpurga soon joined him and, after the fashion of women, said that she could only remain for a short time, that she had various matters to attend to, and that they ought to be at church in good season.

She sat down beside him, and Hansei said: "Why don't you say something?

you must have lots to tell about."

"I can't think of anything now. Just wait, it'll all come in time. It's happiness enough that we're together again. If we, all of us, only keep well. I think our cherry-tree has grown."

"And now that I think of it, you've had no cherries from it this year.