"But I _am_ Roschen," said the girl quickly, as she seized hold of his hands with her feeble ones, and pressed and shook them as if she wanted to bring him to his senses in that way.

He continued, however, to speak to an imaginary little child on the floor, as though he were mad or intoxicated. "Are you coming to daddy?

Poor daddy is always alone, quite alone since little Bohnke has gone."

Then he added in a mysterious, almost unintelligible whisper, "Sophia is going to kill him--they'll all help to kill him--poor Mr. Tiralla."

He shook his head miserably.

"Father, I--I'm with you--I'll stop with you," cried Rosa, shaken by his plaint. What awful things he imagined, poor, unhappy man. "I'll help you. And the Lord will help you, and His most Holy Mother Mary,"

she added solemnly, and made the sign of the cross on his forehead and breast as well as on her own. "May the Lord help you and us." And then she said resolutely and courageously--what was the good of hesitating?

Had she not promised Mikolai to do it and also prayed about it?--"What you've been saying is not true, daddy. n.o.body is going to do you any [Pg 299] harm, neither mother nor anybody eke. You're not kind to mother. You're talking nonsense. Look, here is your Roschen, feel my hands." She put her dry, burning hands round his wrists. "As true as I stand here, I swear that you've nothing to fear, we all lov----"--no, she must not lie, so she quickly corrected herself--"we all mean you well. Daddy, oh, my daddy!"

She let go of his wrists and impulsively pressed her hands to his cheeks, as she had so often done when she was small and her fingers had seemed no bigger than the legs of a fly that played about on his fat cheeks. "Oh, my dear daddy, if only you would stop drinking.

Everything, everything would be better then. Then mother would no longer"--she suddenly stopped and the colour mounted to her brow; she did not mention her mother again. But her voice sounded so honest and convincing as she continued, "Then you would never have cause to fear any more. You would see then that n.o.body wishes you ill. And how happy Mikolai would be if you were to go into the stables and fields again, and talk to him about the work on the farm. Poor Mikolai, his friend is going away and he'll be so lonely. And you would feel much better yourself. You wouldn't cough so much--Marianna says you spit blood--you would be happy again; you wouldn't sit alone in this room any more, and you would see the wheat and the oats and the red clover that smells so sweet. Just think of it, daddy!"

She grew quite hot in her eagerness; at that moment she forgot all about her convent and that she would not be at Starydwor to see the improvement. And then as the last and best promise she said, "And you would still be saved, daddy; G.o.d in heaven would forgive your sins."

Her eyes shone as she looked at [Pg 300] him, as though she wanted to infect him with some of her own radiant happiness.

But his eyes did not shine. He was looking down in a dull-witted way and merely muttered, "Yes, you're Rosa."

Ah! now he knew her. The saints be praised, that was a big step forward. Putting her sweet face close to his, and without shrinking back from the poisonous breath that almost suffocated her, she whispered, "And Rosa will love you again, daddy; love you so dearly if you'll only leave off drinking." She pointed to a full bottle standing on the table next to an empty one, and some of the holy fury of the converters who used to fell oaks and shatter idols came over her.

Raising her voice till it sounded almost triumphant she cried, "Throw it away, so that it breaks on the floor like the other bottle! Then the horrid gin will run between the boards down into the earth, down into h.e.l.l, where it belongs. The evil thing will have gone, and we, father, we'll pray and give thanks."

"Listen!" She fell on her knees beside him and piously raised her hands. "Do you hear? The angels in heaven, with your guardian angel at their head, are shouting, 'Hallelujah'."

Mr. Tiralla mumbled something unintelligible.

Rosa did not hear it; she heard nothing more, for her soul had taken wings and flown out of the stifling room. G.o.d had heard her, the Lord was with her. The joy she felt almost overpowered her; her cheeks were wet with the tears of sweet exhaustion that comes when every nerve has been strained. What were all the joys of the world compared to the joy of saving her father and of delivering his soul from perdition? She buried her face in her hands, and a tremor pa.s.sed over her.

[Pg 301]

There was silence in the room, but the storm was whistling and howling outside.

Mr. Tiralla had seized the bottle, but not to hurl it on the ground as Rosa had bidden him; he clasped it nervously to his breast, as if it were a priceless treasure that must be taken care of.

So they even wanted to rob him of that, the last thing he possessed? He would not let them take it from him, he would rather die. "_Psia krew!_" He swore so loudly that he startled his daughter.

Awakened out of her trance of bliss, Rosa saw with horror that her father was holding the bottle to his lips and drinking, drinking, hiccoughing and groaning, until he could drink no more, until the gin ran out again at the corners of his mouth. He sighed when he had to leave off; but he did not put the bottle on the table again, he hid it under his jersey.

"Go--go, girl," he growled angrily, and glared at her with malevolent eyes. "What do you want from me? My precious bottle"--he patted the place where he had hidden it--"you're the best friend I've got now.

Come, my love, don't cry," he said, pinching Rosa's cheek as she sobbed. His spirits had improved since he knew the bottle was safe.

"My darling girl, Why are you weeping?"

he croaked huskily. Then he grinned. His Rosa would soon get married now, would soon have children, many little grandchildren-girls as small as this one, and he gazed once more at the floor. There she was, the little girl who could not reach up to the table. He had long ago chosen a fine, handsome husband for his Rosa. "Look out, he'll soon be coming now." He nudged his daughter with his elbow, and blinked at her with the same expression in his eyes as when he [Pg 302] had been thinking of Marianna. Then he chuckled to himself. What a joke, what a joke! He tried to slap his knee, but he could not; all at once his arm felt paralyzed, as heavy as lead, and his tongue obeyed him even less than his arm. He stretched it out after every sound, but the sounds would not form themselves into words; his furred tongue trembled the whole time.

Oh, what did her father want? Rosa was terrified. How horridly he looked at her with his blood-shot eyes, and why did he wag his tongue like that? "Speak!" she implored him in her terror. "What did you want to say? Do speak."

But he took no more notice of her, his eyes were fixed on the door. The man he had chosen for his little daughter must come that way. He stared and grinned, and then turned up the whites of his eyes. At that moment something cracked either in the wall or stove that sounded like a knock. Aha! he was knocking already.

"Come in." All at once Mr. Tiralla's tongue again obeyed him. Look! was that not Becker, slender and nice-looking, who embraced Rosa with a bridegroom's impatience?

The drunken man sat grinning, as one picture after the other flashed across his sick brain. "Very good, very good," he mumbled, smacking his lips. He gave Rosa a push, "Come, kiss him too, it's Becker, you know.

Handsome fellow, good fellow, isn't he? Sweet little bride. I'll look the other way." He gave a hoa.r.s.e laugh, that came from his throat like a hiccough, and put his hand to his eyes; but he peeped underneath it.

"Young Martin, young Rosa--many little ones--one--two--three." He made a fearful grimace as he showed their heights a little above the [Pg 303] floor. "Grandpa Tiralla is glad--many, many--little Martins, little Rosas--all going to console him--aha!"

He attempted to pat Rosa and draw her on his knee, but she thrust him away with a cry of shame and aversion. Pressing her hands to her ears and closing her eyes tightly she rushed out of the room.

The madman followed her with astonished eyes. Who was that? "Hi, hi!"

No answer; he was quite alone.

Ugh! what was that? He stared at his fingers, on which there were several b.l.o.o.d.y scratches, which he had got from the broken pieces of gla.s.s. He suddenly felt that they hurt.

"Blood--blood!" he stammered, terrified, holding his hand up to his swollen eyes. They had wanted to murder him. "Help!" He screamed and stamped about the room.

Martin Becker heard the cry for help as he sat up in bed with open eyes. Where did it come from? But he did not attempt to find out, he felt as though he were rooted to the spot. A strange horror paralyzed him. He had not even been able to sleep until midnight, he had lain awake for hours listening, and his nerves were so excited that he could hear all kinds of things. What was that stealing softly down the stairs? Had it not stopped outside his door--or had it crept further along the pa.s.sage? Oh G.o.d, it was she, she, and she would not let him go!

What was it crying so, sobbing, whimpering like a terrified child, and groping along the walls? Hark, something was crunching the sand in the pa.s.sage, the stairs were creaking. Was that the front door that [Pg 304] rattled? Something was moving about the whole time.

"All good spirits!" The man made the sign of the cross as he murmured the words, and then crept further down under the feather bed. Why, it could not be half as bad as this in a battle. Much rather face a cannon's mouth than that eye--the eye he imagined was fixed on him in the dark.

"Mikolai!" he called, but his friend only muttered in his sleep. How soundly he was sleeping. It would have been so easy now to get up and go away, Mikolai would not have heard, and he could have escaped so easily--and still. Martin lost courage, he dared not do it. Rather leave in the daytime, in open defiance if it must be, by force, than go into that dark pa.s.sage where there were ghosts and whisperings.

Martin did not know what it was to fear a human being, but he feared ghosts at night. And they were spirits of darkness that raged in that house, he felt sure. So he remained in bed with anger in his heart at his own cowardice, and still not able to conquer it. He would go next day in broad daylight, even if he had to leave his box behind with everything it contained, his dear keepsakes and precious belongings. He would leave Starydwor next day. He stuck his fingers into his ears; the whole house, the night, all the air seemed to be filled with meanings.

G.o.d be praised--at last! Then he fell asleep, and heard nothing more.

Mr. Tiralla had moved along by the walls of his room. He ran like a restless animal in a cage; not quickly--he could not do that--but to and fro as though in despair. "Rosa, Roschen," he called in a [Pg 305]

loud voice. It seemed to him that she had been with him, but he did not know for certain. And that was what he was pondering over now. How awful it was not to be able to recollect anything! She had been such a dear little girl--she had once been his little daughter--but she was that no longer, for she, his consolation, had thrust him away from her.

Alas, alas! It was very sad.

He puckered up his face and began to cry. Now he had nothing to console him, everything was gone. "Everything dr--dru--nk up," he stammered, sobbing. All at once he understood things clearly; no, he had nothing more in this world.

Where was Starydwor? It had not belonged to him for a long time, he neither went sowing nor reaping, it was not his any longer.

He had no wife, no children, no friend, and no G.o.d. The Almighty would not have anything more to do with him. He had forgotten all, all his prayers; he had ceased to go to confession; he belonged to h.e.l.l.

"Poor Ti--Ti--Ti----" he said sadly, as he struck his breast with his trembling finger. He could not even recollect his own name--that had been forgotten too. He had nothing, nothing whatever.

Oh, yes, he had. He put his hands to his shaking head, that never kept quiet for a moment. He had saved something, hidden something like a dog his bone. He would go to it now. And even if his father were to beat him afterwards and say, "Boy, why do you eat unripe fruit?" still, what was hidden behind the loose stone in the wall would taste good.

Mr. Tiralla walked to the door; he had suddenly recovered the use of his limbs. He shuffled and staggered, but still he went on. It was a wonder that he succeeded in opening the front door, which was [Pg 306]

looked, but all at once he had become possessed of strength in his fingers and strength of will too.

The wind in the yard knocked him down. He fell full length, but picked himself up again. "_Dalej_, _dalej!_" Quiet, very quiet--no lamenting even if he had hurt himself on the stones--so that his father should not come and seize him by the collar, "Tell me, my son, where are you creeping off?"

"_Dalej_, _dalej!_" He was longing to get there. A bright streak in the sky already cast a faint glimmer of light around. The man looked about as he groped along. Aha, there was the stable! Aha!