But Mrs. Tiralla gave a slight shudder, and, bending over her daughter's bed, she said in a strangely soft voice, "Go on listening, Rosa dear, go on listening." Then she grasped the schoolmaster's hand and drew him out of the room. "Come. She is already asleep."

They stood outside in the dark. A murmuring sound was heard from the bedroom, a few joyful exclamations and then Rosa's voice rose clear and triumphant. Bohnke was full of amazement; what was the meaning of it all?

Mrs. Tiralla, who was still holding his hand, now whispered to him, "I've no friend. I stand quite alone. I often wish I were dead."

The young man pressed his burning, eager lips to her sleeve. He felt almost stifled with emotion and stammered something hardly intelligible. He was her friend, her faithful, devoted friend. He had already once been her knight, but if she commanded, he would also be her dog. For ever and ever.

If the schoolmaster had hoped for a proof of her favour he was disappointed. She only pressed his hand, and oh, how icy-cold hers was, and how firm. Her dainty hand could press as firmly as any man's. "I rely upon you, Panje Bohnke," she whispered, and then, raising her voice, she added calmly and distinctly, "Don't fall. Here's the staircase, here."

Mr. Tiralla's powerful voice was heard downstairs. "Where are you, Sophia? Let the devil take hold of you by the tip of your shift. Why don't you come to me, my little dove, my darling?"

"Good night," she whispered hastily, once more pressing the schoolmaster's hand.

[Pg 80]

He stood alone in the silent courtyard; there was no light in the stables and sheds, the cattle made no sound. He felt oppressed. Did he dread the walk through the lonely fields? Oh, no, on the contrary he was able to breathe once more when he reached the open fields, and the howling wind threw a whole load of snow into his face and over his clothes. "Ah," he drew a long, trembling breath. But all at once he felt terrified. There came a long-drawn, shrill whistle from the Przykop, a quite peculiar whistle. No bird screamed like that, and no human being either. A shudder ran down his back; he was seized with a superst.i.tious fear, which he could not shake off again in spite of his common sense and his education. That was the witch that whistled in the pitch-dark Przykop.

And he made the sign of the cross as the peasants do when they hear the witch whistling, and spat on the snow that gleamed in spite of the darkness. When that's done, the witch has lost her power and you need not follow her.

[Pg 81]

CHAPTER V

Rosa Tiralla had seen visions; but whether they were good or bad visions n.o.body knew. Marianna Sroka cried loudly when she brought the news to the village, and her lover, Jendrek, confirmed it with a nod. The Paninka had seen something, the Paninka was bewitched.

Mr. Tiralla was deeply grieved about his Roschen, as deeply grieved as he could possibly be about anything. He had already been looking out for a husband for his little daughter--she would be fourteen next autumn, and a wife cannot be too young-and now she seemed only fit for bed. The strong man had never suffered from nerves--didn't even know what they were--but all sorts of things happened nowadays to alarm him.

Rosa was so irritable that she cried if anybody spoke crossly to her.

The doctor advised them not to treat her harshly, for she cried so bitterly that she became quite hysterical. And after the attack was over she was so feeble that she could not move a limb, and looked exactly like somebody who was going to die; so that her father in his terror used to say, "yes," and "my angel," "everything you like, my angel."--nothing but "my angel."

And Roschen imagined that she was always surrounded by angels. She thought her father, Marianna, and Jendrek were angels, but especially she thought her mother one. Pan Bohnke was also an angel. He [Pg 82]

often came to see her, and then he and her dear mother would sit by her bedside and talk to each other, and their voices would sound so soft and low that her eyes would close, and she would fall into a sweet sleep.

Mrs. Tiralla had never imagined that she could feel so much love for her daughter. She was really fond of her now. Marianna would on no account sleep any longer in the same room as Rosa; she said that it was impossible to close an eye the whole night through, and if she worked so hard during the day she really must rest at night. The truth was that when Marianna stole out of bed in order to go to her lover, the child would sit up in bed and call out, "Where are you going, Marianna?" and there was such a strange note of reproach and admonition in her voice, that the girl shuddered and did not venture to go to Jendrek. How had the child found it out?

So Mrs. Tiralla had her bed brought up to her daughter's room. Her husband cursed and raged, for hitherto he had at least had his wife next to him on the same floor. But she insisted upon having her own way. She said that Roschen wanted care, and mustn't sleep alone. And he saw that she was right.

At night, when the house was so quiet that the ticking of the big clock sounded like peals of thunder and her husband's snores like a saw-mill hard at work, Mrs. Tiralla would sit by her child's bed. She would hold her hand--a small, narrow, delicate-looking hand with blue veins--and they would whisper together about the joys of Paradise. Whilst all around was joyless--the dark night, the lonely farm buried in deep snow, the solitude in which a soul so often gets lost--those two would whisper together about the joys of Paradise--about nothing else.

The heavenly world in which Mrs. Tiralla had also [Pg 83] lived as a child had once more drawn near to her by means of Rosa. She could very well understand what occupied the child's thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. And that was right, for she was to be a saint. Was she not almost one now? There was a rapt expression in Rosa's eyes, when she used to tell her mother about what she had seen, about the Holy Mother and the Child Jesus, and about her beautiful, beautiful guardian angel who always sat at her bedside when she was asleep. A short time before, she had suddenly awaked in the night, but had been too tired to open her eyes properly, and she had found the angel bending over her--such a beautiful angel in a long white garment.

Mrs. Tiralla knew all about it. It had been she, and the white garment was her nightdress, which was long and fine, like those worn by smart ladies. But she let the child remain in her belief. Why undeceive her?

And after that she used to creep every night to Rosa's bed and disturb her sleep by laying her hand on her head and bending over her as if she were her guardian angel, to the child's and her own great delight. She loved doing it. She even practised her part, so that she grew more and more proficient in it every night.

In the daytime, Mrs. Tiralla would rummage in her drawers and show Rosa the things she had possessed as a child, precious relics which she devoutly kissed. These were consecrated beads, a consecrated palm branch, a little white china angel, a vessel for holy water and many gaudy pictures of saints, which her priest had once given her. Then she would relate something about each of these treasures as they lay on the child's bed. She would speak in a low, monotonous whisper, as though praying and with a dreamy smile on her face, and would gradually work herself [Pg 84] up into such a state of eagerness and excitement that her radiant eyes would become veiled, and, bursting into tears, she would sink down on the child's bed. Then mother and daughter would weep in each other's arms.

Rosa's tears were tears of ecstatic rapture and longing, of a great longing for something she could not name--the dear Virgin, the dear little Child Jesus, the dear guardian angel and all the dear saints.

She knew them all; she knew the history of every martyr that now wore a halo. Her mother had read about them aloud to her again and again from the book of holy legends that she had brought out of the gaily painted chest in which she, as a girl, had kept her belongings.

How splendid it must be to live like those holy women. If you were like St. Julia or St. Helena, or even St. Agnes, you would get leave to nurse the Child Jesus in Paradise, and rock it and sing it to sleep with hallelujah.

When Rosa was all alone she would try to sing the heavenly lullaby; she would try to take the highest notes with her small, weak voice, and make them sound soft and harmonious instead of shrill and piping.

Then the servants in the yard used to say, "St. Pa.n.u.sia is singing,"

and they would listen devoutly to the long-drawn song, sounding like a chant, that came from Rosa's bedroom.

But Rosa never felt quite satisfied with her lullaby, and often burst into tears. It must be because she didn't pray fervently enough, because she was far from being good and pure enough. So she wrote down all her sins on a piece of paper in her stiff, uneven handwriting, that she might not forget any of them--there was a long row of them--and she made up her mind to [Pg 85] confess them all and get forgiveness for them as soon as the snow was so far melted that she could go to the priest.

She did not attend school at present, not being strong enough to walk all the way from Starydwor to Starawies.

Mr. and Mrs. Tiralla were preparing to go to the Gradewitz ball in spite of the snow and the bad roads. They hoped they would be able to get through all right. Mr. Tiralla could never have brought himself to let an opportunity pa.s.s of gloating over the many eager eyes that would watch his wife in the mazes of the dance, whilst he sat comfortably in the corner of the ballroom with his gla.s.s and his cards.

Mrs. Tiralla was a very good dancer, and her heart beat as she unpacked the ball-dress her husband had ordered for her from a fashionable dressmaker in Posen. She could very well have worn her blue silk again if the rats had not been nibbling it! However, this filmy white gauze, with its long flowing sash and a small bouquet of artificial roses for the bodice and another for the hair, was certainly much prettier; there was an underskirt of silk, too, which rustled and swished every time she moved.

Mrs. Tiralla was dressing in the large sitting-room on the ground floor. The bedroom upstairs was too cold, so Marianna had brought the looking-gla.s.s down and had fixed it up on a table by means of some pieces of wood, and placed two lighted candles in front of it. Mrs.

Tiralla was doing her own hair. The Gradewitz dressmaker would have been asked to do it, as she was also the hairdresser of the neighbourhood, but she had taken offence when she heard that Mrs.

Tiralla had got her ball-dress from Posen.

[Pg 86]

Mrs. Tiralla did not crimp her hair as a rule, but to-day she got a waving-iron, and she and Marianna did it together. The maid was by no means clumsy, although she had such big hands, and she helped her mistress to pile up her wavy hair at the top of her head. But when at last it was ready, Mrs. Tiralla thought it so hideous, that she burst into tears and tore it down with an angry "_Psia krew!_" which made Rosa shrink. The child was crouching in a dark corner of the room with her hands clasped round her knees, gazing with admiration at the beautiful vision in the white embroidered petticoat.

Ugh! how difficult it was to please the mistress this evening; now she wanted this, now that. If Marianna had not consoled herself with the thought that she would soon be mistress of the house for a whole night, she would have cried instead of laughing pleasantly as she was doing now. "Pani must do her hair in her usual way," she said. "That suits Pani best of all."

"She is right," sighed Mrs. Tiralla, as she began once more to comb out her tangled hair, and she tore at it so savagely that at last her silky, black tresses clung to her white temples in big, smooth waves.

Then she twisted the plaits in a huge coil at the nape of her neck; that was the way she had worn her hair in her girlhood, and that suited her best.

"By Jove, you look like a little girl, my love," smirked her husband from his seat, on the bench near the stove, where he was lying as usual in spite of his clean shirt, black coat, and hair covered with pomade.

"Many people will envy me to-night."

She did not answer; she felt annoyed with him. Wasn't it disgraceful of him to lie there in his new, clean clothes, just as though he had his greasy, everyday coat on?

[Pg 87]

"How beautiful, oh, how beautiful," whispered Rosa, who had crept out of her corner and was kneeling before her mother with both hands raised as though worshipping her. Mrs. Tiralla had now put her ball-dress on, and the snowy-white gauze fell round her like a fleecy cloud. She thought herself that she looked beautiful, just like a young girl. Ah!

A slight but burning pain made her tremble. How sad to think that all this beauty was to wither away at her husband's side--always at her husband's side. All at once she was seized with a violent fit of fury, one of those sudden attacks which deprived her for a time of her senses. "Get up," she said to Rosa coldly, as the child gently stroked her dress. "Get up. Why do you do that? You're soiling my dress."

Rosa began to cry.

"Why do you frighten her so?" exclaimed Mr. Tiralla reproachfully; he could not bear to hear his daughter cry. "Come here, my Roschen, my little lady-bird; leave your mother, she's in a bad humour to-day. Come to me, Roschen, my sweetheart, come; take hold of my coat, you won't soil that."

"Yes, go, go!" and the woman dragged her dress so violently away from the clinging hands that a flounce came undone. Then she grew still more furious, for now the dress would have to be sewn. She scolded Rosa in a loud voice, and the child gazed at her with a strange look in her dilated eyes. Could angels scold as well? Alas, she must have done something very bad, must have been a very good-for-nothing girl if the angel scolded her. She crept back into her corner sobbing in a subdued fashion.

"That's right, be angry, it suits you," said Mr. Tiralla, laughing.

Neither of the parents took any more notice of the [Pg 88] child. The father rose from the bench when he heard the crack of Jendrek's whip, as the carriage drove up to the front door. It was late. If they wanted to be there in time they would have to start at once, as it would take quite two hours to drive to Gradewitz to-night with the roads in such a condition.