Part 35 (1/2)

”Dying!” repeated the child, and seemed to have fallen, into a confused pondering.

But the old woman moved her lips once more: ”Jens! Jens!” her screams broke out, like cries in danger, and her long arms were stretched out against the glittering reflection of the sea; ”Help me! Help me! You are in the water---- G.o.d have mercy on the others!”

Her arms sank down, a low creaking of the bedstead could be heard; she had ceased to live.

The child drew a deep breath and lifted her pale eyes to her father's.

”Is she still dying?” she asked.

”She has done it!” said the dikemaster, and took his child in his arms.

”Now she is far from us with G.o.d.”

”With G.o.d!” repeated the child and was silent for a while, as if she had to think about these words. ”Is that good--with G.o.d?”

”Yes, that is the best.” In Hauke's heart, however, the last words of the dying woman resounded heavily. ”G.o.d have mercy on the others!” a low voice said within him. ”What did the old hag mean? Are the dying prophets--?”

Soon after Trin Jans had been buried by the church, there was more and more talk about all kinds of mischief and strange vermin that had frightened the people in North Frisia, and there was no doubt that on mid-Lent Sunday the golden c.o.c.k was thrown down by a whirlwind. It was true, too, that in midsummer a great cloud of vermin fell down, like snow, from the sky, so that one could scarcely open one's eyes, and afterwards it lay on the fens in a layer as high as a hand, and no one had ever seen anything like it. But at the end of September, after the hired man had driven to the city market with grain and the maid Ann Grethe with b.u.t.ter, they both climbed down, when they came home, with faces pale from fright. ”What's the matter? What's the matter with you?” cried the other maids, who had come running out when they heard the wagon roll up.

Ann Grethe in her travelling clothes stepped breathless into the s.p.a.cious kitchen. ”Well, tell us,” cried the maids again, ”what has happened?”

”Oh, our Lord Jesus protect us!” cried Ann Grethe. ”You know, old Marike of the brickworks from over there across the water--we always stand together with our b.u.t.ter by the drugstore at the corner--she told me, and Iven Johns said too--'There's going to be a calamity!' he said; 'a calamity for all North Frisia; believe me, Ann Grethe!' And”--she m.u.f.fled her voice--”maybe there's something wrong after all about the dikemaster's white horse!”

”s.h.!.+ s.h.!.+” replied the other maids.

”Oh, yes, what do I care! But over there, on the other side, it's even worse than ours. Not only flies and vermin, but blood has poured down from the sky like rain. And the Sunday morning after that, when the pastor went to his washbowl, he found five death's heads in it, as big as peas, and everybody came to look at them. In the month of August horrible red-headed caterpillars crawled all over the land and devoured what they found, grain and flour and bread, and no fire could kill them off.”

The talker broke off suddenly; none of the maids had noticed that the mistress of the house had stepped into the kitchen. ”What are you talking about there?” she said. ”Don't let your master hear that!” And as they all wanted to tell about it now, she stopped them. ”Never mind; I heard enough; go to your work; that will bring you better blessings.”

Then she took Ann Grethe with her into the room and settled the accounts of the market business.

Thus the superst.i.tious talk in the house of the dikemaster found no reception from its master and mistress. But it spread into the other houses, and the longer the evenings grew, the more easily it found its way in. Something like sultry air weighed on all, and it was secretly said that a calamity, a serious one, would come over North Frisia.

It was All Saints' Day, in October. During the day a southwest wind had raged; at night a half moon was in the sky, dark brown clouds chased by it, and shadows and dim light flitted over the earth in confusion. The storm was growing. In the room of the dikemaster's house stood the cleared supper table, the hired men were sent to the stables to look after the cattle; the maids had to see if the doors and shutters were closed everywhere in the house and attic, so that the storm would not blow in and do harm. Inside stood Hauke beside his wife at the window, after he had hurriedly eaten his supper. He had been outside on the dike. On foot he had marched out, early in the afternoon. Pointed posts and bags full of clay or earth he had had brought to the place where the dike seemed to betray a weakness. Everywhere he had engaged people to ram in the posts and make a dam of them and the bags, as soon as the flood began to damage the dike; at the northwestern corner, where the old and the new dike met, he had placed the most people, who were allowed to leave their appointed posts only in case of need. These orders he had left when, scarcely a quarter of an hour ago, he had come home wet and dishevelled, and now, as he listened to the gusts of wind that made the windows rattle in their leaden cas.e.m.e.nts, he gazed absently out into the wild night. The clock on the wall was just striking eight. The child that stood beside her mother, started and buried her head in her mother's clothes. ”Claus!” she exclaimed crying, ”where's my Claus?”

She had a right to ask, for this year, as well as the year before, the gull had not gone on its winter journey. Her father overheard the question; her mother took the child on her arm. ”Your Claus is in the barn,” she said; ”there he is warm.”

”Why?” said Wienke, ”is that good?”

”Yes, that is good.”

The master of the house was still standing by the window.

”This won't do any longer, Elke!” he said; ”call one of the maids; the storm will break through the window-panes--the shutters have to be fastened!”

At the word of the mistress, the maid had rushed out; from the room one could see how her skirts were flying. But when she had loosened the hooks, the storm tore the shutter out of her hand and threw it against the window, so that several panes flew splintered into the room and one of the candles went out, smoking. Hauke had to go out himself to help, and only with trouble did they gradually get the shutters fastened in front of the windows. As they opened the door to step back into the house a gust blew after them so that the gla.s.s and silver in the sideboard rattled; and upstairs, over their heads the beams trembled and creaked, as if the storm wanted to tear the roof from the walls.

But Hauke did not come back into the room; Elke heard him walk across the thres.h.i.+ng floor to the stable. ”The white horse! The white horse, John! Quick!” she heard him call. Then he came back into the room with his hair dishevelled, but his gray eyes beaming. ”The wind has turned!”

he cried, ”to the northwest; at half spring tide! Not a wind--we have never lived through a storm like this!”

Elke had turned deadly pale. ”And you want to go out once more?”

He seized both her hands and pressed them almost convulsively. ”I have to, Elke.”