Then the priest turned himself about, and said, "Oremus." And she knew him he was her own son her Joseph, named after his dear father.
The Mass began, and proceeded to the "Sursum corda" "Lift up your hearts!" when the celebrant stood facing the congregation with extended arms, and all responded: "We lift them up unto the Lord."
But then, instead of proceeding with the accustomed invocation, he raised his hands high above his head, with the palms towards the congregation, and in a loud, stern voice exclaimed
"Cursed is the unfruitful field!"
"Amen."
"Cursed is the barren tree!"
"Amen."
"Cursed is the empty house!"
"Amen."
"Cursed is the fishless lake!"
"Amen."
"Forasmuch as Anna Arler, born Voss, might have been the mother of countless generations, as the sand of the seashore for number, as the stars of heaven for brightness, of generations unto the end of time, even of all of us now gathered together here, but she would not therefore shall she be alone, with none to comfort her; sick, with none to minister to her; broken in heart, with none to bind up her wounds; feeble, and none to stay her up; dead, and none to pray for her, for she would not she shall have an unforgotten and unforgettable past, and have no future; remorse, but no hope; she shall have tears, but no laughter for she would not. Woe! woe! woe!"
He lowered his hands, and the tapers were extinguished, the celebrant faded as a vision of the night, the server vanished as an incense-cloud, the congregation disappeared, melting into shadows, and then from shadows to nothingness, without stirring from their places, and without a sound.
And Anna, with a scream of despair, flung herself forward with her face on the pavement, and her hands extended.
Two years ago, during the first week in June, an English traveller arrived at Siebenstein and put up at the "Krone," where, as he was tired and hungry, he ordered an early supper. When that was discussed, he strolled forth into the village square, and leaned against the wall of the churchyard. The sun had set in the valley, but the mountain-peaks were still in the glory of its rays, surrounding the place as a golden crown. He lighted a cigar, and, looking into the cemetery, observed there an old woman, bowed over a grave, above which stood a cross, inscribed "Joseph Arler," and she was tending the flowers on it, and laying over the arms of the cross a little wreath of heart's-ease or pansy. She had in her hand a small basket. Presently she rose and walked towards the gate, by which stood the traveller.
As she passed, he said kindly to her: "Grüss Gott, Mütterchen."
She looked steadily at him and replied: "Honoured sir! that which is past may be repented of, but can never be undone!" and went on her way.
He was struck with her face. He had never before seen one so full of boundless sorrow almost of despair.
His eyes followed her as she walked towards the mill-stream, and there she took her place on the wooden bridge that crossed it, leaning over the handrail, and looking down into the water. An impulse of curiosity and of interest led him to follow her at a distance, and he saw her pick a flower, a pansy, out of her basket, and drop it into the current, which caught and carried it forward. Then she took a second, and allowed it to fall into the water. Then, after an interval, a third a fourth; and he counted seven in all. After that she bowed her head on her hands; her grey hair fell over them, and she broke into a paroxysm of weeping.
The traveller, standing by the stream, saw the seven pansies swept down, and one by one pass over the revolving wheel and vanish.
He turned himself about to return to his inn, when, seeing a grave peasant near, he asked: "Who is that poor old woman who seems so broken down with sorrow?"
"That," replied the man, "is the Mother of Pansies."
"The Mother of Pansies!" he repeated.
"Well it is the name she has acquired in the place. Actually, she is called Anna Arler, and is a widow. She was the wife of one Joseph Arler, a jäger, who was shot by smugglers. But that is many, many years ago. She is not right in her head, but she is harmless. When her husband was brought home dead, she insisted on being left alone in the night by him, before he was buried alone, with his coffin. And what happened in that night no one knows. Some affirm that she saw ghosts. I do not know she may have had Thoughts. The French word for these flowers is pensées thoughts and she will have none others. When they are in her garden she collects them, and does as she has done now. When she has none, she goes about to her neighbours and begs them. She comes here every evening and throws in seven just seven, no more and no less and then weeps as one whose heart would split. My wife on one occasion offered her forget-me-nots. 'No,' she said; 'I cannot send forget-me-nots after those who never were, I can send only Pansies.'"
THE RED-HAIRED GIRL
A WIFE'S STORYIn 1876 we took a house in one of the best streets and parts of B . I do not give the name of the street or the number of the house, because the circumstances that occurred in that place were such as to make people nervous, and shy unreasonably so of taking those lodgings, after reading our experiences therein.
We were a small family my husband, a grown-up daughter, and myself; and we had two maids a cook, and the other was house- and parlourmaid in one. We had not been a fortnight in the house before my daughter said to me one morning: "Mamma, I do not like Jane" that was our house-parlourmaid.
"Why so?" I asked. "She seems respectable, and she does her work systematically. I have no fault to find with her, none whatever."
"She may do her work," said Bessie, my daughter, "but I dislike inquisitiveness."
"Inquisitiveness!" I exclaimed. "What do you mean? Has she been looking into your drawers?"
"No, mamma, but she watches me. It is hot weather now, and when I am in my room, occasionally, I leave my door open whilst writing a letter, or doing any little bit of needlework, and then I am almost certain to hear her outside. If I turn sharply round, I see her slipping out of sight. It is most annoying. I really was unaware that I was such an interesting personage as to make it worth anyone's while to spy out my proceedings."
"Nonsense, my dear. You are sure it is Jane?"
"Well I suppose so." There was a slight hesitation in her voice. "If not Jane, who can it be?"
"Are you sure it is not cook?"
"Oh, no, it is not cook; she is busy in the kitchen. I have heard her there, when I have gone outside my room upon the landing, after having caught that girl watching me."
"If you have caught her," said I, "I suppose you spoke to her about the impropriety of her conduct."
"Well, caught is the wrong word. I have not actually caught her at it. Only to-day I distinctly heard her at my door, and I saw her back as she turned to run away, when I went towards her."
"But you followed her, of course?"
"Yes, but I did not find her on the landing when I got outside."
"Where was she, then?"
"I don't know."
"But did you not go and see?"
"She slipped away with astonishing celerity," said Bessie.
"I can take no steps in the matter. If she does it again, speak to her and remonstrate."
"But I never have a chance. She is gone in a moment."
"She cannot get away so quickly as all that."
"Somehow she does."
"And you are sure it is Jane?" again I asked; and again she replied: "If not Jane, who else can it be? There is no one else in the house."