The meeting had almost faded out of her recollection, and now it awoke clear and distinct as a picture from out of her past dreamed life. Amrie said, indeed, aloud to herself, “Who knows whether she also does not suddenly, she cannot say why, think of me; and perhaps now, just at this minute, for there in that spot, she promised that she would be my protector whenever I went to her. There by the willow-trees she promised. Why do the trees remain standing so that we may always see them, and why not also a word, like a tree, that stands firm so that we can hold by it, and why not by a word? Yes, it comes only from this, that they WILL; a word would be as good as a tree, and what an honorable woman said must be as firm and as true. She also wept, because she had left her home. But it was long before, that she was married from this village, and now has children. One is called John.”
Amrie stood by the mountain-ash tree, and laid her hand upon its stem and said,—
“Thou! why then dost thou not go forth? Why do not men call upon thee to wander away? Perhaps it would be better for thee in another place? But thou didst not place thyself here. Who knows whether thou didst not come from another place. Stupid stuff! Yes, if he were my father I must go with him. He would not ask me. He who asks much, goes often wrong. Nobody can advise me—not even Mariann, and with our uncle it will be thus. If he does thee good, thou must pay him again. If he should be severe to me, and against Dami (because Dami is not sensible), after we have gone with him—where should we turn in that wild strange world? Here every man knows us. Every hedge, every tree, has a well-known face. Ah, ha! thou knowest me,” she said again looking up at the tree. “Oh, if thou couldst only speak! Thou wert created by God! Oh, why canst thou not speak? Thou hast known my father and my mother so well—why canst thou not tell me what they would advise? Oh, dear father! Oh, dear mother! to me it is so sad that I should go away—yet I have nothing here, and no one to care for me, and yet it would be as though I must get out of a warm bed, into the cold snow. Is that, which makes me so sorry to go, a sign that I should not go? Is it a right conscience, or is it only a foolish anxiety? Oh, dear Heaven! I know not. Oh, if only a voice from Heaven would come and tell me.”
The child trembled like a leaf, from the deepest anxiety; and from this conflict of life, which now made its voice heard within her. Again she half spoke, half thought—but now more resolved.
“If I were alone I know certainly that I would not go. I would remain here. It is too hard to go; and I could, if alone, take care of myself. Ah, let me remember that! With myself I am perfectly agreed. I am one! Yes, but what a foolish thought. How can I think I am one—alone—without Dami! I am not alone. Dami belongs to me and I to him. For Dami were it better,—better for him if he were under a father who would tell him, and teach him what is right. But canst thou not care for him thyself, when it is necessary? I see plainly that if he were once at home there, he would remain there his life long, and be nothing but a servant, a dog for strange people to kick. Who knows how the children of the uncle would treat us? As they are poor people themselves, would they not play the master towards us? No, no, they are certainly good, and it would be beautiful if they would say, ‘Good-morning cousin,’ or ‘good-day, aunt.’ If our uncle had only brought one of the children with him, then I could have understood it all much better, and spoken much easier. Oh, dear! How is it all at once so difficult?”
Amrie sat down at the foot of the tree. A chaffinch came tripping about, picked up a little seed here and there, looked around, and then flew away. She felt something creeping over her face. She swept it off with her hand. It was a little winged beetle. She suffered it to creep around upon her hand, between the mountains and valleys of her fingers, till it came upon the point of her finger, and flew away. “Perhaps he would tell thee where he has been,” thought Amrie. “Ah, it is well with such a little animal, wherever he flies, he is at home. And, listen! how the larks sing. It is well with them also; they need not think what they must say, and what they have to do. There drives the butcher, with his dog, a calf, out of the village. The butcher’s dog has a very different voice from the lark, but, indeed, they could not drive a calf with the song of the lark.”
“Where are you going with the foal?” cried Mathew, out of his window, to a young fellow who had a beautiful foal by a halter. “Farmer Rodel has sold it,” sounded the answer, and soon they heard the foal neigh in the valley beneath.
Amrie, as she heard this, must again think. “Yes, an animal is sold away from its mother, and the mother scarcely knows it, or who has taken it away. But they cannot sell a man; for him there is no halter. There comes Farmer Rodel with his horses, and the great foal springs after his mother. A man is not sold; he belongs to himself alone. An animal receives for his work no other reward than eating and drinking, and needs, indeed, nothing else; but a man gains money as a reward for his work. Ah, yes! I can be a servant, and from my wages I can have Dami taught, and he can be a mason. But if we were with our uncle, Dami would be no longer mine as he is now. Listen! the starlings are flying home—there, above, in the house father set up for them, and they sing gayly. Father made the house out of old boards. I know now what he said, ‘that a starling would not fly into a house made of new boards.’ So it is with me!—Thou, tree, now I know! If thou shouldst rustle while I am sitting here by thee, I will remain here.”
Amrie listened breathless. Soon it seemed as though the tree rustled. She looked up at the branches, but they were motionless. She could not tell what she heard. A noisy cackling was heard on all sides; it came nearer, preceded by a cloud of dust. It was the flocks of geese driven home from the Holden Meadows. While the noise lasted, Amrie looked after them.
Her eyes closed. She was slumbering. A whole spring of flowers opened within this soul, with the blossoming trees in the valley that absorbed the cooling night dew, sending their perfume over to the child, who was sleeping upon the hearth of the home she could not leave.