The courtyard was busier than usual at this time of the morning, when she went to the stable for the milking. Excited little groups stood at the doors, and a groom or two were running up and down anxiously between the carriages, as if the threatened storm were already bursting over their heads.
She was on the point of entering the cow-shed, where the straining-tubs were already rattling, when a suddenly born sense of shame prevented her. Would it not look as if she, in her unbidden zeal, were pushing herself before him? But she suppressed the feeling as weakness. People must do their duty without looking to right or left.
The milkmaids' work was in full swing. The white streaks of milk shot with a hissing sound into the tilted pails. She walked down the line, and found that there was nothing for her to do. No one turned to look at her. It had always been her wish that no one should interrupt their work to bid her good morning.
To-day her inactivity made her feel somehow excessively foolish. If only some one would have beaten her cow so that she might thunder a rebuke, it would have been a relief. But all went on greased wheels; the udders were sprinkled with tepid water, the milking hands shone with cleanliness. Fortunately, a red brindle would not stand still, and stamped with its hind hoof at the pail. She fetched quickly a little bag of sand kept for the purpose, and laid on the restless animal's back. As she did so, she looked nervously in the direction of the stable door. Suppose he was to come in now, she would be ready to sink into the earth. "Who are you?" he might ask. "The Mamselle?" "No; I am ... so and so." "And what brings you here?" he would ask further. "Is this fit work for Countess Prachwitz?" In short, it would be altogether dreadful.
It seemed to her that a pretty Dutch cow with a clever deer-like head, that was one of her favourites, was seriously distended. She thought that while in the meadow it must have been allowed to graze on a patch of poisonous clover. She called the cowherd, reproved him, and charged him to keep his eye on the animal for the rest of the day. If necessary, he was to send for help, in order that the throat-syringe might be inserted.
While the white foamy steaming contents of the first pails were being poured into the milk-strainers, a voice suddenly was heard outside, the resonant tone of which made her blood freeze in her veins.
It was he! Since midnight that voice had rung in her ears, but the laugh which had given it a cheery sound then was absent from it now. It was he! In another moment, perhaps, he would be standing in the stable doorway.
She waited, clinging to a post and setting her teeth. But he did not come. He ordered a horse to be brought out, and his words of fault-finding and command darted hither and thither like lightning-flashes.
The milkmaids, too, heard the master's voice. Some knew it, and those who didn't could not be in a moment's doubt as to whom it belonged. They nudged each other with their elbows, and their faces expressed alarm.
When Hertha heard the sound of horse's feet dying away beneath the courtyard gateway, she ventured to look out at the door. Of him she could not see much, but he was riding on her white mare. On her mare! What joy!