THE FINGER OF SCORN
It was quite true that the days at the Horst were drab-colored. They seemed to be that even all through the long and brilliant summer, and their darkening could hardly be called perceptible when the northern sun sank from sight for seven slow months. Time appeared to lower over the house with the dumb threat of an approaching thunder-storm. And some people are fretful before a thunder-storm; and some hold their breaths.
The Bois-le-Duc Helmonts were settled at the Home Farm. The tranquil mother had said: Oh yes; she still knew how to milk cows; it would really be rather amusing! And she had spread her fat hands on her ample lap and smiled her good-natured smile. But Theodore had frowned. “Leave the cow-milking,” he had said, bitterly, “to the Baroness Ursula.” As soon as he got away from Ursula he felt that he hated her.
His temper did not improve during the first year of his new occupation. Work as he would—night and day—he could not make up for initial mistakes, nor could he victoriously combat increasing agricultural depression. The dispossessed farm-steward successfully harassed him on every hand. If Otto, the lord of the manor, had made himself unpopular by putting down abuses, what must be the fate of this stranger, with his perky, boyish face? The whole neighborhood, for miles round, was full of people with grievances, some deep down, of Otto’s inflicting, others freshly bleeding under Ursula’s hand. And a low tide of resentment was secretly swelling under smooth water against My Lady Nobody.
Ugly stories began to be told about her, diligently propagated by Meerman, the discarded agent. As if all her administrative sins were not sufficient, accusations had lately cropped up which appealed far more vividly to the popular imagination. Substantial housewives whispered behind her back “Fie! fie!” and young fellows winked to each other, grinning. No one knew whence these stories had suddenly sprung, but everybody had heard them. A patient inquirer might, perhaps, have traced their origin to Klomp’s cottage in the wood.
When they first reached the ear of the village constable that worthy portentously shook his head. It was in the tavern parlor of Horstwyk, where the lesser notables sat nightly, pipe in hand, waiting for each other to speak. The village constable was a great man, chiefly because he managed to keep clear of animosities, and his opinion carried weight. Every man present, leering up at him in the peculiar, deliberate peasant way, felt that he knew more than he deemed it wise to acknowledge, and they all approved his prudence. But nothing could more resistlessly have condemned the Lady of the Manor. The Law—mysterious Weigher of all men in secret balances—knew.
“There’s something written up against her,” they reflected, awe-struck. Juffers, the constable, merely said:
“The Lady Baroness is a very charitable lady. I wish you all good-night.”
He shook his head to himself all the way home, and in passing a particular spot, by a great elm-tree, on the road near the Manor-house, he flashed his dark-lantern across the ground, as if struck by a sudden doubt.
Just then—some two years after Otto’s death—there were plenty of rumors afloat to interest the village cronies. Quite recently lazy, good-for-nothing Pietje Klomp had come to grief, “as everybody had always expected she would,” in the usual “good-for-nothing” manner. Strangely enough, her equally lazy and worthless father had driven her forth from under his roof with unexpected energy—an abundance of oaths and blows—when, confident in his oft-proven affection, she ventured to confess her now hopeless disgrace. After half a night of hail and snow in the wood she had crept back to obtain admittance from the pitiful Mietje, but next morning her inflexible parent had once more turned her adrift. She had watched for an opportunity while he dozed, and then quietly slipped to her accustomed seat. During several days this singular duel had lasted, and ultimately, of course, the woman’s persistence had triumphed. Klomp only ejected the girl when he had to get up, anyhow. As long, therefore, as he remained on his bench by the stove she was safe. And Mietje, tearfully exerting herself, took care to anticipate all her father’s few wishes—for coffee, fuel, last week’s newspaper, et cetera—and to keep him “immobilized” during a great part of the day. He was not unwilling, provided he could scowl at Pietje in the pauses of his almost continuous snore.