A few miles out of Hauptberg, Eberhard, driving a strong grey farmhorse in a farmcart, turned from a wood track into the highway. No one was near, only distant folk and beasts might be seen upon the road. Thekla climbed to his side, and the steady grey horse drew them on. To those who knew them not they might seem a prospering peasant and his wife.
They drove many miles through the soft, bloomy weather. Here was their present goal—a farmhouse known to Thekla, the place where she stayed when at long, long intervals she came to see Elsa in the Convent of the Vale. From the hill behind the house might be seen the roofs of Elsa’s prison.... To Elsa it had not always been prison; to many therein it did not now seem prison; to very many in the near past and the far past it had stood as true refuge and haven of safety; to a few its meaning had been high opportunity, fair self-fulfilment. It had had part, and no ignoble part, in the movement of all things. But now to the inner need of many an one, it was grown a manacle for the spirit’s wrists, a bandage for the eyes, an unwholesome draught for the lips, a shell and casing straight and deadening. It stifled the life that once it had served.
The farmhouse where now the two alighted from the cart was one in which Thekla and Elsa had played as children. The grey-headed man who met them in the yard was a kinsman of their mother’s, the middle-aged man who would not return till evening from the fields, the middle-aged woman who stood in the door, were of those who presently would be called “Lutheran.” Thekla was at home here; they took Eberhard simply, as her helper in a piece of business of which they had knowledge. The grey-headed man showed him where to put the grey horse and the cart; he came presently into a bare, clean room where the women were placing upon a deal table bread and meat and ale. He and Thekla sat down and ate and drank, and in at the open window came all the songs and scents of spring.
The shadows grew long, the sun went down, a full moon rose behind the hills. The frog choir was in the meadows, a nightbird cried from the wood. Thekla and Eberhard were walking through a forest, following a stream that flowed by convent lands. Huge boughs stretched above their heads, the moon came through the forest windows, the clear stream sang. Then they came to a bare hill and mounted it. On the top they paused, and, looking down, saw the Convent of the Vale.
It became deep night.... With hearts that trembled, that stood still, that drew courage and met the emergency, two nuns of the Vale stole from cells, through corridors, by many doors, by blank walls. They reached a door seldom used, in a part of the vast building from which the life of the place had withdrawn. There were bars across; these they withdrew softly, softly. Here was the heavy lock. Elsa had the key, obtained after long, patient planning, obtained with a still daring. She kneeled, inserted the key,—it turned with groaning sound. The two waited, so breathless and unmoving that they seemed figures of wax resting there against wall and door. But the convent slept, or, waking, did not hear. Elsa drew open the door. They went out, they closed it behind them; they made way through the convent garden.
Here was the wall, high, but with huge ivy twists covering it to the top. They found the stoutest of these;—helping each the other, they mounted, they crept across the broad coping, where the ivy was not let to come. They looked over, down into darkness, they made courage their servant, they gripped the edge with both hands, they lowered themselves, they dropped upon the earth beneath. Mother Earth was kind, they took no hurt.... There were yet to pass neighbouring low houses of peasants, bound to the soil and convent service. But the night was at its depth and all life seemed charmed to keep its place.
A clear stream slipped through the vale. Upon one side lay the convent land, upon the other the world beyond its dominion. A narrow bridge gave crossing. Elsa and her fellow crossed the stream and were immediately under huge trees. Thekla spoke from where she stood beneath an oak. “Elsa....”
Thekla, Eberhard, Elsa and Clara hastened through the night. The old wood stood still about them, they had glimpses of stars like hanging fruit, balm drew its mantle around. They went fast and went far, and ere the cock crew were at that farmhouse. Here was food prepared, and peasant dresses for Elsa and Clara. In a room in which the dawn was coming, Elsa, this dress upon her, took up the nun’s garb, fallen at her feet. She looked at Thekla over it, Thekla looked at her. They were both moved, they had a great tenderness in their faces. “Now we will put it in the fire,” said Elsa. “It has meant some terrible things, and it has meant some lovely things, and it will go away in lovely flame, and when I remember the terrible I will also remember the lovely, as is just.”
“Yes,” said Thekla. “Here is the fire kindled.”
Elsa and Clara came out of the house, like peasant women. Behind them Margaret, Hans’s wife, made haste to make the house as though none but the usual dwellers had stepped therein, or yesterday or to-day. Without, in the pink dawn light, waited the horse and cart and Eberhard in the carter’s seat. And here were Hans and old Fritz and Michael, son of Fritz, with their own cart and cart-horse ready to overtread and confuse within and without the farmyard the marks of the Hauptberg travellers. Thekla, Elsa, and Clara climbed into the cart. Thekla sat beside Eberhard, Elsa and Clara sat upon straw, among baskets, wide peasant hats shading their faces. The light was not yet clear; they were forth upon the highroad, going toward Hauptberg before the growing travel took note of them. And then the travel saw only prosperous peasant-folk going to town to market. And so at last they came to Hauptberg.