and overcome them? For the time being her lot seemed to be cast inevitably in this most unkindly spot. It was intolerable. It was inconceivable that it should be right for her to remain in such a situation long. There would be some way out of it surely. But for the moment, the day at least, until a way opened, she must be brave. She must be worthy of having had her life saved in such a remarkable way. Surely the good God had saved her for some little purpose. It might be only that it was going to be good for her to pass through this unpleasant experience. Whatever it was, she would hold herself to win out if courage and faithfulness could do it. Perhaps the way to get away was to work hard and win the favor of these strange, disagreeable people. If they were human they must have a kinder side to them somewhere if she could only find it. Except, perhaps, that loutish son! Oh, how could she abide another day under the same roof with him? But even he might perhaps be avoided. She would do her best.
So she tried to cheer herself and scrubbed with a right good will till her young back ached and her arms, all unaccustomed to such violent exercise, began to tremble. Still, white with weariness and faint for lack of food, because she had been too excited to eat, she slaved on through the afternoon work; over the hot stove, cooking the supper which she was too fatigued again to eat; thankful only that she was allowed to remain in the kitchen and cook rather than to serve at the table with those awful men. She came at last to the time when, the dishes done, she might hang up her dish towels and creep up the stairs to her room. One horror she had been spared tonight. Sylvester had taken himself off after supper, and she had not been bothered by his attentions. Heinrich, of the gray stubbly hair, had established himself ominously in the kitchen doorway and barred all approaches of any of the men. She disliked him with all her heart, but she could not but be grateful to him whatever his motive might be.
She had asked for a. candle and was given a small bit grudgingly. With this flickering uncertain light, she tried to write to her mother and uncle, but before she had half finished her mother's letter the candle flickered down to the socket and went out, and her aching back and arms cried out for rest. Sleep was heavy on her eyelids, too, and she knew she had not written what she meant. Besides, it was hard, now she was at it, to tell her mother what kind of a place she was in. Supposing there was no way out. Supposing she must stay here awhile. There was no need to make her mother anxious. She had enough trouble already. No, she must write to her uncle.
She groped to her window sill and with only the starlight to guide her, she scrawled a few lines to her uncle, slipped them in an envelope, sealed, addressed and stamped it, and laid it ready for mailing in the morning. Then she went to her bed.
Sleep was her master now, and she had no chance for the heavy problems she had meant to think out on her pillow. She sank at once into a deep, exhausted slumber that seemed to end almost at once with the sharp voice of her mistress in her ear and the merciless grip of duty on her tired young shoulder. She woke with the consciousness of the inevitable that had her in its power. She had heard of Prussianism, but she did not know that she was beginning to experience it.
When she went down in the morning she took her letters and asked Mrs. Schwarz how she should mail them. She was told to lay them on the table and “he” would see to them. Hilda had a. feeling that they had fallen into an abyss, as from the distance of the kitchen she saw her letters swept up in the elder Schwarz's big gnarled fist. Instinctively, she felt they might never reach their destination. Surely not until they had passed the censorship of this household tyrant. She spent the day trying to devise a means by which she might mail her own letters, or at least send a telegram. She was beginning to feel virtually a prisoner on this farm.
Yet there was little time to think. She was driven from one duty to another, and the sudden violent plunge into unwonted labor had made her so stiff and sore in every joint that she could scarcely move without pain.
Three age-long days and three more nights, all too short for resting, passed, with only the sound of the friendly freight whistle to mark the daylight, and the rumble of the midnight freight through her dreams for comfort. The fourth night she cried herself to sleep once more, because the expected letter from Uncle Otto had failed to appear. The day had been so tortuous with its drudgery, so bleak in its monotony, the future seemed so impossible, so interminable, like eternity in hell. Then, suddenly, some time after midnight, she awoke with a strange insistent whirring approaching in the air through the night. It seemed to be coming on straight through the house, like some terrible destroying animal that nothing could stay, and the sound of it was like no sound that she had ever heard before. Nearer and nearer it drew, and she sprang from her bed softly and crept to her window. She could hear stealthy, sudden noises in the house, as if some other sleeper had also been aroused by the sound.
The moon was larger now, and very low. The stars were clear and there was a soft radiance over everything that made the plowed fields look like sonic hallowed spot. Up in the sky, not far away, from where the monster noise was coming, she saw a dark cloud-like bird of enormous proportions curve and settle and disappear somewhere in the shadows of the meadow behind the barn and the noise died away slowly into the night. Hilda rubbed her eyes and wondered if she had been dreaming.
Then out from the back of the house there passed like a wraith the form of a man and kept moving on, a shadowy speck, down the path through the cabbage patch, past the lettuce and turnips, past the barn, between the rows of tomato plants, on into the meadow. After he had disappeared, Hilda wondered if she had really seen him at all, and, shivering, crept back to bed and lay, alert, listening, with every muscle tense and every sense keen. Sometimes she thought she heard distant voices. She did not know what she thought. Her heart was beating somewhere up in her throat, and her head was aching in great hot and cold waves. It seemed as though she must keep calm and take deep breaths, or she would go out in the tenseness of the moment.
CHAPTER III
It was a long time she lay so, with the crooning of the frogs in the distance down by the railroad, croaking away as if nothing had happened. She had almost fallen asleep, and the beating in her throat was slowly quieting down, when the voices came again, distantly, quietly, but growing nearer, she slipped from her bed and crept once more to the window. Soft, padded steps were coming and sibilant utterances in German. They drew nearer until they were directly under her window. She kept quite still and held her breath now, and the tenseness of the strain hurt her chest, but she was not thinking of herself.
“You are quite sure we can talk here unheard?” a strange voice was saying in cultured German.
The grunt of assent in response was unquestionably from the elder Schwarz.
“Whose is that window up there? It is open.”
“It is only that child they have sent down to helb in the kidgen. She does nod understand German. You are safe.”
“Don’t be too sure. It does not take long to learn a few words.”
“She iss much too stupid to learn. I don’t know whad Otto Lessing means sending her here, unless he wants to ged rid of her. She iss no good to vork. You need nod pe afraid. She iss sound asleeb. Und, anyvay, she vould nod know vat you mean even if she onderstand the German. She is a child of that foolish brudder of Otto Lessing, who married an American voman. She is a sigley little thing. Can't stand nothing!”
“It is not wise to be too sure about anyone. I never trusted that Heinrich you think so much of. One cannot be too guarded. Remember, the Father-land is depending on you. A great deal hangs on your success or failure here. There must be nothing done that would cast the slightest breath of suspicion this way. This is one of the most important stations. When France and England are subdued —and the day is not far off—all must be in readiness
