XI
Since that first night in the dunes with Windekind, Johannes had slept many a time in the open air, and he did not see why he should not now do so. He would lie down under the wagon, upon some hay. He was tired, and so would sleep well.
But sleep did not come to him very promptly. Adventures in the world of people proved to be even more exciting than those in Windekind’s land of elves. He was full of the important and unusual situation in which he was placed; the strange human life that surrounded him claimed his attention. Above him, feet were shuffling over the wagon floor, and he could see the people crawling around one another inside the warm, dirty wagons. He was obliged to listen to the talking, singing, laughing and quarreling that frequently broke out here and there. A solitary ocarina continued to whistle awhile; then all was still.
It grew cold. He had with him only a thin cloak of Aunt Seréna’s; and, as a horse-blanket could not be spared, he found a couple of empty oat-bags; but they were too short.
When all were asleep, and he was still lying awake, shivering, his spirits already inclined to droop, he heard the door of the wagon open. A voice called him, in a whisper. Johannes scrambled out into sight, and recognized Marjon’s dark sister.
“Why don’t you come in here, Kiddie?” she asked.
The truth was that Johannes, above all else, feared the closeness and the fleas. But he would not offer these insulting reasons, so he replied—intending to be very courteous and praiseworthy: “But that would not do for me—to be with you!”
Now, formality is not a very strong point in a house-wagon. In the very stateliest, a curtain does indeed sometimes define two sleeping-rooms at night, thus denoting regard for the proprieties. But in most cases the custom is to do as do the birds which change their suits but once a year, and not too much, at that; and as do the mice which also have no separate bedrooms.
“Aw! Come, Boy! You’re silly. Just come on! It’s all right.”
And when Johannes, perplexed and very bashful, hesitated, he felt a fat, heavy arm around his neck, and a soft, broad, cold mouth upon his cheek.
“Come on, Youngster! Don’t be afraid. Surely you are not so green! Hey? It’s time for me to make you wiser.”
Now there was nothing Johannes had learned more to value than wisdom, and he never willingly neglected a chance of becoming wiser. But this time there came to him a very clear idea of the existence of an undesirable wisdom.
He had no time to deliberate over this wonderful discovery; for, happily, there came to the help of his immature thoughts a very strong feeling of aversion, so that for once he knew betimes what he ought to do.
He said loudly, and firmly: “I will not! I rest better here.” And he crept back under the wagon. The swarthy jade appeared not to like that, for she uttered an oath as she turned away, and said: “Clear out, then!” Johannes did not take it greatly to heart, although it did appear to him unfair. He slept, however, no more than before; and the sensation of the recent touches, and the wretched odor of poor perfumery which the woman had brought with her, remained with him, to his distress.
As soon as it began to grow light, the door of the wagon was again opened. Johannes, surprised, looked up. Marjon came softly out in her bare feet, with an old purple shawl thrown over her thin little shoulders. She went up to Johannes and sat down on the ground beside him.
“What did she do?” she asked, in a whisper.
“Who?” asked Johannes, in return. But that was from embarrassment, for he well knew whom she meant.
“Now, you know well enough. Did you think I was sleeping? Did she give you a kiss?”
Johannes nodded.
“Where? On your mouth?”
“No. On my cheek.”
“Thank God!” said Marjon. “You will not let her do it again? She is a common thing!”
“I could not help it,” said Johannes.
Marjon looked at him thoughtfully a few moments, with her clear, light grey eyes.
“Do you dare steal?” she asked then, abruptly.
“No,” said Johannes. “I dare to, but it’s wrong.”
“Indeed it isn’t!” said Marjon, very emphatically. “Indeed, it is not! It’s only a question of who from. Stealing from one another is mean, but from the public is allowable. I must not steal from that woman any more than from Lorum. But you may steal from the huzzy, if you only dared.”
“Then can you steal from me, too?” asked Johannes. Marjon looked at him in sudden surprise, and gave a pretty laugh, showing her white, even teeth.
“A while ago I could, but not now. Now you belong to me. But that woman has a lot of money and you have not.”
“I have some money, too—fifty guldens. Aunt Seréna gave it to me.”
Marjon drew in the air with her lips as if sipping something delicious. Her pale face shone with pleasure.
“Five little golden Teners! Is it truly so? But, Johannes, then we are well off! We’ll have a good time with them. Shan’t we?”
“To be sure,” assented Johannes, recovering himself. “But I want to find Markus.”
“That’s good,” said Marjon. “That’s the best thing to do. We’ll both go looking for him.”
“Right away?” asked Johannes.
“No, you stupid! We should be nabbed in no time. We’ll start in the evening. Then, during the night, we can get a good way off. I’ll give you the signal.”
It was morning—clear and cool, yet growing warmer with the early August sunshine. Everywhere over the dark heather the dew-covered cobwebs were shining like clusters of sparkling stars. The fires of the foregoing evening were still smouldering in the camp; and there was a smell of wood coals and of honey.
Johannes was well pleased. There was a glowing little flame also within himself. He felt that it was good to be alive, and a joy to strive. It was a long, strange day, but he was patient and happy in the thought of fleeing with Marjon. The dark woman was friendly toward him again. He was helping her in the circus the entire day, and had no chance to speak with Marjon. But now and then they gave each other a look full of complete understanding. That was delightful! Never before in his every-day life had Johannes experienced anything so delightful.
That evening there was an exhibition, and Marjon performed her tricks. Johannes felt very proud and important because he belonged to the troupe, and was looked upon by the public as an athlete or an equestrian. He might stand, in topboots and with a whip, at the entrance to the stall, but he must not perform a single trick, nor once crack his whip.
When it was good and dark, and everybody was asleep again, Marjon came to summon him. He could scarcely distinguish her figure; but he knew by a soft, grunting sound, that she carried Kees, her monkey, on her arm. She thrust her guitar into Johannes’ hand, and said in a low tone: “Move on, now!”
They set out hastily and in silence, Marjon taking the lead. First they went by the highway; then they took a footpath along the river; and then, at a ferry, they softly unfastened a small boat, and pushed out into the current.
“Keep your wits about you, Jo, and be on the lookout!”
“We shall be overtaken,” said Johannes, not quite at his ease.
“Are you afraid?”
“No, not afraid,” said Johannes, although the truth was that he was trying not to be; “but where are we going to bring up? And how can we keep out of the way if a boat should come along? We have no oars!”
“I wish a boat would come. Then we’d go on with it.”
“Where do you want to go, Marjon?”
“Well, over the frontier, of course. Otherwise they’ll catch us.
“But Markus!”
“We’ll find him, by and by—only come on now.”
In silence the two children drifted out over the still, black water, which here and there bubbled past a floating log, or a barrel. Everything was mysterious. It was pitch dark, and there was no wind. The reeds, even, scarcely sighed. Keesje whined, complainingly, not liking the cold.
“But who is Markus, Marjon? Do you know?”
“You must not ask that, Jo. You must trust him. I do.”
Then they heard a dull, fitfully throbbing sound that slowly drew nearer from the distance, and Johannes saw red and white lanterns ahead of them.
“A steamboat!” he cried. “What are we going to do now?”
“Sing!” said Marjon, without a moment’s hesitation.
The boat came very gradually, and Johannes saw in the rear of her a long file of little lights, like a train of twinkling stars. It was a steam-tug with a heavy draught of Rhine-boats. It seemed to be panting and toiling with its burden, against the powerful current.
They stayed a boat’s length away from the tug, but its long, unwieldy train—swinging out in a great curve at the rear—came nearer and nearer.
Marjon took her guitar and began to sing, and suddenly, with the sound of lapping water and throbbing engines, the music was ringing out in the still night—exquisite and clear. She sang a well-known German air, but with the following words:
“Tho’ on dark depths of waters
I fear not and am strong,
For I know who will guard me
And guide me all life long.”
“Are you tipsy, there, or tired of life? What do you put yourself across the channel for—and without a light?” rang out over the water from one of the vessels.
“Help! Throw a line!” cried Marjon.
“Help! help!” cried Johannes, after her.
Then a rope came wabbling across their oarless craft. By good luck Johannes caught it, and pulled himself, hand over hand, up to the vessel. The helmsman, standing beside the great, high-arched rudder, looked overboard, with a lantern in his hand.
“What wedding do you hail from?”
Johannes and Marjon climbed into the boat and Marjon pushed off their own little shallop.
“Two boys!” exclaimed the helmsman.
“And a monkey!” subjoined Marjon.
Johannes looked round at her. By the light of the lantern he saw a little figure that he hardly recognized—a slip of a boy wearing a cap on his closely cropped head. She had sacrificed for the flight her silky blonde hair. Keesje’s head was sticking up out of her jacket, and he was blinking briskly in the glare of the lantern.
“Oh, that’s it! Fair-folk!” grumbled the skipper. “What’s to become of that boat?”
“It knows the way home!” said Marjon.