A Sister's Love Part 5

"Right? In what, Klaus?"

"In your a.s.sertion about Anna Maria. She does not love him!"

"Did she say so? Oh, well, it doesn't follow at all that a girl has spoken the truth, if she says she does _not_ love a certain person, does not even like him. I have experienced the contrary a hundred times; those who talk so hide a warm affection under cold words."

"Not this time, Aunt Rose. Anna Maria has definitely refused him!"

The old lady sank, quite overcome, into the nearest chair. "Klaus!

_Est-il possible?_ Has he spoken already, then?"

"Not to her, but to me, aunt. He came about five o'clock this afternoon; Anna Maria was sitting at the window as he rode into the court, and she got up at once and went to her room. Sturmer sent in word to me that he wanted to speak to me alone; and then--truly, Aunt Rose, you do know how to observe--then he said to me that he loved Anna Maria, that he thought his affection was reciprocated, and other things that people usually say on such occasions; he spoke of his age, and said that he would be not only a husband but a father as well to Anna Maria. I a.s.sured him that I had the deepest respect for him, which is quite true, and after about an hour went to Anna Maria to get her answer. Her door was open; she was sitting at her little sewing table by the window, looking out into the garden; she held her New Testament in her hand, but laid it down as I came near her. I thought she had been crying, and turned her face around to me; but her eyes were dry and burning, and her forehead feverishly hot. As I began to speak she turned her head to the window again and sat motionless as a statue. I must have asked her certainly three times: 'Anna Maria, what shall I answer him? Will you do it yourself? Shall I send him to you?' 'No, no!' she cried at length, 'don't send him! I cannot see him; tell him that I--he must not be angry with me--I do not love him! Klaus, I cannot go away from here! Let me stay with you!' And then she sprang up, threw her arms about my neck, and stuck to me like a bur; but her whole frame trembled, and I thought I could feel her hot hands through my coat. After much persuasion, and promising that I would never force her, I got her so far as to sit down quietly at last; but I had to give the poor fellow his answer--and that was no trifling matter!"

"For G.o.d's sake, Klaus, what did Sturmer say?"

"Not one word, aunt; I spared him all I could, but he grew as white as the plaster on the wall. At last he asked: 'Can I speak to Anna Maria?'

I said, 'No,' in accordance with her wish; then he took up his hat and whip, and bade me good-by as heartily as usual, to be sure, but the hand he gave me trembled. Poor fellow! I do pity him!"

"And Anna Maria?"

"I cannot find her, aunt, either in the sitting-room or in her own room."

At the farther end of the Hegewitz garden stood an old, very old linden; the spot was somewhat elevated, and a turfy slope stretched down to the budding privet-hedge which bounded the garden. Under the linden was a sandstone bench, also old and weather beaten, and from here one could look away out on the Mark country, far, far out over cornfields and green meadows, dark pine forests and sandy patches of heath.

There stood Anna Maria, looking toward the meadow on the other side of the road, with its countless fresh mole-hills, and the wet road which ran along beside the quiet little river, on whose banks the willows were already growing yellow. How often of late had she stood here, how often waited till a brown horse's head emerged from among the willows, and then turned quickly and hurried into the house, for he must not see that she was watching for him with all the longing of a warm, first love. And _to-day_? She did not know herself how she had come hither, and she looked blankly away into the mist of the spring evening as if she neither saw the golden rays of the setting sun nor heard the shouting of the village children in the distance. The air was intoxicatingly soft and played gently with the black lace veil which had fallen from Anna Maria's fair hair. She noticed it not. Then she quickly turned her head; the breathing and step of a horse sounded along by the hedge: "Kurt Sturmer!" she whispered, and started to go. But she stopped and saw him come near, saw him ride away in the rosy evening; his eyes were cast downward. How could he know who was looking after him with eyes almost transfixed with burning pain? She stood there motionless, and looked after him; the horse's tread sounded ominously in her ears as he stepped upon the little bridge which united the Dambitz and Hegewitz fields, and she still remained motionless after the willows had hidden the solitary horseman from sight.

Meanwhile the sunset glow had become deep crimson, and faded again; the wind blew harder, and rocked the budding linden-boughs, and bore along with it the sound of a maiden's voice; an old song floated past Anna Maria out into the country:

"I had better have died Than have gained a love.

Ah, would I were not so sad!"

Then she turned and ran along the damp garden path as if pursued; she stood still by the fish-pond, so close to it that the water touched her foot, and looked into the dark mirror. In these Marieken had sought oblivion when she might not have her Gottlieb! Was it really such madness, if one--? And Anna Maria stretched out her arms and sprang into the little decaying boat by the bank.

"Anna Maria! Anna Maria!" called a man's voice just then, through the still garden.

"Klaus!" she murmured, as if awakening; she tried to answer, but no sound came from her lips. With a shudder, she climbed out of the floating boat and turned her steps toward the house.

CHAPTER V.

Spring had come again. Two years had pa.s.sed since that evening. In Butze Manor-house there was a vaulted, out-of-the-way room, which was entered by a low, small door at the end of a dark pa.s.sage; the windows looked out upon the garden. Tall trees forbade entrance to the light, which had to seek admission through an artistic old lattice-work as well. This had been the lumber-room from time immemorial. All sorts of things lay, hung, and stood there, in perfect confusion. Old presses and chests, old spinning-wheels with yellowed ivory decorations, and dark oil portraits on which one could hardly detect the trace of a face; a huge bedstead with heavy gilt k.n.o.bs--a French general had slept on it in the year nine, and the late Herr von Hegewitz had banished the bed to the lumber-room as a desecrated object after that, for it had originally been made to shelter a prince of the royal family for a night. The wings of the gilded eagle who sat so proudly at the top were broken off, and his beak held now only a shred of the crimson curtain, as the last remnant of former splendor. Fine cobwebs reached from one piece of furniture to another, and yellowish dust lay on the floor, a sign that the wood-worm was undisturbed here.

Here Anna Maria stood and looked about her, as if in search of something. She scarcely knew herself just why she had come in here; she had happened to go by, and then it had flashed across her mind that it might be well to give the old lumber-room a breath of fresh spring air, and she had taken the bunch of keys from her belt and come in. The young linden leaves outside let one or two inquisitive sunbeams through the window, and myriads of grains of dust floated up and down in them. It was so quiet in the room, among the antique furniture. Anna Maria was just in the mood for it; she sat down in an arm-chair and leaned her head against the moth-eaten cus.h.i.+on, her eyes half-closed, her hands folded in her lap.

She felt so peaceful; the old furniture seemed to preach to her of the perishable nature of man. Where were all the hands that had made it? the eyes that had delighted in it? She thought how some time her spinning-wheel, too, would stand here, and how many days and hours must pa.s.s before strange hands would bring it here, as superfluous rubbish.

Strange hands! She felt a sudden fear. Strange hands! For centuries Butze had descended in direct line from father to son--and now?

Anna Maria rose quickly and went to the window, as if to frighten away unpleasant thoughts; the soft, mild spring air blew toward her and reminded her of the most unhappy hour of her life, and again she turned and walked quickly through the room. Then her foot struck against something, and she saw the cradle, lightly rocking in front of her--the heavy, gayly painted old cradle in which the Hegewitzes had had their first slumber for more than two hundred years--Klaus too, and she too.

And Anna Maria knelt down and threw her arms about the little rocking cradle, and kissed the glaring painted roses and cherubs, and a few bitter tears flowed from under her lashes, the first that she had shed since that day.

"Why did I, too, have to lie there in the cradle? It might have been so different, so much better," she thought. "Poor thing, you must decay and fall to dust here, and at last irreverent hands will take you and throw you into the fire. Poor Klaus! For my sake!" And almost tenderly she wiped the dust from the arabesques on the back, and shook up the little yellow pillows.

Just then came the sound of a quick, manly step in the pa.s.sage, and before Anna Maria had time to rise, Klaus stood in the open door.

"Do I find you here?" he asked in astonishment, and at first laughing, then more serious, he looked at Anna Maria, who rose and came toward him.

"I wanted to let some fresh air in here, and found our old cradle, Klaus," she said quietly.

"Yes, Anna Maria--but you have been crying," he rejoined.

"Oh, I was only thinking that it was quite unnecessary that the poor thing should have been hunted up again for me!" The bitterness of her heart pressed unconsciously to her lips to-day.

"Anna Maria! What puts such thoughts into your head?" asked Klaus von Hegewitz, in amazement. And drawing his sister to him, he stroked her hair lovingly. "What should I do without you?"

She made a slight convulsive movement, and freed herself from his arms.

"But, listen, sister," he continued, "I know whence such feelings come.

You must become low-spirited in this old nest; you have no companions of your own age, you withdraw more and more from every youthful pleasure, and, although you think you can do without these things, you will have to pay for it some day."

Anna Maria shook her head.

"Yes, yes!" he continued, stepping in front of the window, and his tall figure obstructed the sunlight so that the room grew dark all at once.

"I have seen more of life, I know it. What should you think, Anna Maria, if you--" He paused and drew a letter from his pocket. "I had better read the letter to you. I was just looking for you, to talk with you about it. Professor Mattoni is dead!"

Anna Maria looked over to him sympathetically. Klaus had turned around and was looking out of the window; the paper in his hand shook slightly.

She knew how deeply the news of this death touched him. Professor Mattoni had been his tutor, had lived in Butze for years, and the pleasantest memories of his boyhood were connected with this man. As a youth he had had in him a truly fatherly friend and adviser, and had since visited him every year, in Berlin, where he held a position as professor in the E---- Inst.i.tute.

Anna Maria took her brother's hand and pressed it silently. "Yet one true friend less," she then said; "we shall soon be quite alone, Klaus!"

"He was more than a friend to me, Anna Maria," he replied gently, "he was a father to me."

She nodded; she knew it well. "And the letter?" she asked.

"A last request, almost illegible; he wishes that I should take charge of his little daughter, till she--so he writes--till she is independent enough to take up the battle of life."

"His little daughter?" asked Anna Maria. "Had he still so young a child?"

"I am sorry to say," said Klaus, "that I know nothing at all of his family affairs. He married late in life, and probably had every reason for not presenting his better half: some said he picked her up somewhere in Hungary; others, that she had been a chorus singer in one of the inferior theatres in Berlin. I never spoke to him about it, and when I went to his house I saw in his study no indications that any female being presided there. I have never noticed anything on my frequent visits to show that such a person lived with Mattoni, and remember just once that while we were having a pleasant hour's chat, a child's cry came from the next room, whereupon he got up and knocked emphatically on the door. The screaming child was probably carried to a back room, for it grew still next door, and we talked on. Then I once heard that his wife was dead; I have never seen any outward tokens of affliction on him, but the child seems to be alive."

"And now, Klaus?"

The tall man had turned, and was looking absently at the little wooden cradle.

"And now, Anna Maria? I owe him so much"--he spoke almost imploringly--"may I impose such a burden upon you?"