Major.
Agnes, my child, just listen to me ... You are a reasonable creature
... One that I can talk to.... So the rascal has again not written.
He should have come to us, day before yesterday. Has made no
excuses--doesn't write--nothing. That has not happened during the six
years that he has been away from home. I ordered him most strictly to
send a letter, or at least a card, every day--for with her illness,
your aunt must be guarded against the slightest anxiety or excitement.
He knows that, and moreover has always observed it conscientiously. I
can't any longer be responsible for your aunt and her weakened heart.
Unless we use every means to keep her in her--visionary life, she will
go to pieces.
Agnes.
Uncle!
Major.
We must make up our minds to that, Agnes. Really, I do what I can.
Yesterday I even forged a telegram to her--you know that, eh! I did
intend to write to his intimate friend Hallerpfort, but thought better
of it. I shall drive into town directly after dark. Without your aunt
knowing it, of course--for now, during the harvest, that would upset
her still more. So you will stay all night with her, and er--well, the
rest I will arrange with Stephan.
Agnes.
Very well, dear uncle.
Major.
Just come here, girl, look me in the face ... We two know each other
and ... Eh?
(Agnes _casts down her eyes_.)
Major.
Now see, I know very well that for two years you have been secretly
corresponding with Fritz.
Agnes.