A few days afterward Edwin Stuermer came to Buetze. Anna Maria was
standing just on the lower staircase landing, in the great stone-paved
entrance-hall, a basket of red-cheeked apples on her arm, and
Brockelmann stood near her with a candle in her hand. The unsteady light
of the flickering candle fell on the immediate surroundings, and, like
an old picture of Rembrandt's, the fair head of the girl stood out from
the darkness of the wide hall. Round about her there was a great hue and
cry; all the children of the village seemed to be collected there, and
sang with a sort of scream, to a monotonous air, the old Martinmas
ditty:
"Martins, martins, pretty things,
With your little golden wings,
To the Rhine now fly away,
To-morrow is St. Martin's Day.
Marieken, Marieken, open the door,
Two poor rogues are standing before!
Little summer, little summer, rose's leaf,
City fair,
Give us something, O maiden fair!"
They were just beginning a new song when the heavy entrance-door opened,
and Baron Stuermer came in. Anna Maria did not see him at once, for,
according to an old custom of St. Martin's Eve, she was throwing a
handful of apples right among the little band, who pounced upon them
with cries and shouts. Only when a man's head rose up straight before
her, by the heavily carved banister, she glanced up, and looked into a
pale face framed by dark hair and beard, and into a pair of shining
brown eyes.
For an instant Anna Maria was startled, and a blush of embarrassment
spread over her face; then she held out her hand to him and bade him
welcome. Far from youthful was her manner of speaking and acting.
"Be still!" she called, in her ringing voice, to the noisy children; and
as silence immediately ensued, she added, turning to Stuermer: "They are
meeting me on important business, Herr von Stuermer, but I shall be ready
to leave at once; will you go up to Klaus for awhile?"
He kept on looking at her, still holding her right hand; he had not
heard what she said at all. With quick impatience, at length she
withdrew her hand.
"Brockelmann, bring the candle here, and take the gentleman to my
brother," she ordered; but then, as if changing her mind, she threw the
whole basketful of apples at once among the children, who scrambled for
them, screaming wildly. The baron made his way with difficulty through
the groping throng to the stairs, where Anna Maria was now standing
motionless, and with earnest gaze regarding the man who in her childhood
had so often held her in his arms, and had so many a kind word for her.
Yes, it was he again; the slender figure of medium height, the dark face
with the flashing eyes--and yet how different!
Anna Maria had to admit to herself that it was a handsome man who was
coming up the steps just then; and old? She had to smile. "One sees
quite differently with a child's eyes!" she said to herself. Was it not
as if years were blotted out, and he was coming up as in the old times,
to hold her fast by her braids and say, "Don't run so, Anna Maria"?
Silently up the stairs they went together, to the top, their steps
reechoing from the walls.
It really seemed now to Anna Maria as if her childhood had returned, the
sweet, remote childhood, with a thousand bright, innocent hours.
Involuntarily she held out to him her slender hand, and he seized it
quickly and forced the maiden to stand still. The sound of the
children's shouting came indistinctly to them up here; there was no one
beside them in the dim corridor.
Words of pleasure at seeing the friend of her childhood again trembled
on Anna Maria's lips, but when she tried to speak the man's eyes met
hers, and her mouth remained closed. Slowly, and still looking at her,
he drew the slender hand to his lips; she allowed it as if in a dream,
then hastily caught her hand away.
"What is that?" she asked, half in jest, half in anger; "I gave you my
hand because I was glad to greet the uncle of my childhood, and an
uncle----"
"May not kiss one's hand," he supplied, a smile flitting over his face.
Anna Maria did not see it, having stepped forward into the sitting-room.
"A visitor, Klaus!" she called into the room, which was still dark.
"Ah!" at once replied a man's voice. "Stuermer, is it you? Welcome,
welcome! You find us quite in the dark. We were just talking of you, and
of old times; were we not, Aunt Rosamond?"
A merry greeting followed, an invitation to supper was given and
accepted, and Klaus von Hegewitz called for lights.
"Oh, let us chat a little longer in the dark," said Aunt Rosamond. "Who
knows but we should seem stranger to each other if a candle were
lighted? Does it not seem, _cher baron_, as if it were yesterday that
you were sitting here with us, and yet----"
"It is ten years ago, Stuermer," finished Klaus.
"Truly!" assented Stuermer, "ten years!"
"Oh, but how happy we have been here," the old lady ran on. "Do you
remember, Stuermer, how you carried me off once in the most festive
manner, in a sleigh, and on the way the mad idea came to you to drive on
past our godfather's, and then you landed us both so softly in the
deepest snow-drift--me in my best dress, the green brocade, you know,
that you always called my parrot's costume?"
Klaus laughed heartily. "_A propos_, Stuermer," he asked, "have you seen
Anna Maria yet?"
"Yes, indeed, I have already had the honor, on the landing down-stairs,"
replied the baron.
"The honor? Heavens, how ceremonious! Did you hear, dear?" asked the
brother. But no answer came. "Anna Maria!" he then called.
"She is not here," said Aunt Rosamond, groping about to find the way out
of the room. "But it is really too dark here," she added.
"Why haven't you married, Hegewitz?" Stuermer asked abruptly.
"I might pass the question back to you," replied Klaus. "But let us
leave that alone, Stuermer, I will tell you something about it another
time." Klaus von Hegewitz had risen and stepped to the nearest window;
for a while silence reigned in the quiet room. Stuermer regretted having
touched upon a topic that evidently aroused painful emotions.
"Every one has his experiences, Stuermer, so why should we be spared?"
Klaus turned around, beginning to speak again. "But it is overcome now.
I do not think about it any more," he added. "Will you have another
cigar?"
"Not think about it any more?" cried the baron, not hearing the last
question. He laughed aloud. "At thirty-four? My dear Klaus, what will
become of you, then, when Aunt Rosamond dies and Anna Maria marries?"
"Anna Maria? I haven't thought about that yet, Stuermer; she is still so
young, and--although--But one can see that it is possible to live so:
you give the best example!" Klaus was out of humor.
The baron did not reply. He soon turned the conversation to agricultural
matters, and a discussion over esparcet and fodder was first interrupted
by the announcement that supper was served.
Aunt Rosamond had, meanwhile, gone through the main hall and knocked at
a door at the end of the passage. Anna Maria's voice called, "Come in!"
She, too, was sitting in the dark, but she rose and lit a candle. The
light illuminated her whole face. "Anna Maria, are you ill?" her aunt
asked anxiously, and stepped nearer.
"Not exactly ill, aunt, but I have a headache."
"You have taken cold; why do you ride out in this sharp wind? You are
both inconsiderate, you and Klaus! Show me your pulse--of course, on the
gallop; go to bed, Anna Maria."
"After supper, aunt; what would Klaus say if I were not there?"
"But you are really looking badly, Anna Maria."
The young girl laughed, took her bunch of keys in her hand and thus
compelled Aunt Rosamond to go with her. "Don't worry," she bade her,
"and above all, don't say anything to Klaus. He might think it worse
than it is."
"Klaus, and always, only Klaus--_incroyable_!" murmured the old lady.
* * * * *
"If that wasn't a remarkable company at table this evening," said Klaus
von Hegewitz, as he reaentered the sitting-room, after escorting Baron
Stuermer down-stairs. "You, Anna Maria, did not say a word, and the
conversation dragged along till it nearly died out; if Aunt Rosamond had
not kept the thing up, why--really, it was peculiar. But how nice it is
when we are by ourselves, isn't it, little sister?"
He had put his arm around Anna Maria, who stood at the table, looking
toward the window as if listening for something, and looked lovingly in
her face.
The brother and sister resembled each other unmistakably in their
features, except that beside his earnestness a winning kindness spoke
from the brother's eyes, and the harsh lines about his mouth were hidden
by a handsome beard.
"Yes," she replied quietly.
"Now tell me, little sister, why you were so--so, what shall I call
it--icy toward Stuermer?"
Anna Maria looked over at her brother and was silent.
"Now out with it!" he said jokingly. "Didn't Stuermer treat you with
sufficient deference, or----"
"Klaus!" She grew very red. "I will tell you," she then said; "the
recollections of old times came between us and spoke louder than words;
my childhood passed before my eyes, and--" She broke off, and looked up
at him; it was a sad look, yet full of unspeakable gratitude. Klaus drew
her to him, and pressed the fair head to his breast with his large white
hand.
"My old lass, you're not going to cry?" he asked tenderly; but he, too,
was moved.
She took his hand and pressed a kiss upon it. "Dear, dear Klaus," she
said softly, "I was only thinking how it would have been if you had not
loved me so very, very much?"
Klaus von Hegewitz was silent, and looked thoughtfully down at her.
"Quite different, my little Anna Maria," said he at last; "it would have
been quite different--whether better? Who can fathom that; it must have
been so----"
She looked up at him in astonishment, he had spoken so slowly and
earnestly. Then he stroked her forehead, pressed his sister to him
again, and then turned quietly to the corner-shelf and took down his
favorite pipe.
"There, now we will make ourselves comfortable," said he. "Come, Anna
Maria, 'Tante Voss' is very interesting to-day."
* * * * *
Anna Maria stood long at her bedroom window and looked at the drifting
clouds of the night-sky. Now and then the moon peeped out, and tinged
the edges of the clouds with silver light; as they sped in strange forms
over her golden disk, there was a continual change in the fantastic
shapes, but Anna Maria saw it not. Confused thoughts chased each other
about in her brain, like the clouds above, and now and then, like the
brilliant constellation, a bright look from the long-known dark eyes
came before her mind. "It is the memory of childhood," she said to
herself, "yes, the memory!"
Twelve o'clock struck from the church-tower near by, as, shivering with
cold, she stepped back from the window. She heard hasty steps coming
along the corridor; she knew it was Brockelmann going to bed. The next
moment she had opened the door; she hardly knew herself first what she
wanted, when the old woman was already crossing the threshold.
"You are not sleeping yet, Fraeulein? Ah, it is well that you are still
awake. I had a fine fright a little while ago. What do you think,
Marieken Maertens, the crazy thing, tried to drown herself; a man from
the village pulled her out of the pond."
Anna Maria had grown white as a corpse; she had to sit down on the edge
of her bed, and her great eyes looked in sheer amazement at the old
woman. "What for?" she asked hastily, and almost sharply.
"Indeed, Fraeulein, for what else but because of the stupid affair with
Gottlieb? You know what his mother is. Marieken did not dare go home all
at once--there are mouths enough to feed: so her sweetheart took her
home to his mother, and she told him he should not come to her with a
girl whom the gracious Fraeulein had dismissed, that he must not think of
marrying the girl as long as she lived; you know, Fraeulein, the old
woman swears by the family here. And so the stupid thing took it into
her head to go into the water."
Anna Maria looked silently before her, and her whole body shook as if
she had a chill.
"Heavens, you are ill!" cried the old woman.
"No, no," the girl denied, "I am not ill; go, only go; I am tired and
want to sleep."
Brockelmann went to her room, shaking her head. "Well, well," she
murmured, "I did think she would be sorry for the poor girl, but no!"
She sighed, and closed the door behind her. But toward morning she was
suddenly startled from her slumber by the violent ringing of a bell in
her room.
"Good heavens, Anna Maria!" she cried. "She is ill!" In her heart the
old woman still called her young mistress by her child's name. Hastily
throwing on one or two garments she hurried through the cold passage,
just lighted by the gray dawn. Anna Maria was sitting upright in her
bed, a candle was burning on the table by her side, and lit up a face
worn with weeping. The old woman saw plainly that the girl had been
weeping, though she extinguished the candle at once.
"Brockelmann!" she called to her, but not as usual in the old imperious
manner, and she now hesitated; "as soon as it is light, send for
Gottlieb's mother; I want to talk with her about the girl. And now go,"
she added, as the old woman was about to say something, "I am so tired
to-day!"