Meanwhile Anna Maria had gone quickly down-stairs and entered her
brother's room. He was sitting at his desk, rummaging about in the
drawers for the missing papers. Klaus von Hegewitz was exactly like
other men in this respect, that he never could find anything, and grew
so vexed in hunting, that from very irritation he found nothing. At the
door stood the farm inspector and a little old man who was well known at
Buetze, Isaac Aron the Jew. He made a deep reverence to Anna Maria, and
said contentedly: "Now matters will be brought into good shape; the
gracious Fraeulein knows the place of everything in the whole house."
Anna Maria paid no attention to this, but, going to the desk,
confidently put her hand into a drawer, and gave a little packet of
papers to her brother. "There, Klaus," said she, looking with a smile in
his flushed face, "why did you not call me at once?"
The troubled face grew bright. "Upon my word, Anna Maria," he cried
gayly, "these are stupid things; I have had that package in my hands
twenty times at least. A thousand thanks! I say again and again, Anna
Maria, what would become of me without you?"
The smile suddenly disappeared from her face, and she looked
thoughtfully at the stately figure of her brother, who had stepped up to
the men and was negotiating with them. The words fell on her ears as in
a dream, and quite mechanically she took up her train and walked out of
the room. As she was about to close the door, her brother called after
her: "Anna Maria, shall I meet you by and by in the sitting-room? The
gardener wants to talk with us about the new work in the wood."
She had no idea, as she stood outside, whether or not she had answered
him; then she sat down in her room, and her eyes wandered about the
familiar spot and rested at length on her brother's portrait. But she
saw it not; in her mind was another picture, another man's head. The
red-tiled roof of Dambitz Manor rose before her eyes, and over him and
her the brown, budding branches of the linden-walk in the Dambitz garden
fluttered and beat in the damp spring air, and at their feet long rows
of snow-drops bloomed and shook their little white heads.
"Anna Maria," he had called her, "Anna Maria," as in her childhood. She
started up, as if awakening from a long, deep dream. Ah, no! it was
true; scarcely an hour ago he had spoken thus to her, and Anna Maria von
Hegewitz had stood before him as if under a spell.
What else had he said? She knew no longer, only the words "Anna Maria"
sounded to her very soul; and as on that St. Martin's Eve she had put
her hands in his, and he had drawn her close to him--only one short
moment, she scarcely knew whether it were dream or reality. Then Klaus
had come down the steps--"Klaus! ah, Heaven, Klaus!"
She leaned her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes.
She saw herself going away from the old house here. Could her foot cross
the threshold? And she saw Klaus looking in the door-way, looking after
her with his kind, true eyes, perhaps with tears in them. And there came
to her all the words which she had so often spoken to him, caressingly:
"_I will stay with you, Klaus, always, always!_" And now the strong
girl began to weep; she scarcely knew what tears were, but now they
gushed from her eyes with all the force of a shaken soul.
And yet above all this pain there hovered a feeling of infinite
happiness, through the dark veil of sadness gleamed bright rays--the
premonitions of a wonderful future, the suspicion that the life which
she had led hitherto was hardly to be called living, because that one
thing had been wanting which first consecrates and gives value to a
happy life.
She rose and went up to her brother's portrait. "Klaus, dear Klaus, I
cannot help it, indeed!" she whispered; and then she wandered about the
room, a tender smile on her lips, and a laugh in her eyes.
The sound of the servants' supper-bell roused her from her dreams; she
changed her riding-habit for a house-dress, but laid the snow-drops in
the Bible on her writing-desk, and gave the little white blossoms a
caressing touch before she took up her basket of keys to leave the room.
She was met on the way to the sitting-room by a fresh, curly-haired
girl, carrying an armful of flashing brass candlesticks, her black eyes
almost as bright as the shining metal.
"Well, Marieken," asked Anna Maria, "is the outfit ready?"
The brisk girl laughed all over her face. "Oh, not quite, Fraeulein; but
it is three weeks to Easter, and Gottlieb is painting the rooms now in
our house, and the cabinet-maker is going to bring our things next
week."
Anna Maria nodded kindly, but did not reply. Her thoughts were already
again in Dambitz, wandering through the rooms of the castle. Most of
them were still empty, but a time was doubtless coming for her too when
the cabinet-maker would bring her things. And Anna Maria looked at the
girl and smiled; she knew not why herself; it was from overflowing
happiness. And Marieken laughed too--a perfect harmony of youth, hope,
and happiness. Then the girl ran on with her candlesticks, and Anna
Maria walked down the corridor, and in both hearts was the same
sunshine. She must hurry, for Klaus would surely be waiting for her, he
wanted to speak with her about the work in the garden.
Next to Klaus's room was a small room, where Anna Maria remembered to
have put away in her portfolio of drawings the roughly sketched plan of
the alterations, and as Klaus was not yet in the sitting-room she
hurried back to get it.
It was almost dark, and she could but indistinctly discern the objects
in the little room, which Klaus jokingly called his library because of a
bookcase which found its place there. So the more distinctly came to her
ears a hearty laugh from her brother, and, with the laugh, the sound of
her own name.
"Anna Maria, do you say? My own aunt, it is perfectly ridiculous!"
"Laugh then, you unbeliever, you will soon be convinced of the truth of
my conjecture. We women, especially we old maids, Klauschen, look at
such things more sharply. Soon some one will come and carry away your
darling, and then we too may sit here and have the dumps, my beloved
boy! What will become of us?"
"_Some one_, aunt? You speak in riddles."
"Well, since you are so dreadfully smitten with blindness, _mon cher_,
it is a Christian duty on my part to open your eyes. Do you not see the
girl's entirely altered manner? Have you never--But to what purpose is
all this? In short, Anna Maria loves Stuermer!"
Another hearty laugh interrupted the old lady. But Anna Maria, with
closed eyes, leaned against the door-post; the ground seemed to give way
beneath her feet.
"Kurt Stuermer? Uncle Stuermer? But, my dear aunt," cried the young man,
"he might almost be her father!"
"Is that a hindrance, Klaus?"
"No! I don't believe it, however. Shall we bet?"
Anna Maria straightened up. She was on the point of going in and saying,
"Why do you argue? I do love him--yes! a thousand times, yes!" But she
stood still; her brother's voice sounded so strangely altered.
"Aunt Rosamond, I _cannot_ believe it!"
"Klaus! Have you not thought for a long time that it must happen some
day?"
"Yes, yes! But--Ah! I have stood in fear of this hour, since the child
is the only one to whom my heart clings; you do not know how much,
perhaps, aunt!"
"Klaus,"--the old lady's voice was melting with tenderness--"my dear old
lad, you are still young: why should there not be a happiness yet in
store for you? I have often told you you ought to marry."
"Marry? You say that to me, aunt? and you know that I have been a
wretched being for years, because----"
"But, Klaus, do you still think of that?" sounded the anxious voice of
the aunt.
"Still?" he repeated ironically. "Am I not daily reminded of it? Do you
think, because I live so peacefully now and can join in a laugh, because
food and wine taste good to me--I see the tower of her family home
whenever I go to the window, I see Anna Maria, I cannot pass that fatal
spot in the garden without the words she then spoke reaechoing in my
soul. I know them by heart, aunt, I have called and whispered them for
weeks in fever; and ever again her enchanting figure stands before my
eyes, and that sweet, beseeching tone rings in my ears, as seductive as
Satan himself: '_Put that obstinate, disagreeable child out of your
house; she interferes with our happiness!_'"
He laughed scornfully. "And because I would not consent to that, and did
not break a promise given to my dying mother, then--she cast me off like
a garment that does not fit comfortably enough--then--then----"
"Klaus! Klaus! for God's sake!" The anxious voice of the old lady
interrupted his speaking, which had risen to vehemence.
But in the little room lay Anna Maria on her knees, her head almost
touching the floor. It had become still in the next room, except for the
sound of rapid steps as the young man paced the floor.
"And now--yes, yes, it had to happen!" said he softly. "I am no egoist,
certainly not, but it will be unspeakably hard for me to give her up.
Oh, yes, I shall see her often. I can ride over any minute; she will
come to us too--certainly. But see, aunt--but I am a fool, really, a
fool! It is the way of the world, and I do not understand why I did not
see long ago that Stuermer is fond of Anna Maria; it is, indeed, so
natural. How good it is that I am prepared; not the slightest shadow
shall fall on Anna Maria's happiness. Your eyes ask that, Aunt Rose? No,
be quiet, be quiet!"
Anna Maria remained motionless on the cold floor, leaning her head
against the door-post. She no longer understood what they were saying
in the next room; she kept hearing only that one dreadful speech: "Put
the child out of the house; she interferes with our happiness!" His
happiness! Klaus's happiness! She passed her cold hand over her
forehead, as if she must convince herself whether or not it was a dream.
No, no; she was awake, she could move her feet as well, she could walk
out of the little room, along the corridor, to her own room.
Marieken was just coming along the passage. Anna Maria stopped, and bade
her say to Fraeulein Rosamond that she was not coming to the table; she
had a headache, and wanted to be alone that evening.
The girl looked in alarm at the pale face of her mistress. "Shall I call
Brockelmann?" she asked anxiously.
Anna Maria made a negative gesture, and laid her hand on the door-knob,
and then turned her head. "Marieken!"
The girl came back.
"It is nothing--only go!" She then hastily turned away, and shut and
bolted her door at once.
"She wishes to be alone with her thoughts," remarked Aunt Rosamond at
the supper table, where she and Klaus sat, right and left of the absent
one's place. Klaus did not reply at once, but looked at that place and
said at length: "So it will always be, soon!" And the old lady nodded
sadly; she knew not what to reply, and a secret anxiety about the future
stole over her, since she had seen that Klaus still bore the old wound
which he had received many years ago. She had supposed it healed long
since.
The next morning Anna Maria went as usual, with her bunch of keys,
through kitchen and cellar. She was pale, and her orders sounded
shorter and less friendly than they had of late. Only to Klaus she gave
a friendly smile, but it was forced, and her eyes had no share in it.
She looked over accounts with him for two hours, and, though he was
distracted and restless, the results were perfectly correct. Aunt
Rosamond alone was alarmed at the girl's appearance, but she did not
venture to ask any questions. Anna Maria was as icily cold as often
heretofore.
The next day, toward evening, Klaus came into Aunt Rosamond's room. The
old lady had just hung up Felix Leonhard's portrait again, after
carefully making fast the broken cord.
"Well, who was right, Aunt Rose?" he asked. He was standing beside her,
and she saw that his face had grown very red, and that his whole being
was stirred.
"Right? In what, Klaus?"
"In your assertion 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. Stuermer 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 assured 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 God's sake, Klaus, what did Stuermer 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
Stuermer!" 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.