Читать книгу A Sister's Love - W. Heimburg - Страница 4

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A few days afterward Edwin Stürmer came to Bütze. 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 Stürmer 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 Stürmer: "They are meeting me on important business, Herr von Stürmer, 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 reëchoing 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. "Stürmer, 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, Stürmer," finished Klaus.

"Truly!" assented Stürmer, "ten years!"

"Oh, but how happy we have been here," the old lady ran on. "Do you remember, Stürmer, 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. "À propos, Stürmer," 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?" Stürmer asked abruptly.

"I might pass the question back to you," replied Klaus. "But let us leave that alone, Stürmer, 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. Stürmer regretted having touched upon a topic that evidently aroused painful emotions.

"Every one has his experiences, Stürmer, 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, Stürmer; 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 reäntered the sitting-room, after escorting Baron Stürmer 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 Stürmer?"

Anna Maria looked over at her brother and was silent.

"Now out with it!" he said jokingly. "Didn't Stürmer 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, Fräulein? Ah, it is well that you are still awake. I had a fine fright a little while ago. What do you think, Marieken Märtens, 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, Fräulein, 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 Fräulein had dismissed, that he must not think of marrying the girl as long as she lived; you know, Fräulein, 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!"