Читать книгу A Sister's Love - W. Heimburg - Страница 9

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Thirty years had passed away, and on a stormy autumn evening a young couple sat before a crackling fire, in Bütze Manor-house—she, a slender, girlish figure, fair, with pleasant blue eyes; he, tall, or seeming so from a certain delicacy of form, and also fair; but a pair of bright brown eyes contrasted strangely with his light hair.

Without, the wind was raging about the old house, as it had done many years before, and sang of past times; now and then it set up a howl of furious rage, and then sounded again in low, long-drawn, plaintive tones, as if singing a long-forgotten love-song.

The young wife in the comfortable easy-chair had been listening to it a long time; now she said in a clear voice:

"Klaus, this would be just the evening to read aloud the journal."

He started up out of a deep revery. "What journal, my child!"

"That little packet of papers that we found the other day, in rummaging about in Aunt Rosamond's writing-desk."

He nodded. "Yes, we will do it," he said, "it will be a bit of family history, perhaps about my parents. I was just thinking how little I know of them, and it makes me sad. Mother Anna Maria makes her account so short and scanty, as if she did not like to talk about it, and whenever she mentions her only brother her eyes grow moist. Come, sit down on the sofa with me; I will get the papers."

He rose, went to an old-fashioned desk, and took a little packet of papers from the middle drawer. The young wife had meanwhile taken up a bit of dainty needlework, and now they sat, side by side, on the sofa, before the lamp, and he unfolded the sheets.

"What a pretty old handwriting," he said. "See, Marie!"

She nodded. "One can make quite a picture of the writer from that—small, delicate, and good, as loving as the first words sound."

"Yes," he replied, "she was good and kind. I remember her so distinctly yet. She used to give me sugarplums and colored pictures, and at Christmas she used to come as Knecht Ruprecht, and I should certainly have been frightened if I had not recognized Aunt Rosamond by her voice and limp."

"Ah, but please read, Klaus," begged the young wife impatiently; and he began obediently:

"My dear Anna Maria has driven away again with little Klaus——"

"That is you!" interrupted the young wife, laughing.

He nodded; his fine eyes gleamed softly. "But now be still," he said; "for Aunt Rosamond surely never thought such a disturber of the peace would ever put her nose in here."

"You bad man! Give me a kiss for that!"

"That, too?" he sighed comically. "There, but be quiet now!" And he began again:

"My dear Anna Maria has driven away again with little Klaus. It has become very quiet at Bütze, not a sound in the great house; even Brockelmann is no longer heard, for since last winter she has taken to wearing felt slippers. All the rooms down-stairs are shut up, and it is melancholy. Anna Maria consoles me, to be sure, by saying that there will be life enough here again when the child has grown large; but, dear me, by that time I shall have long been lying in the garden yonder! Oh, I wish I might live to hear merry voices ringing again through the house at Bütze, and see the rooms down-stairs occupied; but I do not believe it possible. Well, I must not allow myself to be overpowered by the loneliness and tediousness about me; I sit at my desk and will try to narrate the late events here, in regular order. So much has happened here; the stories rush to my mind all confused, but I should like to recall the past in proper order.

"If I only knew how to begin! I have already cut three goose-quills to pieces! I look out of the window, the trees are clad in the first green, the sky is blue, only a dark line of cloud rising over the barn yonder. It is warm and sultry, as before an approaching thunder-storm, and now another spring day rises before my eyes, and now I know.

"It was a ninth of May, just as damp and sultry as to-day. Anna Maria came in to me. My room was up-stairs here then, on the same story, the same big flowered furniture stood here, and I was the same infirm, limping old creature, only fresher and brighter; I laughed more than any one in the house in those days. I can see Anna Maria before me so distinctly, as she stood there by the spinet in her every-day gray dress, with a black taffeta apron over it, and the bunch of keys at her belt.

"'Aunt Rosamond, will you look at the room which I have been getting ready for the child?' she asked, and I rose, and limped along beside her down the hall as far as the large, dark room. I never could bear the room, and to-day, as I entered it, it oppressed me like a nightmare. To be sure, dazzling white pillows stood up beneath the green curtains of the canopy, and a spray of elder on the toilet-table sent its fragrance through the room; but neither this nor the sultry air which came in at the window could improve the damp, cold atmosphere, or convey any degree of comfort to the room.

"'You ought to have had it warmed, Anna Maria,' said I, with a little shiver, 'and had that unpleasant picture taken away.' And I pointed to the half-length portrait of a young woman looking boldly and saucily forth into the world, with a pair of sparkling black eyes, who was called in the family the 'Mischief-maker.' According to an old, half-forgotten story, she had come by her nickname from her black eyes having been the cause of a duel between two Hegewitz brothers, in which one was killed by his brother's hand. A Hegewitz herself, and lingering at Bütze on a visit, she had deliberately married another man. How, when, and where, it happened, the story did not tell; but her portrait had remained at Bütze, and hung from time immemorial in this room.

"'Ah! let the picture stay: the child does not know whom it represents,' replied Anna Maria. 'I think it is quite comfortable and pleasant here, Aunt Rosamond, with the view into the garden.'

"Anna Maria had, literally, no idea of comfort, so her remark did not surprise me. She lacked that charming feminine faculty of making all the surroundings pleasing with a few flowers or a bit of graceful drapery. 'The poor thing,' thought I, 'coming from Berlin—to this dreary solitude!'

"Anna Maria had suddenly turned around to me, and her face, usually so austere, was glowing with tenderness. 'Aunt Rosamond,' she said, 'do you know, I am really glad the little Susanna Mattoni is coming!'

"'And I am glad for you, Anna Maria,' I replied, 'for you need a friend.'

"'I need no friend,' she replied bluntly, 'and how could that young thing be a companion for me? She is a child, a poor orphaned child, in need of love, and I will—' She broke off, and a hot blush spread over her face.

"'You are still young yourself, Anna Maria,' I interposed, 'and I think she must be seventeen years old.'

"'Years do not make the age, Aunt Rosamond, but the soul, the nature, the experiences. If God will, she shall find in me rather a mother, for as a companion I am worth nothing. I should have to conform her to myself—oh, never!'

"I knew that Anna Maria's whole heart, usually so coldly closed, had opened to receive a fatherless and motherless creature, to love it, in her way, with all her might—in her way, indeed, and that was not understood by every one. How much time have I spent in trying to fathom that nature, which apparently lay open to every eye, against whose sharp corners and angles almost every one ran, who had anything to do with her.

"'Has Klaus gone to meet your guest?' I asked.

"'No, he rode out into the fields. Why should he?' she rejoined. 'Old Maier drove away to S—— yesterday, and I think every second she must come. I only hope it will be before the approaching thunder-storm breaks!'

"The unpleasant stillness before the threatening storm pervaded the outside world. I went up to Anna Maria at the open window and looked at the black clouds looming up in the horizon. My eyes roved beyond the trees in the garden, out into the country; strangely near seemed the dark forests and Dambitz with its clumsy tower.

"'How near Dambitz looks,' I remarked, 'and it is really so far away.'

"Anna Maria turned quickly. 'Very far,' she said listlessly.

"'Stürmer still stays away,' I began, designedly. I felt compassion for the man whom an incomprehensible whim of a girl had driven away into the world, just when he had hoped to find a home and heart; I had once, for the space of half an hour, imagined that she loved him.

"I received no answer, but about the girl's lips there lay such an expression of pride and defiant resolution that I resolved never to mention that name again. She gazed fixedly at the dark clouds, and at last said, in a wearily oppressed tone: 'Is not that the rumbling of a carriage?'

"'Perhaps the thunder,' I replied. But before we had closed the window and I had looked around the room again, Brockelmann stood, with flushed face, before Anna Maria. 'Gracious Fräulein, she is—they are here—God in Heaven!'

"'What is the matter?' asked Anna Maria.

"'There are two of them, Fräulein, and queer enough she looks—the old woman, I mean. And a thunder-storm like this is just the time for them to come to the house in!'

"The storm had indeed broken loose, with thunder and lightning, and torrents of rain. The old woman made haste to light the candles on the great mantel, for it was almost dark in the room.

"'They are coming up-stairs already!' she cried, and hurried out, leaving the door open.

"Anna Maria had not interrupted the old woman by a word; it was not her way to apprehend quickly a new turn of affairs. So she snuffed the candles quite composedly and remained standing by the mantel, so as to keep the door in sight. Her face was as cold and still again as usual, and did not show the slightest trace of expectation or curiosity, nor did it alter when in the door-way. But how shall I describe the young creature who, as suddenly as in a fairy-tale, stepped over the threshold?

"There never was but one Susanna Mattoni! I do not know whether she could be called a beauty; perhaps her sparkling brown eyes were too large for that, too widely opened for the narrow face, the nose too short, the lips too full, and the complexion too pale; but this I know, that only by an effort I suppressed an exclamation of surprise, as she stood there, so small and slight, in her closely-fitting black dress, as if she had been charmed thither. Her light mantle had slipped from her shoulders, and a pair of very slender hands had impetuously thrown back the crape veil from her hat. It was evident that the young girl was in a state of great excitement; her searching, anxious eyes rested on Anna Maria's imposing figure, and then dropped to the floor in embarrassment; she apparently did not know what to do now, and breathed timidly and faintly.

"'God bless your coming, Susanna Mattoni!' said Anna Maria, in her deep voice; and she put her arm for a moment around the slender figure. 'May Bütze please you as a temporary home!' There was an unwonted sympathy in these words, and as she bent down to the stranger I had to smile at my former opinion. Anna Maria needed no friend; young as she was, she stood by Susanna Mattoni with the maternal dignity of a woman of forty. It was remarkable how she utterly belied her youth in everything she did.

"But at this moment it first became clear what Brockelmann had meant when she spoke of two—of the old woman. At the threshold of the room appeared the figure of a small, elderly woman, in a worn black silk gown, a shawl embroidered in red and yellow over her shoulders, and an ill-shaped hood of black crape on her head, from which a yellowish, wrinkled face looked forth; a pair of small dark eyes darted like lightning about the room; then she ran to Anna Maria, who was regarding her in amazement, and with a theatrical gesture raised her clasped hands to her. 'Oh, Mademoiselle, pardon my intrusion, but the child—I could not part from Susanna!'

"'Stop that!' commanded Anna Maria, decidedly disturbed. 'Who are you?'

"The woman dropped her eyes and was silent.

"'Fräulein Mattoni, who is the woman?' said Anna Maria, turning to the young girl, who, it seemed to me, looked timidly at her companion. Susanna was silent too. There was no sound but that of the rain beating against the windows, and swaying the branches of the trees. Anna Maria waited quietly a few minutes.

"'I have been in Professor Mattoni's household since Susanna's birth,' the old woman now began, 'and——'

"'The child's nurse, then?' Anna Maria said, cutting off her speech. 'Very well, you may stay here twenty-four hours, and see how your demoiselle is provided for. Brockelmann,' she ordered the old woman, who, with a chambermaid, had just brought up a trunk that seemed as light as a feather, 'make up a bed in the gray room for the woman. And you, Susanna Mattoni, need to be alone after so long a journey. Make yourself comfortable till supper-time; punctually at seven, I shall expect you in the dining-room.' She took her basket of keys from the mantel, and noticing me, motioned to Susanna and introduced her to me as our future household companion. The little thing shyly kissed my hand, and as I raised her chin a little to look at her face again, I saw that tears were shining in the brown eyes. 'Heavens!' I thought as I went out, 'how will this little princess get on here in that gloomy room, in Anna Maria's chilling atmosphere?' I quietly patted the pale little cheek, and followed my niece. Outside in the corridor we met Klaus, dripping wet, having just dismounted from his horse.

"'And so she is really here, then, the new accession to the family?' he asked, giving himself a shake in his wet clothes. 'Well, what does she look like, the little Berliner?'

"I opened the door of my room, and the brother and sister entered.

"'You will see her, Klaus,' replied Anna Maria.

"'Right, little sister, that is true; I will change my clothes first of all.'

"'Yes, Klaus, but be quick: I would like to settle something with you before you see the young lady at table.'

"'Young lady? Whew!' rejoined the brother, and a disagreeable expression lay for a moment on his kind, handsome face. 'Do you wish me to put on a dress-coat, Anna Maria?' He laughed.

"'Well, you will open your eyes, too, Klauschen,' thought I; and all at once a thought came to me that fell like the weight of a mountain on my soul, whether it would not be better if this Susanna Mattoni, together with her black-eyed witch of a nurse, were a thousand miles away?

"When Klaus and Anna Maria had gone, I stood still in the middle of the room and said aloud, with a fierce conviction: 'The two children have made an unpardonably stupid move; what will come of it?' And much came of it! If the succession of sorrow, tears, and bitter hours that followed Susanna Mattoni's little feet could have been foreseen on her arrival, Anna Maria would have given not only the old woman, but Susanna herself, no longer than twenty-four hours to stay in her house!

"I was still standing on the same spot when the door flew open, and Susanna's old companion entered. 'Gracious Fräulein,' she cried anxiously, 'do come; the child—she is weeping, she is ill, she will kill herself!'

"The excited creature wrung her hands, and her whole frame trembled. I limped across to the girl's room, again with the thought, 'What will come of it?' Susanna was sitting, half undressed, at the toilet-table, her dark hair falling loosely over a white dressing-sack; her face was buried in her hands, and she was crying. The old woman rushed up to her: 'Darling, the kind lady is here; she will be good to us, she will let me stay here, and will speak a good word to the Fräulein; please now, my lamb, she surely will.'

"Susanna Mattoni raised her head and dried the tears from her great eyes; when she saw me she sprang up, and again I felt the magical charm that surrounded the young creature. 'What is the matter, my child?' I asked tenderly.

"'You are very kind, Mademoiselle,' she answered; 'it is only the strangeness and the long journey.' And she shivered with cold.

"'Dress yourself quickly,' I advised her, 'there is a fire in the dining-room, and the warm supper will do you good.'

"The old woman seized a comb and drew it with evident pride through the beautiful hair, and waited on the Professor's young daughter as if she were really a princess. She talked meanwhile of her delicate constitution and her nerves. I quite forgot going, and at that stood still in amazement. Merciful Heaven! In old houses in the Mark 'nerves' were not yet the fashion. What would Anna Maria say, what would——?

"Anna Maria had spoken of having Susanna acquire the art of housekeeping, so that in the future she might help herself through life with her own hands. And here! a maid, nerves, the beauty of a grande dame with the little hands and feet of a child.

"And now the old woman took from the trunk a little black dress, evidently quite new, and trimmed with bows, flounces, and the Lord knows what! Over the shining white neck she laid a black gauze fichu, which she gracefully arranged on the bodice, and beneath the short skirts peeped two shoes laced up with silk ribbons, such as scarcely ever before glided over the old floors of Bütze Manor-house. Certainly the old woman understood her business. Susanna Mattoni was, as she stood there, the most charming girl I have ever seen, before or since, in my long life.

"'God help me, what will be the end of it?' I asked myself for the third time, as the old woman broke off a white spray of elder, and placed it, correctly and not without coquetry, in the fichu.

"'But, my dear,' I said aloud, 'there is no company here this evening. We eat to-day en famille, buckwheat groats with milk.'

"But I got no answer; the busy lady's maid bent quickly to pull one or two bows straight, and I glanced from Susanna—the color in whose cheeks had mounted to a bright red—to the trunk, which looked suspiciously empty after the taking out of the new dress. The old woman observed me, and quickly shut the cover. 'The clock is striking seven,' she said; and in fact, the weak, thin tone of the Bütze church-bell was heard just seven times, and at once began the noisy sound of the servants' supper-bell.

"'Come,' said I to her, 'the servants' room is down-stairs.'

"'Thank you,' she replied, with a look of refusal. 'I am not at all hungry; but I would like to ask for some wood, for the child cannot sleep in this damp atmosphere.'

"I directed her to Brockelmann, and conducted Susanna Mattoni to the dining-room.

"Oh, I could paint the scene now! The four candles on the table vied with the rosy twilight, and in the vaulted window-niche stood Klaus and Anna Maria. He had put his arm around her, and had been saying some kind, serious word—they never stood so near each other again! I seem to see, at this moment, how they turned around toward me—how Klaus, full of surprise, looked past me at the slender, girlish figure; how Anna Maria was suddenly transfixed—and I could not blame either of them! I have scarcely ever seen Susanna Mattoni more charming, more maidenly, than at that moment, when she stood in embarrassment before the young friend of her father. I wondered if she had imagined he was different.

"A warm glow overspread her delicate face; Anna Maria blushed, too. I do not know whether it was fear or anger that caused her to touch Klaus's arm, as he stepped forward to say some words of welcome to Susanna.

"'Please come to the table!' called Anna Maria. 'Here, Fräulein Mattoni, beside Aunt Rosamond.' As we stood at our places she said, in a strangely faltering voice, the old grace: 'The eyes of all wait upon Thee, O Lord!' The 'Amen' almost stuck in her throat, and in the look which she gave the young girl's dainty dress, and which fell with especial sharpness on the white flowers, I saw what the clock had struck for Anna Maria. It was almost amusing to me to compare the two girls, so unlike, and to wonder whether the high-necked, gray woollen dress and the dainty little silk gown would ever live side by side, without having to make mutual concessions.

"Klaus talked to Susanna, who sat opposite him. He touched upon the subject of her deceased father, but gave it up at once when he saw the great eyes fill with tears, which she bravely tried to swallow with the strange buckwheat groats. A fresh egg, afterward, seemed to taste better to her, but with a timorous smile she refused a glass of foaming brown beer, and I am convinced that she rose unsatisfied from the table.

"The candles were lighted in the sitting-room, and at the master's place lay a plate of tobacco and a matchbox beside the newspaper. At Anna Maria's place lay her knitting-work, and at mine spectacles and Pompadour, just as Brockelmann arranged them every evening, except that in winter Anna Maria had her spinning-wheel instead of her knitting. To-night Klaus did not take his pipe from the shelf in the corner; Susanna Mattoni's delicate form sank into his comfortable easy-chair, and her small head nestled back in the cushions; but Klaus, like a true cavalier, with a chivalry that became him admirably, sat on a stool opposite her.

"The conversation, in which Anna Maria joined but little, turned upon Berlin. Susanna was well informed about her native city, and now chattered charmingly and without embarrassment; her eyes shone, her cheeks grew red, and a roguish dimple displayed itself every instant. Now she was in the opera-house or theatre, in the Thiergarten or in Charlottenburg; now she related anecdotes of the royal family. All this came out in a confused jumble, and Klaus did not grow tired of asking questions. The newspaper lay disregarded, and his pipe did not receive a glance.

"Anna Maria sat silent, and knit. At nine o'clock she broke into the conversation. 'I think you must be tired, Fräulein Mattoni,' she said; and one could perceive what an effort she made to speak kindly. 'We usually retire about ten, but you need an extra hour's sleep to-night.' And as Brockelmann appeared, in answer to the bell, the little thing, with a certain astonishment in her eyes, said 'Good-night,' like an obedient child. She turned around at the door, and asked, with a sweet, imploring expression on her little face: 'May Isa sleep in my room?'

"'A bed has been made up in another room for your companion,' replied Anna Maria; 'you are surely not afraid? Brockelmann's room is next door.'

"Susanna did not reply, but made another exceedingly graceful courtesy and vanished.

"'Do let the old woman sleep with her,' said Klaus; 'think how forlorn her first night in a strange house must be!'

"But Anna Maria did not reply; she got her brother's pipe from the shelf, and, smiling, pushed him into his easy-chair, and took up her knitting again.

"'There, Klaus, I beg of you, don't be so nonsensical in the future as to sit on a footstool. That was very uncomfortable.'

"'Sooner dead than impolite!' he replied good-humoredly.

"'Everything in its time!' she rejoined. 'Susanna Mattoni is to be a member of our household, and there is nothing so tiresome as formal politeness and constraint. Susanna can sit on that stool just as well as you.'

"'Bon, Anna Maria! But now, what do you really think of her?'

"'Since you ask me plainly, Klaus, I will answer you plainly. I say that I expected to receive something different into the house.'

"'So did I,' he rejoined laconically, drawing the first whiffs from his pipe.

"'And that if anything is to be made of the girl, the old woman must go away to-morrow.'

"'She is right,' thought I to myself, 'if it is only not too late!'

"Klaus took up the newspaper. 'Well, Anna Maria, there may be something to say about that by and by; but let her stay a week or two, so that she may see how Fräulein Mattoni gets on.'

"'Am I to bring up the girl or not?' Anna Maria interrupted, with a roughness such as she had never before shown toward her brother. 'How is this spoiled lady of fashion to learn to take care of herself and to use her hands, if that person remains at her side, to put on her shoes and stockings for her whenever it is possible, and turn her head with flowers and frivolities? Twenty-four hours I have said, and not a minute longer; two such totally different methods as hers and mine cannot agree.'

"Klaus looked in surprise at the excited face. 'You are right, Anna Maria,' he said appeasingly. 'I am only afraid that this being will never develop according to your mind. She seems to me——'

"'Made of different material!' finished Anna Maria ironically. 'I tell you, that will be no hindrance to me, in educating a girl whose calling it is to make herself useful in the world; affected dolls, painted cheeks, and theatrical pomp, I will not endure in my house!'

"She had risen, and all the indignation which the old woman's skill at the toilet had called forth now glowed on her red cheeks and shone from her sparkling eyes.

"Klaus laid down the newspaper which he had just taken up. 'I beg you, Anna Maria,' he said, almost indignantly, 'cannot that be settled quietly? The girl has only this minute come into the house, and is she to make discord between us already?'

"Anna Maria sat down again in silence, and took up her knitting. But after a little while she rose hastily, tied a black lace scarf over her fair hair, and went out.

"Klaus followed her with his eyes. 'Aunt Rosamond, what is this?' he asked, sighing.

"'She expected something different, Klaus,' I said; 'it is a disappointment.'

"'The girl is charming, Aunt Rosamond. I can understand the Professor's anxiety about her. But how will she get on with Anna Maria's energy? There are not only hens and such useful creatures in the world, but the good God has made birds of paradise as well!'

"'Klauschen,' came from the depths of my heart, 'let the bird of paradise fly away; it is not suited to your nest.'

"'Never, Aunt Rosamond,' he replied quickly. 'I am bound by the last wish of the man whom I loved best in the whole world!' He was red, and his eyes shone moistly, and it struck me, at this moment, what a handsome, stately man he was.

"Brockelmann's entrance put an end to our conversation. She was hunting for Anna Maria, and looked irritated: 'It is too provoking, master; the old woman isn't suited with her bed, and means to sit up all night in her young lady's room. And there is a fire there hot enough to roast an ox, and that in May! She is doing some cooking, too; the whole room smells of green tea.' Muttering away, she disappeared.

"Klaus laughed aloud. 'Open rebellion, Aunt Rosamond! Do me a favor, and look after these two strangers. Perhaps you will be able to point out to the old woman that—well, that she can't stay here.'

"This really seemed to me the best thing to do, and I went up-stairs. Through the hall window I caught sight of Anna Maria in the damp, moonlit garden; she was standing motionless, like a dark shadow, and looking out toward the dusky country. 'Strange girl,' thought I; 'if an ugly little creature in a patched dress had come to the house to-day, she would have taken it to her heart, and kissed it—and now?'

"As I entered Susanna's room without knocking, the old woman hastily motioned to me to come softly, for her charge was asleep. She was sitting in a high-backed chair by the bed, and, as I came nearer, rose and drew aside the curtains for me to look at the girl.

"There lay the young thing in the deep sleep of fatigue, breathing softly and quietly, a smile on the red lips; the drooping lashes rested like dark shadows on the child's pale cheeks. Her little night-dress, trimmed with imitation lace and adorned with a profusion of bows, did not look badly in the dim light which came from two candles and the dying embers in the fire-place. The slender hands were folded, and the dark hair lay loosely over the white pillow. Yes, she was charming, this maiden in her sweet slumber.

"'Is she not beautiful? Is she not lovely?' said the old woman's proud smile.

"I nodded. 'Poor little bird of paradise!' I thought, 'how your gay, shining feathers will be plucked. Well for you if you do not miss them!' And, bethinking myself of my promise to Klaus, I turned and beckoned to the old woman. By the fire-place I overturned a little silver kettle and a cup that were standing on the floor. Aha, the tea-making apparatus! On the sofa lay the clothes which Susanna had worn to-day, in picturesque disorder; one little shoe was on the floor, the other I noticed on the dressing-table, and beside it hats, ribbons, and all sorts of frippery, in the wildest confusion.

"'Will you not put the things away in the wardrobes intended for them,' I asked softly, 'so that Susanna can find them without your help?'

"'She will not need to,' the old woman replied confidently, and looked at me with a friendly grin. 'They surely cannot be so cruel as to separate us.'

"'Certainly, my dear, you will leave the house to-morrow, and Susanna Mattoni will remain under our protection, as her father was promised. There was nothing said about you in this matter.'

"'Then give me a rope at once,' whispered the old woman passionately, 'that I may hang myself on the nearest limb! What am I to do, then? Where shall I go? I had a foreboding as we drove through the gate that ill-luck awaited me!'

"'My niece will surely allow you to visit your former charge from time to time,' I said, to console her.

"'And what is to become of her?' she asked, pointing to the sleeping girl. 'She is not accustomed to be without me for a moment! No, no, I am not going; I cannot go. If this young lady has no sympathy, surely the kind gentleman will have, who used to come so often to the Professor. Where is he? I will beg him on my knees, I will beg him to let me stay here.'

"'Listen, my friend,' I said earnestly, and took hold of the flowing silk sleeves of her dress. 'It will be for your young lady's best good if you are parted from her. This much I know, that Professor Mattoni has left the girl quite without means, and it is now high time she learned to put on her shoes and stockings alone. A poor demoiselle, of citizen's rank, needs no lady's maid. She must learn to work and to make herself useful.'

"'Oh, Heaven!' sobbed the little dried-up woman, 'I thought she was to be a guest in this house, and you will make a servant of her.'

"A harsh answer was at my tongue's end. Had her tenderness for the girl made this woman perfectly crazy? At any rate, she was not to be reasoned with. 'Go down-stairs,' said I, in vexation, 'and carry your complaint to the master. He will know better, at least, how to make you comprehend what sort of a position Susanna Mattoni is to occupy here.'

"She dried her tears, seized a candle, and flew to the mirror, bustled about with comb and brush, and spread over her yellow face something from various little jars. I began to feel a real horror of the old woman, with her artifices. Now she tied her cap-strings afresh, pulled from the trunk a lace-edged handkerchief, and holding it theatrically in her hand, said she was ready to pay her respects to the master.

"'Were you formerly on the stage?' I asked, wondering at her red, full cheeks.

"'For ten years, Mademoiselle!' she replied; 'I played the gay, her mother'—she pointed to Susanna—'the tragic lovers. Oh, it was glorious, that acting together!'

"What she further related I did not understand. 'Merciful Heaven!' I faltered, as I opened the door softly and showed her out into the hall, 'what has Klaus brought upon us, in his kind-heartedness?'

"I sat still by the girl's bed, and looked at the young face. God only knew in what slough this fair flower had grown! It was clear that the old woman must go away, if anything was ever to be made of the girl; please God it might not be too late!

"The light from the candles scarcely sufficed to light up the nearest objects. Dense obscurity lay in the corners, but the oil-portrait of the Mischief-maker was feebly illuminated, and her black eyes seemed to give me a demoniacal look. A vague fear came over me; involuntarily I folded my hands in prayer: 'O Lord, Thy ways are wonderful! Lead us gently, let not the peace go out from us that has dwelt so long beneath this roof, let no second Mischief-maker have crossed this threshold, preserve the old, sacred bond between Klaus and Anna Maria. Amen!'

"At this moment the door opened and the old actress came back. She did not deign to look at me, but knelt down by the bed, laid her head on the pillow, and began to weep bitterly.

"'Isa! Isa!' murmured Susanna in her sleep. The old woman raised her head and pressed the dark hair to her lips.

"'I am going, Mademoiselle,' she whispered to me; 'no one has a heart here in this house. But if a hair of her head is hurt, or a tear falls from her eyes, I—I—' She gasped out a few words more, and threw herself down again beside the bed.

"'When shall you leave?' I asked.

"'Early in the morning,' she replied, in a lifeless tone.

"'Then lie down now, and go to sleep,' I said, pointing to the sofa, and prepared to leave the room.

"'Oh, Mademoiselle!' She sprang up and held me fast. 'Promise me you will be kind to Susanna, you will speak a kind word to her if she cries!'

"'Certainly, as far as I can; but she will receive only kindness from every one here.'

"'Not from the blonde lady,' she said. 'She is a girl without a heart; perhaps she never had one, perhaps it is dead. She does not know what youth, beauty, and love are. She never laughs. I notice that people who cannot laugh are envious of every being that can be happy, that pleases others by its charm; she will never love Susanna!'

"She spoke pathetically and theatrically, yet a tone of deep pain rang through her words.

"'Life is so serious,' I returned.

"'But laughing, cheerfulness, beauty are the air she breathes,' began the strange person again.

"'I promise you to look after the child,' said I, about to go; but in vain. She held me by the dress, and begged me to hear first, for God's sake, that it was not tyranny or arbitrary choice that bound her to the child, but a sacred promise. And whether I would or not, I had to listen to a story which the old woman delivered as if she were on the stage, and which, in spite of the whispered tone in which it was given, was, by means of gestures and rolling of the eyes, a perfect specimen of high mimic art. I could not now repeat the words as they came from the lips of the old actress, but only know now that she contrived to announce that she was just forty years old and had been very beautiful. The old song came into my head, which a poet puts into the mouth of his old harpist: