"Susanna had long been in bed when Klaus and I stood together in the sitting-room again. I had firmly resolved to inform him of my observations of the evening before, for I saw that Anna Maria was not to be spoken to again about Susanna.

"'Klaus!' I began. He was walking slowly up and down, his hands behind him, and an anxious wrinkle on his brow. 'Klaus, do you know where the old actress is living now?'

"He stood still. 'No, aunt, but--do not take offence--it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Forgive me, my head is so full.'

"I was silent. 'Good!' thought I; 'he is indifferent at last, then.'

"'Please tell me,' he now turned around to me, 'what you think about Anna Maria? I do not understand her at all as she is now.'

"'You do not either of you understand each other, as you are now,' I replied, not without sharpness.

"Klaus blushed. 'That may be,' he said, stroking his face.

"'Klaus,' I continued, 'do not let it go further, do not let this discord between you take root. You are the eldest, Klaus, a reasonable man----'

"'No, aunt, no; in this I am right!' he interrupted vehemently. 'You do not know what pa.s.sed between us this morning----'

"He broke off abruptly and turned to his newspaper at at the table, for Anna Maria had come in. The basket of keys hung at her side, and she had tied a white ap.r.o.n over her dress. Brockelmann followed her with the silver that had been in use to-day, and was now rubbed up, ready to be put away. Anna Maria opened the carved corner-cupboard, and began to lay away the shining silver, piece by piece, in its place.

"Klaus had seated himself and was turning over the newspapers; the clock already pointed to midnight. The windows were open, and from time to time faint flashes of lightning lighted up the sky over the barns and stables. I had become wide awake again all at once; I could not and would not let these two be alone again to-night; they should not speak together about Susanna.

"But Anna Maria now closed the cupboard and went up to her brother.

'Klaus,' she said in a soft voice, 'let us not leave each other thus; let us talk the matter over once more, quietly.'

"He laid down the paper and looked at her in surprise. A faint flush lay on her face, and her att.i.tude was almost beseeching. 'Gladly, Anna Maria,' he replied, rising; 'you mean concerning Susanna's future employment? Have you any proposals to make?'

"'Yes,' she said, firmly; and after a pause continued: 'I will yield to your opinion that physical labor is not the right thing for Susanna. But a life of dreamy idleness I consider far more injurious to her. Indeed, Klaus, my personal feelings toward Susanna do not speak in this. I do not hate her, but that her nature is uncongenial to me I must own. So, then, without regard to that, Klaus, I must repeat what I said this morning: let Susanna go away from here, take care of her somewhere else; she is out of place here; do it for her own sake.'

"She had spoken beseechingly, and stepping nearer him, laid her right hand on his shoulder.

"'Well, what more?' he asked, rapidly stroking his beard. 'Where would you think best to banish this child?'

"'Send her to a good boarding-school; let her be a teacher; she is poor, and it is an honorable position, or----'

"'You are probably thinking of Mademoiselle Lenon in this connection, Anna Maria?' rejoined Klaus. 'I still have her "honorable position"

distinctly before my eyes, which she held in dealing with your stubbornness. If there ever was a being totally unfit to take upon herself the martyrdom of a governess, it is Susanna Mattoni!'

"A slight shadow pa.s.sed over Anna Maria's face as he spoke of her stubbornness, but she was silent.

"'Perhaps,' continued Klaus bitterly, 'you would also like to make an actress of her because she happens to have a voice and recites charmingly.' He pushed away the newspapers and sprang up. 'I am unutterably exasperated, Anna Maria, that you should venture to repeat this proposition. I was not prepared for it, I must confess! What makes you appear so hostile toward Susanna? Do you know, you who live here in happy security, what it means for a girl so young, so inexperienced, to be thus thrust into the world? Surely not! You fulfil your duties here, you care and labor as hundreds would not do in your place; but here you act the mistress, inapproachable, untouched by all the common things of life. You do not know, even by name, those humiliations which a woman in a dependent position must endure. I know, indeed, that hundreds _must_ endure them, and hundreds, perhaps, do not feel what they are deprived of; but this girl _would_ feel it, and would be unhappy, most unhappy!

"He paused for a moment and looked at Anna Maria. She had clasped her hands, and coldly and steadily returned his look; an almost mocking smile lay on her lips, and put Klaus beside himself.

"'You certainly have no comprehension of this!' he cried, his face flushed with anger. 'You have everything, Anna Maria, but you have never possessed a heart! You can do everything but that which glorifies and enn.o.bles a woman--love. Anna Maria, that you cannot do! I feel deep pity for you, for you lack a woman's sweetest charm; love and pity go hand-in-hand. I could not imagine you as a solicitous wife, or even as a mother; how can I expect pity for a strange child?'

"'Klaus! for G.o.d's sake, stop!' I entreated in mortal terror, for Anna Maria had grown pale as death, and her eyes stared out into the dark night with a vacant, terrified expression, but not a word of defence pa.s.sed her lips. Klaus shook off my hand, and continued with unchecked vehemence:

"'It is time for me to tell you, Anna Maria; it must be said some time.

I am your guardian, and it is my right and my duty. I must, alas! accuse myself of having given you too much liberty, and you have abused it. You have become cold and hard; I said before I could not imagine you as a loving mother, as a wife--that you will never be, for you will not bend.

You would never do a rash, thoughtless act, but you are unable to make a sacrifice from real affection from your innermost heart--because you do not understand loving, Anna Maria. As I looked at Edwin to-day, my heart and courage sank; if ever a man was created to win a maiden's love, it is he! But you, Anna Maria, just as you let him go away, so you will let Susanna; it is not hard for you, because you have no heart----'

"'Stop, Klaus, stop!' Anna Maria's voice rang through the room, in piercing woe; despairingly she stretched out her arms toward him. 'Say nothing more, not one word; I cannot bear it!' One could see that she wanted to say more; her trembling lips parted, but no sound pa.s.sed them, and in another moment she had turned and gone quickly out of the room.

"'Oh, Klaus!' I cried, weeping, 'you were too hard; you had no occasion to speak so!' But I stood alone in my tears, for Klaus also left the room, for the first time failing to pay attention to his aunt, and slammed the door behind him.

"Yes, I stood alone and believed myself dreaming! Was this the comfortable old room at Butze, where formerly peace had dwelt bodily?

The candles flickered restlessly on the table, a chilling draught of air came through the open window, and thunder faintly muttered in the distance. No, peace had flown, and injustice, care, and animosity had entered, had pressed their way between two human hearts which till now had been united in true love; and there, up-stairs, lay and slept a fair young fellow-creature, and the picture of the Mischief-maker smiled down on her, as if glad of a successor. Yes, Klaus was right, and Anna Maria was right; how was the difference to be made up? Ah! how quickly is a bitter, crushing word said and heard, but a whole world of tears cannot make it unsaid again."

CHAPTER IX.

"I could not sleep that night; I rose from my bed again and sat down by my window in the gray dawn, and my old heart was fearful for what must come now. I loved both the children so much, and, G.o.d knows, I would have given years of my useless life if I could have blotted out the last few months. And I was groping about wholly in the dark, for Anna Maria was reserved and uncommunicative, and Klaus--what would he do? He could not come and say, 'Aunt Rosamond, I love Susanna Mattoni, and I wish to marry her!' I should have had to throw up my hands and laugh! Klaus, the last Hegewitz, and Susanna Mattoni, the child of an obscure actress! And Klaus would have had to laugh with me.

"It was a rainy day, just beginning; wonderfully cool air came through the open windows and the leaves rustled in the wind, and the rain pattered on the roofs; the maids were running across the court with their milk-pails, the poultry was being fed, and Brockelmann talking to the maids, and there went the bailiff in the pasture; everything was as usual and yet so different.

"Then a carriage came rolling into the court-yard. Heavens! that was our own with the brown span. It stopped before the front steps, and Klaus came out of the house and greeted the gentleman getting out. I had leaned far out of the window, but now drew back in alarm--it was the doctor, our old Reuter, and at this early hour! Anna Maria was my first thought. I ran out; but no, there she was, just coming out of Susanna's room. She still wore her blue dress of yesterday, but there were blood-stains here and there on the large white ap.r.o.n.

"'Susanna?' I faltered. She nodded, and gave me her hand. 'Go in, aunt; I wish to speak with Reuter first,' she said softly; 'Susanna is ill.'

Almost stunned, I let myself be pushed through the open door. The curtains were drawn, but on the chimney-piece a candle was burning, and threw its dim, flickering light on the girl's face, so that I could see the dark fever-roses which had bloomed upon it during the night. Her eyes were wide open, but she did not know me; she thought I was Isa.

"'Isa, I have sung, too; Isa, don't be angry; it was so beautiful in the moonlight, and it did not hurt me at all.' And she began to sing:

"'Home have I come, my heart burns with pain-- Oh! that I only could wander again!'

"And then she pa.s.sed her small hands over her white night-dress. 'Take away the red flowers, Isa!'

"I laid a white cloth over it for her. Poor child! The swoon, the laughing, the sweet singing, that was already fever.

"Old Reuter came into the room and stepped up to the bed. Anna Maria stood behind him, the torment of expectation on her pale face, and from outside, through the unlatched door, came the sound of heavy breathing; that must be Klaus. The old gentleman felt Susanna's pulse long and cautiously; he was not a man of many words, and one could scarcely find out from him what one's disease was; but he turned at last to Anna Maria:

"'A pitiful little lady, Fraulein; the good G.o.d made her expressly for a knick-knack table; wrapped in cotton, sent to the South, and treated like a princess, without making any sort of exertion herself, something might yet be made of her. But first'--he drew his watch from his pocket and took hold of her hand again--'first we have enough to do here. Who will undertake the nursing?'

"'Doctor, do you think that bodily exertion--I mean, very early rising and domestic activity--could be the cause?' asked Anna Maria, with faltering voice.

"'Up at four, and from the kitchen into the cold milk-cellar, and then again in the glowing sun, at the bleaching place, and so alternately, was it not?' asked the old gentleman. 'By all means the surest way to completely prostrate a person of such a const.i.tution; moreover, you might have perceived it before, Fraulein.'

"Anna Maria grew a shade paler. 'But day before yesterday she walked for an hour in the heat, and sang a great deal,' I interposed, for I felt sorry for Anna Maria. "'Then one thing has led to another,' declared the old gentleman. 'Singing is poison--no more of that! Will you undertake the nursing, Fraulein Hegewitz?' he asked me.

"'No, I,' replied Anna Maria.

"'Isa! Isa!' called Susanna.

"'Where is she staying?' asked Anna Maria, while Dr. Reuter had gone out to write a prescription.

"'In Dambitz,' I returned, oppressed; but she did not look at all surprised. She only begged me to stay with Susanna till she had changed her dress, and sent a messenger to the old woman. Then she came back, so as not to stay long away from Susanna's bed, for, strangely enough, Mademoiselle Isa Pfannenschmidt did not appear.