An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (27 page)

“And then I saw that he was right. So I just ran away from the Schliekers. I won’t try to injure them. They’ll come to a bad end without my help.”

“The Schliekers are in a bad way already,” said the magistrate gravely. “Frau Schlieker is having fits again and Schlieker has been badly beaten up by Farmer Gau.”

“I saw it,” she whispered, and closed her eyes with a shudder.

She was silent, and then the magistrate laid a slender hand on her shoulder. “The Schliekers are both ill, Rosemarie. Who is going to look after their cattle?”

She eyed him doubtfully.

“Who will cook their food? And make the beds? And nurse them?”

Her eyes grew rounder and they filled with fear.

“I suppose no one from the village will go near them, Rosemarie?”

“No,” she whispered, very faintly.

“Listen, Rosemarie,” said the magistrate, and drew her toward him.

“Two or three years ago you came and told me I must take you away from the Gaus and put you in charge of the Schliekers—do you remember?”

“I didn’t know what they were like,” she whispered.

“So you do remember? The Schliekers gave up a good position on your account.”

“For money,” she whispered, “not for me.”

“Very well. But you were mistaken on that occasion and who is to bear the consequences of your mistake? You, or other people?—”

“No!—No!” she cried in an agonized voice, but this was not in answer to the little magistrate’s question.
There was something else in her mind, as he well understood.

“Remember what the old gentleman said about the truth, Rosemarie. Is it truthful to run away and hide?—”

She was silent, but her eyes strayed round the room with something of a hunted look.

“Rosemarie!” he said sternly, giving her a little shake. “I’ve been saying all this for your own good. You don’t believe me—very well then, now listen. We can’t just turn the Schliekers out. They haven’t done anything to deserve that, whatever they may be like—and I know them very well. They are a hard and heartless pair, but until now they have not really overworked you. Life isn’t all sugar and spice, and there are a great many children in the world who are a thousand times worse off than you are. Pull yourself together, my girl, and face it!”

She shook her head with a plaintive smile, and once more she whispered faintly: “No.”

“We entered into an agreement with them,” he went on patiently, “and guaranteed them a hundred marks a month—you knew all about it, Rosemarie. It is silly to abuse them now because they want their money.”

“They’re stealing,” said Rosemarie defiantly.

“Rubbish!” said the magistrate angrily. “Don’t come to a magistrate with that sort of wild talk. What are they stealing? And what are they doing with it?”

“I can’t give you any names,” she whispered.

“There you are, Rosemarie. That’s slander—and you should be ashamed of yourself. I suppose you make up these stories in bed and then believe them, eh?” He laughed. “No, really, Rosemarie, you know what the Schliekers are like. What would become of them if we
bundled them out of the village? I couldn’t do such a thing, but supposing I did, what would become of them?”

No answer.

“You won’t say, but you know. They would come to grief altogether, and that would be your fault and my fault. You don’t really want to ruin them, do you? Show some spirit, my girl, and pull yourself together. It’s bad business to go wandering about the countryside and let a poor idiot lame himself for life.”

She shivered and he went on:

“But it’s true, Rosemarie. No, do your duty for once in a way: go back to the Schliekers, and be a brave girl until all this has blown over. Then we will see whether we can’t take you away from them decently and in good order. What about it, Rosemarie?”

No. She heard the woman’s harsh and angry voice, and the man’s smooth and oily tones. “I can’t,” she whispered. “They’re much, much worse than any of you think.”

The magistrate let her go so suddenly that she almost fell. He was pale with anger. “Well, Doctor!” he exclaimed irritably. “She won’t. She’s a coward. Hang it all, I’ve no patience with her!”

She was horrified to realize that the doctor had been in the room—how long she could not tell. Her pale face flushed, and she looked down at the floor.

“I think we had better have some breakfast,” said the doctor quietly. “That will do us all good. And then we will take Fräulein Thürke to call on the poor invalid Schliekers, and see what happens. And if you won’t stay, Fräulein Thürke, I promise I won’t try to persuade you.
And now will you please pour out the coffee for us? I, for one, shall be very glad of a cup.”

The magistrate was glad of one, too, for he was neither old enough nor young enough to let his temper interfere with his appetite.

Meanwhile, Rosemarie sat disconsolately over her breakfast, not enjoying such luxuries as herring and cold meat nearly as much as she ought to have. She barely listened to the two men’s conversation, though they were discussing the various forms of eccentricity exemplified by Stillfritz, Philip, and the old Professor.

Of the Professor, Magistrate Schulz had heard a good deal, through Constable Gneis and Paul Schlieker, from the Stillfritzes and Gottschalk, and also from Rosemarie; but, as Rosemarie realized, he had taken quite a false view of the old gentleman.

In the end, therefore, she had to interrupt and tell the whole story from the start: how Philip, in defiance of the bylaws of Mecklenburg, had borne her message to Berlin; how the Professor’s visit ended in the coalshed; how he had finally taken refuge in the Vogels’ shed.

“And there he still is, Rosemarie, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Rosemarie, with rather a shamefaced air. “So much happened last night that I quite forgot about him. And I’m sure he’s freezing and he won’t get any coffee and he’ll be worrying about me and Philip.”

“There, Rosemarie,” said the magistrate, adopting his stern voice once more. “You see what comes of your behavior. You wicked young woman!”

She hung her head; she felt the young doctor’s bright clear eyes upon her, and was ashamed. But a voice within her said: “I can’t and I won’t!”

“How would this do?” said Dr. Kimmknirsch suddenly. “Tangelmann, the brewer’s agent, has a car. I’ll borrow it, and drive Fräulein Thürke to the Schliekers first, and then fetch the old gentleman—”

After all, Rosemarie, a country girl of only sixteen, could hardly fail to thrill at the prospect of driving with the young doctor in a real car.

The magistrate wagged his head: “Very kind of you, Herr Doctor. But I don’t see why you should take all this trouble. It really isn’t any concern of yours.”

“Indeed, it is,” said the doctor gravely, with a faint quiver at the corners of his mouth. “They are all my patients.”

He said this with such a sidelong glance at Rosemarie that she had to dive under the table for her napkin.

In which a runaway child goes home, but does not stay there

T
HIS AUTUMN DAY
, that had begun so brightly and cheerfully for the Professor and his godchild, broke very gray and gloomy for the Schliekers. It was not merely that they had to get up early to feed the cattle in the gray October mist before the sun was fairly up; they had also lain awake almost all night in pain and anxiety. Mali could no longer face her destiny and Paul was tortured by suspicion—indeed, they were no longer on speaking terms. And so, after feeding the cattle, they ate a hurried breakfast in the kitchen, and Paul Schlieker put on his cap and went out of the house. Mali called after him, “Where are you going, Paul?” adding with a sneer, “You’ll only do something foolish again, and get us into a worse mess than before.” But he made no answer, and was already out of earshot when he muttered, “Damned old fool!” He then hurried to the upper village as fast as his aching limbs would carry him.

It was still twilight as he made his way into the bushes
by the bakehouse opposite the Gaus’ farmyard—which was fortunate, as he did not want anyone to see him watching. He had not seen a bicycle outside the inn, or outside the Gaus’ farm: evidently Constable Gneis had not arrived. But he would turn up at any minute, as Schlieker had impressed on the magistrate the evening before that the house must be searched early, if this girl were to be caught in bed. And she would not get away from him a second time, for all his broken ribs.

The chill darkness lifted, day dawned, but no one came. The teams set out for the fields, the Gaus’ gate opened and the first dung cart creaked into the road. Two plow horses followed with Strohmeier sitting on one of them barebacked, and then came the cows. Yes, there was Hütefritz whistling behind them, the insolent little rascal who had yelled at him from the attic. Schlieker eyed him grimly: two dogs were trotting at his side. The second was Bello—so it
was
Bello that Schlieker had heard barking that night.

He had meant to watch the proceedings unobserved, but this was more than he could stand: he put three fingers in his mouth and whistled.

Bello threw up his head and listened. So did Hütefritz, and glanced at the old bakehouse, toward which the dog had darted, and gave a knowing nod. As Hütefritz passed on, Bello slipped whimpering and yelping into the bushes to where his master stood concealed.

Then came a whistle from the road—Hütefritz. The dog turned. Schlieker whistled. The dog stopped, whining distractedly. Hütefritz whistled again, and the dog leapt out into the road.

“Bello!” shouted Schlieker savagely. The dog barked,
wagged its tail frantically, and looked back and forth from the cows to the bakehouse.

“Come here, Bello!” shouted Schlieker.

At that moment Farmer Wilhelm Gau appeared at his yard gate, pitchfork in hand. Schlieker was silent. Hütefritz whistled again, the dog gave one last look at the now voiceless bushes, and with a yelp of relief dashed after the cows into the open light of day.

Schlieker peered silently through the elder twigs as his enemy’s tall form, pitchfork in hand, strolled ponderously across the street toward the bakehouse. Had he acted quickly, he could have slipped round by the garden more or less under cover, but his powers of decision seemed to have failed him. He stood staring like a man spellbound, and a far from characteristic thought passed through his mind. The bakehouse was on community land. He had a perfect right to be where he was. Farmer Gau made his way through the bushes and glared at the spy, who blinked, trying to pass the situation off with his old contemptuous smile—but this time it seemed to fail of its effect.

For a while they were silent, while Gau seemed to be pondering, as though the sight of the other’s face had shaken his resolve.

“The whole dirty business isn’t worth the trouble!” he observed. “I’m sick of you and of the Thürke girl, too.”

Schlieker eyed him scornfully—did the man suspect that his house was to be searched?—and licked his dry lips.

“She’s hiding in my old cowshed,” said the farmer and looked through Schlieker as though he could not see him and were talking to himself.

Schlieker muttered a curse. Of course—fool that he was for never thinking of it! She had run off into the forest and taken that old scarecrow with her.

“The Professor?” he asked, almost stuttering in his excitement. “Is the Professor there, too?”

“So you know all about it now?” said the other. “And you’ve got what was coming to you.”

The farmer’s eyes glittered ominously as he spoke. But Schlieker was past all constraint, “Yes, you’re going to pay through the nose for that, Wilhelm!” he said venomously.

“It doesn’t worry me,” replied Wilhelm Gau, shouldering his pitchfork as though he had finished pitching dung and going his way.

Schlieker waited until the massive form had disappeared through the opposite gate and then he, too, departed. This was the third theory regarding Marie’s whereabouts, and he believed it as firmly as he had the other two.

The only question was: how soon, in his battered condition, could he reach the old cowshed? It was impossible to drive through the forest and his boat was gone. He might take one of the numerous other craft lying on the shore, but he doubted that he could row. He went through the motions but his chest began to feel as if the broken ribs were stabbing his lung.