An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (33 page)

“He’s nailing up my window,” answered Rosemarie.

The sick woman closed her eyes for a moment. Then she looked malignantly at Rosemarie. “You must go away. You always bring us bad luck.”

Rosemarie did not answer.

“Tell him to come in,” said Mali. “I want to speak to him. Then you can get away.”

Rosemarie shook her head.

“But you must! You must! If you go, everything will come right again.” She broke off, and looked at Rosemarie with angry eyes. “Nothing but bad luck,” she whispered. “Fetch him now.”

Rosemarie went.

“Well, I’ve made a good job of it,” jeered Schlieker. “You needn’t think you’ll get away again—hey? What does she want? She’ll have to wait. Damn all women.”

But Mali was now screaming so loud that he had to go.

“Well, what is it? Haven’t you learnt patience yet? Send her to milk the cows?—why, she’d only run away again, you fool. Ill, are you? I know all about that. And I’ve seen that young fool of a doctor.” He stroked his beard and looked savagely from the woman to the girl. “What are you staring at, you little fool?” he roared. “Didn’t you hear you were to go and milk the cows? Get along out with you!”

He let her go in front of him and for a moment, while she was putting on her clogs in the passage, she was alone. There, on a nail beside her milking apron, hung the jacket—she could not help herself, she grabbed at the pocket: the pocketbook was gone.

At that instant Schlieker appeared. “Ha! what’s this!” And he caught sight of her hand and the dangling jacket. “Oho!” he said very slowly. That was all, but she realized that she had given herself away. Then he added curtly, “Now milk the cows.”

They crossed the yard, he dogging her heels like a prison warder. She went into the stable, he stopped in the doorway. As she reached for the milking stool she heard him say: “You needn’t let us know when you’ve finished milking, Marie. We’re not in a hurry—I’ll fetch you.” He turned to go and added: “You may like to know that I am now going to burn the pocketbook and the purse. No one can trace the money then, you silly little fool!”

He laughed contemptuously and slammed the door. She heard the rattle of the bolt, she was a prisoner. She leaned against the cornbin, motionless, tearless—It was useless, quite useless. He was right, she had no weapon against him now, he was more than a match for her. She was a prisoner, and would always remain so. Perhaps, in
the distant future, these people would realize that Schlieker was not fit to be in charge of her—but then it would be too late. It was already too late. This was defeat.

Of all those with whom she had spent those last four days, the clearest figure was that of the old Professor—the clearest and the most significant. That innocent, helpless and absurd old man had been perfectly right, he alone. Truth was the finest weapon. If she had not foolishly tried to outwit Schlieker, to catch the fox in the stolen money-trap—she would never have come back, she would be free. But the trap had closed, and it was she who was caught.

For a long, long while she stood by the cornbin, as twilight slowly fell. There was no hurry about the milking, she knew he would not fetch her for a long while. First one cow and then another turned its head and lowed. “I’m coming, Olsch,” she said, but did not come. Next morning the young doctor would appear, but she would not be allowed to see him—Schlieker would take care of that. The Professor would ask after her, and would be sent off on a false scent. There were the children, but she shook her head. One mishap—the injury to Philip—was enough. She could not let them take any more risks: on that point the little magistrate had been quite right.

The horses whinnied and stamped. Mechanically she opened the cornbin, shook out some chaff and oats into a sieve and fed them. Then she sat down under a cow and began to milk. A long, long time passed, the milk stood in two pails near the door, but no one came. No, she would not call out, though it was now quite dark.

She stepped under the window, from which Mali had screamed out over the lake, before having her fit. That too had been partly Rosemarie’s fault. In that despondent hour she was inclined to take all the guilt upon herself. She had been stupid, wicked, and silly.

Beneath the window she heard a rustle, then a faint yelp. She knew at once what it was. “Bello!” she cried softly, and then, “Hütefritz!”

“Are you there, Rosemarie?” he whispered. “Has he locked you in?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Why did you come back?” asked the boy savagely. “I suppose it was that stuck-up chap with the car that made you. And now he’s beat it—and here you are!”

“Oh, Fritz,” she said weakly.

“And that old Professor of yours, he’s no better. Maxe has just brought the news from the station. He’s gone off to Berlin. . . .”

“The Professor, Fritz?”

“Nobody else. Little Schulz himself put him into the train. And the old man hadn’t even got the money for his fare—I don’t think much of your friends!”

“My dear Fritz,” she almost wailed. “I’m so sad already, and now the Professor’s gone.”

It was more than she could bear. Her eyes filled with tears and she began to cry.

“Well, I had to tell you, Rosemarie,” he said apologetically. “Do stop blubbering. I’ll get you out all right. I’ll slip round across the yard.”

“Listen, Fritz,” she said hurriedly and swallowed her tears. “Don’t do it—please don’t. Leave me here.”

“Leave you shut up!” he exclaimed in amazement.

“Fritz,” she said imploringly, “please don’t. He’ll set more traps. Or he’ll shoot. He’s got a gun.”

“I’d like to see him try!” growled Hütefritz. “He’ll go to jail if he does.”

“That won’t worry him, Fritz. But it isn’t only that. I don’t
want
to come out. I’m not going to run away again. I’m going to stay here.”

“You’re going to stay here—with the Schliekers?”

“Yes, Fritz, it’s the best thing to do, believe me.” She tried frantically to think of a lie that would convince him, for he would never understand the truth. “It’s a scheme of the magistrate’s—if I stay here, they’ll be able to catch Schlieker more easily.”

“The magistrate was here just now,” said Hütefritz doubtfully, “but he went away again.”

“There you are!” said Rosemarie, though the news filled her with despair. The magistrate had not even asked to see her.

“Funny sort of scheme,” said the lad gloomily. “You seem to be out of luck anyway. Look here, Rosemarie, you must let me help you. Say, you should see your window, it’s barred like a prison cell.”

“I know, I know,” said Rosemarie eagerly, “that’s part of the scheme. Fritz, my dear Fritz, please do what I ask you for once. Stay away for three or four days—that’s the best thing you can do. Perhaps he’s behind you at this minute. Remember Philip.”

Her warning seemed to have summoned the enemy; the lad gave a shout, the dog barked and Schlieker’s voice called: “Stand, or I’ll shoot!”

A crackle of twigs, rustling footsteps, then silence.

Rosemarie stood by the window, holding her breath.
No, he did not shoot. Indeed he had no gun with him—it was only a threat. Two minutes later the bolt shot back, and Schlieker stood in the doorway. “Come on out!”

Silently she picked up the pails, silently she walked across the yard, silently he followed. Not a word about the visitor who had fled.

Frau Schlieker was moving about in the kitchen, fully dressed, but waxen-pale. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground and did not speak a word. There was something to eat after all, the dinner that Rosemarie had prepared, potatoes and a bacon stew. All three sat down at the dirty kitchen table to a plateful of the sodden greasy pulp. Now and then Mali shot a furtive, angry look at her husband from under her bent brows.

He laid down his fork: “Muck!” he said. “Marie’s fault, of course; always Marie’s fault. By the way,” he went on, so enjoying her hangdog look that he could not resist tormenting her, “little Schulz came to see you. He sent you his regards.”

She did not answer.

“Well, what have you got to say?” he roared in a sudden access of anger. “I said he sent you his regards!”

“Thank you,” whispered Rosemarie.

Schlieker grinned. “You can’t put it over on me, my girl. As a matter of fact he didn’t send you any regards. He’s as sick as hell of you. I told him you’d run away again.”

Rosemarie raised her eyes and looked at the man.

“Oh, yes, I did,” laughed Schlieker. “I told him you’d gone off to the hut in the morning to that fatheaded old friend of yours—wasn’t I right, Marie? Always tells the
truth, old Paul does, hey?” He grinned at her provocatively. “And I told him you hadn’t come back yet,” he went on in high good humor. “The little man wasn’t at all surprised, he always thinks he’s up to everything. ‘But the Professor has gone to Berlin,’ says he, ‘she can’t be with him now.’

“ ‘Oh well, she’s on the prowl somewhere,’ I says. ‘Marie is a regular little vagabond. You know, sir—parsons’ kids and millers’ cattle never come to any good, as the saying goes.’

“ ‘But the money!’ he yells. ‘She’s looking after the Professor’s money!’—He was in a stew, I can tell you.

“ ‘Money?’ says I. ‘Had she got any money, sir? Well, she’s very fond of money, and I don’t think we shall see her back again in a hurry.’

“And he believed it, Marie, he believed it at once.

“ ‘That girl’s an incessant nuisance,’ he growls, and off he goes.”

He eyed her scornfully. But she had ceased to mind his jeers; two great tears stole down her cheeks, nor did she attempt to conceal them.

“Cheer up, Marie,” he sneered. “Pity about that money—they’re on your trail, and Paul’s got it all the time! Shall I show it to you again and let you smell it, eh?—God damn my eyes!—”

He dodged too late. A fork, hurled across the table, hit him in the shoulder and stuck there, quivering.

“What!” he said softly, so utterly taken aback that he forgot to be angry. “What are you doing?— Mali?—You?—”

He looked at his wife in bewilderment, and then glanced down at the fork in his left shoulder. His wife
stood behind the table, pale and trembling with rage. “You swine,” she hissed, “if you work yourself up over that girl again, I’ll throw another fork at you. Now I know you for what you are!”

He laughed; but not his usual venomous laugh, it sounded almost embarrassed. “You wouldn’t throw things at your husband, Mali?”

“Yes, and I won’t stop at that!” she cried. “You seem to think I’ll stand anything. Oh, send her away, Paul,” she suddenly implored, “send her away. Give her the money, and let her go, this very minute. She brings us bad luck.”

She stood there panting, and stared at her husband and the girl.

“Mali—” he began.

“No, no!” she cried, “let us get away. Now—now, this very minute. The house brings us bad luck too. The roof is coming down on us, the beams are creaking and there are noises behind the walls— Paul! Paul! Do let us go!”

He jerked the fork out of his shoulder, and stepped quickly up to his wife. “It’s another fit,” he whispered. “See that she doesn’t fall, Marie.”

But there was no need for him to whisper. She no longer heard anything or knew where she was. “He won’t go,” she wailed. “He won’t—he won’t get rid of her.”

Marie blushed violently and suddenly felt damp and hot all over.

“The roof is falling, and it’s getting so dark. Ah!” cried Mali with a sudden shriek of ecstasy. “It’s on fire. Look at the flames, Paul!” And with a last wild cry—“Paul,
it’s on fire! Our bad luck’s on fire.” And she swayed.

“Catch her!” cried Schlieker.

They caught her—her body was rigid and her hands were clenched. . . .

“Lay her on the floor—no, nothing under her head, put a towel over her chest. There, that’s right—it’s a fit, the second today.”

He stiffened. He was quite another Schlieker. “And what a scene! How she went on—I didn’t know she had it in her!” He looked nervously about him. “I really did think for a moment that the place was on fire. It isn’t, is it, Marie?”

“No,” she said wearily in a low tone, “it’s not on fire.”

“It really seems,” he said, looking across the prostrate figure at the girl, “as though she were jealous. Silly old fool—it’s just her state of mind. I’d murder you sooner than I’d touch you.”

He looked at her, and in that look the old Schlieker returned: his fear was past.

“If you think, Marie,” he said, “that I’m going to give way over a scene like that, you’re a fool. I’m here and I’m going to stay here. Mali can scream the place down. And you’ll stay here too. That’s that. Catch hold—we’ll put her on her bed. I’ll undress her later on. You’d better give me the doctor’s tablets. They’re no good, of course, but the little rascal will send in his bill just the same. There, you’d better go to bed. You’ll see how nicely I’ve fixed up your room. No one is going to take you away from me this time.”

The girl walked past him into her room without a word.

“Don’t you want a light? Well, I wouldn’t have given you one, anyway.”

He shot the bolt outside her door and shuffled off, coughing and chuckling. Rosemarie was left alone in the darkness.