me!” she cried, in an almost haughty tone. “And after all, Godfather, if you want to, you can pay her in Berlin later on.”
He heaved a deep sigh of relief. “True,” he said, “true. I never think of money. It was only today that Frau Stillfritz had to remind me about paying. You will remind me to pay for our lodging, Rosemarie, before we part?”
“Certainly,” she laughed. “But I fancy we shan’t part for a long, long time. Remember what you promised to think over, Godfather. You see, I want you not only to look after me, but to have me to live with you.”
“God bless my soul,” cried the Professor, much taken aback. “No, no, Rosemarie. We must not be hasty. We shall have to consider it all very carefully, and get proper advice. Besides, I don’t know whether you would like Berlin. . . .”
“Yes, I should,” she said pensively. She did not confess that she thought of him as living, not in Berlin, but on her Unsadel farm, in Schlieker’s place, though it was hard to imagine.
“Supper’s ready!” called Philip.
“Coming,” she answered. As she looked at him sitting by the fireplace, his head sunk wearily upon his chest, she was not a sixteen-year-old girl looking at a godfather who would soon be seventy, but a mother looking at a helpless child. She watched over him at supper—and a very odd supper it was, as the food supplies were rather restricted. There was pea soup made from pea sausage, and pink pudding made from pudding powder, but the Professor bravely ate everything, though with some apprehension. It was not at all the sort of meal which theWidow Müller provided. Meanwhile, Rosemarie prattled away, making him smile and feel that all was well.
And when the Professor was comfortably established with his Bible by the fireside as she washed up, she whispered something to Philip who disappeared noiselessly into the night.
Her work completed, she came back to the old man, sat down on a stool at his feet, and took his hand. Once he looked down from his book at her and smiled. They sat in silence side by side, the flames flickered and crackled and glowed, Professor Kittguss grew more and more tired, the book dropped into his lap, he went to sleep.
And still she sat silently by the fire, clasping the sleeper’s aged hand in her young fingers. She looked into the flames and reflected that this was the first evening in a long, long time when a scolding voice had not driven her weary feet to work.
She knew that it could not and ought not to go on. Her home at Unsadel called her, it was there that she should work and win repose. Her home was in peril, she knew only too well all the dodges and devices that Paul Schlieker, with the law at his back, could bring into play. Meanwhile, what a lovely fleeting moment this was!
Her Guardians would not listen to her. They had assigned the Schliekers an allowance of a hundred marks a month, which they said was not too much for two people’s work. Perhaps it was not too much, but they did not consider whether those five and thirty acres would yield a hundred marks a month or how much, or little, work was done for so much money.
The Schliekers were purposely lazy, they deliberately neglected everything. Then, at the end of the year, PaulSchlieker would appear before the Guardians and make his usual complaint. The farm hadn’t produced enough to pay the allowance. Herr Pastor Thürke may have preached very good sermons, but he knew no more about farming than a cow does about selling mustard—imagine buying such a wretched farm! A man could sweat till he dropped on such barren soil. Nothing comes of nothing, as the dog said when he ate the sausage, so he must ask for a mortgage to guarantee the allowance.
The Guardians took little interest; they agreed to the mortgage, six hundred marks the first year, eight hundred the second, and this year it would probably be a thousand. And then on top of the mortgages there was the interest mounting up, hour by
He heaved a deep sigh of relief. “True,” he said, “true. I never think of money. It was only today that Frau Stillfritz had to remind me about paying. You will remind me to pay for our lodging, Rosemarie, before we part?”
“Certainly,” she laughed. “But I fancy we shan’t part for a long, long time. Remember what you promised to think over, Godfather. You see, I want you not only to look after me, but to have me to live with you.”
“God bless my soul,” cried the Professor, much taken aback. “No, no, Rosemarie. We must not be hasty. We shall have to consider it all very carefully, and get proper advice. Besides, I don’t know whether you would like Berlin. . . .”
“Yes, I should,” she said pensively. She did not confess that she thought of him as living, not in Berlin, but on her Unsadel farm, in Schlieker’s place, though it was hard to imagine.
“Supper’s ready!” called Philip.
“Coming,” she answered. As she looked at him sitting by the fireplace, his head sunk wearily upon his chest, she was not a sixteen-year-old girl looking at a godfather who would soon be seventy, but a mother looking at a helpless child. She watched over him at supper—and a very odd supper it was, as the food supplies were rather restricted. There was pea soup made from pea sausage, and pink pudding made from pudding powder, but the Professor bravely ate everything, though with some apprehension. It was not at all the sort of meal which theWidow Müller provided. Meanwhile, Rosemarie prattled away, making him smile and feel that all was well.
And when the Professor was comfortably established with his Bible by the fireside as she washed up, she whispered something to Philip who disappeared noiselessly into the night.
Her work completed, she came back to the old man, sat down on a stool at his feet, and took his hand. Once he looked down from his book at her and smiled. They sat in silence side by side, the flames flickered and crackled and glowed, Professor Kittguss grew more and more tired, the book dropped into his lap, he went to sleep.
And still she sat silently by the fire, clasping the sleeper’s aged hand in her young fingers. She looked into the flames and reflected that this was the first evening in a long, long time when a scolding voice had not driven her weary feet to work.
She knew that it could not and ought not to go on. Her home at Unsadel called her, it was there that she should work and win repose. Her home was in peril, she knew only too well all the dodges and devices that Paul Schlieker, with the law at his back, could bring into play. Meanwhile, what a lovely fleeting moment this was!
Her Guardians would not listen to her. They had assigned the Schliekers an allowance of a hundred marks a month, which they said was not too much for two people’s work. Perhaps it was not too much, but they did not consider whether those five and thirty acres would yield a hundred marks a month or how much, or little, work was done for so much money.
The Schliekers were purposely lazy, they deliberately neglected everything. Then, at the end of the year, PaulSchlieker would appear before the Guardians and make his usual complaint. The farm hadn’t produced enough to pay the allowance. Herr Pastor Thürke may have preached very good sermons, but he knew no more about farming than a cow does about selling mustard—imagine buying such a wretched farm! A man could sweat till he dropped on such barren soil. Nothing comes of nothing, as the dog said when he ate the sausage, so he must ask for a mortgage to guarantee the allowance.
The Guardians took little interest; they agreed to the mortgage, six hundred marks the first year, eight hundred the second, and this year it would probably be a thousand. And then on top of the mortgages there was the interest mounting up, hour by
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