hour, month by month, year by year. Rosemarie felt she was struggling against a mounting stream.
In her solitude no one tried to understand or to help her. The flames flickered, the pine logs crackled and sputtered, little coals of fire glimmered through the ashes. She stared into the flames, her eyes felt dry and feverish, and—as she had done so many times before—she told her story to Frau von Wanzka, and old Herr Mühlenfeldt.
Not only was the allowance too high, these people were brutes and crooks. What had become of that fifteen hundredweight of rye last autumn? Where were all those apples? And was it right that he should feed the five foster children on her milk and put the allowance into his pocket?
“But you must prove all this, my child,” they said. “Who bought the rye and the apples? Schlieker used the money to buy coal and a new frock for you. No, getalong now, we’ve heard too much already. First you couldn’t stand the Gaus, and now that we have handed you over to the Schliekers, you can’t stand them either. No child can expect to choose its own porridge bowl.”
“Bah—these grownups,” thought Rosemarie, and savagely stabbed a log with the fire rake until the flames soared up the chimney.
She touched the sleeper’s hand gently and looked tenderly into the aged face, still kindly in sleep. She was sure she could lead him in the way she desired, she recognized him for what he was—a kind, rather unworldly old gentleman, who liked comfort and hated to say no.
For an instant a faint sense of disquiet stirred within her as she surveyed his delicate mouth and firm chin. She remembered that there was hardly anything on which they agreed. For an instant she felt a premonition of the force behind that persistent gentleness.
But only for an instant. She was sixteen, self-confident and sturdy. She believed that she could mold the world to her desires.
Little flames crackled and danced, Rosemarie lifted up her head. The flames danced and sang a song of victory,
her
song of victory. She had achieved much that day: she was rid of the Schliekers, she had tricked them over the five babies, she had probably got them into trouble, and she was quite alone with the old Professor, in the depths of the forest, five miles from Unsadel. He was secure, alone with her, in patience and in peace.
Chapter Eight
In which a council is held by night, and a state of siege declared against the Schliekers
R OSEMARIE SUDDENLY STARTED out of her dreams and doubts and hopes, a rush of cold air swept through the doorway, something soft dashed in with a yelp and thrust a head into her lap.
“Bello, darling,” she whispered joyfully. “Have you come too? Good dog—I knew you’d miss me. But be quiet, Bello, don’t wake the old gentleman.”
The dog’s hazel eyes looked up at her devotedly through a tangle of shaggy hair as he nuzzled against her knees in an ecstasy at having found his little mistress again.
Philip appeared in the doorway and whispered: “They’re here. Shall they come in, or will you come out?”
She tucked the rug over the sleeper’s knees and said: “I’ll come out.”
Grasping the dog by the collar, she tiptoed out of the hut. “Philip, you stay here. Call me if he wakes.”
A faint moon, in its last quarter, lit the clearing with a pallid glow in which Rosemarie could distinguish the faces of the little waiting group. She walked up to them and said: “Are you all there?”
It was Hütefritz who answered, “Yes, Rosemarie, all except Heini Beier. He wanted to come, but there’s still a light in the inn, so I suppose he couldn’t get away.”
“But I can see seven of you,” said Rosemarie.
“There’s a new one,” muttered Hütefritz rather awkwardly. “I didn’t want to bring him, but the others said we oughtn’t to put off anyone who wanted to help.”
“Quite right,” said Rosemarie quickly. “
All
the children in the village ought to stand
In her solitude no one tried to understand or to help her. The flames flickered, the pine logs crackled and sputtered, little coals of fire glimmered through the ashes. She stared into the flames, her eyes felt dry and feverish, and—as she had done so many times before—she told her story to Frau von Wanzka, and old Herr Mühlenfeldt.
Not only was the allowance too high, these people were brutes and crooks. What had become of that fifteen hundredweight of rye last autumn? Where were all those apples? And was it right that he should feed the five foster children on her milk and put the allowance into his pocket?
“But you must prove all this, my child,” they said. “Who bought the rye and the apples? Schlieker used the money to buy coal and a new frock for you. No, getalong now, we’ve heard too much already. First you couldn’t stand the Gaus, and now that we have handed you over to the Schliekers, you can’t stand them either. No child can expect to choose its own porridge bowl.”
“Bah—these grownups,” thought Rosemarie, and savagely stabbed a log with the fire rake until the flames soared up the chimney.
She touched the sleeper’s hand gently and looked tenderly into the aged face, still kindly in sleep. She was sure she could lead him in the way she desired, she recognized him for what he was—a kind, rather unworldly old gentleman, who liked comfort and hated to say no.
For an instant a faint sense of disquiet stirred within her as she surveyed his delicate mouth and firm chin. She remembered that there was hardly anything on which they agreed. For an instant she felt a premonition of the force behind that persistent gentleness.
But only for an instant. She was sixteen, self-confident and sturdy. She believed that she could mold the world to her desires.
Little flames crackled and danced, Rosemarie lifted up her head. The flames danced and sang a song of victory,
her
song of victory. She had achieved much that day: she was rid of the Schliekers, she had tricked them over the five babies, she had probably got them into trouble, and she was quite alone with the old Professor, in the depths of the forest, five miles from Unsadel. He was secure, alone with her, in patience and in peace.
Chapter Eight
In which a council is held by night, and a state of siege declared against the Schliekers
R OSEMARIE SUDDENLY STARTED out of her dreams and doubts and hopes, a rush of cold air swept through the doorway, something soft dashed in with a yelp and thrust a head into her lap.
“Bello, darling,” she whispered joyfully. “Have you come too? Good dog—I knew you’d miss me. But be quiet, Bello, don’t wake the old gentleman.”
The dog’s hazel eyes looked up at her devotedly through a tangle of shaggy hair as he nuzzled against her knees in an ecstasy at having found his little mistress again.
Philip appeared in the doorway and whispered: “They’re here. Shall they come in, or will you come out?”
She tucked the rug over the sleeper’s knees and said: “I’ll come out.”
Grasping the dog by the collar, she tiptoed out of the hut. “Philip, you stay here. Call me if he wakes.”
A faint moon, in its last quarter, lit the clearing with a pallid glow in which Rosemarie could distinguish the faces of the little waiting group. She walked up to them and said: “Are you all there?”
It was Hütefritz who answered, “Yes, Rosemarie, all except Heini Beier. He wanted to come, but there’s still a light in the inn, so I suppose he couldn’t get away.”
“But I can see seven of you,” said Rosemarie.
“There’s a new one,” muttered Hütefritz rather awkwardly. “I didn’t want to bring him, but the others said we oughtn’t to put off anyone who wanted to help.”
“Quite right,” said Rosemarie quickly. “
All
the children in the village ought to stand
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