An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (13 page)

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, get
along 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.

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 together.”

“But it’s Otsche Gau,” said Hütefritz doggedly.

“Otsche Gau!” cried Rosemarie, and was silent.

The others too kept still. Falling back, they left the new recruit to face Rosemarie alone. The night was very still, a single gust of wind rustled through the treetops and passed.

Otsche Gau, a small, stocky, black-haired boy, had been Rosemarie’s bitterest enemy for many a year. He had treated his parents’ foster child in true Cinderella fashion—pinched and beaten her, bullied her, told tales on her; but now he blurted out: “I heard there was something doing against the Schliekers. I can’t stand the Schliekers. So if you’ll have me, Marie. . . .”

“My name’s Rosemarie,” she said. “If grownups don’t get my name right, I don’t worry. But we aren’t grownups, and I’m Rosemarie to you, Otsche!”

“Oh, all right,” drawled the boy. “My name’s really George, but I prefer to be called Otsche. However, if
you’ll let me bear a hand against the Schliekers, I’ll call you Rosemarie.”

“He’s a bit of a fathead, Rosemarie,” said Hütefritz slowly, “but he might be useful. . . .”

“Very well,” Rosemarie replied in a cool tone, “I’m ready to forget the past, Otsche, though you often treated me badly.”

“Now then, Rosemarie,” said Otsche, “how often did you step on my toes when no one was looking?”

“Well, well, let’s forget it,” Rosemarie continued gently after a pause, “but if you think we’re just banded together against the Schliekers, you’re very much mistaken. Of course, the Schliekers must be turned out; but what we really mean to do is make the whole village a better place.”

And the little audience murmured applause.

“What’s wrong with the village?” mumbled Otsche Gau. “I think Unsadel’s a very good sort of place.”

“What’s wrong with it?” cried Rosemarie. “Hadn’t you better ask what’s right with it?”

“Yes, but what
is
wrong with it?” asked the boy obstinately.

“Listen,” said Rosemarie impressively. “You want to join us, and we’ll be glad to have you, because your father is the biggest farmer hereabouts. The Schliekers come from Biestow, and when they’re out of the way, Unsadel will be just what it was before they came, a poor sort of hole. We’re going to make this village into the kind of village that it ought to be.”

“I don’t understand a word of all this talk,” persisted Otsche Gau. “Our farm is good enough for us. We get bigger crops than anyone else in the village.”

“We mean to change the place entirely, Otsche,” said Rosemarie. “What’s it like now? Everybody quarrels with everybody else. You Gaus are on bad terms all around, the Hübners don’t speak to the Strohmeiers, we
all jeer at old Gottschalk, the wives of Witt and Schluck had such a row, their husbands cheat each other whenever they can. . . .”

“But it’s like that everywhere,” said Otsche.

“Well, it’s not going to be like that here any more,” Rosemarie retorted, “we are all agreed on that. We are all going to be friends together. Look at Robert Hübner and Albert Strohmeier. You know how their fathers treat each other—well, there’s nothing like that among us, is there?”

“You said it!” exclaimed the two lads.

“But how long will this last?” objected Otsche. “Wait till Robert plows a bit too near the Strohmeier hedge—and see what happens!”

“But he won’t,” cried Rosemarie. “Will you, Robert?”

“Of course I won’t,” said Robert Hübner.

Otsche Gau began to look a little less self-assured and went on with less defiance, “Well, it sounds all very well, but—”

“Look here, Otsche!” cried young Witt. “What does a ladder cost? A twenty-foot ladder?”

“What does it cost?” Otsche was rather taken aback. “Twenty rungs at fifty pfennigs each. Four joints. Total about twelve marks. But—”

“That’ll do, Otsche! Can you afford to lose twelve marks?”

“Of course not! What do you mean?”

“Well, take a squint behind your father’s barn, and you’ll see a ladder just like that. I can see it from our garden. That ladder is rotting where it stands.”

Otsche Gau scratched his head. His father must have
forgotten it. “The fact is,” he said apologetically, “we hardly ever go behind that barn.”

“There you are! And if we hadn’t had a scrap, I’d have told you about that ladder. As it is, there’s twelve marks gone to pot.”

“H’m,” said Otsche Gau. “All this is very fine, but—”

“You’re not the only one that suffers, we suffer, too. All that ground behind that barn is just choked with weeds. And in autumn thistledown blows over into our garden, and we have to keep digging it up. . . .”

“There you are, Otsche,” said Rosemarie. “That’s what we all think. Now, if you want to join us, you’ll have to shake hands with all of us and repeat our motto: ‘I for you and you for me and Unsadel eternally!’ ”

“All right,” Otsche agreed. “I’ll do it, Marie—Rosemarie, I mean. But do you think the Witts should have sawed that branch off our plum tree?”

“Don’t be such a fool!” said Hütefritz savagely. “You Gaus have been howling about that silly plum tree for the last two years, and now you’re starting again, when we’re trying to turn the village into a decent place. . . .”

“But—” persisted Otsche, like the true son of his father.

“Give us your hand. Now then: ‘I for you and you for me and Unsadel eternally!’ ” roared Hütefritz. “You’re as big a fool as your father. Ernst Witt, will you give him another plum tree when you get the farm?”

“Surely I will,” said twelve-year-old Ernst Witt. “That’s nothing. You can buy a plum tree at the nurseryman’s for three marks. If that’ll stop the argument—”

“There—you heard what he said, Otsche? You’ll get your plum tree. Speak up now—”

And the little circle chanted: “I for you and you for me and Unsadel eternally!”

“That’s right, Otsche,” said Rosemarie in high good humor. “Now, first I want to know whether the children have been found?”

“There you are,” beamed Hütefritz, “I told you it was Rosemarie! It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was. Who found them?”

“I did!” cried Hütefritz. “I’d just got back to the farm with Tamm’s cows, and the Tamms came running up from the opposite direction, the farmer, his wife and Maxe—they’d stopped so long at Schlieker’s because they were bursting to know whether the constable was going to pinch Paul or not. . . .”

“And did he?” asked Rosemarie eagerly.

“Wait a minute. They were hustling home to be in time for milking and I was running too because I was late with the cows. And silly old Sorrel started dancing round, and bellowed and mooed and wouldn’t go into her stall. Such a racket, and I heard—I heard something!

“Suddenly Frau Tamm yelled out: ‘Those are children crying. Schlieker has thrown them into the lake and they’re haunting the village.’ Lord, the way the old woman went on, it might have been a hen having its neck wrung, women really are the limit. . . .”