Part 35 (1/2)
There was a sound of hurried footsteps on the path behind him, and turning his head, his hand still knocking, he saw Dellwig running towards him.
”_Nanu!_” cried Dellwig breathlessly, staring in blankest astonishment.
”What in the devil's name are you making this noise for? Is the parson on fire?”
Klutz stared back in a dazed sort of way, his fury dying out at once in the presence of the stronger nature; then, because he was twenty, and because he was half-starved, and because he felt he was being cruelly used, there on Anna's doorstep, in the full light of the evening sun, with Dellwig's eyes upon him, he burst into a torrent of tears.
”Well of all--what's wrong at Lohm, you great sheep?” asked Dellwig, seizing his arm and giving him a shake.
Klutz signified by a movement of his head that nothing was wrong at Lohm. He was crying like a baby, into a red pocket-handkerchief, and could not speak.
Dellwig, still gripping his arm, stared at him a moment in silence; then he turned him round, pushed him down the steps, and walked him off.
”Come along, young man,” he said, ”I want some explanation of this. If you are mad you'll be locked up. We don't fancy madmen about our place.
And if you're not mad you'll be fined by the Amtsvorsteher for disorderly conduct. Knocking like that at a lady's door! I wonder you didn't kick it in, while you were about it. It's a good thing the _Herrschaften_ are out.”
Klutz really felt ill. He leaned on Dellwig's arm and let himself be helped along, the energy gone out of him with the fury. ”You have never loved,” was all he said, wiping his eyes.
”Oh that's it, is it? It is love that made you want to break the knocker? Why didn't you go round to the back? Which of them is it? The cook, of course. You look hungry. A Kandidat crying after a cook!” And Dellwig laughed loud and long.
”The cook!” cried Klutz, galvanised by the word into life. ”The cook!”
He thrust a shaking hand into his breast-pocket and dragged it out, the precious paper, unfolding it with trembling fingers, and holding it before Dellwig's eyes. ”So much for your cooks,” he said, tremulously triumphant. They were in the road, out of sight of the house. Dellwig took the paper and held it close to his eyes. ”What's this?” he asked, scrutinising it. ”It is not German.”
”It is English,” said Klutz.
”What, the governess----?”
Klutz merely pointed to the name at the end. Oh, the sweetness of that moment!
”Anna?” read out Dellwig, ”Anna? That is Miss Estcourt's name.”
”It is,” said Klutz, his tears all dried up.
”It seems to be poetry,” said Dellwig slowly.
”It is,” said Klutz.
”Why have you got it?”
”Why indeed! It's mine. She sent it to me. She wrote it for me. These flowers----”
”Miss Estcourt? Sent it to you? Poetry? To _you_?” Dellwig looked up from the paper at Klutz, and examined him slowly from head to foot as if he had never seen him before. His expression while he did it was not flattering, but Klutz rarely noticed expressions. ”What's it all about?”
he asked, when he had reached Klutz's boots, by which he seemed struck, for he looked at them twice.
”Love,” said Klutz proudly.
”Love?”
”Let me come home with you,” said Klutz eagerly, ”I'll translate it there. I can't here where we might be disturbed.”
”Come on, then,” said Dellwig, walking off at a great pace with the paper in his hand.