“Of course I have!” Christopher was glad to be able to speak out. He felt relieved, he felt as though the responsibility for the whole thing were lifted from his shoulders.
Anne hung her head.
“Do you know where you lost it?... Yes?...” Her eyes shone. “What if you promised a reward to the finder?”
“That requires money,” said Christopher sadly.
Anne ran to her cupboard. She took a small box from under her linen.
“It is not much, just my presents. It has been accumulating slowly for a long time. Little Chris, go quickly. It will be all right. Promise the whole lot.”
Christopher was pleased and ashamed at the same time. He reached out for Anne’s hand. But the young girl snatched it back. She stretched herself up to the big boy and tendered her cheek. Christopher kissed it and ran away.
Anne looked after him. How she loved her brother! Now, perhaps Christopher understood all that she could not tell him. He lived for ever among men and men are ashamed of feeling. To hide it they whistle and look out of the window. She too had been brought up with these ideas. She was taught that feeling is deep and great only so long as it keeps mute and becomes at once petty and ridiculous when it raises its voice; so pitiably petty that it makes one blush and run out of the room. It must never be shown. Nor did the others in the house ever display it, nobody but Uncle Sebastian, long, long ago. And yet how intensely she longed now and then for somebody who would show her affection.
Her eyes wandered to her mother’s portrait. If only she would drop that painted rose from her hand! If only for once she would caress her! Only once, one single once, when she was alone in the room ... so lonely ... always alone. Since Adam Walter had gone away, nobody remained with whom she could talk. A new song, a new book came now and then from him in distant Weimar. Then silence again for weeks.
Aimlessly Anne went down the stairs, across the garden to the great wall. Since the fire the timber yard had been removed to the end of the town. Behind the fencing, where in olden times rude strong men in leather aprons worked the timber, nothing was left but waste ground.