"She started up and looked at me with frightened eyes. 'No!' answered Isabella in her place. 'Susy has not left the room all the afternoon. What should she be doing out of doors in this weather?'
"'I do not know—but I surely thought I saw you, Susanna?'
"She turned her head and looked in her lap. 'I was not down there,' she said, hesitatingly.
"I went away; my old eyes were failing then. Close by the door my foot caught in something soft. I stooped down; it was the lace veil that Susanna used to wear over her head, heavy and wet with rain. Without a word I laid it on the nearest chair. Why did Susanna tell a lie? Why was she frightened?
"And all at once an ugly, shocking thought darted like lightning through my brain, that made me almost numb with fear. But no, surely it was not possible, it was madness; how could one imagine such a thing? I scolded myself. With trembling hand I lit a candle and went to my writing-desk; to this day I cannot account for my answer to Stürmer being as it was, and not different. I wrote under the influence of an inexplicable anxiety. Strangely enough the letter sounded:
"'My dear Edwin:—I shall be glad to see you here to-morrow afternoon at five o'clock, and can also tell you an important piece of news, which will please you. What do you say to this, that Klaus, our old Klaus, is engaged; and that the bride-elect is no other than Susanna Mattoni? Very likely you have guessed it easily?
"'They have been engaged for some time, but it has been kept a secret for the mean time; but an old chatterbox like me may surely make an exception in your case.
"'Affectionate greetings from your old friend,
"'Rosamond von Hegewitz.'
"In the greatest haste I folded the note, rang, and gave it into the immediate charge of the coachman. I was seized with a nervous trembling as I heard him ride out of the yard. I sent down word to Anna Maria that I should not come to supper; I was rather fatigued.
"About eight o'clock I heard Susanna's light step in the hall; she was coming from supper, and trilling a love-song. Then the door of her room closed, and all was still.
"It was long past midnight when I stole out to the hall window to see if Anna Maria had gone to bed. She was still awake; in the candle-light which fell from her windows over the flower-beds of the garden a shadow was moving to and fro, incessantly, restlessly. In the anxiety of my heart I folded my hands: 'Lord God, send her no storm in this new spring-time,' I whispered; 'let her be happy, make me ashamed of my care and anxiety. Let my fear be an error. Ah! give her the happiness she deserves!'
"The next day broke gray and dark, not at all like a day of good fortune. Anna Maria stood at the open window in the sitting-room, breathing in the warm air, which was unusually sultry for a November day. She had a stunted white rose in her hand. 'See, aunt,' she said, holding the flower up to me, 'I found it early this morning on the rose-bush on mother's grave; how could it have bloomed now? We have had such cold weather lately, it is almost a miracle, like a greeting for the day.' And she took a glass and carefully put the awkward little rose in fresh water, and carried it to her room.