"No one knows as yet that I am leaving," replied Anton; "he must be the first to hear it. I am going to him."
The dirty dwelling which Mr. Bratzky once occupied had changed, under Karl's management, to a comfortable abode, which had only one drawback, that of being too full of useful things, and smelling strongly of glue. Often and often Anton had sat in it to rest and refresh himself by Karl's cheery ways, and as he glanced at each familiar object, his heart sank at the prospect of leaving his faithful, unexacting ally. Leaning against the joiner's table in the window, he said, "Put your accounts by, Karl, and let us have a serious word or two."
"Now for it," cried Karl; "something has been brewing for a long while, and I see by your face that the crisis is come."
"I am going away, my friend."
Karl let his pen fall, and silently stared at the grave face opposite him.
"Fink undertakes the management of the property, which he has just bought."
"Hurrah!" cried Karl; "if Herr von Fink be the man, why, all's right! I give you joy, with all my heart," said he, shaking Anton's hand, "that things have turned out thus. In the spring I had other foolish notions. But it's all regular and right now, and our farming is safe too."
"I hope so," said Anton, smiling.
"But you?" continued Karl, his face growing suddenly grave.
"I go back to our capital, where I have some business to do for the baron, and then I shall look out for a stool in an office."
"And here we have worked together for a year," said Karl, sadly; "you have had all the pains, and another will have the profits."
"I go back to my proper place. But it is of your future, not mine, dear Karl, that I am now come to speak."
"Of course, I go back with you," cried Karl.
"I come to implore you not to do so. Could we set up together, we would never part; but I am not in a position for this. I must seek another situation. Part of the little I possessed is gone; I leave no richer than I came; so we should have to separate when we got home."
Karl looked down and meditated. "Mr. Anton," said he, "I hardly dare to speak of what I do not understand. You have often told me that my old governor is an owl who sits on money-bags. How would it do," stammered he, in embarrassment, working away at the chair with one of his tools, "that if what is in the iron chest be not too little for you, you should take it; and if any thing can be made of it—it is very presumptuous of me—perhaps I might be useful to you as a partner. It is only an idea, and you must not be offended."
Anton, much moved, replied: "Look you, Karl, your offer is just like your generous self, but I should do wrong to accept it. The money is your father's; and even if he gave his consent, as I believe he would, such a plan would involve great risk. At all events, his substance would be better invested in your own calling than in one you might enter into out of love for me; so it is better for you, my friend, that we part."
Karl snatched his pocket-handkerchief, and blew his nose violently before he asked, "And you won't make use of the money? You would be sure to give us good interest?"
"Impossible," replied Anton.
"Then I'll go back to my father, and hide my head in some hayloft about home," cried Karl, in high dudgeon.
"That you must not do," said Anton. "You have become better acquainted with the property than any other; it were a sin to throw that knowledge away. Fink wants a man like you; the farm can not possibly spare you till next summer. When we came here, it was not to benefit ourselves, but to improve the land. My work is over; you are in the midst of yours, and you will sin against yourself and your task if you forsake it now."
Karl hung his head.
"One thing that used to distress me was the meagre salary that the estate could afford you; that will be changed now."
"Don't let us speak of that," said Karl, proudly.
"We ought to speak of it," returned Anton, "for a man does wrong when he devotes the best gifts he has to an occupation that does not adequately repay him. 'Tis an unnatural life; and good results can scarcely be expected, take my word for that. I therefore beg you to remain, at least till next summer, when, owing to the extended scale of farming operations, an experienced inspector may occupy your post."
"Then," said Karl, "may I go?"
"Fink would always like to keep you; but should you leave him, remember, Karl, our frequent conversations during the past year. You have become accustomed to a life among strangers, and have all a colonist's claims to a new soil. If higher duties do not urge you home, your place is to remain here as one of us. If you leave this estate, buy land from the Poles. You, with the plowshare in your hand, will be still a German soldier, for the boundary of our tongue and our customs is gaining upon our enemies." So saying, he pointed to the east.
Karl reached out his hand, and said, "I remain."
When Anton left the bailiff he found Lenore at the door. "I am waiting for you," cried she; "come with me, Wohlfart; while you remain here, you belong to me."
"If your words were less friendly," replied Anton, "I might fancy that you were secretly glad to get rid of me, for I have not seen you so cheerful for a long time. Head erect, rosy cheeks; even the black dress has vanished."
"This is the dress I wore when we drove together in the sledge, and you admired it then. I am vain," cried she, with a mournful smile. "I wish that the impression you carry away with you of me should be a pleasant one. Anton, friend of my youth, what a mystery it is that, on the very first day free from care that I have known for years, we must part. The estate is sold, and I breathe again. What a life it has been of late years! always anxious, oppressed, humbled by friend and foe; always in debt, either for money or services: it was fearful. Not as far as you were concerned, Wohlfart. You are my childhood's friend; and if you were in trouble of any kind, it would be happiness to me if you would call me, and say, 'Now I want you; now come to me, wild Lenore.' I will be wild no longer. I will think of all you have said to me." Thus she ran on in her excitement, her eyes beaming. She hung on his arm, which she had never done before, and drew him in and out of every building in the farm-yard. "Come, Wohlfart, let us take a last walk through the farm which was once ours. We bought this cow with the white star together," cried she; "you asked for my opinion of her, and that pleased me much."
Anton nodded. "We neither of us were very sure about it, and Karl had to decide."
"What do you mean? You paid for her, and I gave her her first hay, consequently she belongs to us both. Just look at this lovely black calf. Mr. Sturm threatens to paint its ears red, that it may look a perfect little demon." She knelt down beside it, stroked and hugged it, then suddenly starting up, she cried, "I don't know why I should make so much of it; it is mine no longer; it belongs to somebody else." Yet there was mirth in her tone of pretended regret. "Come to the pony now," she said; "my poor little fellow! He has grown old since the day when I rode after you through our garden."
Anton caressed the favorite, who turned his head now to him, now to Lenore.
"Do you know how it happened that I met you on the pony?" said Lenore to Anton over its back. "It was no accident. I had seen you sitting under the shrubs. I can tell you so to-day; and I had thought, 'Heavens! what a handsome youth! I will have a good look at him.' And that's how it happened as it did."
"Yes," said Anton; "then came the strawberries, then the lake. I stood there and swallowed the strawberries, and was rather inclined to tears; but through it all my heart was full of delight in you, who rose before me so fair and majestic. I see you still in fluttering muslin garments, with short sleeves, a golden bracelet on your white arm."
"Where is the bracelet gone?" asked Lenore, gravely, leaning her head on the pony's mane. "You sold it, you naughty Wohlfart!" The tears stood in her eyes, and she stretched out both hands to him over the pony's back. "Anton, we could not remain children. My heart's friend, farewell! Adieu, girlish dreams! adieu, bright spring-time! I must now learn to go through the world without my guardian. I will not disgrace you," she continued, more calmly. "I will always be steady, and a good housekeeper. And I will be economical. I will keep the book with three long lines down its sides once more, and put every thing down. We shall need to be saving even in trifles, Wohlfart. Alas! poor mother!" And she wrung her hands, and looked sad again.
"Come out into the country," suggested Anton; "if you like it, let us go into the woods."
"Not to the woods, not to the forester's," said Lenore, solemnly, "but to the new farm; I will go with you."
They walked across the fields. "You must lead me to-day," said Lenore. "I will not give you up."
"Lenore, you will make our parting very painful to me."
"Will it be painful to you?" cried Lenore, much pleased. Then immediately afterward, shaking her head, "No, Wohlfart, not so; you have often longed in secret to be far away from me."
Anton looked at her with surprise.
"I know," cried she, confidentially pressing his arm, "I know it very well. Even when you were with me your heart was not always with me too. Often it was, that day in the sledge, for instance; but oftener you were thinking of others, when you got certain letters, that you always read in the greatest hurry. What was the gentleman's name?" asked she.
"Baumann," innocently replied Anton.
"Caught!" cried Lenore, again pressing his arm. "Do you know that that made me very unhappy for a long time? I was a foolish child. We are grown wise, Wohlfart; we are free people now, and therefore we can go about arm in arm. Oh, you dear friend!"
Arrived at the farm, Lenore said to the farmer's wife, "He is leaving us. He has told me that his first pleasure here was the nosegay that you gathered for him. I have no flowers myself; they don't flourish with me. The only garden on the estate is here, behind your house."
The good woman tied up a small nosegay, gave it to Anton with a courtesy, and sadly said, "It is just the same as a year ago."
"But he is going," cried Lenore, and, turning away, her tears began to flow.
Anton now shook hands heartily with the farmer and the shepherd: "Think kindly of me, worthy friends."
"We have always had kindness from you," cried the farmer's wife.
"And fodder for man and beast," said the shepherd, taking off his hat; "and, above all, consideration and order."
"Your future is secured," said Anton; "you will have a master who has more in his power than I had." Finally, Anton kissed the farmer's curly-headed boy, and gave him a keepsake. The boy clung to his coat, and would not let him go.
On their return, Anton said, "What makes our parting easier to me is the future fate of the property. And I have a prevision that all that still seems uncertain in your life will be happily settled ere long."
Lenore walked in silence by his side; at length she asked, "May I speak to you of the present owner of this estate? I should like to know how you became his friend."
"By not putting up with a wrong he did me. Our intimacy has remained unshaken, because, while I willingly gave way to him in trifles, I always abode by my own convictions in graver matters. He has a high respect for strength and independence, and might easily become tyrannical if he encountered weakness of judgment and will."
"How can a woman be firm and self-reliant with such a one as he?" said Lenore, cast down.
"No doubt," replied Anton, thoughtfully, "this must be much more difficult for a woman who passionately loves him. Every thing that looks like temper or self-will he will rudely break down, and will not spare the conquered; but if opposed by a worthy and modest nature, he will respect it. And if I were ever called upon to give his future wife a counsel, it would be this, that she should carefully guard against whatever might pass for bold or free in woman. The very thing that might make a stranger agreeable, because easily establishing a familiar footing between them, is just what he would least esteem in her."
Lenore clung closer to Anton as he spoke, and bent her head. They returned in silence to the castle.
In the afternoon Anton went once more over the estate with Karl for companion. Hitherto he had always felt that he was living in a strange land; now, when about to leave it, this seemed a home. Wherever he looked, he saw objects that had for a whole year engaged his attention. He had bought the wheat with which this field was sown; he had ordered the plow with which that servant was plowing; here he had roofed-in a barn; there he had improved a ruinous bridge. Like all who enter upon a new field of labor, he had had numberless plans, hopes, projects; and now that he was suddenly called upon to relinquish these, he first discovered how dear they had been. He next spent an hour in the forester's house. As they parted, the latter said, "When you first laid hand on this door, I little thought that the trees around us would stand so safe, and that I should ever live again among my fellow-men. You have made dying difficult to an old man, Mr. Wohlfart."
The parting hour came. Anton took a short and formal leave of the baron; Lenore was quite absorbed in sorrow, and Fink affectionate as a brother. As Anton stood by him, and looked with emotion at Lenore, he said, "Be at ease, my friend; here, at least, I will try to be what you were." One last hand-clasp, one last farewell, then Anton jumped into the carriage. Karl seized the reins. They drove past the barn into the village road; the castle disappeared. At the end of the wood Karl halted. A troop of men were there assembled—the forester, the farmer, the shepherd, the Kunau smith, with a few of his neighbors, and the son of the Neudorf bailiff.
Anton joyfully sprang down and greeted them once more.
"My father sends me to bid you farewell," said the bailiff's son. "His wounds are healing, but he can not leave his room." And the Kunau smith shouted out as a last farewell, "Greet our countrymen at home for me, and say that they must never forget us!"
Silently, as on the day of his arrival, Anton sat by the side of his faithful Karl. He was free—free from the spell that had lured him hither—free from many a prejudice; but while as free, he was as poor as a bird of the air. He had now to begin life over again. Whether the past year had made him stronger or weaker remained to be proved. On the whole, however, he did not regret what he had done. He had had, gains as well as losses; he had helped to found a new German colony; he had opened out the path to a happy future for those he loved; he felt himself more mature, more experienced, more settled; and so he looked beyond the heads of the horses which were carrying him homeward, and said to himself, "Onward! I am free, and my way is now clear."
It is evening. Sabine stands in her treasure-chamber before the open cupboards, arranging the newly-washed table-linen, and again tying rose-colored tickets on the different sets. Of course, she knew nothing and guessed nothing. Her white damask shines to-day like silver; the cut-glass cover, which she lifts from the old family goblet, rings cheerily as a bell, and the vibrations thrill through the woodwork of the great presses. All the painted heads on the china cups look singularly cheerful to-day. Doctor Martin Luther and the sorcerer Faust positively laugh. Even Goethe smiles, and it is impossible to say how amused old Fritz appears. Yet Sabine, the sagacious mistress of the house, knows not what these know. Or does she guess it? Hark! she sings. A merry tune has not passed her lips for long; but to-day her heart is light, and as she looks at the shining display of glass and damask, something of their brightness seems to fall upon her, and, low as the notes of the wood-bird, a song of her childhood sounds through the little room. And from the cupboard she suddenly moves to the window, where her mother's picture hangs over the arm-chair, and she looks cheerfully at the picture, and sings before her mother's face the self-same song that once, from that very arm-chair, that mother sang to the little Sabine.
At that moment a cloaked figure is gliding across the ground floor. Balbus, who is superintending the great scales, stands in the arched room, casts a half glance at the figure, and thinks to himself, with surprise, "That is rather like Anton." The porters are closing a chest, and the eldest, turning round accidentally, sees a shadow thrown by a lantern on the wall, and, leaving off hammering for a moment, says, "I could almost have fancied that was Mr. Wohlfart." And in the yard a vehement barking and leaping is heard, and Pluto runs in frantically to the servants, wags his tail, barks, licks their hands, and, in his own way, tells the whole story. But even the servants know nothing, and one of them says, "It must have been a ghost; I have lost sight of it."
Then the door of Sabine's room opens. "Is it you, Franz?" said she, interrupting her song. No one answered. She turned round, her eyes fixed wistfully upon the figure at the door. Then her hand trembled and clasped the back of the chair, while he hurried toward her, and in passionate emotion, not knowing what he was doing, knelt down near the chair into which she had sunk, and laid his head on her hand. That was Anton. Not a word was spoken. Sabine gazed on the kneeling form as at some beatific vision, and gently laid her other hand on his shoulder.
She does not ask why he is come, nor whether he is free from the glamour that led him away. As he kneels before her, and she looks into his eyes, that tenderly and anxiously seek hers, she understands that he is returning to the firm, to her brother, to her.
"How long you have been away!" said she, reproachfully, but with a blissful smile upon her face.
"Ever have I been here!" said Anton, passionately. "Even in the hour when I left these walls I knew that I was giving up all of joy—all of happiness that I could hope to know; and now I am irresistibly impelled to come and tell you how it is with me. I worshiped you as a holy image while living near you. The thought of you has been my safety when far away. It has protected me in solitude, in an irregular life, in great temptation. Your form has ever risen protectingly between me and that of another. Often have I seen your eyes fixed upon me as of yore—often have you raised your hand to warn me of the danger I was in. If I have not lost myself, Sabine, I owe it to you."
And again he bent over her hand. Sabine held him fast and whispered, "My friend! my dear friend! we must both feel that we have dreamed and struggled—that we have resolved and overcome. What must you not have suffered, my friend!"
"No," cried Anton, "it was not the same suffering nor the same strength. I saw and reverenced you at the time when you were silently conquering yourself. I was a weak, willful man. I do not know what would have become of me had not your memory lived in my soul. When far away, the influence you exerted over me went on increasing, and only because I thought of you became I free."
"And how do you know that it may not have been the same in my case?" asked Sabine, looking lovingly at him.
"Sabine!" cried Anton, beside himself.
"Yes, that is your own noble face," cried she. "Alas! in your features, too, I can read the traces of an iron time." She rose. "We have heard of your heroic deeds, though you sent us nothing during the whole long year but a short message."
"Could I venture to do more?" broke in Anton, eagerly.
Sabine nodded archly. "We have, however, watched for tidings that reached us through your friends. Oh! when I, in the midst of these safe walls, thought of my friend exposed to every assault of the enemy! Wohlfart! Wohlfart! I rejoice that I see you again."
"Another has the property now, and the care of the defenseless family," replied Anton.
"It is the ordering of Providence," cried Sabine; and looked with delight on the newly-returned one.
In the uniform tenor of her domestic life, she had for many years had a cordial liking for Anton. Since he had left her, she had found out that she loved him, and had hidden the feeling in her heart. No trace of her love nor her renunciation had appeared in the regular household. Hardly had she by a look betrayed the struggle going on within. Now, in the rapture of meeting, her feelings broke out. She looked at Anton in beaming delight, thinking of nothing but the joy of having him with her again, and not remarking the traces of a different feeling in Anton's pale features. He has found her indeed, but only to lose her again forever.
Still does Sabine hold his hand, and now she leads him through the corridor to her brother's study.
What are you doing, Sabine? This house is a good house, certainly, but not one in which people feel poetically, are easily moved, open their arms at once, and press new-comers to their heart. It is a straightforward, prosaic house, where requests are made and refused in few words; and it is a proud and rigid house besides. Remember this, it is no tender welcome to which you are leading your friend.
This Sabine felt, and delayed a moment before she opened the door; but her resolve was taken, and, holding Anton's hand in hers, she drew him in, crying to her brother with a beaming face, "Here he is; he is returned to us."
The merchant rose from his writing-table, but he remained standing by it; and his first words, coldly and peremptorily spoken, were these: "Release my sister's hand, Mr. Wohlfart."
Sabine drew back. Anton stood alone in the middle of the room, and looked at the principal. His strongly-marked features were aged during the last year, his hair had grown gray, the lines in his face had deepened.
"That I should enter here at the risk of being unwelcome," said Anton, "will show you how strong my desire was to see you and the firm once more. If I have excited your displeasure, do not let me feel it in this hour."
The merchant turned to his sister. "Leave us, Sabine; I wish to speak to Mr. Wohlfart alone." Sabine went up to her brother, and stood erect before him. She said not a word, but with a bright glance, in which a firm resolve was plainly visible, she looked full into his frowning face, and then left the room. The merchant looked gloomily after her, and turned to Anton. "What brings you back to us, Wohlfart?" said he. "Have you failed to attain what your youthful ambition hoped for, and are you come to seek in the tradesman's house the happiness that once seemed inadequate to your claims? I hear that your friend Fink has settled himself on the baron's property; has he sent you back to us because you were in his way there?"
Anton's brow grew clouded. "I do not appear before you as an adventurer," said he; "you are unjust in expressing such a suspicion; nor does it become me to submit to it. There was a time when your judgment of me was more friendly; I thought of that time when I sought you out; I think of it now, that I may forgive your injurious words."
"You once said to me," continued the merchant, "that you felt yourself at home in my house and firm. And you had a home, Wohlfart, in our hearts and in the business. In a moment of effervescence you gave us up, and we, with sorrow, did the same with you. Why do you return? You can not be a stranger to us, for we have been attached to you, and, personally, I am deeply indebted to you. You can no more be our friend, for you have yourself forcibly rent the ties that bound us. You reminded me, just when I least expected it, that a mere business contract alone bound you to my counting-house. What are you seeking now? Do you want a place in my office, or do you, as appears, want much more?"
"I want nothing," cried Anton, in the utmost excitement—"nothing but a reconciliation with you. I want neither a place in your office, nor any thing else. When I left the baron, I felt that my first step must be to your house, my next to seek employment elsewhere. Whatever I may have lost during the past year, I have not lost my self-respect; and had you met me as kindly as I felt toward you, I should have told you in the course of our first hour together what you now demand. I am aware that here I can not stay. I used to feel this when far away, as often as I thought of this house. Since I have entered its walls and seen your sister again, I know that I can not remain here without acting dishonorably."
The merchant went to the window, and silently looked out into the night. When he turned round again the hard expression had left his face, and he looked searchingly at Anton. "That was well spoken, Wohlfart," said he at length, "and I hope sincerely meant. I will be equally open toward you in saying that I still regret that you have left us. I knew you as an older man seldom knows a younger; I could thoroughly trust you. Now, dear Wohlfart, you are become a stranger to me; forgive me what I am about to say. An unregulated imagination allured you into circumstances which could not but be morally unhealthy. You have been the confidant of a bankrupt and a debtor, who may have retained many amiable characteristics, but who must have lost, in his dealings with unprincipled men, what we here in this firm call honor. I gladly assume that your uprightness refused to do any thing contrary to your sense of right; but, Wohlfart, I repeat to you what I have said before: any permanent dealings with the weak and wicked bring the best man into danger. Gradually and imperceptibly his standard becomes lowered, and necessity compels him to agree to measures that elsewhere he would have peremptorily rejected. I am convinced that you are still what the world calls an upright man of business, but I do not know whether you have preserved that proudly pure integrity, which, alas! many in the mercantile world treat as mere pedantry, and to have to tell you this makes your return painful to me."
Anton, white as the handkerchief he held, with trembling lips replied, "Enough, Mr. Schröter. That you should, in the first hour of meeting, say to me the most bitter thing one could possibly say to an enemy, convinces me that I did wrong to re-enter this house. Yes, you are right. I never, during my year of absence, lost the sense of the danger you speak of. I ever felt it the greatest misfortune to be unable to esteem the man by whom I was employed. But I dare make answer to you, with pride equal to your own, that the purity of the man who carefully shrinks from temptation is worth little; and that, if I have gained any thing from a year of bitterness, it is the consciousness of having been tried, and knowing that I no longer act as a boy, from instinct and habit, but from principle, as a man should. I have gained a confidence in myself that I had not before; and because I know how to respect my own character, I tell you that I perfectly understand your doubt; but that, since you have given it utterance, I look upon all ties between us as by yourself dissolved, and leave you, never to return. Farewell, Mr. Schröter!"
Anton turned to go, but the merchant hurried after him, and laid his hand on his shoulder.
"Not so fast, Wohlfart," said he, gently; "the man who saved me from the stroke of the Polish sword must not leave my house in anger."
"Do not recall the past," replied Anton; "it is useless. It is you, not I, who have mixed up injury and indignation with our meeting; you, not I, who have annihilated the power of old recollections."
"Not so, Wohlfart," said the merchant. "If by my words I have offended you more than I intended, make allowance for my gray hairs, and for a heart full of painful anxiety the past year through, and full of anxiety, too, on your account. We do not meet as we parted; and whenever friends have a mutual misgiving, let them openly express it, that they may stand and start clear. Had I valued you less, I should have kept back my thoughts, and my greeting would have been more polite. Now, however, I bid you welcome." And he held out his hand.
Anton took it, and repeated the word "Farewell."
The merchant held his hand firmly, and said, with a smile, "Not so fast; I can not let you go just yet. Remember that it is your oldest acquaintance who now entreats you to remain."
"I will remain, then, this evening, Mr. Schröter," said Anton, coldly.
The merchant led him to the sofa, and began to communicate the present state of the firm. It was no cheerful picture that he drew, but it proved his entire confidence, and helped to allay the sting of his harsh reception.
Gradually Anton became absorbed in the business details, eagerly went over calculations, and unconsciously began to speak of the business as though he still belonged to it. Once more the merchant held out his hand with a melancholy smile. Anton now grasped it cordially, and the reconciliation was complete.
"And now, dear Wohlfart," said Mr. Schröter, "let us speak of yourself. You once confided to me some particulars connected with your exertions in the baron's cause, and I impatiently cut you short; I now entreat you to tell me all you can."
Anton accordingly proceeded to mention all matters that admitted of being publicly talked of, and the merchant listened with the utmost attention.
"And now," said he, rising from his seat, "allow me to touch upon your future. After what you have said, I will not ask you to spend the next few years with me, welcome as your help would prove just now, but I beg that you will leave it to me to look out for a fitting post for you. We will not be in too great a hurry about it. Meanwhile, spend the few next weeks with us. Your room is empty, and just as you left it. I find, from what you tell me, that you have occupation cut out for you for some months to come. If, in addition to this, you are inclined to help me in the counting-house, your help will be very welcome. As for your relations with my family," he gravely continued, "I fully trust you. It is a positive necessity to me to prove this, and hence my present proposal."
Anton looked down in silence.
"I am not imposing on you any painful ordeal," said the merchant; "you know the habits of our household, and how little opportunity there is of much conversation. For Sabine, as well as for yourself, I wish a few weeks of your olden way of life, and when the time comes, a calm parting. I wish this on my sister's account, Wohlfart," added he, candidly.
"Then," said Anton, "I remain."
Meanwhile Sabine was restlessly pacing up and down the drawing-room, and trying to catch a sound from her brother's study. Sometimes, indeed, a sad thought would intrude, but it did not find a resting-place to-day. Again the fire crackled and the pendulum swung; but the fir-logs burned right merrily, throwing out smallfeux de joiethrough the stove door, and the clock kept constantly ticking to her ear, "He is come! he is there!"
The door opened and the cousin came bustling in. "What do I hear?" cried she. "Is it possible? Franz will have it that Wohlfart is with your brother."
"He is," said Sabine, with averted face.
"What new mystery is this?" continued the cousin, in a tone of discontent. "Why does not Traugott bring him here? and why is not his room got ready? How can you stand there so quietly, Sabine? I declare I don't understand you."
"I am waiting," whispered Sabine, pressing her wrists firmly, for her hands trembled.
At that moment footsteps were heard nearing the room; the merchant cried out at the door, "Here is our guest." And while Anton and the cousin were exchanging friendly greetings, he went on to say, "Mr. Wohlfart will spend a few weeks with us, till he has found such a situation as I should wish for him." The cousin heard this announcement with intense surprise, and Sabine shifted the cups and saucers to conceal her emotion; but neither made any remark, and the lively conversation carried on at the tea-table served to disguise the agitation which all shared. Each had many questions to hear and answer, for it had been a year rich in events. It is true that a certain constraint was visible in Anton's manner while speaking of his foreign life, of Fink and the German colony on the Polish estate, and that Sabine listened with drooping head. But the merchant got more and more animated; and when Anton rose to retire, the face of the former wore its good-humored smile of old, and heartily shaking his guest's hand, he said in jest, "Sleep well, and be sure to notice your first dream; they say it is sure to come to pass."
And when Anton was gone, the merchant drew his sister into the unlighted ante-room, kissed her brow, and whispered in her ear, "He has remained uncorrupted, I hope so now with all my soul;" and when they both returned to the lamp-light, his eyes were moist, and he began to rally the cousin upon her secret partiality for Wohlfart, till the good lady clasped her hands and exclaimed, "The man is fairly demented to-day!"
Weary and exhausted, Anton threw himself upon his bed. The future appeared to him joyless, and he dreaded the inner conflict of the next few weeks; and yet he soon sank into a peaceful slumber. And again there was silence in the house. A plain old house it was, with many angles, and secret holes and corners—no place, in truth, for glowing enthusiasm and consuming passion; but it was a good old house for all that, and it lent a safe shelter to those who slept within its walls.
The next morning Anton hurried to Ehrenthal's. The invalid was not to be spoken to on business, and the ladies gave him so ungracious a reception that he thought it unwise to afford them any inkling of the reason of his visit. That very day he had notice given to Ehrenthal's attorney, by Councilor Horn, of twenty thousand dollars being ready in hand for the discharge of Ehrenthal's claims to that amount. As for his other demands, unsupported as they were by documentary evidence, they were to be referred to proper legal authorities. The attorney refused to accept the payment offered. Anton accordingly took the necessary steps to compel Ehrenthal at once to accept it, and to forego all claims that he had hitherto urged in connection therewith.
It was evening when Anton drew on an old office coat, and with his quickest business step proceeded to the house of Löbel Pinkus. He looked through the window into the little bar, and, seeing the worthy Pinkus there, put a short matter of fact inquiry to him: "Mr. T. O. Schröter wishes to be informed if Schmeie Tinkeles of Brody has arrived, or is expected here. He is immediately to proceed to the firm on business."
Pinkus returned a cautious answer. Tinkeles was not there, and he did not know when he might come. Tinkeles often announced himself, and often he did not. The thing was uncertain. However, if he saw the man, he would give the message.
The next day the servant opened Anton's door, and Schmeie Tinkeles stepped in. "Welcome, Tinkeles!" cried Anton, looking at him with a smile.
The trader was astonished to see Anton. A shadow passed over his sly face, and a secret disquietude was traceable through all his voluble expression of joy. "God's miracle it surely is that I should see you again before me in the body. I have often inquired at Schröter's house, and have never been able to find out whither you were gone. I have always liked to deal with you; we have made many an excellent purchase together.
"We have had our quarrels too, Tinkeles," suggested Anton.
"That was a bad business," said Tinkeles, deprecatingly. "Now, too, there is a sad look out for trade; the grass grows in the streets; the country has had a heavy time of it. The best man did not know, when he went to sleep at night, whether he should have a leg to stand on in the morning."
"You have got through it, however, Tinkeles, and I presume you have not found it so bad, after all. Sit down; I have something to say to you."
"Why should I sit down?" said the Jew, distrustfully, as Anton shut and bolted the door. "In business one has no time for sitting down; and why do you bolt the door? Bolts are not wanted; business disturbs no one."
"I have something to say to you in confidence," said Anton to the trader. "It will do you no harm."
"Speak on, then, but leave the door open."
"Listen to me," began Anton. "You remember our last conversation when we met upon our travels?"
"I remember nothing," said the broker, shaking his head, and anxiously looking at the door.
"You gave me some good advice; and when I tried to hear further, I found you had vanished."
"These are old stories," replied Tinkeles, with growing disquiet. "I can't recall them now. I have something to do in the market; I thought you wanted to speak to me on business."
"It is business about which we are treating, and it may be a profitable business for you," said Anton, significantly. He went to his writing-table, and, taking out a roll of money, laid it on the table before Tinkeles. "This hundred dollars belongs to you if you give me the information I want."
Tinkeles slyly glanced at the roll and replied, "A hundred dollars are all very well, but I can't give you any information. I know nothing; I can not remember. Whenever I see you," he irritably went on, "bad luck follows; whenever I have had any thing to do with you, it has brought me trouble and vexation."
Anton silently went to his desk and laid another roll of money by the first. "Two hundred dollars! They are yours if you give me the information I need," said he, drawing a square around them with a piece of white chalk.
The Galician's eyes fastened greedily upon the square, to which Anton kept silently pointing. Tinkeles at first pretended indifference, but his eyes grew gradually keener, his gestures more restless. He shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and tried hard to shake off the spell that bound him. At length he could bear it no longer; he reached out his hands for the money.
"Speak first," said Anton, placing his own hand on it.
"Do not be too severe with me," implored Tinkeles.
"Hear me," said Anton. "I want nothing unfair—nothing which an honorable man need object to. I might perhaps expose you to a legal examination, and get at what I want without cost, but I know of old your objections to law, and therefore I offer you money. If you were amenable to other motives, it would be enough to tell you that a family has been made unhappy because you did not tell me more long ago. But this would be useless with you."
"Yes," said Tinkeles, candidly, "it would be useless. Let me see the money that you have put up for me. Are there really two hundred dollars?" continued he, looking greedily at the rolls. "Very well, I know they are right. Ask me what you want to know."
"You have told me that Itzig, Ehrenthal's former book-keeper, was plotting to ruin Baron Rothsattel?"
"Has it not turned out as I said?" asked Tinkeles.
"I have reason to assume that you spoke the truth. You mentioned two men. Who was the other?"
The trader stopped short. Anton made a feint of removing the money.
"Let it lie there," entreated Tinkeles. "The other is named Hippus, according to what I have heard. He is an old man, and has lived a long time with Löbel Pinkus."
"Is he in business?"
"He is not of our people, and not in business. He is baptized. He has been a barrister."
"Have you ever had any dealings with Itzig?"
"God preserve me from that man!" cried Tinkeles; "the very first day that he came to town he tried to open the cupboard in which my effects were. I had trouble to prevent him from stealing my clothes. I have nothing to do with such men."
"So much the better for you," replied Anton; "now hear me out. The baron has had a casket stolen, in which most important documents were kept. The robbery took place in Ehrenthal's office. Have you chanced to hear of it? or have you any suspicion as to who the thief may be?"
The Galician looked restlessly around the room, at Anton, at the money, and then, with closed eyes and a resolute tone, replied, "I have not."
"This, however, is just what I want to hear; and the money is for him who gives me information respecting it."
"If I must speak, then," said the Galician, "I must. I have heard that the man named Hippus, when drunk, has screamed, and has said, 'Now, then, we have the red cock; he is done for; owing to those papers, he is doomed.'"
"And you know nothing more?" asked Anton, in painful suspense.
"Nothing," said the Galician; "it was long ago, and I understood but little of what they said to each other."
"You have not earned the money," returned Anton, after a pause; "you have told me scarce any thing. However, that you may see the stress I lay upon obtaining information from you, take this hundred dollars; the second will be given when you can put me on the track of the thief or the lost papers. Perhaps that is not out of your power?"
"It is," said the Galician, positively, weighing the one roll in his hand, and contemplating the other. "What Itzig does, he does so as not to be overlooked; and I am a stranger in the place, and have no dealings with rogues."
"See what you can do, however," replied Anton. "As soon as you hear any thing, bring me word, and this money is yours. I need not caution you to avoid exciting Itzig's suspicions. Do not let it appear that you know me."
"I am no child," answered Tinkeles; "but I fear that I shall not be of use to you in this matter."
With that he withdrew, having hid the money in the folds of his caftan.
Anton had now heard the name of the man who had probably committed the robbery. But the difficulty of obtaining the missing documents without legal aid seemed greater than ever. Meanwhile, he would risk a bold step. He would enter into negotiations with Itzig himself, and make the best use he could of the small amount of knowledge he had gained from the Galician.
Itzig's shrewd boy opened the door to him. Anton stood opposite his former schoolfellow, who knew of his return from the baron's estate, and was prepared for this visit. The two men looked at each other for a moment, both seeking to read the countenance and manner of the other, and to arm themselves for the coming conflict. There were some things that they had in common. Both were accustomed to maintain a calm exterior, and to conceal the point at which they were aiming. Both were accustomed to rapid induction, careful speech, and cool reserve. Both had, in voice and manner, something of the formality which business gives. Both were to-day in a state of excitement, which reddened Anton's face, and even suffused Veitel's gaunt cheek-bones.
But the clear glance of the former encountered one that was unsteady and lowering; the honest earnestness of his manner was met by a mixture of presumption and obsequiousness. Each felt that his opponent was dangerous, and gathered his full strength. The conflict began. Itzig opened it in his own way. "It is a pleasure to me to see you again, Mr. Wohlfart," said he, with sudden friendliness of manner; "it is long since I have been fortunate enough to meet you. I have always taken a great interest in you; we were schoolfellows; we both came to town the same day; we have both got on in the world. I heard you were gone to America. People will talk. I hope you will remain in town now. Perhaps you will return to Mr. Schröter's office; they say he much regretted your departure." In this way he ran on, really intent to discover from Anton's aspect the purport of his call.
He had made an error in pretending not to know where Anton had been of late, for his avoidance of the name of Rothsattel firmly convinced Anton that he had cause for peculiar circumspection regarding it.
Availing himself of this mistake of Veitel's, Anton replied as coldly as though he had not heard a word of the former's introductory flourish, "I am come, Mr. Itzig, to consult you on a matter of business. You are acquainted with the circumstances connected with the family property of Baron Rothsattel, now about to be judicially sold."
"I have the sort of general information respecting it," replied Veitel, throwing himself back resolutely against the corner of the sofa, "that people have on such subjects. I have heard a good deal about it."
"You have yourself for many years, in Ehrenthal's office, conducted transactions with the baron relative to his estate, and therefore you must have exact information on the subject," returned Anton. "And as Ehrenthal is too great an invalid to enter upon business topics, I now apply to you for this information."
"What I heard in Ehrenthal's office when book-keeper there, I heard in confidence, and can not impart. I am surprised that you should ask me to do so," added Itzig, with a malicious glance.
Anton coldly replied, "I ask nothing that need interfere with the sense of duty you profess. I am simply anxious to know in whose hands the mortgages on the estate now are."
"You can easily ascertain that by reference to the mortgage-book," said Veitel, with well-assumed indifference.
"You may perhaps have heard," continued the persevering Anton, "that some of the mortgages have changed hands during the last few months, and, consequently, the present possessors are not entered in the book. It is to be presumed that the deeds have been bought to facilitate or to impede a purchase at the approaching sale."
Hitherto the conversation had been a commonplace preamble to a serious contest, something like the first moves in a game at chess or the beginning of a race. Itzig's impatience now made a decided advance.
"Have you a commission to buy the estate?" he suddenly inquired.
"We will assume that I have," replied Anton, "and that I wish your co-operation. Are you in a position to give me information without loss of time, and will you undertake the measures rendered necessary by the sale of the mortgages?"
Itzig took time to consider. It was possible that Anton's only purpose was to secure the property to his friend Fink, or to the baron himself. In this case he was in danger of losing the fruit of his long scheming and bold deeds. If Fink, by his wealth, covered the baron, Itzig lost the estate. While thus perplexed, he remarked that Anton was watching him, and decided, with the subtlety of a bad conscience, that Anton had heard of his plans, and had some ulterior purpose. Possibly this commission to buy was but a feint. Accordingly, he hastened to promise his co-operation, and to express the hope that he might succeed, at the right time, in discovering the present possessor of the mortgages.
Anton saw that the rogue understood him, and was on his guard. Changing his mode of attack, he suddenly asked, "Do you know a certain Hippus?" and keenly observed the effect of the query.
For a moment Itzig's eyelids quivered, and a slight flush suffused his face. As if he was trying to recollect the name, he tardily replied, "Yes, I know him. He is a decayed, useless creature."
Anton saw that he had struck home. "Perhaps you recollect that, about a year and a half ago, a casket belonging to the baron, and containing deeds and papers of great importance to him, was stolen from Ehrenthal's office."
Itzig sat still, but his eyes glanced restlessly to and fro. No stranger would have observed that symptom of a bad conscience, but Anton remembered it in the boy Veitel, when accused at school of some petty theft. Itzig, he saw, knew all about the papers and the robbery.
At length, the agent replied in a tone of indifference, "I have heard of this; it occurred a short time before I left Ehrenthal's."
"Very well," continued Anton; "these papers could have no value for the thief himself. But there is reason to believe that they have found their way into the hands of a third person."
"That is not impossible, but I should hardly think it likely any one would keep up worthless papers so long."
"I know that these papers are extant—nay, I know that they are being used to the baron's prejudice."
Itzig writhed upon his seat. "Why do you speak to me upon these subjects?" said he, hoarsely.
"You will soon discover my drift," said Anton. "I know, as I before said, that the papers are still extant, and I have reason to believe that you may discover their possessor. You can gain any information you may still want respecting them from Hippus."
"Why from him?"
"He has, in the presence of witnesses, made use of expressions that plainly prove him to be acquainted with their purport."
Itzig ground his teeth, and muttered something very like the words "Drunken rascal."
Anton continued: "The casket and papers are the baron's property; and as he is less intent upon the prosecution of the thief than on the restoration of the papers, he is prepared to pay a large sum to any one who procures them."
"If," said Itzig, "the baron lays so much stress upon the recovery of the casket, how came it that so little fuss was made about it at the time of its disappearance? I never heard of the police being applied to, or of any steps being taken in connection with it."
This insolence enraged Anton. He replied indignantly, "The robbery was accompanied by circumstances which made an inquiry painful to Ehrenthal; the casket disappeared from his locked-up office, and it was probably on that account that no legal investigation was made."
Itzig rejoined, "If I remember aright, Ehrenthal informed his friends at the time that the investigation was given up out of consideration to the baron."
Anton keenly felt this home-thrust, and could hardly command himself as he replied, "It is possible that the baron may have had, at the time, other reasons for letting the subject drop."
Now, then, Veitel felt safe. He read in Anton's suppressed anger how necessary secrecy was felt. It was abona fideoffer; the baron was in dread of the thief. Recovering all his composure, he quietly went on to say, "As far as I know Hippus, he is a lying sort of fellow, who often gets drunk. Whatever he may have said in his cups will not, I fear, help us much in recovering the papers. Has he given you any sufficient ground for applying to him?"
Now, then, Anton had reason to be on his guard. "He has, in the presence of witnesses, made use of expressions which prove that he is acquainted with the papers, knows where they are to be found, and purposes to make use of them."
"That may be enough for a lawyer, but not enough for a man of business," continued Veitel. "Do you know his exact words?"
Anton parried the question, and struck at his opponent by saying, "His statements are known exactly by me and by others, and have occasioned my visit to you."
Itzig had to quit this dangerous ground. "And what sum will the baron spend in the recovery of these papers? I mean to say, is it an affair that is worth the outlay of time and trouble? I have a great many other matters on hand. You could hardly expect me to devote myself, for the sake of a couple of louis-d'or, to the search of any thing so insignificant and difficult to find as papers that some one has hidden."
Years ago, when the two were traveling together to the capital, where they now met as opponents, it was the Jew-boy who was in search of papers on which his childish folly fancied his fortune dependent. At that time he was ready to buy the baron's estate for Anton, and now it was Anton who was in search of important documents, and who applied to him for the baron's property. Veitel had discovered the mysterious receipt he then looked for; he held the baron's estate in his hands, and his destiny neared its fulfillment. Both thought at the same moment of the day of their common journey.
Anton replied, "I am authorized to treat with you as to the sum; but I would observe that the matter is a pressing one. I therefore entreat you to inform me whether you are prepared to deliver the documents to the Baron Rothsattel, and to be employed in our interest as regards the purchase of the mortgages."
"I will make inquiries, and consider whether I can serve you," coldly replied Veitel.
Anton rejoined as coldly, "How much time do you require to make up your mind?"
"Three days," said the agent.
"I can only give you four-and-twenty hours," said Anton, positively. "If, in that time, you have not informed me of your intention, I shall, on the baron's behalf, take every possible step to procure the papers, or to convince myself of their destruction, and I shall use my present knowledge respecting their abstraction and hiding-place to discover the perpetrator of the felony." Then taking out his watch, he said, "To-morrow, at the same hour, I shall call for your reply."
And so the important interview ended. As the door closed behind Anton, Itzig's resolve was taken. "Only one week," muttered he, "to my betrothal to Rosalie! The following day I shall find the notes of hand in a corner of Ehrenthal's office. Then Rothsattel and his friends must come to an arrangement upon my own terms. By the threat of a legal investigation, and of making the baron's misconduct public, I can force this Wohlfart to any thing I like. Only a week! If I hold out so long, the game is mine."
When Anton returned at the expiration of the four-and-twenty hours, he found the office closed. He called again in the evening: no one at home. The following morning the shrewd youth appeared at the door, and informed him that Mr. Itzig was gone on a journey, that he might perhaps return that very hour, but might, on the other hand, be absent for some days.
Anton knew, from his fluency, that the youth spoke according to orders given.
He next went to an official, who had the reputation of being one of the cleverest detectives in the town—cautiously disclosed the essentials respecting the stolen casket—expressed his suspicions of the robbery having been effected by Hippus, under Itzig's directions—and revealed the incomplete warnings of the worthy Tinkeles. The detective listened with attention, and at length said, "Out of all the inadequate information that you have given, the name of Hippus interests me most. He is a very dangerous character, and hitherto I have not exactly known how to get at him. On account of swindling and petty rascalities, he has often been punished, and the police have their eye upon him. I will do all I can for you, so far as he goes. I will have him and his effects searched this very day. I tell you beforehand we shall find nothing. I am further prepared to repeat this search in the course of a few days, at the risk of lowering my character in the eyes of the brave Hippus; for our trick of making thieves feel safe by means of superficially searching them may indeed answer with novices, but would never avail with this old hand. It is certain that we shall find nothing at our second search."
"Of what use can the measure be to me, then?" asked Anton, in a tone of resignation.
"Of more than you fancy. It may further your game with the agent Itzig; for, generally speaking, the effect of a search is to make the parties uncomfortable. And though I am not quite sure how Hippus will take it, I am inclined to believe it will perplex him. That may help you on. I will see, too, that the first search be clumsily and ostentatiously made. Fortunately, he has now a settled abode again; for some time he has had a respite from us, and has grown bold. I hear, too, that he is getting old and feeble. All this may help you to catch Itzig one way or other."
This decision come to, Anton had to retire.
It was a dark November evening; a fog lay heavily on the town, filling the old streets and squares, and forcing its way into the houses. It gathered round the street-lanterns, which looked like dull red balls, and gave no light a yard off. It hung over the river, rolled along the black stream, under the bridge, up the steps, and clung to the wooden pillars of the gallery. At times there would be a rift in its masses, through which the inky stream below became visible, flowing like the river of death along the dwellings of men.
The streets were empty. Here and there, close to a light, a form would be seen to emerge, and then suddenly to disappear. One of these shadows was a short man with a stoop, who unsteadily struggled onward as fast as he could. He tottered into the court where Itzig's office was, and looked up at the agent's windows. The curtains were drawn, but there was a glimmer of light to be seen through them. The little man tried to stand firm, stared at the light, clenched his fists at it, and then going up the steps, rang once, twice, thrice. At length a muffled footstep was heard, the door was opened, and the little man, entering, ran through the ante-room, which Itzig shut behind him. Itzig looked still paler than his wont, and his eyes glanced unsteadily at his untimely guest. Hippus had never been a model of manly beauty, but to-day he was positively uncanny. His features were sunken, a mixture of fear and insolence sat on his ugly face, and his eyes looked maliciously over his spectacles at his former scholar. Evidently he had been drunk; but some feverish terror had seized him, and for a moment neutralized the effects of the brandy.
"They are on me," he cried, grasping recklessly at empty air; "they are on the look-out for me!"
"Who would look out for you?" asked Itzig. But he knew only too well.
"The police, you villain!" shrieked the old man. "It is on your account that I am in trouble. I dare not go home; you must hide me."
"We are not come to that yet," returned Veitel, with all the composure he could. "How do you know that the police are at your heels?"
"The children in the street are talking of it," cried Hippus. "I heard it in the street when I was going to creep back to my hole. It was a mere chance that they did not find me in my room. They are in my house, standing on the steps, waiting till I come. You must hide me! I must have money! I will cross the border. I can't stay here any longer; you must send me off."
"Send you off!" repeated Itzig, gloomily. "Where to, pray?"
"Any where—where the police can not reach me—over the frontier—to America."
"And suppose I don't choose?" said Itzig, in a tone of enmity.
"You will choose, simpleton. Are you green enough not to know what I shall do if you don't get me out of this scrape, you varlet? They'll have quick ears at the criminal courts for what I have to tell of you."
"You would not be so wicked as to betray an old friend," said Veitel, in a tone that he vainly tried to make pathetic. "Do look at things more calmly. What danger is there, even if they do arrest you? Who can prove any thing? For want of proof they will have to let you off. You know the law as well as the judges do."
"Indeed!" screamed the old man, spitefully. "You think I shall go to prison for the sake of a fellow like you? that I shall sit eating bread and water, while you are feeding upon the fat of the land, and laughing at the old ass Hippus? I will not go to prison; I will be off; and, till I can get off, you must hide me."
"You can't remain here," darkly replied Veitel. "There is no safety here for you or me. Jacob would betray you; the people in the house would find out that you were here."
"Where best to take me is your look-out," said the man; "but I demand your help, or—"
"Hold your jaw!" said Veitel, "and listen to me. If I were disposed to give you money, and get you off by railroad to Hamburg, and over the sea, I could not do so immediately nor without aid. You must be taken by night a few miles hence to some small station on the line. I dare not hire a conveyance—that might betray you; and, as you are, you can not walk. I must look out for some opportunity of getting you off safely. Meanwhile, I must get you to some place that the police do not know you to frequent, for I fear they will look for you here. If you don't go home, they will probably come here this very night. I must go and inquire for a conveyance and a safe shelter. Meanwhile, stay in the back room till I return."
He opened the door, and Mr. Hippus slipped in like a frightened bat. But as Veitel was about to shut the door upon him, the old creature pushed between it and the wall, crying in high dudgeon, "I will not remain in the dark like a rat; you must leave me a light. I will have a light, you devil!"
"They will see from below that there is a light in the room, and that will betray us."
"I will not sit in the dark!" screamed the old man once more.
Muttering a curse, Veitel took up the lamp and carried it into the inner room. Then he closed the door and hurried into the street. Very cautiously he approached the dwelling of Löbel Pinkus. There all was still; and, looking into the bar, he discerned Pinkus sitting among his guests in all the security of a good conscience. He crept up the steps to his former abode, then took some rusty keys from a hidden corner, carefully examined the sleeping-room, and saw with satisfaction that it was both dark and empty. He hurried on to the gallery, where he remained for a moment looking at the rolling cloud-masses and the dusky stream. Every thing was favorable, but there was not an instant to be lost, for a capricious breeze sometimes blew over the water, and the fog seemed to be breaking up. In a short time the wind would clearly reveal the stream, the outlines of the houses, and the lanterns, which now looked like red specks at the corners of the streets.
Itzig hurried on next to the end of the gallery, and turned the key in a door which concealed the way down the steps. The door creaked as it opened. Itzig went down to the river and tried to ascertain its depth. The platform which ran along the base of the houses, and which was generally visible the whole year through, was covered; but a few strides through the water would lead from these steps to those of the neighboring house. Veitel stared down into the river, and put his foot into it to see how deep one would have to wade before reaching those steps. So occupied was he with the escape of the old man, that he did not heed, did not even feel the cold. The water rose to his knee. He looked round once more. All was darkness, mist, silence, like that of the grave, but for the wail of the water and the rising wind.
Meanwhile Hippus tried to make himself comfortable. After having sent all manner of curses after Veitel, he gave his troubled mind to the investigation of the room. He went to a low cupboard, turned the key, and looked for some fluid that might restore his sinking strength and refresh his parched gums. He found a bottle of rum, poured its contents into a glass, and gulped it down as fast as the fiery nature of the poison allowed. A cold sweat immediately broke out on his brow, and, drawing a remnant of a handkerchief from his pocket, he hurriedly wiped his face, and reeled up and down the room, talking to himself.
"He is a fool! a rascally, cowardly hare! a miserable chafferer! If I wanted to sell him this old handkerchief, he could not help buying; it is his nature; he is a despicable creature. And he tries to defy me, and put me in prison; and he is to sit, forsooth, on this sofa, with the rum-bottle at his side—the scoundrel!" Then taking up the empty bottle, he dashed it against the woodwork of the sofa and broke it to pieces. "Who was he?" he went on, in increasing rage; "a chaffering jack-pudding. I have made him what he is, the noodle. If I whistle, he dances; he is only the decoy, I am the bird-catcher." Here Hippus tried to whistle a tune, and to execute a few steps. Again the cold sweat rained from his brow, and, taking out his handkerchief, he dried his face, and carefully replaced the rag in his pocket. "He does not return," he suddenly cried; "he leaves me here, and they will find me." Then running to the door and violently shaking it, "The villain has locked me in—a Jew has locked me in!" shrieked the miserable creature, wringing his hands. "I am to die of hunger and thirst in this prison. Oh, he has used me ill—used his benefactor basely; he is an ungrateful wretch, an unnatural son!" At this he began to sob: "I have nursed him when he was sick, I have taught him knowing tricks, I have made a man of him, and this is how he rewards his old friend." The lawyer wept aloud. Suddenly stopping before the mirror, he started at his own reflection. His eyes flashed still more angrily as, pushing his spectacles more firmly on, he examined the frame. He knew that mirror. Had chance brought one of the articles belonging to his better days into Pinkus's secret stores, and thence to Veitel's room, or did some resemblance mislead the drunkard? At all events, the thoughts it awoke of his former position filled him with rage. "It is my mirror," he screamed—"my own mirror that the rascal has here;" and, rushing wildly about the room, he snatched up a chair, and struck the mirror with it. The glass soon rattled down in a hundred pieces, but he went on belaboring the frame and screaming like a madman. "It hung in my house; the rogue has stolen my mirror—he has stolen my prosperity." He poured forth hideous imprecations against the supposed thief.
At that moment Veitel rushed in, having heard the noise from the ante-room, and guessing its cause. As soon as the lawyer saw him, he ran at him with the raised chair, crying out, "You have brought me to want, and you shall pay for it," aimed a blow at Itzig's head. But the latter pushed the chair away, and seized hold of the old man with all his strength. Hippus struggled and cursed in vain.
Veitel forced him down into a corner of the sofa, and whispered, as he held him down, "If you do not keep quiet, old man, it's all over with you."
When the drunkard saw in Itzig's eyes, which were fixed upon his, that he had the worst to apprehend from his anger, the paroxysm left him, he sank down powerless, and muttered in a low voice, while shuddering all over, "He will kill me."
"Not if you are quiet, you drunken fool; what devil drove you to destroy my room?"
"He will kill me," mumbled the old man, "because I have found my mirror."
"You are mad," cried Veitel, shaking him. "Collect your senses; you can't stay here. You must come away; I have a hiding-place for you."
"I won't go with you," wailed Hippus; "you want to kill me."
Veitel uttered a horrible curse, took up the old man's shabby hat, forced it on, and, seizing him by the neck, cried, "You must come, or you are lost. The police will look for you here—and find you too, if you lose any more time. Come, or you'll oblige me to do you a mischief."
The old man's strength was broken; he wavered. Veitel took him by the arm, and drew him unresistingly away. He took him down the steps, anxiously looking round for fear of meeting any one.
In the cold night air the lawyer's senses partially returned, and Veitel enjoined him to be silent, and to follow him, and he would get him off.
"He will get me off," mechanically repeated Hippus, running along at his side. As they neared Pinkus's house, Veitel proceeded more cautiously. Leading his companion through the dark ground floor, and whispering, "Take my hand, and come quietly up stairs with me," they reached the large public room, which was still empty. Much relieved, Veitel said, "There is a hiding-place in the next house; you must go there."
"I must go there," repeated the old man.
"Follow me," cried Veitel, leading him along the gallery, and then down the covered staircase.
The old man tottered down the steps, firmly holding the coat of his guide, who had almost to carry him. In this way they came down step after step till they reached the last one, over which water was rushing. Veitel went first, and unconcernedly stepped up to his knee in the stream, only intent upon leading the old man after him.
As soon as Hippus felt the cold on his boot, he stood still and cried out, "Water!"
"Hush!" angrily whispered Veitel; "not a word."
"Water!" screamed the old man. "Help! he will murder me!"
Veitel seized him and put his hand on his mouth; but the fear of death had again roused the lawyer's energies, and, placing his foot on the next step, he clung as firmly as he could to the banisters, and again screamed out, "Help!"
"Accursed wretch!" muttered Veitel, gnashing his teeth with rage at this determined resistance; then, forcing his hat over his face, he took him by the neckcloth with all his strength, and hurled him into the water. There was a splash—a heavy fall—a hollow gurgling—and all was still.
Beneath the leaden clouds that overhung the river, a dark mass might be seen rolling along with the current. Soon it disappeared; the mist concealed it; the stream rushed on; the water broke wailingly over the steps and palings, and the night-wind kept howling out its monotonous complaint.
The murderer stood for a few moments motionless in the darkness, leaning against the staircase railings. Then he slowly went up the steps. While doing so he felt his trowsers to see how high up they were wet. He thought to himself that he must dry them at the stove this very night, and saw in fancy the fire in the stove, and himself sitting before it in his dressing-gown, as he was accustomed to do when thinking over his business. If he had ever in his life known comfortable repose, it had been when, weary of the cares of the day, he sat before his stove-fire and watched it till his heavy eyelids drooped. He realized how tired he was now, and what good it would do him to go to sleep before a warm fire. Lost in the thought, he stood for a moment like one overcome with drowsiness, when suddenly he felt a strange pressure within him—something that made it difficult to breathe, and bound his breast as with iron bars. Then he thought of the bundle that he had just thrown into the river; he saw it cleave the flood; he heard the rush of water, and remembered that the hat which he had forced over the man's face had been the last thing visible on the surface—a round, strange-looking thing. He saw the hat quite plainly before him—battered, the rim half off, and two grease-spots on the crown. It had been a very shabby hat. Thinking of it, it occurred to him that he could smile now if he chose. But he did not smile. Meanwhile he had got up the steps. As he opened the staircase door, he glanced along the dark gallery through which two had passed a few minutes before, and only one returned. He looked down at the gray surface of the stream, and again he was sensible of that singular pressure. He rapidly crept through the large room and down the steps, and on the ground floor ran up against one of the lodgers in the caravansera. Both hastened away in different directions without exchanging a word.