When Gotthold reached the little wooden gate, which, shaded by a half-decayed linden-tree, afforded egress through the rough hedge on this side of the garden, he paused and glanced cautiously over the sunny fields towards the forest. He could not have endured to meet any one just now, perhaps be obliged to stop and answer a greeting or question. But he saw no one; all were in the great rye-field, where they had been toiling all day; the path to the forest was open.
The sun shone with a fierce burning glow, and the heated air quivered over the wheat, which was already beginning to ripen, and whose stout stalks were unstirred by the faintest breeze; countless cicadas chirped and buzzed noisily on both sides of the narrow path that wound through the fields; a large flock of wild pigeons circled at no very great height in the air, and as they wheeled with lightning-like speed, the moving cloud glittered in the rays of the setting sun against the clear blue sky like a shield of polished steel.
Gotthold saw all this, because he was accustomed to live with nature, and even felt the electricity that pervaded the atmosphere, but only as being perfectly in harmony with the conflict that oppressed his heart. Shame had long since dried the burning tears grief had forced from his eyes; shame for having, by his want of self-control, produced this scene, in which, after eight long days of torture, he had finally played the undignified part of the third person, only to learn that she still loved this man, and her unhappiness consisted in the knowledge that she was not as much beloved by him as she desired to be. "On your honor, Gotthold, did he tell you so?" In what a despairing tone she had uttered the words! How the dread of hearing a "yes" had disfigured her beautiful face! "Is this your boasted friendship?" Yes, his friendship, with which he had been troublesome to her years before, with which he was troublesome now, only that he could no longer hide himself behind its mask as in those days, only that he no longer had the poor consolation of being able to slip away unnoticed and unperceived, as he had done that night.
He had lain here on the edge of the forest, under the great beech-tree, in the darkness of the night, and plucked up the moss, and cursed himself and the whole world because, by the pale light of the moon, he had seen two happy lovers. Now the sun glared broadly upon his couch of pain, as if it wished to show him how childish his grief had been, and that he should have reserved his despair for this hour. She had been happy! Gotthold tried to laugh, but the sound that came from his tortured breast was a cry, a dull moaning cry like that of a wounded animal. Even so had he wailed when he tottered along this very path through the sultry woods that night, and the trees danced around him in the dim moonlight like mocking spectres. Now they stood in brazen sun-steeped ranks, and seemed to say: What do we care for your self-created anguish, you fool!
And what do I care for your misery! said the sea, which, now as he emerged from the forest upon the bluff, stretched before him in a blackish-blue expanse, as if petrified in its unapproachable majesty. He had seen it under this aspect once before, one afternoon when he had been wandering along the rocky cliffs of Anacapri, and it had given him the subject for one of his best paintings; but now he only bestowed a passing thought upon it, as the memory of the cool forest shade and murmuring fountain by which he sat a short time before, flits through the burning brain of a sun-scorched wanderer on a dusty highway.
Below him in the little inlet, which had been toilsomely dug in the rocky shore, were the boats which belonged to the estate. During the last few days he had often used the smaller one to row to various places along the coast, and had the key of the chain by which it was fastened to the stake in his pocket.
Broader and broader grew the shadow which fell from the shore upon the sea and overtook Gotthold, as with powerful strokes he began to row across the wide bay, at whose extreme southern point stood the beach-house, now brightly illumined by the sunlight. But the shadow did not proceed from the shore, but a black wall of clouds which, of perfectly uniform breadth, rose slowly in the heavens, and whose sharp upper edge glowed and sparkled with a gloomy fire. It was a heavy thunderstorm from the land. Well, let it come! Gotthold longed to escape from the sultry atmosphere that brooded over his soul, and breathe freely once more in the strife of the elements. A fiery shaft quivered across the black wall of clouds, then a second, a third; and with marvellous speed the dark curtain rose higher and higher, extinguishing every gleam of light in sky and shore, and upon the sea, over which the wind now whistled in gusts, furrowing its mirror-like surface and soon lashing it into foaming surges.
Waves and wind turned Gotthold's little boat aside from its course and drove it, as if in sport, towards the sea, though now, clearly perceiving his danger, he tried to guide it to the shore. After a few strokes he realized that his only hope of deliverance was that the storm might pass as quickly as it had come.
But it seemed as if the fiends of darkness had heard his sacrilegious words and were now determined to have their victim. The black shadow spread farther and farther over the raging sea; only a few white sails still gleamed in the distant horizon, and now they also disappeared in the darkness; the waves dashed still higher, and the boat receded still faster from the shore, where already, even to Gotthold's keen eye, the white bluff and the dark forest that crowned it blended together in one gray line. There was no longer any doubt that the skiff would be driven into the open sea, unless, which might happen at any moment, some wave upset it; nay, it seemed a miracle that this had not already occurred.
Gotthold calmly did what he could to save himself; he carefully watched the rise and fall of every approaching wave and kept the boat's head to the wind, now with the right oar, now with the left, and anon making a powerful stroke with both. If it upset, all depended upon whether it sank immediately or floated on the surface. In the latter case his situation was not utterly desperate; he might perhaps be able to cling to it, and, if the wind veered, either be carried back to land, or rescued by some passing ship; but if the boat sank, he was lost according to all human calculation. He could not put down the oars a moment to divest himself of his clothing, and not even so good a swimmer as himself could hope, fully clad, to swim for many hours in such a sea, especially as he already began to feel that his strength, carefully as he had husbanded it, was gradually beginning to fail.
Gradually at first, and then faster and faster. Hitherto he had executed the most complicated movements of the oars with perfect ease, but now they grew heavier and heavier in the stiffened hands, the benumbed arms. His breast grew more and more oppressed, his heart beat more and more painfully, his breathing changed to gasping, his throat seemed choked, his temples throbbed; come what would, he must rest a moment, take in the oars, and let the boat drift.
The little skiff instantly began to ship water; Gotthold had expected it. "It can't last much longer now," he said to himself, "and what does it matter? If you could live for her, it would be worth the trouble; but now--to whom do you die except yourself? Death cannot be so very painful. True, she will think: 'He tried to lose his life, and he might have spared me that.' It is very ungallant in me to drift ashore a disfigured corpse, very ungallant and very stupid; but it is all of a piece, and surely a man cannot pay for a folly more dearly than with his life."
Thoughts crowded still more confusedly upon his bewildered brain as, utterly exhausted, he sat bending forward, staring at the oars, which he still clenched mechanically in his stiffened fingers, and the reeling edge of the boat, which was now sharply relieved against the grayish-black sky, and then buried a foot deep under the foaming crest of a breaking wave. Then he saw all this only as a background, from which her face appeared in perfect distinctness, no longer with the mouth quivering with pain and the cold Medusa eyes, but transfigured by a merry roguish smile, as it had always arisen before his memory from the precious days of youth, and as he had seen it lately for one moment.
Suddenly an infinite sorrow seized upon him that he must give up life without having lived, without being loved by her; the life which, if he was only permitted to go on loving her, was an inexpressible happiness; the life which did not belong to him, which he owed to her, and for which, for her sake, he would struggle till his latest breath.
The stiffened fingers again closed firmly around the handles of the oars; the benumbed arms moved and parried with powerful strokes the onset of the rushing waves; the wearied eyes gazed once more over the foaming waters for some hope of deliverance, and a joyful shout escaped his laboring breast when, as if summoned by some spell, a sail emerged from the watery mist with which the air was filled. The next moment it came shooting forward, a large vessel, with her larboard side so low in the water, that Gotthold saw the whole keel from bow to stern, and above the high bulwark nothing was visible except the head of the steersman, whose snow-white hair fluttered in the wind, and the upper part of the body of a young man on the bowsprit, who held a coil of rope in his hand. And now, like a serpent, the line fell directly across his boat. He seized it and wound it around him. Then came a powerful jerk; his boat, filled almost to the water's edge, reeled to and fro, and sank under his feet; but his hands were already clinging to the side of the larger vessel; two strong arms seized him under the shoulders, and the next moment he fell at the feet of Cousin Boslaf, who held out his left hand to him, while with the right he turned his helm by a powerful effort, to save his own boat from being swamped.
The sea was still heaving after the thunder-storm of the afternoon, but the sun had cast a trembling light over the dark waves before it set. The stars now gradually appeared in the blackish-blue vault of the heavens; Gotthold raised his eyes to them, and then gazed into the quiet countenance of the old man, by whose side he was seated upon a bench, sheltered by the thick walls of the beach-house. Through the window beside them gleamed the light of the lamp, which, ever since Cousin Boslaf had lived in the beach-house, had burned there night after night, and would now continue to burn on, even after his eyes were closed in death. It was for this object that he had taken the journey to Sundin--the first since he returned from Sweden, sixty-five years ago, and probably the last he would ever make in his life. It had cost him an effort to give up his hermit habits for days, and mingle with mankind once more. But it must be done; he dared not ask whether the road would be hard or easy for him. So he had sailed away, accompanied by young Carl Peters, the son of his old friend, and for six long days presented himself at the Herr Präsident's every morning, and was always sent away because the Herr Präsident was too busy to see him, as the valet said, who finally roughly forbade him to come again, just at the moment the former left his study, and, seeing the old man, asked him kindly who he was, and what he wanted. Then Cousin Boslaf told the friendly gentleman that his name was Bogislaf Wenhof, and he had been very intimate with Malte von Krissowitz, whose portrait was hanging on the wall, and who, if he was not mistaken, was the Präsident's great-grandfather, and then told him his desire. Malte von Krissowitz was one of the six young men who had officiated as judges during the contest between Bogislaf and Adolf Wenhof; the Präsident, when a very young man, had heard the famous story from his father, who had it from his grandfather, to whom his great-grandfather had related it; it seemed to him like a fairy tale that the hero of that story should be still alive, and the very old man who was sitting on the sofa beside him. He called his wife and daughter, introduced them to the old man, and insisted that he should stay to dinner. Everybody was most kind and friendly, and--what was most important--the Präsident, when he bade him farewell, gave him his word of honor that the good cause for which he pleaded should henceforth be his own.
"Within a few days," said Cousin Boslaf, "a beacon will be erected here before the house, on a high foundation of stone, whose light can be seen a mile farther than that of my lamp. Carl Peters is appointed keeper, and will live with me in the beach-house, which for the present will serve as a watch-house, and after my death is to become the property of the government. So this great care is removed from my mind. I need say no longer, when I extinguish the lamp at daybreak: Will you be able to light it again this evening?"
The old man was silent; the Swedish banner flapped still more loudly upon the roof of the beach-house; the waves broke more heavily upon the rocky strand. Gotthold's eyes wandered with deep reverence over the figure at his side, the tall form of the silver-haired old man of ninety, whose heart still beat so warmly in his breast for all mankind--for the poor sailors whom he did not know, and who did not know him, of whom he knew nothing except that they were sailing yonder in the night, invisible even to his keen eyes, and so long as they saw the light kept away from the dangerous coast, as their fathers and grandfathers had taught them to do. The old man who lived only for others, whose whole existence was nothing but love for others, from whom he neither asked nor expected love or gratitude, had to-day risked his own life to save him, who scarcely desired to be saved, to whom life seemed valueless because he loved and was not beloved in return. What would the old man say to that? Would he, in the boundlessness of his unselfish love, even be able to understand such a selfish, egotistical passion?
"That was my one anxiety," Cousin Boslaf began again; "the government has relieved me of it; I have one other which no one can remove."
"Does it concern her--Cecilia?" asked Gotthold with a beating heart.
"Yes," said the old man, "it does concern her, Ulrica's great-grandchild, who looks so like her ancestress, but is probably even more unhappy. She should never have been allowed to marry the man, if I had had my way; but they threw my advice to the winds; they have always done so."
A strange, terrible change had come over the old man. His tall form was bent as if all strength had left it; his deep voice, so firm a few moments before, quivered and trembled, when after a short pause, which Gotthold did not venture to interrupt, he continued:
"They have always done so. And so they have lost their fields, one after another, and their forests, one after another, and become tenants where they were once masters, and gone to ruin, one after another. I have let it pass, been forced to let it pass, and always thought: Now matters can't be worse--but the worst was still in store for me. They were all reckless and frivolous; but none were wicked, not one, and after all they were men who, if need be, could live honestly by the labor of their hands. Now, now, even the old name will die out with me; only one poor helpless woman is left, who has exchanged her name for that of a man who is a good-for-nothing fellow like his forefathers; the worthless wretch will drag her down to shame with him--her shame and mine!"
The old man's last words were scarcely audible; for he had buried his wrinkled face in his knotty hands. Gotthold laid his hand on his knee.
"How can you talk so, Cousin Boslaf!" said he, "how can you accuse yourself of a misfortune you have been unable to prevent; you, who have always been the good genius of the house!"
"The good genius of the house--great God!"
The old man started up and strode hastily to the shore, where he stood with his face turned towards the sea; his white hair fluttered in the wind; he raised his arms towards the dark waters, and then let them fall again, muttering unintelligible words. Gotthold still kept by his side; had the old man become childish, or had he gone mad?
"What is the matter, Cousin Boslaf?" he asked.
"Cousin Boslaf!" shrieked the old man, "ay, Cousin Boslaf! He called me so, and she too, and all the rest with them and after them, my children, and children's children!"
"Cousin Boslaf!"
"Always Cousin Boslaf! Yes, it is quite right, and will be placed on my gravestone. I have sworn that no human being should ever hear the tale, but I can bear it no longer. One man shall learn the crime we committed against mankind, that he may forgive us our sin in the name of mankind. I have always loved you, and to-day I saved your life, so you shall be the man."
He led Gotthold back to the bench.
"You have probably heard of the contest I had with my Cousin Adolf about Dollan?"
"Yes," replied Gotthold, "and have thought of it all very recently as I came to visit you, and in the depths of my heart praised the rare magnanimity with which you resigned the rich estate and beloved maiden to your cousin, after you learned that he was preferred by her. Emma von Dahlitz, Ulrica's confidante, brought you this message the evening before the decisive day; was it not so?"
"Yes," said Cousin Boslaf, "only the message was false, and she who brought it lied, out of love--as she afterwards wrote me on her death--bed a few years after, when I was in Sweden--out of love for me, whom she hoped to win herself. The unhappy girl had also confessed this to Ulrica, who, like me, had believed her lies, and that I had mocked and jeered at her, and said I would rather have a Lapland woman for my wife. Well, I had wooed no Laplander; but the unfortunate maiden had become Adolf's wife, and so, as Adolf's wife and the mother of two children, I found her when I returned. A third child--also a boy--was born a year after. The two older ones died in early youth; the third lived and remained the only child, and this boy was--my son!"
"Poor, poor man," murmured Gotthold.
"Ay indeed, poor man!" said old Boslaf, "for who is poorer than a man who cannot rejoice over his own child, dares not call his before all the world, what is his if anything in the world is. I dared not. Ulrica was proud; she would rather have died ten deaths than taken upon herself the shame of the violation of her marriage vow; and I was cowardly, cowardly out of love for her and him--my poor, good, unsuspicious Adolf, whom from childhood I had loved like a brother, who believed in me wholly and entirely, who would have asserted against the whole world that I was his best, most faithful friend. So a few terrible years passed away; Ulrica, exhausted by the fearful conflict between duty and love she dared not acknowledge, died; holding her cold hands, I was forced to swear that I would keep the secret. So I have been and still remain Cousin Boslaf to my child and grandchildren. They have given me a little higher place in their affections than an old servant whom people will not dismiss, tiresome as he often is; they have also let me talk when they were in a good humor; and if a child was born, old Cousin Boslaf was allowed to sit at the lower end of the table at the christening festival, or when one of them was borne to the churchyard in Rammin he was suffered to ride in the last coach, if there was a vacant seat. I have borne it all: bitternesses without number or measure; I have believed that by humility, by love towards others, I might atone for the crime I had committed against my own flesh and blood; but the curse has not been removed from me: 'I have never yet seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.' I have been no righteous man; my seed will be forced to beg their bread; I have grown so old only that I might live to see it."
"Never, never!" exclaimed Gotthold starting up; "never!"
"What will you do?" said the old man, "lend him money! What becomes of the water you take in your hand? What becomes of the money loaned to a gambler? I brought him one evening the savings of sixty years; it was no inconsiderable sum, the farm-rent of my few fields and meadows at interest and compound interest; the next morning he had not a shilling of it left. You told me just now that you were a rich man, perhaps you can give him more. He will take as much as he can get, and the moment he can obtain no more, show you the door and forbid you his house, as he did me. He knew very well I would not accuse him, that I could not; I had not required a written proof that I had given my great-granddaughter what I had."
"And Cecilia?"
"She is the true child of her ancestors; too proud to do anything but shed secret tears over the misery which has come upon her. I know those tears of old; they give the eyes which shed them at night upon lonely pillows, the fixed sad expression with which she has looked at me, whenever I have met her since--it has not been often. Where are you going so fast?"
Gotthold had started up.
"I have been here a long time already--too long."
"Is she expecting you, Gotthold?"
The old man had laid his hand upon his shoulder; Gotthold noticed how steadily the keen eyes rested upon him.
"No," he said, "I do not think she is."
"And it is better so," replied the old man. "It is enough for one to experience what I have done. When, shall I see you again?"
"I intended to go away early to-morrow morning, but I will come here from Prora."
"That's right; my child is unhappy enough now; the sooner you go the better it will be."
"The better it will be," repeated Gotthold, as he strode through the dark forest. For whom--for me? My fate is decided. For her? What is it to her whether I come or go? For him? If he only wanted my money and not me, why didn't he say so long ago? I have offered it to him often enough--perhaps not plainly enough; I could not make up my mind to speak more distinctly; it seemed like trying to buy the husband's permission to remain near the wife. Why has he not wanted it? Doesn't he believe in my sincerity? Is he too proud to take it fromme? And yet who should give to him more willingly than I? It is the only thing I can do for her. Perhaps that is all they need to make them perfectly happy; perhaps his love is of the kind that only thrives in the sunlight of prosperity, and languishes sadly in the mists of care. We will succor this feeble love. That will bring the roses back to her cheeks, and she will laugh happily again as she used to do in the old days.
I play no very brilliant part in the family drama; but when was the rôle of third person conspicuous or grateful? Poor, poor old man! What must he not have suffered! What must he not suffer still! But he was not guiltless, no, not guiltless! Only falsehood is sin, not truth. The marriage bond between Adolf Wenhof and Ulrica von Dahlitz, as it was brought about by a lie, was and remained a lie. She loved another, and this other came; she saw that he loved her still as he had always loved her; in an hour of intoxication, after so many years of torture, she became his; she was his wife before her own conscience; she ought also to have become so in the sight of man. It was a twofold, threefold, thousandfold lie that she did not do so, that she did not break off the old life and suffer a new one to begin that very hour! In consequence of this lie, she, the proud, beautiful woman, sank into an early grave! He has vainly sought through all these endless years to atone for his crime--the crime of having thrust truth from his threshold and permitted falsehood to cross it! Holy genius of mankind, thou who livest in the light of truth, save me from the greatest of all sins; save me from falsehood!
A dark figure came hastily across the glade near the edge of the forest, through which the path ran. When it approached a little nearer, Gotthold recognized old Statthalter Möller, who now raised both arms, exclaiming:
"Thank God, here you are! You've given us a fine fright!"
"I? Whom? How?"
"You, to be sure, you! And whom? All of us, up to our mistress, who is perfectly beside herself! How? Well, that's a pretty question! When a man rows out to sea in such a nutshell of a boat, with a horrible thunderstorm rising, and that old blockhead of a Christian sees it, and thinks: Well, I'm curious to see how he gets back; but isn't at all curious, goes into the forest, and waits till the storm is over, and then about half an hour ago sends his boy to say: the boat hasn't come back yet, and may not some accident have happened to the gentleman? Lord, there was a pretty piece of business then! And our mistress must have been very much frightened, for she came running out at once, and started us off. The mistress is not to be trifled with when she is in earnest, kind as she is; and we all got frightened too, and some have gone down to Ralow, thinking you might have been driven in there; and some to Neuhof, and I was just going to the beach-house to ask the old gentleman, who has probably come back to-day, what we should do next. The mistress wanted to go herself, but I wouldn't let her."
"Where is the mistress?"
"She is probably still in the field," said Möller, pointing to the left; "I have just left her."
"And how long have the others been gone?"
"As long as I have; if I hurry, I shall probably overtake them."
Statthalter Möller struck into the forest on the right, shouting the names of the laborers, while Gotthold hastily walked on by the path, which in a few moments brought him to the edge of the forest, where an old beech-tree stood alone in the open field, upon which the moon shed a dim, fitful light through the rifts in the heavy black clouds. It was the rye-field, which they had been reaping that day. A loaded wagon was just starting, and men were still working around a few others, but, as it seemed to Gotthold, rather lazily; he heard the voices of the men raised in eager conversation, and saw that they were standing in little groups between the sheaves, several rows of which extended along the edge of the forest. The thought that such important work had been interrupted or carried on less zealously on his account was unpleasant to Gotthold, and he hurried towards the workmen. He had not perceived Cecilia, although he could see the whole field with tolerable distinctness; she had probably gone back to the house again.
But as he approached the beech-tree, a white figure which had been sitting with its face buried in its hands, and was now startled by his hasty steps, rose from the circular bench that surrounded the huge trunk.
"In Heaven's name, Möller, have you returned already? Is he--"
"It is I myself; Cecilia, dear, dearest Cecilia!"
"Gotthold!"
She had thrown herself into his arms; he held the pliant figure which clung closer and closer to him in an ardent embrace; her soft lips quivered against his in a long, tremulous, passionate kiss.
"Is that you?" said Carl Brandow's voice suddenly, close beside them.
It seemed as if he had sprung from the earth; doubtless the sheaves, the last of which stood partly under the ends of the drooping boughs of the beech-tree, had concealed his approach, but in the shadow of its foliage probably nothing but Cecilia's light dress had been visible to the new-comer. Yet, in Gotthold's sensitive mood, the man's loud laugh had a horrible sound, and his clear voice a disagreeably shrill tone never heard before, as, flourishing his riding-whip in the air, according to his custom, he cried: "I have heard all; I always say: Don't turn your back, something always happens which wouldn't have occurred otherwise. I shouldn't have let you go on such a wild-goose chase, any more than I would have commenced reaping at the end next the barn. What will become of this stuff if it should begin to rain again, as there is every appearance of its doing, and rain all day to-morrow? In that case we can take it to the manure heap, instead of the barn; nobody will come here with a wagon for a week, and it will have sprouted long before then."
"It isn't so bad after all, sir," said Statthalter Möller, who had just come up with the men he had overtaken in the forest. "We haven't any more room in the barn; we'll put up a cover here, and then it will be all right."
"Of course, you always know better than I!" exclaimed Brandow.
"I wanted to begin by the barn; but Hinrich Scheel wouldn't allow it, and said you yourself--"
"Oh! of course I did it myself; I'm always to blame when you idiots have done anything stupid!"
It was not the first time that Gotthold had heard Carl Brandow scold his workmen in this way; but never had the cause been so frivolous, and the wrong so clearly on his own side. Gotthold had himself heard him, as he rode away that morning, call to Hinrich Scheel that they were to begin the reaping at the upper end of the field by the forest. Was he drunk? Had he seen more than he wished to have known? Did he want to wreak his jealous fury on the innocent workmen? Or was this merely the preamble, and a test to see whether, in the explanation which must take place immediately, he would adopt the tone of an injured, insulted man?
Gotthold did not fear this explanation; his only dread was that it might take place in Cecilia's presence. He wished his loved one to be away, and moreover he felt the necessity of hearing one word from her to assure him that all this was no confused dream, but reality; that in the kiss which still trembled on his lips she had given herself to him, that he might venture to act, decide for her.
But the fear of provoking an outbreak from Brandow made him timid and awkward; she shrank away, actuated by the same feeling; and he did not succeed in carrying out his intention on the way home. Brandow walked between them; he was obliged to relate his adventure, and Brandow railed at Cousin Boslaf, who was always everywhere, from whom one wasn't safe even when on the water, and who had undoubtedly arranged the whole scene, including the thunder-storm and all its appurtenances, in order to be able to save something again. Under other circumstances Gotthold would not have allowed such sarcasms, which Brandow accompanied with sneering laughter, to pass unanswered; but now he must be suffered to say what he chose. Then the latter clapped him on the shoulder, crying: "No offence, Gotthold; but I can't bear the old sneak, and have my own reasons for it. Either a man is master of his house, or he isn't; to have a third party, who is always interfering everywhere, and of course always thinks he knows best, would not do, at least not for me. As we used to say at school, 'One king, one ruler!' You probably remember the Greek words too; I, poor devil, am glad I happened to keep the German ones."
They reached the house. Gotthold could not shake off Brandow, who detained him before the door in conversation about some agricultural matter, while Cecilia entered. Hinrich Scheel came up and complained of the Statthalter, who had ordered even the carriage-horses to be harnessed to the wagons. Brandow flew into a furious passion; Gotthold murmured something about being obliged to change his clothes, and slipped into the house. But he found no one in the sitting-room except pretty Rieke, who was setting the tea-table, and looked roguishly at him out of the corners of her eyes while he glanced over the newspaper which lay on the table before the sofa. The girl went out, but came back immediately, and pretended to be doing something in the closet; she evidently intended to remain in the room. Gotthold now went up to his chamber, and changed his clothes, which had been only partially dried in the beach-house. As he performed the task, his trembling hands almost refused to obey his bidding. Was it the fever of impatience before the final decision, or was it actual sickness, brought on by over-exertion during the storm? "Don't be sick now," he murmured; "now of all times! Now, when you no longer belong to yourself, when you owe your life, your every breath, your every drop of blood to her!"
Brandow's voice echoed from the lower floor in loud, angry tones. Was he talking to Cecilia? Had the rage, perhaps repressed with difficulty till now, burst forth? Was the drama to be played before the servants?
In the twinkling of an eye Gotthold had left his room, crossed the long dark entry, and gone down-stairs. But fortunately his fear had been groundless. Cecilia had sent word that she felt tired, and should not come to supper. Then why couldn't they have set the table in his room on the other side of the hall, where they would be undisturbed and disturb no one? Would Rieke never have any sense? Rieke answered pertly, as she reluctantly obeyed the command, that she wished other people's sense was as good as hers; who was to know what to do when one order was given one minute, and another the next! Brandow told her to be silent. The girl laughed scornfully: Oh! of course it was very convenient to forbid people to open their mouths, but it wouldn't do in the long run, and if she wanted to speak she would speak, and then other people would have to hold their tongues.
"Leave the room," shouted Brandow furiously.
The girl answered with a still more impudent laugh, and then left the apartment, banging the door after her.
"That's what one gets for being too indulgent," cried Brandow, swallowing at a single gulp a glass of wine which he had poured out with an unsteady hand.
He cast a sly glance at Gotthold, who looked him steadily in the face. What did this scene mean? What could the girl tell, if she chose to speak? Had she claims upon her master which he was obliged to acknowledge? Had a weapon unexpectedly fallen into his hands which might be of use to him in this hour? An ignoble weapon indeed; but perhaps not too much so for a conflict with a man who, while the husband of such a wife, did not disdain the servant.
Yet Gotthold said to himself that he would not begin the quarrel, but, if possible, defer it until he had come to some understanding with Cecilia about the next step to be taken. And it seemed possible; nay, Gotthold soon became doubtful whether Brandow at most had anything more than a vague suspicion, to which he either could not or dared not give expression. Perhaps he wished to increase his courage by drink, for he now drained glass after glass, and brought one bottle of old wine after another from his sleeping-room; perhaps he wanted to give vent to his powerless anger, in some degree at least, when he railed at Cousin Boslaf, the old sneak who had perfectly disgusted him with life by his perpetual interference, until he at last forbade him the house; and then spoke once more of his miserable circumstances, as he called them, for which, however, he was less to blame than some other people.
"True," he exclaimed, "I have spent more on my journeys than tailors and glove-makers do; I have lived in a manner befitting a gentleman, but the principal cause of my disgraceful situation is my marriage. Of course you look incredulous; you would like, as an old ally of the Wenhofs, to contradict me; it would be useless; I know too well how all this has come about. I will say nothing about the noble Curt--the few college debts I was obliged to pay for him were a mere bagatelle; but the old man, who was by no means so old as not to have a damned good relish for the pleasant things of this world--the old man was not a particularly desirable father-in-law. I even had to pay for the wedding outfit, but--good heavens--at such a time a man would bring the stars from the sky to adorn his beloved; so I wouldn't have minded advancing the money for the few trinkets and other things, if that had been the end of it. But unfortunately that was not the case. I gave my father-in-law ten thousand thalers in cash during the two years he lived, and was obliged to pay at least as much in debts after his death. That's a pretty good bit of money,mon cher, when a man has no more than enough for himself; and so my beautiful Dahlitz went to the devil, and I was glad to be able to creep into Dollan for shelter, and some day Dollan will go to the devil too; for a man can't keep the best farm in the world nowadays, unless he has property of his own, and the prudent Brothers of the Convent of St. Jurgen have kept me as short as my father-in-law, who could never get the better of them. But what am I thinking of, to be entertaining such a distinguished gentleman with this rubbish! You can't help me, and if you could, a man doesn't allow himself to be helped by his good friends--he applies to his good enemies."
Brandow laughed loudly, and starting up, paced hastily up and down the room with an agitated air, and at last stopped before the closet containing his weapons, pulled a pistol from its nail, cocked it, and turning towards Gotthold, cried:
"Only, unfortunately, the good friends are often the same as the good enemies, so that one can't separate them. Don't you think so!"
"It may happen so," said Gotthold quietly; "but you would do better to hang up the pistol again; your hand is too unsteady for such tricks to-night; some accident might occur."
Gotthold was determined not to enter upon an explanation with the half-intoxicated man this evening, under any circumstances; and equally determined not to yield to his threats, if this was intended for one, and permit the ransom money to be extorted, which he must pay if he wished to leave the place without any further difficulty.
The expression of calm decision upon the grave countenance of his guest had not escaped Brandow; he let the half-raised weapon fall, laid it aside, came back to the table, threw himself into his chair, and said:
"You are right! Some accident might happen; but no one would care, and, after all, it would only be consistent if I should put a bullet through my brain. You are a lucky fellow. You have been obliged to work from your early youth, and so have learned a great deal; now a great fortune, more than you can use, comes to you without the least trouble. I have never worked, have learned nothing, and I lose a property without which I am nothing, less than nothing: the jest of all who have known me, a scarecrow to the gay birds I have hitherto equalled or excelled, and who now leave the poor plucked crow to his fate. Death and the devil!"
He dashed his glass down upon the table so violently that it broke.
"Oh, pshaw! the matter is not worth getting into a passion about. Everything must have an end, and however they may jeer at me, nobody can say I have not enjoyed life. I have drunk the best wine, ridden the fastest horses, and kissed the prettiest women. You are a connoisseur too, Gotthold; you have done just the same in your quiet way, of course. Yes, you were always a sly-boots, and I had a cursed respect for your cunning, even in our school-days. Well, no offence; I am not very stupid, and clever people, like you and me, always get along together; it's only dunces who quarrel--dunces, silly boys, as we were then. Do you remember? Tierce, quart, quart, tierce! Ha! ha! ha! That wouldn't suit us now. Touch glasses, old boy, and drink! Drink to good fellowship!"
And he held out his brimming glass.
"My glass is empty," said Gotthold; "and so is the bottle. Let us go to bed; we have drunk more than enough."
He left the room before Brandow, who was staring at him with eyeballs starting from his head, could reply.
As the door closed behind him, Brandow made a spring like that of a wild beast after its prey, and then paused in the middle of the room, showing his white teeth, and shaking his clenched fists at the door.
"Cursed scoundrel! I'll have your blood, drop by drop; but first I'll have your money!"
His uplifted arms fell; he tottered to the table, and sat there supporting his burning head in his hands, gnawing his lips with his sharp teeth till the blood sprang through the skin, mentally heaping crime upon crime, but none would lead him to his goal. Suddenly he started up and a hoarse laugh burst forth. So it should be! She, she herself must ask him, and that was the way to force her to do so! Vengeance, full vengeance, and no danger, except that the servant might chatter! She had already threatened to do so several times, and to-day had been more impudent than ever; but all must be accomplished to-morrow, and to-night was available for many things.
That night--he did not know how late it was, for he had lain there fully dressed, with throbbing temples, awake, and yet as if in some wild dream, falling from the heights of more than earthly bliss into the depths of helpless anxiety and dread--that very night Gotthold heard above the rustling of the foliage before his window, and the plashing of the rain against the panes, a sound which made him start from his bed, and, holding his breath, listen intently. The noise was like a scream, a woman's scream, and could only have come from the chamber below him, where Cecilia slept alone with her child. He reached the window at a single bound. The wind and rain beat into his face, but above the wind and rain he distinctly heard Brandow's voice, now louder and now lower, as a man speaks who is carried away by passion, and then violently forces himself to be calm. At intervals he thought he distinguished her voice; but perhaps it was only his fancy, excited to madness, which filled the pauses in which he did not hear the voice of the man he hated. A conjugal scene in the chamber of the wife, who cannot, must not lock her door; who must hear the wild words of the furious drunken husband, and has nothing to oppose to his fury save her tears!
"And she bears it, must bear it! Must wring her hands helplessly! This is bitterer than death!" 'murmured Gotthold. "Why didn't I speak? All might now have been decided! Is not keeping silence when one ought to speak also a lie, a cruel, horrible lie, and must falsehood be spoken by the good as well as the bad? To-morrow, if to-morrow were only here, if such a night can have a morrow."
He threw himself on his bed, moaning and sobbing, and buried his head in the pillows, then started up again. Was not that a step moving slowly and cautiously over the floor? Was any one coming to him with a murderous weapon? Thank God!
Gotthold sprang to the door and tore it open. Everything was silent--silent and dark. The stairs from below led directly up the middle of the entry, between the two gables; the cautious step he had heard was not on his side, and had undoubtedly gone towards the other, where, opposite to his room, were two smaller chambers, one of which, on the left, stood empty, and the other was occupied by pretty Rieke; for a faint light, which was quickly extinguished, now gleamed through a crack in the door of the right-hand room, and through the deep stillness came a laugh, instantly hushed, as if a hand had been suddenly placed over the laughing lips.
Gotthold shut the door; he wished to see and hear no more.