Gotthold had left Prora for Sundin as soon as his health permitted, although Ottilie declared that the Prora air was infinitely better for a convalescent, and he could complete the promised picture just as well here as there. Nay, she had even announced herself ready to give up the present entirely, if their friend could not be induced to stay on any other terms; but her husband had again differed from her in opinion.
"We ought not to try to detain one who wants to go," said he, "or we must be responsible for all the results that may proceed from his stay, and that I have no inclination to do in this case. I am sincerely attached to the young man, as he deserves, and wish him from my heart all the happiness he deserves; but I don't exactly see how he could obtain it upon this path. And in this I have not clung to the views you know I hold regarding marriage. I would be reconciled to all possible concessions, if Gotthold could be helped. But that cannot be done yet. The only way to remove the obstacles from his path is such a terrible one, that, from my knowledge of his nature, he will shudder to use it if matters ever go far enough. At present they have not reached that point."
"I shall take care not to rack my brains over this mystery," cried Ottilie; "only let me ask one question, to which I beg you to give me a plain, straightforward answer: Does Gotthold know of this expedient?"
"I have not mentioned it to him, but it is possible that, with his penetration, he has hit upon it himself."
However little satisfaction Ottilie had derived from this very vague information, she had not been able to doubt that Gotthold really wished to go away, and even her husband's persuasion would hardly have detained him.
Gotthold had hurried off with the impetuosity of one who fancies some magic spell has been cast over him, and strives to break it, cost what it may. And had not an enchanted ring been woven around him from the moment he had entered his native island, and been driven by the companion of his boyhood, without recognizing him, through his native fields? Good Jochen Prebrow! He certainly bore very little resemblance to a Mercury, and yet with him had commenced the succession of marvels which had taken place during the last few days, which had now shown him a heavenly face and now a fiendish grin; now refreshed him with nectar and ambrosia, and anon strewn ashes on his tongue.
"I should be the most miserable creature on earth if you did not understand me!"
The words constantly rang in his ears--the words and the anxious tone in which she had uttered them, as if from the depths of the wretchedness into which she would sink without hope of deliverance, if he did not understand her. She and he! Was not doubt misunderstanding, and were not doubt and despair one and the same thing in this case?
Had he understood her?
It was in the middle of the night, when Gotthold started from a troubled sleep, that the meaning of the mystery had appeared before his soul, as if born of the darkness: there was one thing, and only one, which she could not, dared not do: go while her child remained, remained in the power of this fiend; and by this one thing the fiend had forced her to obey his will. And force her to go he can and will, will apply for the dissolution of a marriage bond she has broken--or would she, the proud woman, deny it? Deny upon oath, in a court of justice, that she had ever rested in the arms of her friend? Repeat in the court-room, before the world, the yes which in his presence she had long since changed to an inflexible no? Very well, then the breach of faith was proved, the marriage dissolved, the child would be taken from the guilty parent, and given to the one who was innocent of blame!
Then, with a sneering laugh, he had repeated to her the shameful formula, with which the next morning, in the presence of her lover, she was to degrade herself to a level with the lowest--must do so if he did not see through the fiendish plot, if he did not understand her!
Thank God, he understood her now! But how she must have suffered! How she must suffer still!
And was this state of things to continue? Never, never. Now that he had at last penetrated his enemy's base game, he must win the victory. If he had allowed himself to be paid with money for the shame of knowing that his wife's heart belonged to another, how far would not his venality extend? But he would sell everything--honor, wife, and child. Why had he not disposed of all at once, since he knew any price would be paid that came within the means of the buyer? Did he wish to increase the value of his wares by selling them separately? Or was there, even for him, a limit which he could not pass? Inconceivable. Or was his hatred towards his rival greater than his avarice? Did he carry the refinement of cruelty so far as only to mutilate his victim, in order to exult in her agony?
It was certainly very probable from such a man, but how long would this spendthrift and gambler remain in a situation to be able to afford himself so costly a luxury? How soon would necessity compel him to sell off his wares? What had the purchaser to do, except practise a little patience and keep the money ready?
The property which Gotthold had hitherto considered of so little importance, suddenly acquired a priceless value in his eyes, and he felt sorely troubled by the thought that he had entrusted the greater part of it to persons whose honesty was by no means beyond question; at least Wollnow, even when their intercourse had been limited to letter-writing, had repeatedly made such hints, and finally in plain words warned him against the house in Stettin; but Gotthold, out of indifference towards the property, and respect for the name of his dead relative, which had been retained by the firm, had not heeded the warning until Wollnow had recently spoken on this point even more urgently, and said that he must withdraw his money, and there was danger in delay. The banker in Sundin who discounted Wollnow's notes had confirmed the statement of his business acquaintance, and offered him his services, but said it would be better to withdraw it to-day than to-morrow.
Gotthold had intended to do so, but his next visit had been to his protégé, the young artist Bruggberg, whom he found dying, and in the duties of friendship he had forgotten everything else. Then days and weeks of the most sorrowful emotions had followed, during which he could form no resolution. Now he did not need to form any; now he was eager to make up for the delay; but it was too late.
When he entered the banker's office, the latter came to meet him with a very grave face. News had just come from Stettin that Lenz & Co. had failed, in a most unprecedented, scandalous manner; the creditors would not receive five per cent. "I am sincerely sorry," said Herr Nathanson; "I lose a small sum myself, if one can be said to lose what one has given up all hopes of getting long ago; but you are very heavily involved, if I understand you rightly. Did you not have fifty thousand thalers invested there?"
A short time before Gotthold would merely have shrugged his shoulders at such news, and gone back to his work. Now it came upon him like a thunder-clap. By the sum recently borrowed of Wollnow and his present loss, his property was reduced to about one-fourth of its original amount, and even this, strictly speaking, no longer belonged to him. Nay, he need not even be overstrict; it was only necessary not to be faithless to the obligations into which he had entered--obligations to struggling young artists, who had based their hopes of the future on his friendship, to widows and children of his deceased companions in art, who but for him would sink into poverty. What was left him if he paid these debts, as his honor, his heart bade him? Nothing! Nothing except the income from his labor. It was enough and more than enough for himself--but for the insatiate avarice of that spendthrift! He would not be put off with promises, nor accept payments on account, not he!
Gotthold stood helpless before a barrier that towered before him in impassable height, and which neither his anger nor his despair could remove. Of what crime could she be charged, except that young, generous, and confiding, she had allowed herself to be deceived by a villain, and then after long years of terrible, silent agony, had once more breathed freely at the sight of the friend of her youth, and fled to his arms for deliverance? And now she was the guilty one, and this scoundrel, asserting his rights, could mock, torture, kill her unpunished.
Thus anger and love drove him restlessly around in the terrible circle, from which no escape seemed possible unless some means could be found to fasten the crime, before the eyes of all the world, upon the person who was really guilty.
But how could such crimes be proved?
Gotthold started in horror when, while racking his brains over the possibility, he surprised himself in the act of producing this proof. Should he sully his own and Cecilia's honor by revealing the dark secrets, which, under cover of the night, extended from the master's room at Dollan to the little attic chamber of the maid-servant? Never!
And that the spendthrift and gambler would ever venture out of the dark mole-tracks of vice to the comparatively open road of crime was a thought that had also occurred to him; but there were too many probabilities against it. He did not give the scoundrel credit for the courage that always belongs to crime; besides, in that case, Wollnow would probably have expressed some suspicion; Wollnow, who, apparently out of sympathy for the Assessor, and perhaps also from the impulse of his own nature, which every dark problem irritated, had entered into the affair so eagerly, followed with so much care even the smallest clew that might lead to the discovery of the lost or stolen money. And, after all, was it not a psychological impossibility, that even a Brandow--if he had been directly or indirectly concerned in the robbery--could quietly clasp the hand of the man he had wronged, as he had done just now, when Gotthold met him engaged in a most animated conversation with the convalescent and his wife. True, the matter had been settled by the trustees of the convent of St. Jürgen, in a manner particularly favorable to Sellien. Under the direction of Alma's father, who presided at the meeting, they decided that the Assessor was not in the least to blame, since, as the agent of the convent, he was authorized, nay obliged, to receive the money, and certainly could not be held responsible for what happened to him on Dollan moor, during and after the fall. So the convent merely set down the ten thousand thalers as lost, "and," Sellien's father-in-law said, "if we were requested to withdraw the warrant for the apprehension of Hinrich Scheel, I, for one, should make no objection. The fellow has escaped long ago, and it is neither for our interest, gentlemen, nor that of my son-in-law, to have the stupid story constantly kept before the people."
Brandow laughed heartily when Sellien, in the most amusing manner, gave an account of the last meeting of the trustees, but was unfortunately obliged to take his leave immediately, as he wanted to go away directly after he had attended another consultation of the racing committee: the seventh within a fortnight! He could not get away from the city at all; but what was he to do? It was everything to him to get the resolution to include a piece of marshy ground in the race-course withdrawn. His Brownlock, which had compared very favorably with the other horses yesterday, was as good a steeple-chaser as could be found; but for the very reason that he had so much power in leaping, required firm ground. "It would be a sin and shame to treat him so; even young Prince Prora has declared it 'indigne.' But I'll pay no forfeit for non-performance of my contract. I'd rather be left sticking in the bog and if necessary drown."
"He is a hero!" Alma Sellien exclaimed, ere Brandow had closed the door behind him, opening her eyes very wide to express her enthusiasm.
"He is a fool," Gotthold muttered to himself, as he walked through the wet, silent streets towards his lodgings; "at least as much fool as knave, and certainly incapable of a deed which, in any sense, requires a man."
On reaching his room, Gotthold found a letter in the firm, even bold hand of Wollnow, now so familiar to him.
The epistle was a lengthy one. Gotthold expected to find news of the Stettin affair, about which a great deal of correspondence had passed between him and his friend during the last few weeks. He was mistaken. His eyes sparkled as, still standing, he glanced rapidly over the pages; then he threw himself into a chair, but instantly started up again, for his resolution was already formed. He hurried to the house where the racing committee met. Herr Brandow, after a violent altercation with one of the gentlemen on the committee, had left the house half an hour before. He went to the hotel where he knew Brandow usually lodged. This time Herr Brandow had not done the hotel the honor; perhaps he had taken a room at the "Golden Lion." The "Golden Lion" knew nothing of Herr Brandow; perhaps the gentleman might be at the "White Rose." Brandow had left the "White Rose" about fifteen minutes before, for home, the head waiter thought, at least he had ordered his luggage to be carried to the ferry-boat.
The next boat left in half an hour. Gotthold had just time to hurry home and put clothing enough to last for a few days into a travelling bag. "It is possible that I may not return for several days," he called to the landlady, and added in an under-tone: "It is possible I may not return at all."
The passage to the island was unusually long that day. A strong head-wind had sprung up; the boat was overloaded with passengers and horses, and they were obliged to tack, cautiously. Conversation among the passengers, most of whom were land-owners and farmers on the island, turned almost exclusively upon the races which were to take place in a few days, and would be the most brilliant ones that had ever been seen. Horses were to come from Silesia, and even Hungary; Prince Prora would probably have taken part in them himself, if he had been admitted. The great public prize was increased to a thousand thalers, but the principal race would be the one between the gentlemen riders. It had at first been supposed that not three of the twenty-four horses registered would appear, since even in May, six, from fear of Herr Brandow's Brownlock, had already paid the forfeit for failing to fulfil their contract; but now the tables were turned, now all wanted to be allowed a place, for it was notorious that Brownlock could not cross the marsh, and then he would be obliged to give up the lead to go round it, and could not recover it again, since there was only one very slight impediment between the bog and the winning-post, and on a free course the other horses could easily cope with him.
So the men, putting their heads together, talked eagerly among themselves, while rain and spray dashed over their broad shoulders, and Gotthold pondered over the letter he carried in his pocket. "Brownlock can't cross the bog, Brandow says so himself;" he had another motive for saying so besides that of stimulating his opponent's desire to bet, as one of the speakers had suggested.
At last the boat reached the opposite shore. Gotthold hurried to the inn to get a carriage to take him to Prora. Herr Peter's three carriages were all away, but one would soon return, nay, ought to have been back now; but he could not depend upon the grooms; the only reliable one he had ever had got married about three weeks ago, one Jochen Prebrow from Dollan, that is, not the estate, but the smithy, near which the accident had lately happened of which the gentleman had probably heard.
"Why, good gracious!" exclaimed Herr Peters, "it's you yourself. I should hardly have known you. You look much paler and thinner than you did three weeks ago, when you passed through here with the Herr Assessor and Herr Wollnow. I was talking the matter over with Herr Brandow a few hours ago. It's a pity you missed the twelve o'clock boat, or you might have gone on with Herr Brandow, who always has his own horses here to meet him. There is no trace of Hinrich Scheel yet; no doubt the fellow has been on his way to America for the last three weeks."
Herr Peters was now obliged to attend to his other guests, whose tall, broad figures crowded the large coffee-room. Gotthold had already seen curious glances directed towards him; probably Herr Peters had pointed him out as the hero of the accident on Dollan moor, which had caused a great deal of talk on, its own account, and now that Brandow's name was in every mouth, was more discussed than ever. So he left the room, which reeked with tobacco-smoke, and wandered about in the pouring rain, until at last, after an hour of impatient waiting, the promised carriage arrived--an old rickety chaise, to which fortunately a pair of fresh horses was harnessed. Herr Peters came out to take leave of him, and say that in consequence of the great demand, he could not have the carriage at the usual price. Gotthold consented to the shameless extortion, and would have given even more to get on.
"I saw what was in the wind at once," said Herr Peters to his guests; "Brandow two hours ago, and now he. Mark my words; they are after Scheel."
"Nonsense," said a fat farmer; "he's gone where the pepper grows long ago."
"I think he has taken his life," observed another.
"Or had it taken," growled a third.
They again put their heads together, even more eagerly than before. That Hinrich Scheel had not reaped the fruits of his crime alone, nay, possibly, had been wholly cheated out of them, was an opinion which had obtained a firm hold upon the public mind, although the rumor had not assumed a definite form. This time also people either could not or would not mention any names; on the contrary, the affair grew darker and darker the longer they talked it over, and the more frequently the thick little glasses filled with a greenish liquid were emptied. Herr Peters looked on well satisfied; it might be doubtful which of the disputants would first call for a bowl of his famous mulled wine; but that the call would be made within the next five minutes was perfectly certain. Herr Peters had already made a signal through the little window that opened into the kitchen to his daughter, who was standing by the hearth.
Meantime Gotthold drove on through the pouring rain, which shrouded the whole landscape in a gray veil that grew denser and denser hour by hour. The wind whistled through the chinks in the leathern curtains, which had been buttoned down to protect the occupants of the chaise from the storm; the crazy old vehicle creaked and groaned whenever--which happened only too often--the wheels on the right or left slipped into the holes of the rough road; but the horses were powerful, and the driver, who expected a liberal fee, was willing, so it rolled forward with tolerable speed, although by no means rapidly enough to suit Gotthold's increasing impatience.
Yet he was compelled to acknowledge to himself, and did so again and again, that there was no sensible reason for his haste, that nothing depended upon one hour more or less, nay, that another hour, which might perhaps mature some definite resolution in his mind, would be welcome. Yet, even while he said so, he leaned forward to shout to the driver that the road was perfectly smooth here, and he might drive faster.
Then he leaned back again into the corner of his little damp prison, drew out Wollnow's letter and gazed at it as if he could not believe any one could write such words as those in a hand so firm, characters so large and clear. And for the second time he read:
"What I have to tell you to-day, my dear friend, is so bad that the most skilful preamble would not make it better. So without any introduction: the upsetting of the carriage on the moor was no unlucky accident, but a shameful crime, of which Brandow was the instigator. Secondly, the money was stolen. The originator of the theft, which might be termed murder, was Brandow again; he was probably present at the time, or else appeared on the scene directly after; at any rate, the fruits of the robbery fell into his hands. Whether the two crimes may to a certain extent be considered one--I mean whether the first was committed that the second might be executed, or whether the second was perpetrated on the spur of the moment, after the first had been performed--I do not know, and probably no one ever will, since it is to be feared that a third terrible crime has resulted from the first two.
"Who betrayed this horror to me? That which is so often the betrayer of crimes--chance.
"A chance than which nothing could be more accidental.
"The money in the packet consisted of hundred, fifty, and twenty-five thaler notes. I had myself, as you know, counted and put up the amount; but of course that would not enable me to positively swear to the identity of any one of the bills, even if it came back to me again. With one, however, I am in a position to do so; the note is once more in my hands, and I can prove in whose possession it has been in the mean time.
"I was obliged to pay out this bill ten years ago at a very critical time--it was the last money I possessed, and in a humorous freak I marked on it the words, 'a lucky journey,' and the date in small, almost microscopical characters, on the upper right-hand corner of its face. Four years ago this same note came back to me. I honored my old friend with the word 'welcome,' which, together with the date, I wrote on the left-hand upper corner of the back, and gave it, as a luck-penny, a place in my pocket-book, where it remained until three weeks ago. You will remember that ready money was rather scarce with me, and I took advantage of the opportunity to punish myself for my superstitious feelings by adding this note to the rest.
"Now, this bill, to whose identity I can swear, Herr Redebas received from Brandow on the day after the accident, as a part of the gambling debt due that afternoon; he left the money in his desk without touching it, until he made me a payment yesterday in which was this very note. I asked Herr Redebas--without telling him my reasons--whether he could swear to this statement if necessary; he answered in some little astonishment, but very positively, that he was ready to do so at any moment.
"Brandow, as is well known, had related here and there, that is, had intentionally spread the report, that the five thousand thalers he paid Herr Redebas at noon had been received in the morning from Jacob Demminer, a produce dealer in this place, as part payment on account of the seven thousand for which he had sold his wheat to him. This statement had nothing improbable in and of itself, and as Jacob Demminer bears the reputation of doing any business by which money can be made, even that of a receiver of stolen goods, there was certainly the shadow of a possibility that the master had received in the morning, in payment for his wheat, the very money of which the man had robbed our friend the night before, and thought he had placed in safety with the worthy Jacob, with whom he had perhaps had business dealings for a long time. I say, there is the shadow of a possibility, for the time was rather short; still, we do not yet know where and how Hinrich Scheel spent the rest of the night, so it might have been.
"The worthy Jacob, however, had not this affair at least on his conscience, but the business Brandow wished to transact with him did not take place either. To be sure Brandow was here that morning, and also in the dark hole Jacob calls his counting-room; he took money away with him, too, but only two thousand thalers, and not for this year's wheat, which he had sold to Jacob months before, but for the next year's harvest. He was obliged to sell at any price, in order to be able to show the money at this time, and he could name any sum without fearing that the worthy Jacob would contradict a customer with whom he did such profitable business. The discovery of this trick was also effected by chance, in the person of a poor young Jew, who had worked several years for the worthy Jacob, and gained his confidence, until now his conscience, or I know not what, suddenly urged him to pour out his heart to me, and implore me to save him from this den of crime.
"Let us recapitulate. Brandow, who on the day of the accident was known to be destitute of money, and received only two thousand thalers the following morning, pays Herr Redebas, at noon, five thousand at one stroke; and among this money is the hundred-thaler note which was in the package that disappeared at the time of the accident.
"Disappeared! Why not lost, found, but not restored to its owner?
"Then it would still have been stolen. But from the beginning it was both a theft and robbery.
"Remember that you felt the package in the Assessor's coat-pocket after you left Dollan; that you no longer felt it at the smithy, and yet the coat you had buttoned was still fastened. This, to be sure, is no positive proof--nay, the latter circumstance at first even seems to be against my supposition. Why, it might be said, should a thief so cunning in all other respects intentionally incur an additional risk? But people may try to be too cunning; and it certainly was not known that you had kept your eye on the package all the evening, and afterwards, when you buttoned the Assessor's coat, even had it under your hand. The defender of the accused will, of course, doubt the correctness of this statement, will--but we are not in a court of justice. To me the fact is plain: the Assessor had the money with him at the time of the fall; afterwards, when the two Prebrows raised the poor fellow, while Henrich Scheel stood by with the lantern, he no longer had it--that is, it had been stolen during the interval.
"By whom?
"Undoubtedly by this very Hinrich Scheel, but very, very probably not by him alone.
"Can Brandow have been present at the time?
"He has taken no little trouble to prove his alibi, even before any proof was asked, and evidently began the affair cunningly enough. He rode here by the way of Neuenhof, Lankenitz, and Faschwitz--that is a fact; the people in the villages heard him dash through; he even took time to talk to several persons he met. If he rode the whole way he cannot have been present at the time the deed was committed; even the best rider on the fastest horse could not do that. But suppose he did not ride the whole way--suppose he turned into the road just above Neuenhof--suppose the spectral horseman whom you saw in your vision dashing across the morass had been a veritable rider of flesh and blood, and this rider had been Carl Brandow.
"You say that is impossible. What is impossible to a man pursued by the furies, if he has a horse under him like the much-praised Brownlock?
"Brandow rode Brownlock that night; the groom at the Fürstenhof swore it, after he saw the racer, day before yesterday, on his way to Sundin. And when a man like Brandow rides a horse which in itself represents a small fortune, and on which, moreover, he has bet thousands, on such a night, over such roads, at such a pace, he must have been in a great hurry.
"He must have been in a very great hurry, or, my dear friend, you would not have escaped with your life; you certainly would not have been spared. A man whom people dash headlong over a precipice sixty feet high they silence entirely, if they are not in too great a hurry.
"Yet, as I said before, this will probably remain a mystery, even to a wiser judge than Justizrath von Zadenig. One of those who were there will never betray it, and the other can no longer do so.
"As I returned from B. I met Brandow; he may easily have learned from my coachman that I had been talking to the Justizrath for an hour. He rode towards home at full gallop; an hour after the lawyer arrived with the gendarme, but did not find Hinrich Scheel, although people had seen him about all the forenoon; and he even took his master's horse when he came home. The master was very, very anxious that the missing man should be found; he even directed the search himself; he--"
"I will not protract this horrible supposition farther; it is the only one which occurs in my story, all the others are facts--facts which cry aloud to heaven--which ought not, must not remain unpunished. I know, my dearest friend, you'll think as I do, though every fibre of your heart must quiver at the thought that you--you--
"I shall come to Sundin with my wife day after to-morrow. We will then discuss, not what is to be done--there can be no doubt about that; but the how is certainly to be considered."
Gotthold put the letter back in his pocket, and gazed out into the cheerless, rain-blurred landscape so fixedly, that he scarcely heard a carriage, which, coming from Prora, passed by on the other side of the road. It was still a half hour's ride to Prora, but it seemed an eternity to the impatient traveller. At last the carriage stopped before Wollnow's house.
"I am so sorry to have you go," said Ottilie; "my husband must certainly return before evening. He will be very angry with me for not keeping you. And then, confess it frankly, my dear friend, you are going without any definite plan--any fixed purpose--and in this way intend to meet a man like Brandow--that is, to lose the game before it is begun."
Ottilie had seized Gotthold's hands as if to draw him back from the door into the room. Gotthold shook his head.
"You are right," said he, "but there are cases where the one who is not right, or at least cannot prove that he is, must act according to his own opinions. That is my case. I cannot put Brandow in prison or drag him to the scaffold; I can't--"
"Even if he must otherwise still remain Cecilia's husband? You cannot permit that either."
"Certainly not, and therefore a third plan must be found."
"Which never can be. Dear, dear Gotthold, let me say to you what my husband would have said if he were here: Never! He will never yield if you go to him so, alone and helpless, without the bailiff and myrmidons of the law; you must be able to prove that you have him completely in your power, and that is not the case now. My husband said yesterday evening: 'If we could only confront him with Scheel. There is really nothing to be done without him; but where is Scheel? Perhaps at the bottom of the Dollan morass.' Ah! my dear friend, stay away from this den of murderers."
"And ought I to leave her there?" exclaimed Gotthold. "Woe betide me for having done so until now, for not having risked everything to take her away with me, her and her child, for it was only the child that detained her, and he would have sold the child too if I had had head and heart enough to offer him the right price. Now I can offer nothing except a mortal struggle; but I am sure, and he knows very well, that I shall not be conquered this time. Forgive me, my dear friend, for using so many words where acts would beseem me better, and--farewell."
Ottilie burst into tears. "And you," she exclaimed, "my dear, dear friend. Ah! yes, you must go, you must risk all if you love Cecilia, and that you did love her--I knew long ago, and my good Emil knew it, and--and--Emil would not act otherwise in your place, believe me, whatever he may have said before, and may say after! He knows what passionate love is, nay, he would make no objections if he were eight and twenty, and in your place! But I can't help it if I am not as beautiful and intellectual as your dear dead mother was; and besides, I was not even in existence thirty years ago, and there are much more unhappy married couples than we, and, and--may you and your Cecilia be as happy!"
She embraced and kissed Gotthold very warmly, and then stood at the open window letting the rain drip upon her tear-stained face as she waved her handkerchief while his carriage jolted over the rough pavement.
In spite of all the delays, it was still nearly an hour before sunset when Gotthold left Prora, and the horses stepped out bravely; he must surely reach Dollan before dark. He repeated this to himself several times in the course of the next hour, and then reflected why he constantly recurred to this calculation over and over again, and what difference it made whether he reached Dollan before or after dark. He could find no answer, and even as he sought for one, said to himself once more: "Thank God, I shall get there before dark!" Were his thoughts beginning to get confused? That would be bad; his head would probably have much to bear to-day, then his anxious eyes wandered to the heavy clouds, wet stubble, and black fields, and he murmured: "It will grow dark earlier than I expected," and as if the obstinacy of the idea required a corresponding idea, even if it were a mild one, he added: "I shall not find her."
And now he could not shake off the new idea: he would not find her. As if she would hide herself from him, and he would be obliged to seek her in vain because it was too dark.
Or was all this only nonsense, such as arises in the confused brain of a man who for hours has jolted alone in a damp chaise, over rough country roads, staring out into the murky atmosphere, which grew grayer and denser every minute. Was it the terrible type of a terrible possibility. Hinrich Scheel had taken Brandow's horse when he came home, and two hours after Hinrich Scheel had disappeared. Now he had been at home at least four hours; so he had had twice as much time.
Gotthold tore away the curtain which was still fastened on one side; it seemed as if he was suffocating. At last! there was the smithy close before him; he would see and speak to the worthy Prebrows; they lived so near that they could surely tell him they had seen and spoken to her a short time before.
The smithy was lonely and deserted; several hours must have passed since the bellows, had been used: a thick covering of ashes lay over the dead coals. It seemed as if the father and son, who lived alone in the old-fashioned little house, had just run away from their work. The piece of iron they had last been forging still lay on the anvil, the pincers and hammer were close beside it on the ground, as if they had been suddenly thrown down to rush out of the door, which stood wide open. The driver was very indignant; one of the springs of the chaise was almost broken. He had depended upon getting the injury repaired here so that it should go no farther. Gotthold told the lad to follow him slowly, he would go forward on foot.
He could not have waited a moment longer; the sight of the deserted smithy had infinitely increased the terrible anxiety which had tortured him all the way. He hurried up the ascending road over the moor, without heeding the rain that the wind drove into his face with redoubled violence as he walked hastily on, his eyes always fixed upon the nearest hillock which lay before him, and seemed inaccessible. Then he stood panting for breath on the top of the slope, but his view on the right was no clearer; a gray mist from the morass floated nearer and nearer, was so near already that the rugged side of the next hillock gleamed very dimly through the drizzling vapor, and he scarcely recognized the scene of the accident. On reaching the bottom he remembered that by keeping close to the edge one might pass between the hill and morass, so he left the height on the left, and took that course.
But as he turned towards the marsh he entered farther and farther into the fog that had now spread over the bog like a heaving gray sea, and whirled against the steep acclivity like surges dashed by a violent wind against the cliffs.
While the height on the left obstructed his view, and on the right he gazed into the gray mist, which scarcely permitted him to see where to set his feet, the terrible dread increased at every step; it seemed as if every moment the misty curtain must rise to reveal the horrible picture it now concealed, and the height against which it pressed was only there that he might not escape the scene. And there it was!
Gotthold stood trembling and staring into the mist with eyes fairly starting from their sockets. It could have been nothing but a trick of his over-excited fancy, for he now saw nothing, nothing at all, and yet he had seen it with perfect distinctness: four or five figures standing in a circle, thrusting long poles into the morass--misty spectres!
No, no; no spectres! Or else ghosts could speak with human voices, which he clearly distinguished, although he could not understand the words, and now he even caught a few.
"Could it possibly be here?"
"No, it was not possible--it was certain; he now knew why he had been so alarmed."
The next moment, with a single bound, he had dashed through the tall sedges which, at this spot, enclosed the morass with a broad girdle; the thin covering of turf rose and fell under him--he did not notice it; again and again the water dashed up under his flying feet--he did not heed it; his eyes pierced the mist in the direction from which he had heard the voices, and now heard them again still nearer; and now the figures, which a rift in the mist had just revealed to him, appeared again; he reached them.
"Cousin Boslaf!"
"Stand farther away, and you others, too! There are too many of us here; the ground won't bear, and I can do it alone."
They stepped back; again and again the old man let the long pole, furnished with an iron hook, slide cautiously down into the water which had here formed a small dark pool amid the rushes and nodding grass. Then he drew it out and gave it to one of the men. "There is nothing here. This was the last place, we will go back; keep close behind me; and you too, Gotthold. Tread in my footsteps."
The old man, holding his gun on his shoulder, walked forward with the long, regular stride of a huntsman, till the others, among whom was Clas Prebrow, Jochen's brother, found it difficult to keep up with him. He paused several times, and seemed to be trying the ground; but it was only for a few moments, then he moved on into the mist. The men followed without hesitation; they knew they could go on calmly if Cousin Boslaf led the way; and now the ground became firmer and firmer; they were on the very spot from which they had started an hour ago. Cousin Boslaf called Gotthold to his side.
"Since when?" asked Gotthold.
"At two o'clock this morning; the dogs have been keen on her track; I knew it first three hours ago."
"And you still have hope?"
The old man gazed into the mist.
"We have not found her," said he, "so the others may not either, and in that case there would still be hope, although it is not probable that she could have gone far with the child in the darkness."
"With the child?" cried Gotthold, "with Gretchen! then all is well; she would do the child no injury."
"Injury!" said the old man, "injury! there are greater injuries than death."
Gotthold shuddered. She had not been willing to part from the child; she had thought herself obliged to bear--able to bear--anything for its sake. Now matters had become unendurable, and she was compelled to cast the burden aside. What would become of Gretchen? There are worse injuries than death.
They walked rapidly towards the house, old Boslaf still leading the way with his long, regular strides, his eyes now bent upon the ground, and anon gazing keenly into the gloom of the gathering twilight; but he did not speak, and Gotthold asked no questions. Yet before he reached the court-yard, he knew--from various remarks made by the other men--that when, towards noon, the rumor spread abroad among the laborers that the mistress had disappeared with her child, it was said at once that they were dead. No one had been the first to utter the words; every one had spoken them at the same time, and suggested that somebody should go to Cousin Boslaf. Cousin Boslaf had come instantly--with his old long-barrelled gun over his shoulder--and divided the men into parties. Statthalter Möller, with one band, was to cross the fields and search the forest near the seashore. Prebrow, the blacksmith, who had been sent for, was to head another company and go to the upper part of the moor, towards the Schanzenbergen; and Cousin Boslaf himself, with the remainder, down to the morass; then they would all meet at the house again. Two hours before--they were then still farther out in the morass, and there was some little fog, though it was by no means so thick--they had seen Herr Brandow come home, and very soon after ride away again. He had taken a wise course, for the men had resolved that the murderer should not leave the estate alive again; it was no matter about Hinrich Scheel, who was as bad as his master; but his wife and child--it was too much, and they had always said it would happen some day.
They had all said so and had let it happen! True, they had been unable to prevent it; but he! Gotthold thought his heart would burst with shame and horror.
They reached the house almost at the same moment as the two other parties, who had carefully searched the region assigned to them, and found nothing, not the smallest trace.
What was to be done now?
Very little more could be done. True, the fog had dispersed, but twilight had already closed in; in half an hour, or an hour at latest, it would be perfectly dark. Besides, the men, who ever since noon had been constantly on their feet, searching bushes and woods, fields and morass, were evidently fatigued and exhausted, though quite ready to search the forest in the direction of Dahlitz, as soon as they had eaten the supper Cousin Boslaf had ordered to be brought out from the house. The old man himself neither eat nor drank; he stood with folded arms, leaning against the trunk of one of the huge old lindens, waiting patiently until the men should once more be ready to help him seek his great-granddaughter, the last of his race, at the bottom of the marl-pit, the depths of some forest ravine, or wherever she had fled with her child to die.
Gotthold had entered the house to look for Mine, a good young servant-girl whom he had often seen playing with Gretchen, and who appeared to be very devoted to Cecilia; perhaps he might learn from her something that would give a clew. He found her in the kitchen, where with eyes swollen with weeping, she was helping the housekeeper prepare bread and butter for the men's supper. When she caught sight of Gotthold she dropped the knife with a cry of joy, and came running towards him.
Gotthold told her to leave the room with him.
At first the good child's tears almost choked her words. The mistress had been very sad the last few weeks, much more sorrowful than usual; she had scarcely spoken except to Gretchen, whom she would never trust out of her sight, and even to her only when it was absolutely necessary. Yesterday she had remained out of doors alone until very late in the evening, and when she came in looked so pale and exhausted, and stared straight before her with such a fixed expression; she would not go to bed, however, but insisted that she should go to her mother in Neuenhof, who was very sick, and added that she need not come back before noon, and then the mistress had already been gone, no one knows how long. Rieke had certainly known it long before, but said nothing from fear of the other servants, and hid herself up stairs until the master came home. At first he scolded her furiously, and struck at her with his riding-whip, but Rieke cried and screamed that she would charge the master with it, and made such evil speeches that at last he took her away with him in the carriage; and her dear kind mistress had been obliged to go out of the house in the middle of the night, and dear sweet little Gretchen had not even had her new boots, for they were locked up in the closet, and she had the key in her pocket.
The girl began to cry again; Gotthold said a few words which were intended to be consoling, and was then obliged to turn away, for his own grief threatened to overpower him. The sobbing girl had reminded him of the sunny days when he sought out Cecilia in the garden, and played with Gretchen among the flower-beds.
When he came out of the house again, the men had finished their meals and were ready to set out. Prebrow, the blacksmith, was to search the forest on the left, and the Statthalter on the right of the road to Dahlitz. Cousin Boslaf would keep to the road itself. They were just going when Gotthold's chaise jolted into the courtyard; the spring was now entirely broken, and the tire was off of one wheel. Cousin Boslaf asked the Statthalter whether Herr Wenhofs old carriage was still there, and capable of being used. The carriage was there, and might be made fit for use. Then Clas Prebrow should repair it, put in a pair of fresh horses, and follow them. Gotthold looked at the old man inquiringly.
"I shall seek till I find her," said Cousin Boslaf, pushing the rifle farther over his shoulder, "and I shall find her--alive or dead; in either case we shall need the carriage."
They reached the forest; the men had already spread out to the right and left, and now pressed eagerly into its depths.
"I shall keep to the road," said Cousin Boslaf as they walked on side by side. "I can trust my old eyes, and I almost believe she has taken this way. She would reach the forest sooner, and directly behind the woods, in a ploughed field on the right, is the great marl-pit. When she was a child, a poor girl who had killed her new-born babe drowned herself there."
The old man did not change his long, regular stride as he spoke, and his keen eyes searched the deep furrows of the rough road, or glanced over the bashes and tree trunks on either side, between which, here in the depths of the forest, the darkness already brooded gloomily. The men within the woods shouted to each other, in order to keep together: oftentimes one of the dogs they had taken with them barked loudly, then for a moment all was silent again, save the wind sighing through the treetops, and shaking the rain-drops from the leaves. Then the old man paused, listened, and went on again, after convincing himself that the men still kept to their track, and nothing remarkable had happened.
So they came to the end of the forest, whose dark edge stretched out into the twilight on either side as far as the eye could reach. Nothing was to be seen of the men, who had been obliged to make their way through the underbrush more slowly. Cousin Boslaf pointed towards the right, where a short distance from the road, in the ploughed field, a round spot was relieved against the darker earth; it was the marl-pit, which the continual rain of the last few days had filled nearly to the brim.
They crossed the edge of the road to the field; the old man again took the lead, but more slowly than before, and his head was bowed lower, as if he wished to count every separate blade of the short wet grass. Suddenly he paused: "Here!"
He pointed to the wet ground, upon which, as Gotthold now also perceived, were the marks of footprints, a large one, with a smaller one beside it. The footprints came from the road they had just left, but had emerged from the forest sooner, and gone towards the marl-pit, and they had come upon it farther down at a right angle. The old hunter and the young man looked at each other; neither spoke--they knew the decisive moment had come.
Slowly and cautiously they followed the clew, which ran straight before them towards the marl-pit, on whose surface they already saw the rippling of the water, as the strong breeze blew it against the edges. Only about fifty paces more, and all would be decided.
Gotthold's eyes rested fixedly upon the horrible water, which glittered spectrally in the last feeble glimmer of twilight; he saw her standing on the edge holding the child by the hand, gazing--
One of the old man's hands rested on his shoulder, the other pointed downwards. "She took the child in her arms here."
There was only one footprint, the larger one, and the mark was deeper--five, ten, fifteen steps--
"Stay!"
The old man had uttered the word, and waving Gotthold back with his hand at the same moment, he fell upon his knees. The footprints were confused, as if she had taken a few steps irresolutely to and fro, and then the trail became distinct again, going straight on, but parallel with the edge of the marl-pit, and then they turned back in the direction of the road, and remained in that course to the bank, from whose sharp edge a small piece of turf had been torn as she stepped upon the path with her burden.
The two men stood in the road once more; Gotthold felt as if the solid earth were reeling under him; he threw himself into the arms of the old man, who clasped him in a warm embrace.
"We may hope now, my dear son; but we are not yet at the end."
"I will bear and risk everything, so long as I can still hope," cried Gotthold.
The dark figures of men now emerged singly and in pairs from the gloomy forest, and approached the place where they stood. They had found nothing; and Statthalter Möller asked whether they should now search the marl-pit; they could probably do no more than that today; it had grown too dark, and the people were completely worn out.
"But if Herr Wenhof wants us to do anything, we will, won't we, men?" asked Statthalter Möller.
"Ay, that we will," they replied in chorus.
"I thank you," said Cousin Boslaf, "you can help me no more now; I will go on alone with this gentleman, as soon as Clas Prebrow comes with the carriage, and I now have a hope that I may find my great-grandchild alive."
The old man's voice trembled as he pronounced the last words, and the people looked at him in astonishment.
"Yes, my great-grandchild," the old man began again, and his voice was now strong, and had acquired a strangely deep, solemn tone, "for that she is--my great-grandchild, and the great-grandchild of Ulrica, the wife of Adolf Wenhof. You have aided me so faithfully to-day that I cannot help telling you the truth. There is no one living whom it can harm, but it may do you good to know that the truth must always be spoken, that an old man of ninety must speak it, for no other reason than that it is the truth. And now go home, children, and don't allow yourselves to be tempted to take vengeance on him who has driven my child from house and home--don't vent your anger on the house and farm. Better men have lived there before him, and better ones will dwell there after him; and now once more I thank you, children."
The men had listened in silence; one after another removed his cap--they did not exactly know why; and when the old man and Gotthold entered the carriage, which meantime had quietly driven up, all stood around it with bared heads, and even after the coach had gone on, and they had set out on their way home, it was long ere any one ventured to speak aloud.
But the coach drove on through the darkness towards the fishing village of Ralow. It was a delightful road on a summer evening, and Cecilia had been fond of walking here with the child. Gotthold thought she would follow this direction, and the old man had assented. "It is your turn now," said he. "We were seeking a dead body, and an old man is well suited for that; now that we are in search of a living woman, young blood may be better."