RESOLVE.
Lato now stands in need of all the energy with which Providence has
endowed him. All the excellence and nobility that have hitherto lain
dormant in his soul arouse to life, now that they can but help him to
die like a man. He cannot sever the golden fetters which he himself has
forged; he will not drag through the mire what is most sacred to him;
well, then----
Upon reaching his room he seated himself at his writing-table and wrote
several letters,--the first to his father, requesting him to see that
his debts were paid; one to Paula, one to his mother-in-law, and one to
Harry. The letter to Harry ran thus:
"My dear good old Comrade,--
"When this note reaches you, you will be already freed from your
fetters. I have never forgiven myself for refusing to perform the
service you asked of me, and I have now retrieved my fault. I have
written to Paula and to my mother-in-law, explaining your position to
them, telling them the truth with brutal frankness, and leaving no
course open to them save to release you. You are free. Farewell.
"Yours till death,
"Lato Treurenberg."
He tossed the pen aside.
The others were still dancing. The sound of the music came softly from
the distance. He rested his head on his hands and pondered.
He has seen clearly that it must be. He had written the letters as the
first irrevocable step. But how was it to be done?
He looked for his revolver. It might all be over in a moment. He caught
up the little weapon with a kind of greed. Suddenly he recalled a
friend who had shot himself, and whose body he had seen lying on the
bed where the deed had been done: there were ugly stains of blood upon
the pillow. His nature revolted from everything ugly and unclean. And
then the scene, the uproar that would ensue upon discovering the
corpse. If he could only avoid all that, could only cloak the ugly
deed. Meanwhile, his faithful hound came to him from a corner of the
room, and, as if suspicious that all was not right with its master,
laid its head upon his knee.
The way was clear,--Lato had lately frequently risen early in the
morning to stalk a deer, which had escaped his gun again and again; he
had but to slip out of the house for apparently the same purpose,
and---- and It would be more easily done beneath God's open skies. But
several hours must elapse before he could leave the castle. That was
terrible. Would his resolve hold good? He began to pace the room
restlessly to and fro.
Had he forgotten anything that ought to be done? He paused and
listened, seeming to hear a light footfall in the room above him. Yes,
it was Olga's room; he could hear her also walking to and fro, to and
fro. His breath came quick; everything within him cried out for
happiness, for life! He threw himself upon his bed, buried his face
among the pillows, clinched his hands, and so waited, motionless.
At last the steps overhead ceased, the music was silent; there was a
rustling in the corridors,--the guests were retiring to their rooms;
then all was still, as still as death.
Lato arose, lit a candle, and looked at his watch,--half-past two.
There was still something on his heart,--a discontent of which he would
fain disburden himself before the end. He sat down again at his
writing-table, and wrote a few lines to Olga, pouring out his soul to
her; then, opening his letter to Harry, he added a postscript: "It
would be useless to attempt any disguise with you,--you have read my
heart too clearly,--and therefore I can ask a last office of friendship
of you. Give Olga the enclosed note from me,--I do not wish any one
here to know of this,--my farewell to her. Think no evil of her. Should
any one slander her, never believe it!--never!"
He would have written more, but words failed him to express what he
felt; so he enclosed his note to Olga in his letter to Harry and sealed
and stamped it.
His thoughts began to wander vaguely. Old legends occurred to him.
Suddenly he laughed at something that had occurred ten years before, at
Komaritz,--the trick Harry had played upon Fainacky, the "braggart
Sarmatian."
He heard himself laugh, and shuddered. The gray dawn began to glimmer
in the east. He looked at his watch,--it was time! He drew a long,
sighing breath, and left his room; the dog followed him. In the
corridor he paused, possessed by a wild desire to creep to Olga's door
and, kneeling before it, to kiss the threshold. He took two steps
towards the staircase, then, by a supreme effort, controlled himself
and turned back.
But in the park he sought the spot where he had met her yesterday,
where he had kissed her for the first and only time. Here he stood
still for a while, and, looking down, perceived the half-effaced
impress of a small foot upon the gravel. He stooped and pressed his
lips upon it.
Now he has left the park, and the village too lies behind him;
he has posted his letter to Harry in the yellow box in front of the
post-office. He walks through the poplar avenue where she came to meet
him scarcely three weeks ago. He can still feel the touch of her
delicate hand. A bird twitters faintly above his head, and recalls to
his memory how he had watched the belated little feathered vagabond
hurrying home to its nest.
"A life that warms itself beside another life in which it finds peace
and comfort," he murmurs to himself. An almost irresistible force stays
his steps. But no; he persists, and walks on towards the forest. He
will only wait for the sunrise, and then----
He waits in vain. The heavens are covered with clouds; a sharp wind
sighs above the fields; the leaves tremble as if in mortal terror; for
the first time in six weeks a few drops of rain fall. No splendour
hails the awakening world, but along the eastern horizon there is a
blood-red streak. Just in Lato's path a solitary white butterfly
flutters upon the ground. The wind grows stronger, the drops fall more
thickly; the pale blossoms by the roadside shiver; the red poppies do
not open their cups, but hang their heads as if drunk with sleep.