A gray dreary morning followed the dark rainy night. Endless masses
of vapor, now and then piled into thick clouds, rolled in from the
sea,--masses so deep that they almost covered the lofty tops of the
poplars, which now bent before the rude wind over the drenched straw
roofs of the barns, and then rebounded defiantly, shaking their
branches indignantly.
Gotthold stood at the window of the sitting room, gazing gloomily at
the dreary scene. He had slept an hour towards morning, almost against
his will; but anxiety for what might be coming weighed upon his soul
more heavily than physical exhaustion upon his body. Terrible as the
night had been, stars of hope ever and anon had sparkled cheeringly
through the darkness; now it seemed as if this dreary day had only
dawned to say: This solitary, hideous drifting is life, reality; what
have I to do with your dreams? As he came down the staircase, he had
seen almost with an emotion of horror that preparations for the
reception of guests were being made in the large hall looking out upon
the garden, which was generally unused; the clattering of pots and
pans, and the loud voices of maid-servants came from the kitchen at the
end of the long hall; and a groom was just pushing from the stable the
carriage which was to bring the guests from Prora. Everything was going
on as usual, as if to-day would be like yesterday, and to-morrow like
to day; as if nothing could happen which would make the old world young
again as it was on the first day that dawned on Paradise. And yet, and
yet, it surely was no dream; it had certainly happened. It could not
blow away like formless mist! It must assume some shape, emerge from
the chaos, perhaps be worked out by a hot conflict; it was all the
same! Only it could not be lost!
But this dreary inactive waiting was terrible! She must know that he
had been standing here half an hour already, waiting for her, for one
word from her lips, even one look, to say to him: I am yours, as you
are mine; trust me as I trust you. Why did she not come? The moment was
more favorable than any which might occur again all day. Brandow had
just crossed the courtyard to the stables, as he did every morning; the
breakfast was on the table; they had always spent half an hour together
at this time undisturbed--and to-day, to-day she must needs leave him
alone!
A boundless impatience took possession of him; he paced up and down the
room, glancing every moment towards the door through which that other
had come and gone last night, and which was closed upon him, listening
with straining ears that he might distinguish some sound, but heard
nothing except the sleepy buzzing of a fly; even the house clock in the
tall old-fashioned wooden case did not tick to-day; the hands had
stopped during the night.
He pressed his hands to his beating temples; it seemed as if he should
go mad if this torture did not cease, and then a thought occurred to
him more terrible than all the rest. Was she afraid of him? Did shame
withhold her from appearing before the eyes of him against whose heart
her own had throbbed yesterday, whose kiss she had received and
answered? No, no, a thousand times no! Whatever kept her from him, it
was not that, not that! It was a crime against her proud nature even to
think it! She might die, but not live to be dishonorable. Perhaps she
was ill, very ill, helpless, alone--ah! that was Gretchen's voice:
"Mamma, I want to go with you; I want to go with you to Uncle Gotthold.
I want to bid Uncle Gotthold 'good morning!'" and then low soothing
tones, then the door opened and she entered.
Gotthold rushed toward her, but only a few steps. She had raised both
hands with a gesture of the most imploring entreaty, and the most
imploring entreaty looked forth from the large tearful eyes, and pure
pale face. So she approached, so she stood before him, and then almost
inaudible words fell from her quivering lips.
"Will you forgive me, Gotthold!"
He could not answer; gesture, expression, words--all told him that his
haunting fear had become reality; that in one way or another all was
lost.
A fierce anguish overpowered him, and then anger arose in his heart; he
laughed aloud!
"So this is all the courage you have!"
Her arms fell, her lips closed, her features quivered convulsively, and
her whole frame trembled.
"No, Gotthold, not all. But I thank you for being angry; or it might
have been impossible for me to perform my task. No, don't look at me
so; don't look at me so. Laugh as you laughed just now! What can a man
do but laugh, when a woman by whom he believes himself beloved comes
and says--"
"You need not," cried Gotthold; "you need not; a man does not
comprehend such things, but he feels them without words."
He turned towards the door.
"Gotthold!"
There was despair in the tone; the young man's hand fell from the
latch.
"Can it be, Cecilia? I have frightened you by my vehemence; but it
shall not happen again. Only say one word--tell me you love me, and I
will bear all; everything else is a matter of indifference to me; we
must and shall see some way of escape; but you cannot let me go so, not
so, I implore you!"
But he searched her face for some token of assent in vain. Her features
seemed set in a horrible smile.
"No," she said, "not so: not before you have promised that you will
save my husband, whom I love and honor; from whom I cannot, will not
part."
She uttered the words slowly, in a monotonous tone, like something
learned by rote, and now paused like a scholar who has forgotten her
lesson.
"What does this farce mean?" said Gotthold.
The door of the sleeping-room opened, Gretchen put her curly head in,
and then came bounding towards her mother. Cecilia clasped the child
passionately in her arms, and hastily continued, while a feverish
flush replaced her former death-like pallor: "Save him from the
bankruptcy into which he will fall, if you do not help him. The matter
concerns--concerns--"
She released Gretchen, and pressed both hands upon her brow.
"Mamma, mamma," screamed the little one, beginning to cry aloud, as
Gotthold supported the tottering figure to the nearest chair.
"What is the matter with my wife?" asked Brandow.
Gotthold had not heard him enter. At the first sound of his voice
Cecilia raised herself from his arms, and stood erect between the two
men, without support, clasping the child to her heart, pale as death,
but with an expression of sorrowful resolution; and there was a
strange, unvarying firmness in the tone of her voice, as, fixing her
eyes upon her husband, she said:
"He knows, and will do it."
And then turning to Gotthold:
"You will do it for the sake of our old friendship, Gotthold, will you
not? And farewell, Gotthold; we shall not see each other again."
She held out an icy hand to him, took Gretchen in her arms, and left
the room without looking back, while the child stretched out its little
hands over her shoulder, calling, "Bring me something pretty to-day,
uncle Gotthold. Do you hear, uncle Gotthold?"