The young nobleman followed the others, who had already entered the
house and gone into Brandow's room on the right of the hall, where the
gaming-table, as Gotthold had noticed through the window, was already
prepared.
"Why, Herr Weber, are you going to stay out here?" asked Rieke, who had
been standing in the hall, and now approached him.
Her gray eyes rested upon him with a very friendly expression, and the
thought passed through his mind that it probably depended only upon
himself to win the goodwill of this avaricious creature, and even now
he might make up for his neglect, nay must do so if he wished to
accomplish the object for which he had returned to Dollan. He had given
her a very handsome present when he took his departure that morning;
perhaps he only needed to go on as he had begun.
"We didn't expect to see you again so soon," added the girl; "and you
went away so suddenly: you left a great many things behind; a beautiful
red silk handkerchief--shall I get it for you?"
She was now standing close beside him, and as if by accident, touched
his arm.
"I think it would be very becoming to you," said Gotthold.
"Do you? I should think you would know a great deal about what was
becoming to me. You never had eyes for anybody except--some one else."
"Where is your mistress to-day? Why doesn't she appear?" asked
Gotthold, and then as he fancied he saw a cloud pass over the girl's
face, added: "I would give a great deal to know."
"How much?" said the girl, with a roguish laugh.
"Rieke, where are you?" cried Brandow's voice from the dining-room.
"We want some more glasses. Where is the girl?" and he banged the door
angrily behind him.
"He didn't see us," whispered Rieke. "I must go in now, but I'll come
back again directly."
She glided away; Gotthold stood still a few moments, undecided whether
to make an attempt to see Cecilia on his own account or not. There was
no question that the girl could be of use to him if she chose; but
would she choose? She seemed really frightened when Brandow called; but
he had not relied much upon the fickle favor of the frivolous lass, and
perhaps the whole thing was a preconcerted plot between Brandow and the
girl in order to make sure of him, entangle him the more firmly in the
net. No, it was better, trusting only to his own skill, to take
advantage of the opportunity.
And the opportunity was more favorable, than any which might offer
again. A second stolen glance through the window into the already
lighted room showed him that the party were busily engaged in their
game--faro apparently--and Brandow had the bank--so he could not leave
now. Rieke was standing at the back of the tolerably large room with a
waiter full of glasses, which the Pastor was filling from a large
bowl--so she too was employed for the present. The hall was perfectly
still; the table in the dining-room still stood just as the guests had
left it--the solitary candle at which they had lighted their cigars
flickered in the strong draught, as if ready to go out. This room was
also unoccupied; so he succeeded in reaching the dusky garden unseen.
Although the sun had scarcely set, it was almost dark. The clouds,
which had dispersed a little during the afternoon, were once more piled
in huge dark masses, which a high wind blowing in irregular gusts,
drove to and fro as if in wild sport. The tops of the old trees swayed
hither and thither; and the tall hedges rustled and hissed like a
thousand sharp tongues.
So it seemed to Gotthold. Again and again he paused, gasping for
breath; he was so entirely unaccustomed to do anything by stealth. And
yet it must be; he could not part from her forever in this way.
The end of the house, in the lower part of which was her chamber, and
above it the room he had occupied, looked out upon a smaller garden,
which was separated from the courtyard by a wall, shut in on the
opposite side by a barn, and divided from the larger garden at the back
of the house by a very thick, high hedge. It had originally been a
fruit and vegetable garden, and a few huge old apple and pear trees
still stood in different parts of it; but had afterwards been converted
into a play-ground for the children of the house, for whose sake the
asparagus and cucumber beds had been transformed into a grass plot, and
a narrow door cut through the thick wall of the nursery.
Gotthold had repeatedly seen Cecilia, who always retired early in the
evening, in this garden with the child, or--at a later hour--alone. His
hope was to find her here, or at any rate to make known his presence,
of which she had probably not been informed, and--he did not know what
would, must happen then; he only said to himself that things could not,
should not remain as they were.
The place, so far as it could be seen from the door, was empty, but a
light appeared at first one and then another window. Cautiously as he
closed the door, he could not prevent its creaking loudly on its rusty
hinges; at the same moment a watch-dog with which Gretchen often played
sprang towards the intruder with a loud bark, but was silent again as
soon as it recognized Gotthold. He accepted the animal's caresses as a
good omen, and walked cautiously on towards the light, which now
streamed steadily from one window, that of the child's sleeping-room,
which adjoined Cecilia's. Gotthold, with a beating heart, approached it
and saw her.
She had apparently just put the little girl's playthings away, and then
sank into a chair beside the table, supporting her forehead upon her
left hand, the image of grief. The rays of the light standing behind
her clearly revealed the exquisite shape of the head, the delicate
outlines of the slender neck, the soft curves of the shoulders and
bust, while the deep shadow seemed to increase the expression of sorrow
upon the pure features. Gotthold's heart overflowed with love and pity.
"Cecilia, dearest Cecilia!" he murmured.
She could not have heard the words; but at that moment she raised her
head, and, glancing towards the window, perceived the dark figure
before it. Starting from her chair with a low exclamation of joy, she
extended her arms, then waved him back with both hands, crying in tones
of agony:
"No, no, for God's sake!"
Gotthold had neither seen Cecilia's repellent gesture, nor heard her
words. He had hastily entered by the door, which was only latched, and
was now kneeling at her feet, clasping her hands, and covering them
with passionate kisses.
All that had moved his heart and filled it to bursting during these
last few days, so overflowing with the joy and anguish of love, all the
nameless agony he had suffered from the night before until now, gushed
from his lips in a torrent of wild, passionate words; and, however she
might struggle against it, she felt herself carried away and borne
along by the tide, until, springing up and clasping her in his arms, he
cried: "So come, Cecilia! you must not remain another moment in this
house, must not stay under the same roof with this scoundrel, who
allows himself to be paid with paltry money for the shame of knowing
that his wife is beloved by another, and loves him in return. I went
away without you this morning--it all came upon me so suddenly, was so
incomprehensible; I thought I must obey your command, although I did
not understand you, although you acted from compassion for the man whom
you had once loved, nay, out of a remnant of affection for him. Now I
understand you better, now I know, once for all, that you love me, now
I have found--we have found each other again; now no one, nothing shall
part us! Cecilia! you do not answer me?"
She had gazed at him with eyes that expressed the most painful
astonishment. Now she seized the light and led the way into her
chamber, at the back of which stood her bed, and close before it the
tiny couch of her child.
The little one lay with her eyes not quite closed, her lips half
parted, and her round cheeks flushed with the childish slumber which
follows waking hours, as the hues of twilight follow the setting sun.
Cecilia did not point to the child; but her glance and the expression
of her features said as plainly as words, "This is my answer."
Gotthold's eyes fell; in the selfishness of passion he had scarcely
thought of the child at all, and certainly never as an obstacle. He did
not understand it even now. "Your child will be mine," he faltered.
"You shall never be parted from the child; I will never separate you
from her."
She had placed the light on the floor, that it might not shine in
Gretchen's eyes, and then knelt beside the little bed, pressing her
forehead against the edge, and waving her hand for him to go. Gotthold
stood beside the kneeling form with the despair of a man who feels that
his cause is lost, and yet cannot and will not give it up. Suddenly the
dog, which had followed them, began to growl, and then broke into a low
bark as he put his nose to the threshold of the door which opened into
the sitting-room; Gotthold thought he heard a rustling there, and
walked towards it; Cecilia threw herself before him. Her countenance
and gestures expressed the most deadly terror; she motioned towards the
nursery, through which they had come, and as Gotthold did not instantly
obey, hurried into the room herself. Gotthold mechanically followed.
"Go, go, for God's sake!" exclaimed Cecilia.
They were the first words that had escaped her lips.
"I will not fly again!"
"You must! or all has been in vain! The torture, the conflict, the
shame--all, all."
"Cecilia," cried Gotthold, fairly beside himself, "I should be unworthy
the name of a man, if I left you so again. I want light; I want to know
what I am doing, why I am doing it?"
"I dare say no more; you must understand me; I thought you would have
done so from the first, or I should not have had the courage; I should
be the most miserable creature on earth if you did not understand me
even now. But you will, or I could not love you. And now, by your love
for me, Gotthold, you must not remain here an instant longer. Farewell,
and farewell forever!"
It seemed as if a struggle had taken place between the two in the
dimly-lighted room; he had held her and she had clung to him as if
forever; then she desperately released herself from his hold, and
pushed him from her, as if his presence must bring death and
destruction. Then he once more held the dear form in his arms, clasped
it to his heart, felt her hot, quivering lips pressed to his, and then
stood outside in the garden, with the rain beating into his face, the
swaying tree-tops above him rustling and whispering, and the tall
hedges beside him hissing and muttering, as if with thousands and
thousands of tongues: "Fool, silly fool, simpleton, to let yourself be
cheated, once, twice, as often as she--or he chooses--how do I know?"
He burst into a loud laugh, and as he did so there was a burning
sensation in his breast which grew hotter and hotter; he would have
given much if he could have wept. But that he could not, would not do.
After all, nothing was yet decided; nothing was yet lost, although his
soul was as dark as the black night that covered the earth around him.
No star pierced the rack of dense driving clouds; scarcely the faintest
ray of light was visible in the west. And yet--this dull gleam came
from the sun, which had set and would rise again to-morrow; it was a
pledge that the gloomy night would not last forever. And on his lips
still lingered a memory of her breath, the fervor of her kisses. No!
no! There could be no eternal separation! This torture could not last
forever!