"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.