Night had set in, and Oswald had not yet returned to Tornow. The
Countess was waiting for him, sitting beside a table whereon stood a
lamp with a rose-coloured shade. Georges had told her that her boy had
gone round by the way of Rautschin, which she had thought quite
natural, but none the less was she anxious for his return.
The clock struck a quarter past ten; perhaps he had returned after all
and had not come to her. But no, he would certainly have come to ask
after her health; he had thought her looking ill to-day, and had been
anxious about her, had tenderly begged her to lie down for a while to
recover the sleep that she had lost on his account. She had tried to
smile at him unconcernedly, but it had been a hard task; a casual
remark by Pistasch that morning had informed her of Oswald's interview
with Capriani in Prague, at which no one else had been present, and
which had agitated him excessively. She divined his misery. His love
for her, and his confidence in her were so unbounded that he regarded
his torturing suspicion as an _idee fixe_. Perhaps this temporary
distress of his would pass away without its cause ever being mentioned
between them. God grant it might! But if not? If he should come to
her to-day or to-morrow and say 'Mother I cannot of myself be rid of
this,--forgive me, mother, if I lay down at your feet this burden that
oppresses me, and beg you to soothe my pain!'
She shuddered as this possibility occurred to her. What answer should
she make? 'Shall I have the strength to lie?' she asked herself, and
then she told herself, 'I must find the strength; what do I care about
myself? My whole life for years has been falsehood and deceit,--but he
must have peace--his life I must save!'
She knew that if she could succeed in uttering this lie calmly, his
suspicion would be laid at rest forever, that no evidence in the world
would prevail with him against her word. How she should continue to
live on after this lie, was quite another thing, but she could die, and
God knew she would willingly lay down her life for her child.
She tried to shake off these evil forebodings. All that she dreaded
might never come to pass; surely she might succeed, by preserving a
calm, circumspect demeanour, in slaying his doubt, in destroying his
suspicion without recurring to a direct falsehood.
Poor woman! Upright to a rare degree as was her nature in its essence,
it became distorted beneath the terrible burden weighing on her, and
she was ready to resort to every petty artifice that could afford her
any stay in her miserably false position! She had buried her sin deep,
deep, and had reared above it a wondrous temple sacred to all that is
fairest, noblest, and most unselfish in the world. So grand and firm
was this temple towering aloft to the blue skies, that she dreamed it
would endure forever. She trusted it would. Out of love for her child
she had grown devout. For years she had prayed the same prayer every
evening: "Oh God! I thank Thee for my dear, noble child--accept his
excellence, as an atonement for my sin!"
She believed that God had heeded her prayer, nay, she even believed, in
her boundless affection for her child, that God had wrought a miracle
in her behalf! She forgot that the great mysterious Power that shapes
our destinies never transgresses the laws that it has made, and that
the consequences of our guilt inexorably pursue their way, until their
natural expiation is fulfilled. In this case that expiation took a
shape far different from any that a mother's tender heart could have
devised.
The clock had struck eleven. Her anxiety increased although she could
not have defined her dread. Her windows were open, she listened;--at
last there was the sound of hoofs, the jingle of a bit and bridle. She
breathed a sigh of relief.
A few moments elapsed, and then a weary, lagging step came along the
corridor to her door;--why did that step instantly reveal to her that
the decisive moment had come? There was a knock at her door,--Oswald
entered. "Forgive me for disturbing you so late, mamma," he said in a
tone lacking all animation, "I saw your light from below...."
"Late?--it is hardly eleven o'clock; you know that you never disturb
me, dear child. Since when have you learned to knock at my door? The
next thing you will send in your name."
The forced gayety of her tone did not escape him. "Oh, I did not
know--I--" he murmured vaguely, dropping, without kissing, the hand
which she extended to him; then he took a seat near her, but outside of
the little oasis of light shed by the lamp on the table beside the
Countess.
"You came home by the way of Rautschin?"
"Yes."
"Are they all well there?"
"I do not know; I did not go in, it was too late."
"And Fritz? How is the poor fellow?"
"Very ill!"
"Did you give him my message?"
"Yes, he sends you his thanks."
Oswald seemed metamorphosed. Never before had he answered her so
curtly; she glanced at him anxiously, he was sitting leaning forward,
his elbows on his knees, his head resting on his hand like one longing
to carry out a terrible resolve.
A distressing silence ensues. He feels as if he were about to ask of a
competent authority whether or not there be a God. He cannot bring
himself to do it, and then too how shall he shape the fearful
question?--how can he utter anything so vile in her presence?--he who
all his lifelong would rather have blasphemed in a church than have
spoken an evil syllable before his mother!
The minutes pass; tick, tick, goes the antique watch with the silver
face on the Countess's writing-table. He clears his throat.
"Mother!" he begins.
She interrupts him. "I feel very ill, Ossi!" she says, rising with
difficulty from her arm-chair, "give me your arm, I should like to go
to bed."
But he gently urges her back in her chair again. "Only a moment,
mother; I have something to say to you,--I cannot spare you!"
"Well--say it then!" She sits erect, deadly pale, clutching the arms of
her chair; he stands before her, one hand resting on the table, his
eyes cast down.
"It will not pass my lips," he murmurs, "it will not;--my _idee fixe_
has assailed me again with a strength that I cannot master, try
as I may,--it perverts and absorbs my sense of duty, my
conscientiousness.--Mother....!" the blood rushes to his face,
"Mother--could you forgive me if, in a fit of madness, I struck you in
the face?"
Can she ever forget the imploring, despairing tone of his voice?
"Yes, what do you wish?--I cannot understand--" she stammers.
He gazes at her in surprise. "Mother!" he exclaims--his breath comes
short and quick, when, as though repeating memorised phrases, he says,
"Capriani and I have quarrelled--to revenge himself upon me he has
written me a letter in which he says that you----" he sees her sudden
start--"Great God! can you dream of what he accuses you?"
She gasps for breath, her lips part, she tries with all her strength to
say "no!"--has God stricken her dumb? Struggle as she may only a faint
gasp issues from her lips, no word can she speak!
"Mother!" he moans, "Mother!" She is mute.
The ground seems to rock beneath his feet, the outlines of every object
grow indistinct, dissolve into undefined spots of colour which fade and
mingle.
For a moment he stands as if turned to stone; then he turns towards the
door, walking slowly as if under a crushing weight,--on a sudden he
hears the rustle of skirts behind him, two frail, ice-cold hands clasp
his arm;--half-fainting his mother crouches beside him on the floor.
"My son! my child!" she gasps "Have mercy!"
But he loosens the clasp of her hands, without impatience, without
anger, with the apathy of a man whose heart has been slain in his
breast, and leaves the room.