The soothing effect of this conversation lasted several days, and then
went off completely. His friend's blind trust became torture to him.
Much as he had feared his suspicion, now an atom of uncertainty would
have seemed a positive consolation, and have placed his crime within
the range of human possibilities. Amongst the premises which Ulrich,
according to his own words, had rejected as untenable, Leo's love for
Felicitas had in all probability found a place. His friend could not
easily have overlooked it in his logical inquiry, but the pure nobility
of his unsuspicious heart had at once annihilated the evidence which
his acutely reasoning mind had built up.
There were moments when he could almost have hated him for this. Had
Ulrich been more mistrustful before his marriage, the whole ill-omened
business might have turned out differently.
The more he thought over the change in Lizzie, and the new relations
with her which at first had promised so happily, the more disquieted he
became inwardly. If it was true that she no longer cared for him, how
was the powerful influence that he exercised over her to be accounted
for?
He dared not follow the line of argument further, but his thoughts
hovered about the dangerous ground, as wild beasts prowl round a
night-fire.
His only comfort in these troubles was the management of the estate. He
felt that if there was any salvation for him, he must find it in work.
He would work till all his muscles relaxed, and he came near death's
door. And of work to be done, there was enough in all conscience.
October is a heavy month in the districts where beet-root is
cultivated. The process of harvest demands the severest vigilance, for
the labourers, in order to make more rapid progress, are fond of
tearing the roots out of the ground and freeing them of the clinging
earth by beating them violently together. Two cardinal errors, because
the slightest flaw in the root lowers its sugar-producing value. The
next stage of moving the crop as quickly as possible to the nearest
export station is attended with even more labour and trouble.
In the small hours of the morning, long before the first gleam of dawn
had crept across the level landscape, what had been dug out of the
earth the day before was smartened up and piled on to the waggons,
which in slow procession journeyed to Muensterberg, where the beet-roots
were packed for the railway transit. It was a long and difficult route;
especially the crossing of the river was apt to involve a thousand
delays and mishaps, whereby much precious time was lost. And Leo did
not shirk the arduous task of superintending the transit in person, a
task which the most conscientious of bailiffs would willingly have
shunted on to the shoulders of others. So there was much jeering
astonishment in the district at the unheard-of spectacle of a high-born
landed proprietor appearing on the scene before six o'clock in the
morning. Those were fine, strenuous days, with a satisfying record of
countless duties achieved.
At five minutes to three the watchman's pole tapped on his window-pane,
a dreadful moment, but how could it be helped? On the stroke of three
the shutters must be opened as a sign to the watchman that he was up,
otherwise that official had orders to hunt his master out of bed with a
douche of cold water. Twenty minutes later he was in the saddle.
Night and silence still reigned in the castle, only Christian, who
despite the burden of years would not relinquish the service of himself
mixing the "Gnaediger Herr's" warm cognac, stood with lamp and taper in
the doorway, and greeted him with a tremulous "Good morning."
Then followed a smart gallop to the fields, where the work-people
already nervously awaited him. Their lanterns flashing out of the
darkness showed him the way. A sonorous morning greeting, returned by a
chorus of voices; a rapid survey of the waggons; a few _donner
wetters_! in addition--for in German country places no workman feels at
home unless he is sworn at--and then, amidst a tremendous din, the
procession of waggons heavily, but withal adroitly, got under way.
Half an hour later, they drew up at the Wengern ferry. The black river
lay there in the darkness, yawning and gurgling like a huge monster
gifted with invisible and destructive life. Over it the wind whistled
and sighed, although not a twig stirred on the plains. The ferry-raft
oscillated, the horses neighed anxiously, confused cries and words of
command rang out through the air. The heavily loaded waggons rumbled,
amidst the cracking of whips and rattling harness, down the precipitous
decline of the dyke, as if they were bound to roll headlong into the
abyss. They got on to the shaking landing-stage, where the bar brought
the horses to a halt, and these swerved to one side in their
nervousness, and tried to bite each other's flanks. The ferry could
take ten at a time, the rest had to wait for the second journey. A
curious feeling of panic seized Leo every time the rope slackened and
the pulleys began to work. He rode up and down the bank and watched the
fleet embark. It seemed to glide into space, and was swallowed up in
darkness. Only the reflection of the lanterns made trembling threads of
light across the black water. On the other side of the ferry the train
divided, for it would have been a waste of time for the first relay to
await the second.
When the last waggon had crossed, Leo's enjoyment began. He loosened
the curb, in order to gallop the quicker after the receding carts. His
limbs, numb from cold or wet, thawed, a tingling sensation of welcome
warmth pervaded his body and winged his thoughts. So long as the race
lasted, all trouble was forgotten. The early morning cramp of worry--a
symptom which once had been unknown to his robust physique--grew less,
and finally disappeared. The first suggestion of light that lay on the
earth--dreamy and full of promise--found for a few moments a reflection
in his soul.
With the rosy dawn, the first waggon made its entry into Muensterberg,
and drew up at the station shed, near which was the great pair of
scales. A tedious hour of wrangling and counting followed. Then he
turned his face towards home. And in the castle dining-room, when
grandmamma called the children to coffee, Leo made his appearance, too.
Sometimes he was covered with dust, sometimes drenched with rain. With
clattering of spurs, and amidst barking of dogs, he would come into the
room, and with a weary "Good morning," hurl his cap into a corner.
His day's work only began now in earnest, and when he entered his
bedroom at night, he dropped into a chair as if felled by a sudden
blow. Often he could scarcely find the strength to undress, and two or
three times the pitiless pole had tapped and surprised him still
sitting at his table, with flushed face and smoking lamp.
There was little time left for visits to Uhlenfelde, and Leo felt happy
at having a valid pretext for excusing himself. Yet it seemed to him
scarcely right to avoid meeting Felicitas alone. She might ask why he
had been untrue to his word? She had a certain claim to his society,
and he began, too, to be devoured with a longing to see and converse
with her without Ulrich being present. He hoped for a favourable
opportunity, such as the last had been, but it did not occur. So he
counted, with a beating heart, the hours till he should be certain of
Ulrich's absence, and meanwhile he stayed at home.
Then came an evening when the representatives of the Agricultural
Association were holding their monthly meeting in Muensterberg, and he,
no longer able to restrain himself, started with a kind of sad defiance
for Uhlenfelde.
It was dark when he landed on the opposite bank. The wind was
boisterous and cold, and he felt half frozen. Old Minna met him in the
vestibule, the factotum of the old love intrigue, whose mediating
offices he recalled with a shudder.
She explained to him, blinking and nodding, that the gracious little
mistress wasn't well; that the gracious little mistress was suffering
from cramp of the heart, but, nevertheless, the gracious one would
receive him.
The familiarity with which the toothless, clapping mouth smirked up at
him was revolting, and still more revolting was it that he found
himself smiling back at her. But it was necessary to keep on good terms
with her. Was she not an accomplice?
Shuddering, he hardly knew whether from cold or excitement, he paced up
and down between the pillars. It was some time before the old hag
returned.
The gracious little mistress had been lying down, but begged him to
wait a few minutes. She would make her toilette as quickly as possible,
that was to say, not completely, because such old friends needn't stand
on ceremony with each other.
Leo compressed his lips. Had she chosen to be more explicit still, he
must have endured it.
In Lizzie's sanctum, two lamps with rose-coloured shades were burning.
Cushions and rugs were scattered about in confusion on the couch, as if
some one had a moment before disturbed them by hastily jumping up. An
open book lay face downwards on the carpet. He picked it up. The title
was "The Golden Road to Virtue: Experiences of a Sinner."
He began to turn over the leaves haphazard. In the highly coloured
style of a tract, a newly converted sinner related her marvellous
rescue from vice with a sort of coquettish fervour, which made him
fancy he saw the play of uplifted eyes with which this drawing-room
Magdalene sought to lure the Saviour, like another lover, into her net.
But from Leo, the Goth who since his school-days had read the very
worst literature, even such trash as this wrung a certain unwilling
respect.
"She is doing her best according to her lights," he thought, and laid
the book down with care. Yes, she was in earnest.
When she entered the room, he noticed at once the dark rims which pain
had left round her eyes, and the paleness of her lips.
And yet she had never seemed to him more beautiful. She wore a careless
artistic _negligee_ of blue cashmere, bordered with creamy lace, which
accumulated on her breast into a filmy cloud. Her hair, only simply
dressed, curled in countless small rings over brow and cheeks, and was
massed on the crown of her head into a knot of curls, which was
surrounded by a double circlet of gold. Leo remembered to have seen
such heads in picture-galleries, bathed in golden tints and standing
out in relief against a purple half-light, as if emerging from some
background of mystery.
"You have been suffering?" he exclaimed, extending both hands towards
her.
"I? Who told you so?" she replied, with a tired smile, as she sank into
an easy-chair.
"Minna told me."
Instead of answering, she lifted her eyebrows languidly, and stretched
out a limp hand for a cushion to support her neck. She must have just
been scenting herself, for her person exhaled the opoponax perfume more
overpoweringly than ever.
Leo felt signs already of the enervating stupefaction which always took
possession of his brain in this atmosphere. It began like a slight
pressure on the temples, spreading to his forehead, and finally
encompassing his whole head with iron spans.
Felicitas buried her face in the hollow of her supporting arm and
remained motionless.
"Good God! What ails you?" he demanded.
She raised her head slightly, and smiled at him hopelessly.
"What ails me, Leo? I wish that I had never been born. That's all."
"A pious wish, at least," he answered, with an unsuccessful attempt to
sneer. "Now tell me frankly, Lizzie," he exhorted, "why do you rave
against yourself like this? There is no sense in it. Tell me--why?"
"Because I am learning to repent."
A spasm shot through him, as if he were about to make an effort to
protest against the word, but he no longer had the power. The life that
he had been leading for the last two months had been nothing but a vain
struggle against self-reproach and repentance. Hence the wrecking of
his whole character. He got up, and in silence paced with unsteady
steps the rosy, dimly lighted boudoir. Then he came close to her and
leant against the edge of her chair.
She looked up at him with plaintive eyes; then, sighing deeply, pressed
her face against his arm.
He would have drawn back, but he did not wish her to see that he
thought this contact less harmless than she did.
"Leo, I suffer unspeakable agony," she whispered.
He drew his arm away from her abruptly, and sat down opposite her.
"So all the happiness you are giving Ulrich," he asked, "is nothing but
a delusion and a sham?"
"Do you expect me to make it a reality?"
"I expect nothing. I only wish--I ..." He could not go on. His thoughts
moved tardily, clumsily. He only knew that her astonished, resentful
question had not displeased him so much as it ought to have done.
"The promise I made you," she continued, "I have honestly kept to the
best of my ability. I have tried to be a good housewife, worthy of him,
a wife of whom he need not be ashamed. But the penance I have imposed
on myself is terrible. I suffer tortures that no man can have any idea
of."
"And do you imagine that I am lying on a bed of roses?" he responded.
"You! What do you want?"
Then he burst forth. "I? Ah, woman, little do you know what I endure. I
am in torment; I appear to myself polluted from head to foot. I
scarcely know how to look honest people in the face. I think every one
is pointing the finger of scorn at me. If it goes on like this, I must
go out of my mind. Isn't that bad enough?"
She let her eyes rest on him full of curiosity.... Something like
stealthy joy shone in them, for since the long, long ago he had never
poured out to her such confidences, from the depths of his being.
"Can I help you?" she murmured.
He laughed stridently.
"Oh, please, Leo!"
"Don't talk of your helping," he answered; "help from your side would
be only a fresh crime. Besides, how could you? Only one person can help
me, and that is Ulrich."
"For God's sake!" she cried out, "you are not thinking of----"
"Calm yourself," he made answer. "I know what I owe you. We two are
yoked together.... We are both bound to hold our tongues; that is an
understood thing."