"Die, old boy; die--die!" a voice seemed to call to him as he walked
along, and his spectral giant with the hatchet nodded assent as much as
to say, "So far, so good."
There was only one alternative, and that was flight. In four-and-twenty
hours he might be at Hamburg, thence take ship over the ocean, never to
return.
There was a sum of three thousand marks to draw upon, the rest he must
trust the Lord to provide; or, more strictly speaking, Ulrich.
Who would come and go through the accounts, appease the creditors, call
in interest, and work heaven and earth to save the reputation of the
disgraced fugitive? Ulrich, again; Ulrich, and no one else.
The reflection was so intolerable that it robbed him of the power of
making any decision.
A written confession was out of the question, for what would become of
Felicitas, exposed and betrayed, left behind in Ulrich's house?
How could he leave her in the lurch--she who clung to him with the
deadly terror of a guilty woman? Besides, he was full of longing for
her. There was not a fibre of his being that did not crave to possess
her. He was incapable of picturing an existence without this horrible,
agonising desire, which must remain for all eternity unfulfilled.
The next afternoon he set out for Uhlenfelde. He was drawn there by the
effects of a sleepless night, a wretched day of dull despair, and, not
least, by a malicious curiosity to know how she would take the
threatened blow. If she set him free, he would start the same evening
for the New World.
A groom informed him that the Baroness had gone forth alone, on foot,
more than an hour ago.
Where had she gone? The man could not say. Yesterday and the day before
she had done the same, and not returned home till long after dark.
His first emotion was one of unworthy, miserable jealousy, but he shook
it off.
"To Muensterberg," was his command to the coachman, as he got into the
sleigh.
It drove out of the courtyard, and in a few minutes he was surrounded
by the snow-covered fields. It was just at this hour yesterday that he
had gone to see Johanna.
The sky hung heavily over the landscape, like a brownish-grey canopy.
Another fall of snow was coming, but the clouds were not yet low enough
to open. Evening shadows were beginning to colour the vast expanse of
monotone whiteness, and a soft wind stirred the bare brambles that
flanked the ditches, and it made the remains of their dried, withered
berries shiver as if they felt the cold. Through the silence rang out
in stately measure the music of the moving sleigh. No other sound broke
the stillness. From the hazel-wood which skirted the road for some
distance, a covey of crows had slowly risen, and now hung noiselessly
floating in the clouds. The pointed poplars by the roadside seemed
every second to grow more black and massive.
Here he hoped to meet her, and he was not disappointed. He had scarcely
turned into the wide main-road, when he saw a dark figure in flowing
draperies of crape, walking towards Muensterberg. He quickly overtook
her. She turned round. The wind had brought colour to her cheeks, and
beneath the brim of her mourning hat, which cut a dark tricom on the
fairness of her forehead, her face looked girlishly fresh and sweet.
The tired, dark-rimmed eyes alone showed that she had suffered. They
shone when she saw him, and she held out her hands as of old, charmed
and radiant. His soul responded to her in jubilation. He sprang out of
the sleigh, and bidding the man walk the horses slowly up and down, he
offered her his arm.
"What are you doing here, Felicitas?" he asked.
"I have been on the prowl for you," she whispered. "Are you angry with
me for doing it?"
"Why should I be angry?" he answered. "I have just been to see you."
"At last!" she sighed, and leaned closely against him. "My whole life
is nothing but one long waiting for you, Leo. I am sick with longing
for you."
"And I for you," he muttered.
Her arm trembled violently in his. They were both silent for a moment,
for they now knew what they had wanted to know.
Bars of rosy twilight from the west fell on the snowy plain. The
hazel-wood, as they walked towards it, deepened in colour from brown to
violet, and the crows were on the ground again, sitting in black clumps
amidst the scanty undergrowth, their beaks uplifted to the sky. Now and
then there sounded from the road the sharp, sudden jingle of a bell,
when the waiting horses stamped a hoof or moved a head.
Leo's heart beat. He felt that in the next few minutes their fate must
be decided.
"Listen, Felicitas," he began; "things are in a bad way with us."
"What has happened?" she stammered, standing still, full of dismay, in
the sleigh ruts.
"Nothing has happened yet. But we must part before something does."
She began to lament. "I knew you would desert me--I felt sure of it.
But I won't let you. I will stay with you. I can't live without you."
And she clung passionately to his arm, as if she feared he might, that
minute, be snatched from her.
As he saw her face blanch, and her eyes raised to his in beseeching
fear, he abandoned all thoughts of flight. He felt that responsibility
for this trembling fellow-sinner was yet another burden added to his
already sorely weighted soul.
She buried both hands in his fur, and held him fast as if she would
never let him go. Had he walked on, he would have had to drag her after
him along the ground.
"Then all I can do is to put a bullet through my brain," he murmured,
looking beyond her.
She gave a sharp cry. "Have mercy on me," she implored. "Don't frighten
me so. What have I done that you should frighten me so?"
"You have done nothing, Felicitas," he answered. "But Johanna is going
to speak."
There was silence. The gentle breeze stole over the snow plains and
whispered in the hedgerows. The crows had changed their squatting
attitude, and were circling above the pair, with lazily flapping wings,
while the more distant ones were preparing to fly.
Felicitas slowly loosened her grasp, and passed her hand three times
dreamily over her forehead. She glanced searchingly to right and left,
as though she suspected the avenger might be crouching in the ditch.
"Come into the wood," she said; "no one will see us there." And without
waiting for his consent she plunged sideways over the deep snow,
furrowed here and there by the footprints of wild creatures. She did
not dare to stop, till she had reached the protection of the thin
branches of the underwood. He followed her with deliberate steps, and
he, too, felt relieved when the shrubs hid them from view.
"She _shall_ not speak," exclaimed Felicitas, clasping her hands. "I
pray you, dearest, to prevent it. You must put a seal on her lips;
promise that you will."
He laughed gloomily. "There is one means by which I might prevent her,"
he said; "and if she insists, I could resort to it."
But again he felt disgust at the idea which he had before entertained
for a moment, and then rejected as monstrous.
"Leave me alone!" he cried out to her. "I am sick and tired of it
all ... I must end it."
"Only, don't run away," she whimpered, clinging to him once more.
"Don't run away--anything rather than that."
"I agree with you," he replied; "there is one other course for me to
take--better than flight" He shuddered, and was silent.
"You mean die?" she asked, half inquisitive, half terrified, pressing
herself against him, like a child in the dark.