A pale, snowy twilight came through the window. Leo sprang up in bed
where he had slept for four hours, in his clothes, like a dead man.
He extinguished the lamp which smoked, still burning near him on the
table. Now it seemed to be almost night again. It was a quarter-past
seven by his watch. "At eight it will be daylight," he thought. "If I
start then, I shall be early enough."
Then slowly, as one recalls a wild dream, he went over again the events
of the past night. Why had she not turned him back at the garden gate,
when she knew Ulrich was in the house? For a moment he entertained the
mad suspicion that she had laid a trap for him, but the next, he
rejected it as unlikely.
He had not quite regained clear consciousness. His forehead ached, his
eyes burned. A confused medley of thoughts and images passed through
his brain; and then there leapt up within him an illuminating flame of
certainty--
"Now he knows!"
Now he knows--he knows. It was all over with hypocrisy, lying, and
evasion, nervous anxiety, and enervating desire. The long corrupting
process to which his inner man had been subjected had reached its
finality. Once more he might draw a deep free breath from his sorely
weighted lungs.
He thrust open the window, and breathed in long draughts of the
snow-laden air, which braced and refreshed him. His mood was now so
clear and calm, that he felt as if body and soul had been purified and
hallowed in that white mantle of snow.
The flakes descended in whirling columns. They seemed to push and
struggle with each other as to which should first reach the earth.
They hid the yard in impenetrable clouds. Only here and there a gable
or a stable window peeped out on the battle-field of snowflakes.
He had taken farewell already of his belongings; had consigned to ruin
with rage and scorn the heritage that had come down to him from his
forefathers.
But to-day it was with calm resignation that he relinquished everything
that his heart had so long held dear. A supreme indifference to all
that had happened, and was yet to happen, overcame him. Even the wrong
that he had done Ulrich no longer deeply affected him.
He would let him shoot him dead, and then _basta_! But suppose he
should miss! What if his hand trembled. It could not, it must not. To
outlive this day was unthinkable. He would receive the sanctifying
bullet in silence, in grateful silence that he had been allowed to die
an honourable death.
He drew down his case of pistols, oiled and tested the triggers, and
put his eye to their mouths. On the butt end of one he found the little
cross, scratched with a knife, the mark which he had made years ago to
distinguish the pistol which had killed Rhaden from the others.
Then he loaded it, and before doing so he held the bullets in his palm
and passed his other hand almost affectionately over the leaden
pellets.
Slowly the day advanced. One thing he had to do which would be more
difficult than it had been yesterday, and that was to take a mute
farewell of his loved ones. The day before he had slunk into the house
like a thief in the night, to-day he could scarcely resist the longing
to press openly a parting kiss on his mother's brow. But she was still
asleep, and as he went by her door he stroked the latch with his hand.
That was his good-bye.
The only person he met face to face was Hertha. He found her in the
dining-room as he came into it, to get a drink of something warming.
She wore a white smock over her dark house-dress, and the lamplight
which struggled with the dawn shone on her smooth hair.
She started at the sound of his morning greeting, for it was a long
time since such a thing had happened as his appearing at breakfast.
"Up already, Hertha?"
"Yes, of course," she gasped. "I have been going to the milking again
lately."
And then she pressed her elbows nervously against her sides, as if she
was afraid that she had said too much, and cast her eyes shyly along
the table.
"That is capital," he said; "will you pour me out a cup of coffee?"
"When the water boils," she answered, and busied herself with the flame
of the spirit-lamp.
He sat down opposite her, and as he looked at her he thought, "There
sits one who should have been my housewife."
And he held a silent burial. All the hopes of his youth, his dreams of
happiness, his unspoken wish for wife and children, and the small dear
comforts of a home, all that was best and purest within him, that he
had imagined dead long ago, at this moment, when he was conscious it
still lived, he laid in a solemn grave.
She brewed the coffee, and the porcelain filter trembled in her hand.
Then she handed him a steaming cup.
He drank it, and she began to move towards the door.
"Don't go, my child," he said, eager to enjoy to the full these few
minutes. "Stay with me."
She paused irresolute, her eyes wide with wonder, then she slowly went
back to her place.
He did not speak to her again, and for something to do, she cut bread
and butter.
The clock struck eight and he sprang up. "Now for it, old boy. Now for
it."
At the door he stopped and looked back. She was sitting turned away
from him, her head a little on one side, her industrious hands fallen
idly in her lap.
And now the anguish of parting unmanned him. He came behind her, and
bending her head backwards he laid his hand on her forehead with a
gentle caress.
He saw the colour deepen in her cheeks, and her two rows of regular
white teeth shining between her anxiously parted lips, and he looked
into her large frightened eyes.
"My dear child," he said; "my dear, dear child."
Their eyes melted into each other, and from the depths of her breast
came a short gurgling sob.
"You have been very good to me, child," he went on, "and you would have
done still more for me if I had let you. And in return I have been
bearish and rough to you. Forgive me. I would like to make up for it,
but it may not be--may not be. Stay with my mother, dear; you are the
only one who can keep a cool head."
He kissed her rigid lips softly and hurried away.
Outside the falling snow hung like a thick veil over the fields. Not a
breath of wind, not a sound came out of the distance. The trees became
blurred in the dense, silent dance of the flakes. They looked almost as
if they were tied up in bags, so entirely were they wrapped in the
snowy foam.
Beneath his feet the fine new snow rose over his boots at every step
and flew before him in little powdery clouds. Road and path were quite
lost to view, and one had to grope one's way over the ground step by
step.
Leo felt warm under his heavy cloak, and the weight of his case of
pistols oppressed him too. He opened his mouth, and swallowed as many
of the flying crystals as he could catch, for his throat burned. Then
he took off his cap and let the cooling flakes fall refreshingly on his
bare head.
"Would he be there?" he asked himself, and the thought of a personal
meeting alarmed him more than the prospect of death.
"My God, what sort of a meeting will it be?" he stammered half-aloud,
and grew hot all over.
They would have to speak to each other. They could not glare from their
respective posts and then fall on one another without a word like two
red Indians; and suddenly in a flash the thought came to him--
"Suppose you are so bad that he declines to waste powder and shot on
you."
He held his breath for a moment almost petrified with shame. Then he
roused himself and ran with all his might through the reeds, and over
the groaning ice to the spot where "finis" was to be written on
everything. On the frozen little bay, whereby it was alone possible to
reach the island, he found footprints which must have been quite
freshly made, though the snow had half covered them up already.
This first sign of his friend's waiting presence made his heart rise to
his throat.
He tore on, following the foot-marks up the steep incline to the
clearing which was lost to sight in the ever-thickening snowstorm. For
a moment anxiety at what was to come made him giddy. Death was mere
child's play compared with the inevitable conversation that must
precede it. He leaned against a tree to get his breath, and it seemed
to him that instead of the white flakes a shower of red and blue flames
were falling around him. And then he made a last great effort to shake
off all cowardice, and stepped on to the open space to offer his heart
as a target to his friend.
But he could see no sign of him. On all sides the white noiseless
tumult, the dark interior of the temple making the one shadow in the
milky lightness, but nowhere any trace of a human figure.
He walked the length of the clearing, took a rapid glance in passing at
the two statues, spied into the thicket, hunted at the back of the
temple, and at last he found him.
First of all his foot struck against a case of pistols like his own,
and then he saw lying stretched out at the foot of the sacrificial
stone the outline of a man's figure already half covered with snow.
With a cry he darted to his side, raised him into an upright position
in his arms, and wiped the snow off his face. It was like the face of a
corpse. The eyes were shut, the lips colourless, and his skin as Leo
touched it felt deathly cold against his caressing hands. Half out of
his mind with a dread fear, he pressed his ear listening against the
motionless chest. A slight, irregular tremour told him that there was
still life in the body.
And as his fear was conquered, a great passion of all-powerful,
all-healing tenderness came over him with the force of an avalanche,
which swept away sin and pain, self-degradation and self-contempt and
desire for death by the roots as if they had never been. Triumphantly
the joy of the old full and undivided possession of his friend broke
forth again at this moment. He would live for him, his only care should
be to love and serve him--he would laugh so that he should learn to
laugh again; lie at his feet like a faithful dog.
Yes, all this he vowed to do as he felt a new strength brace his limbs
and a new hope expand his soul.
Now, at any rate, so long as he hung lifeless in his arms, he belonged
to him and no one else, he alone was there to warm and cherish him, and
to rub his brow as of old.
He carried him to the temple of friendship, spread his cloak for him to
lie upon, and wrapped the corners over his breast; and when he saw that
the cloak was not sufficient to cover the long limbs altogether, be
wrenched off his coat and wrapped it round his feet.
Then he seated himself upon the temple steps, and pillowing the head
gently in his lap he began massaging with his finger-tips forehead and
skull in the manner which he had practised from childhood, which only
he in the world understood.
But the swoon continued; now and then a slight convulsion ran through
Ulrich's frame like a shiver from cold.
"If I could get him warm, he would recover consciousness," thought Leo,
and drew the folds of the cloak closer round his limbs.
The flakes descended with monotonous speed, without a hiatus or a
pause. Not the tiniest spot did they spare, and the narrow roof of the
temple was no shelter from them. They no longer cooled and refreshed,
but stung and burned as they fell on his skin. They settled in scores
on his thin shirt-sleeves and made little dark rivulets there as their
star-like shapes melted. He began to freeze, but he did not mind.
His whole soul was centred on the re-awakening of which Ulrich's face
now held out one signal after another. And, at length, his eyes opened.
First his gaze was fixed on the distance, then it wandered along the
white sleeves which bellied above him, and finally remained riveted on
the face bending over him with such keen solicitude. An expression of
intense horror slowly dawned on his features. A shudder ran through his
limbs, and he made a spasmodic attempt to stand on his legs, but sank
back again exhausted. His breast heaved and his hands fumbled for a
support.
Leo felt his own breath come faster. Now was his great opportunity.
"Spare yourself," he stammered, "I implore you. I will do nothing to
you. Lie still and let me explain everything; only lie still.
Afterwards, when you have regained strength, you shall shoot me down.
But so long as you are feeling poorly spare yourself, and lie still for
pity's sake."
Ulrich's gestures became more composed, and there was a silence.
"Leo!"
Greedily Leo heard his name fall from the beloved lips.
"What, old man, what?"
"Leo, why have you not got on your coat?"
"Oh, never mind my coat."
"Leo, if you ... Leo, why ...?"
"Don't ask any questions, child; not now. I am going to tell you all,
but not now. Now you must lie quietly here while I go for help."
"No, no. It is best that you should say now, once for all, what you
want to say."
"But are you quite sure that you are well enough to bear it?"
"Yes, I think so."
"And you will be able to understand?"
"Yes, I shall understand."
"I haven't spoken, Ulrich, because I thought it no good--because I
thought you would believe her and not me--and because I wanted to spare
her, too. But whether you will believe me or not, whether or not it is
her ruin, I will speak now. And I shall not whitewash myself, you may
be sure of that."
And then he confessed all, beginning with the first great lie which had
been the root of all the evil. He kept back nothing and softened
nothing in the rapid brief words which the stress of the moment
necessitated his using. It was as if his heart opened and his soul
poured out through his veins in streams of blood.
Silent and motionless, with his eyes raised to the ceiling of the
temple, Ulrich listened.
Then he seemed to be losing consciousness again, for he became
wandering and unintelligible in his speech, and his eyelids dropped.
But he had clearly comprehended as far as the intended double suicide.
And he had grasped its deepest motive. For, with a mild, melancholy
smile, he murmured, "Poor boy." After that he was silent, and lay there
with feverish cheeks and dry lips gazing into vacancy from beneath his
drooping lids.
Ulrich's only sign of forgiveness was in those two words, "Poor boy."
And to these Leo had to cling desperately, now and later in many an
hour of suspense, till he could be certain what Fate had in store for
him.
With merciless calm the flakes whirled down. There was a cruel and
restful peace in their endless descent--a sort of eternal repose, like
a silent burying of countless races.
Leo shivered. His shirt was wet through, and a feeling of numbness
crept over his stiff arms.
Where should he take the sick man?
Uhlenfelde was nearest, but he recoiled with horror from the idea of
delivering him into the woman's hands again. He had him, and he would
keep him in defiance of her and the whole world.
A warm glow of new-born energy suffused his limbs. He laid the head of
his unconscious friend against the pedestal and sprang to his feet.
And as he looked round him into the white, dripping duskiness, in which
everything seemed indistinct and shapeless, the knowledge grew on him,
"You live--and you may live."
He put both hands to his brow and staggered above the prostrate form.
It was a happiness that pained. And then he ran off straight to
Halewitz to fetch help.