XL

A time of heavy trial followed. Ulrich must have carried the germs of

typhoid about with him since he left his stepson's sick-bed, and the

excitement of that memorable night had developed them into activity. He

lay in Leo's study hovering between life and death.

In the first hours after conveying him there, Leo half feared that

Felicitas might dispute his right to nursing the patient. But his

anxiety on this account proved quite superfluous. The messenger whom he

had despatched to Uhlenfelde brought back word that the "gnaediger Frau"

had driven to the station early that morning with luggage, and had left

no address behind her.

It was with a feeling of release that he threw himself on his knees by

the sick-bed, and swore over his friend's thin burning hand a thousand

oaths to which he could not give words, but which all meant the same

thing: "See, I am my old self again, and so I shall always be!"

His one plan for the future now was to live with him if he lived, and

to die with him if he died.

He never left Ulrich's bed. His rest was taken on the floor at its

foot, and with cognac and champagne he kept at bay the sleep that was

so necessary to his powerful physique, which he would not allow to feel

the strain of watching.

He had been morally so cast down and broken by the events of the last

few weeks that even now he could hardly believe in reawakened

expectations of happiness or hopes for Ulrich's recovery, except by a

miracle.

An extra anxiety was added to his burden, when Johanna appeared one

evening at the door of the sick-room, and declared that the time had

come for her to see Ulrich; God had directed that she should speak with

him before he died.

Leo's assurances that the patient would not be able to recognise or

understand her were in vain, and as in desperation he tried to remove

her from the corridor by force, she began to rave.

The next morning, at her own express wish, she was taken to an asylum.

In these days of trouble and sorrow, when even grandmamma had lost her

old nerve and presence of mind, and ran hither and thither, crying and

wringing her hands, Hertha was a never-failing prop to lean upon, and

an indefatigable helper. She kept the household going in its customary

routine, and carried the master's orders to the steward and bailiffs.

Even to desolate Uhlenfelde she stretched out a helping hand.

A silent understanding had come about between her and Leo, which was

regarded by every one as perfectly natural, for it was an accepted

thing that they belonged to each other.

When he met the glance of her bright eyes, hanging questioningly on his

lips, he thought, "She has suffered, so she will be able to forgive."

But first Ulrich's recovery, and the rest would come right of itself.

The recovery came.

In the middle of February Ulrich awoke to new consciousness, though for

weeks afterwards he was too weak to follow any consecutive train of

thought. He seemed to have lost in a great measure his grasp on the

past, and he was as grateful as a child when he was helped out in

remembering things.

With the return of his mental powers a certain restlessness was

apparent in him, of a purely physical character, but which evidently

led his mind back to the contemplation of the gaps in a psychic puzzle.

He appeared anxious to ask questions, to probe and search into matters,

but, not having the courage, lapsed into prolonged and silent brooding.

Leo watched the process with growing uneasiness. An explanation was out

of the question, yet every day it became more and more imperative.

Early in March the doctor, after a private talk with the convalescent,

urged the necessity of a change of six or eight weeks to a Southern

climate. He also insisted that it was most important that this change

should precede the return to Uhlenfelde.

Who should accompany him? Certainly not Herr von Sellenthin. Such a

thing was not to be thought of. The poor, overtaxed brain must rest,

and that was only possible with strangers. Friends in such cases were

poison.

Leo said no more.

The next day, a young doctor without a practice arrived from

Koenigsberg, who was delighted to undertake the case and travel with

Ulrich, which, as he freely confessed, would be a lift to him

financially.

The parting between the friends was gentle and affectionate, and, on

the surface, without significance. In it, there was on one side the

dumb appeal, "Forgive me" and on the other the unspoken assurance, "I

have forgiven you."

Week after week went by. Leo worked with almost superhuman zeal, for

now the supervision of the Uhlenfelde estate, as well as his own, was

on his shoulders.

He thought of his former mistress without bitterness or self-reproach,

though he was sometimes exercised to know what had become of her. One

day, scanty news of her reached him in an unexpected and indirect way.

He called on Pastor Brenckenberg with the object of asking his pardon

for his roughness to him at their last interview, and then the old man,

who had gradually got over his rancour, told him that his son, "the

rascal," had met the Baroness von Kletzingk in Berlin. She had looked

the same as usual, had not been in the least embarrassed, and had

overwhelmed him with questions.

"And there's something else to tell you," continued the pastor. "You

really did my boy a good turn, after all. It is true that he has been

expelled from his Corps, but that won't do him much harm. He has been a

different creature since that correction you administered to him. He

has given up loafing and getting into debt, and he is now earning his

bread and working steadily for his exam. So pardon me, Fritzchen, and

let me thank you. I behaved like an old ass!"

Leo shook his hand laughingly. Then he pondered on what he had heard

about Felicitas, and hoped that she was not playing the adventuress in

Berlin.

A report of Ulrich came every week. At first the young doctor wrote,

and then he wrote himself, a few, faint, hurried lines, and on these

his friend was obliged to build his hopes.

Slowly Leo's soul was purged of its gnawing suspicions and its anxious

presentiments of evil which had been so habitual to it of late. He

regained his self-confidence, and at the same time spurts of the quaint

cynicism and noisy gaiety which so well become those doughty giants on

the east of the Elbe. This showed that his wounds were healing, and his

temperament recovering its normal healthiness.

It was on a grey, still morning in the second week of May that Leo came

in ravenous from his early ride to join the others at breakfast. The

glass doors stood wide open, letting in draughts of the soft rainy air.

He fancied that he detected in the three pairs of eyes raised to his an

unwonted flash of excitement.

"Why are you all making such mysterious faces?" he asked.

His mother looked away and smiled. Elly glanced down at her lap and

smiled too. Hertha kept her eyes fixed on has face with complete

frankness.

Then he caught sight of an envelope lying beside his coffee-cup. It was

addressed in Ulrich's handwriting, but bore no postmark. His heart

leapt as he read--

"Dear Old Boy,

"I came home last night, and I am expecting you. Love to all your

people,

"Ulrich."

Because he did not wish to betray his emotion, he stood silently behind

his chair, and crumpled the paper in his hand. Each one in turn came up

to him quietly and congratulated him.

"Children," he said, "his house is empty and desolate now. He has no

one but us. Help me to make him welcome here, so that he may look on it

as his home. Will you help me, all three of you?"

"Of course we will, my son," said, his mother, and stroked his arm.

"And do you agree, Hertha?"

She looked at him with wide, calm eyes, and nodded. He took her hand

and mutely thanked her; then he ate and drank, and counted the minutes.

Soon he was making his way streamwards over rain-drenched paths. All

round him, in hedge and field, buds and shoots were bursting forth into

their spring glory, and within him as he went along a voice kept up the

jubilant cry, "Now he belongs to me entirely, and no one else."

But when he stood aloft on the dyke, and saw below him the bijou

turrets of Uhlenfelde rising in their coquettish smartness against the

sky, a fear began to creep into his heart.

They had been built for her, and where was she? Perhaps knocking about

the world abandoned and degraded, while he, unpunished, might dare to

set his foot in the house which he had helped to desecrate.

"But what of that?" he laughed, and stretched his strong limbs primed

like steel. "Health and happiness must be snatched when they come your

way, at any cost. What good to cry over spilt milk?"

And he struck out vigorously with the oars. The Isle of Friendship, in

its May raiment of pale green and gold, seemed to peep admiringly at

its own reflection in the mirror-like water.

"That saved us," he thought, and, in passing, looked out for a glimpse

of the temple which the foliage was not yet umbrageous enough to hide.

As the boat crunched on the Uhlenfelde strand, panic seized him again,

and he entered the courtyard breathing in short gasps like an

asthmatic.

But with an effort he set his teeth and collected himself. Ulrich had

seen him coming, and was in the hall to receive him. The subdued light

of a cloudy day fell on his serious, rigid face, which the spring

sunshine of the south had toned to a yellowish brown.

Leo was conscious that he trembled; he would have liked to fly into his

arms only he did not dare. The immovable face held him back. Instead he

stretched out both his hands and murmured a conventional "How are you?"

A gleam of melancholy tenderness passed over Ulrich's features. "My

boy," he said, biting his lips; "my dear old boy."

And then he led him into the garden salon, where a solitary coffee-cup

stood on a side table.

Leo cast a shy glance to the left in the direction of Lizzie's sanctum.

The door into the boudoir was closed and the key gone. The whole house

seemed void and deadly quiet, as if it contained no living creature

except the master.

In a corner of the window was the couch with an armchair drawn up close

to it, and a little table with ash-tray and cigarette-box. That was

where Felicitas had thrown herself down that autumn afternoon when she

had first begun to stir up old memories.

Leo thought of this, and felt a slight repugnance when Ulrich asked him

to sit down there.

The room from floor to ceiling seemed haunted with shameful pictures of

what had been.

"The winter crops are thriving," began Ulrich.

Leo hesitated before answering. In this very natural remark of a

landowner who has returned home after a long absence, he traced an

evasion.

"Yes, they are all right," he said, constrained.

"And you have looked after Uhlenfelde's interests; accept my warmest

thanks, old boy."

"Don't mention it," replied Leo, refusing the hand held out to him.

"Your work-people are used to managing for themselves."

"Certainly. That's true," said Ulrich. "But, nevertheless, it is well

that they should feel the hand of a master over them."

"I wonder what he means," thought Leo, still at a loss and perplexed by

the immovable, solemn face opposite him. Their friendship, their old,

exuberant, grand friendship; what had become of it?

A dim desire awoke in Leo to play the fool to put an end to this

constraint. He felt as if he could stand on his head, dance and whoop,

or throw himself at his feet, kiss his hands, and cry, "Forgive,

forgive."

Yet all _was_ forgiven.

In this man's calm, composed glance, there was not a shadow of

reproach, nothing but an affectionate compassion.

"Tell me about yourself, Uhich," he asked, stuttering. "Are you

satisfied with your progress? Do you feel quite well now?"

"Yes," said Ulrich, "I am very well."

There was a pause.

Outside the rain fell in warm, soft torrents, and the soil greedily

absorbed the moisture. Strings of grey pearls hung on the young green

of the twigs, and the half-unfurled leaves expanded, and glistened in

the invigorating shower-bath. Everywhere young life and the promise of

a fertile spring. But the two men who loved each other better than

anything else in the world, felt as if a breath of autumn and dying

things hovered about them.

"You know," Ulrich began, "we have much to talk over, old boy. We must

come to a clear understanding about our position with regard to each

other. I mean, our old friendship."

A quiet, iron resolve made his face like an inscrutable mask. It was as

if this sickly, much-wronged soul had fought its last struggles and

come off victor. Something of Ulrich's calm was at this minute

communicated to Leo. He felt that, happen what might, it would be in

accordance with the requirements of their two inmost natures.

"It is well that we have allowed so much time to elapse, since that

night," Ulrich went on. "I have been able to think over things, and I

believe that I have chosen the right path for us to pursue. The sad

story you related to me on the Isle of Friendship has since been

corroborated in every particular by Felicitas herself."

Leo started up. "You have seen her?" he stammered.

Ulrich nodded gravely. "She wrote to me about--about the divorce, as

you may suppose. And so I went to look her up. I did not like the idea

of leaving the poor thing to her own devices in case she should go

altogether to the bad."

Leo could not help feeling a jealous pang. Ulrich spoke of the woman so

gently. Would he deal as tenderly with him?

"But when I found her looking fresh and gay, as if relieved of a

burden----"

"You really found her like _that_?" Leo asked eagerly.

Ulrich bowed his head, and an ironical smile played about the corners

of his mouth.

"Then I saw plainly how much I had been to blame. I ought never to have

offered my hand to a healthy young creature, made in every fibre for

love and pleasure; I, a fragile unsound subject, hardly capable of

dragging through life alone. I hope that she will be happy now. I do

not love her. I ceased to care for her the day I knew---- But we won't

speak of the boy. Still, no one shall cast a stone at her."

Leo breathed more freely. Ulrich evidently did not regret her, and this

shadow no longer lay between them.

"To pass on to ourselves," said Ulrich, leaning back in his chair with

a gesture denoting mental fatigue. His features lost their expression

of strained severity, and as his mouth opened two lines of pain shot up

into his sunken cheeks.

"Another bad quarter of an hour," Leo thought, whose hopes of a happy

issue were now high again, "and then we shall be on quite the old

footing."

"Do you remember, my dear boy," Ulrich went on, with his eyes fixed

distressfully on vacancy, "the day of your return, when we sat and

drank together at the Prussian Crown? You said to me then that my

marriage would cost us our friendship. I wouldn't believe you at the

time, but now I see that you were a thousand times right."

"How do you mean right?" stammered Leo, feeling a cold shiver of

anxiety run through him.

"You mustn't reproach me, dear boy. I am punishing myself more than I

punish you. I love you as much as ever I did. I would pour out my

heart's blood for you--but I can't associate with you any more."

"Ulrich!" cried Leo; "then you haven't forgiven me after all?"

Ulrich looked pained. "What do you call forgiving?" he said. "The one

woman in the world, whom I as your friend had no right to touch, I made

my wife. So I think we are quits. If it had come to shooting between us

that day, and you had sent me the same way as her first husband, I

would have died stroking and blessing your hand, dear boy. And then you

talk of forgiving!"

Leo had staggered to his feet. He stretched out his hand as if he would

seize and hold his friend fast before his soul slipped out of his grasp

for ever.

"What you propose is madness," he exclaimed.

"No, dear boy. I should like to explain it all thoroughly to you. I

have rehearsed a long speech, but I cannot somehow exactly recall it

now. God knows it was my firm intention to let the past lie buried. But

I can't alter my nature, and you know how I take things to heart, and

when I do, must speak of them. But leaving me out of the question. You

take life differently, less seriously. Yet how could you endure to come

in and out here, when the very walls speak to you of the past? I

noticed just now how you glanced at that door. It seemed to you that

she must be coming through it. I have done with her, and so, it is to

be hoped, have you--but, all the same, her ghost fills this place, and

you feel it as much as I do."

"With time that would wear off," Leo murmured, becoming more and more

dispirited.

"I doubt it," replied Ulrich. "It could never wear off with us. We

should have had to be brought up differently, born of different

parents, and with other blood pumped into our veins. As we are, our

sense of honour, our manliness, would constantly be in revolt. Day by

day we should become more discomfited, till at last we should end by

laying at each other's door our loss of self-respect. No, that shall

not be. It would be too great a strain on our old friendship. Think of

our two fathers. They were fond of each other, God knows. But if what

has happened to us had happened to them, they would have both cut their

throats without asking who was to blame and who wasn't. Say, am I not

right?"