CHAPTER XV.
A gray dreary morning followed the dark rainy night. Endless masses of vapor, now and then piled into thick clouds, rolled in from the sea,--masses so deep that they almost covered the lofty tops of the poplars, which now bent before the rude wind over the drenched straw roofs of the barns, and then rebounded defiantly, shaking their branches indignantly.
Gotthold stood at the window of the sitting room, gazing gloomily at the dreary scene. He had slept an hour towards morning, almost against his will; but anxiety for what might be coming weighed upon his soul more heavily than physical exhaustion upon his body. Terrible as the night had been, stars of hope ever and anon had sparkled cheeringly through the darkness; now it seemed as if this dreary day had only dawned to say: This solitary, hideous drifting is life, reality; what have I to do with your dreams? As he came down the staircase, he had seen almost with an emotion of horror that preparations for the reception of guests were being made in the large hall looking out upon the garden, which was generally unused; the clattering of pots and pans, and the loud voices of maid-servants came from the kitchen at the end of the long hall; and a groom was just pushing from the stable the carriage which was to bring the guests from Prora. Everything was going on as usual, as if to-day would be like yesterday, and to-morrow like to day; as if nothing could happen which would make the old world young again as it was on the first day that dawned on Paradise. And yet, and yet, it surely was no dream; it had certainly happened. It could not blow away like formless mist! It must assume some shape, emerge from the chaos, perhaps be worked out by a hot conflict; it was all the same! Only it could not be lost!
But this dreary inactive waiting was terrible! She must know that he had been standing here half an hour already, waiting for her, for one word from her lips, even one look, to say to him: I am yours, as you are mine; trust me as I trust you. Why did she not come? The moment was more favorable than any which might occur again all day. Brandow had just crossed the courtyard to the stables, as he did every morning; the breakfast was on the table; they had always spent half an hour together at this time undisturbed--and to-day, to-day she must needs leave him alone!
A boundless impatience took possession of him; he paced up and down the room, glancing every moment towards the door through which that other had come and gone last night, and which was closed upon him, listening with straining ears that he might distinguish some sound, but heard nothing except the sleepy buzzing of a fly; even the house clock in the tall old-fashioned wooden case did not tick to-day; the hands had stopped during the night.
He pressed his hands to his beating temples; it seemed as if he should go mad if this torture did not cease, and then a thought occurred to him more terrible than all the rest. Was she afraid of him? Did shame withhold her from appearing before the eyes of him against whose heart her own had throbbed yesterday, whose kiss she had received and answered? No, no, a thousand times no! Whatever kept her from him, it was not that, not that! It was a crime against her proud nature even to think it! She might die, but not live to be dishonorable. Perhaps she was ill, very ill, helpless, alone--ah! that was Gretchen's voice: "Mamma, I want to go with you; I want to go with you to Uncle Gotthold. I want to bid Uncle Gotthold 'good morning!'" and then low soothing tones, then the door opened and she entered.
Gotthold rushed toward her, but only a few steps. She had raised both hands with a gesture of the most imploring entreaty, and the most imploring entreaty looked forth from the large tearful eyes, and pure pale face. So she approached, so she stood before him, and then almost inaudible words fell from her quivering lips.
"Will you forgive me, Gotthold!"
He could not answer; gesture, expression, words--all told him that his haunting fear had become reality; that in one way or another all was lost.
A fierce anguish overpowered him, and then anger arose in his heart; he laughed aloud!
"So this is all the courage you have!"
Her arms fell, her lips closed, her features quivered convulsively, and her whole frame trembled.
"No, Gotthold, not all. But I thank you for being angry; or it might have been impossible for me to perform my task. No, don't look at me so; don't look at me so. Laugh as you laughed just now! What can a man do but laugh, when a woman by whom he believes himself beloved comes and says--"
"You need not," cried Gotthold; "you need not; a man does not comprehend such things, but he feels them without words."
He turned towards the door.
"Gotthold!"
There was despair in the tone; the young man's hand fell from the latch.
"Can it be, Cecilia? I have frightened you by my vehemence; but it shall not happen again. Only say one word--tell me you love me, and I will bear all; everything else is a matter of indifference to me; we must and shall see some way of escape; but you cannot let me go so, not so, I implore you!"
But he searched her face for some token of assent in vain. Her features seemed set in a horrible smile.
"No," she said, "not so: not before you have promised that you will save my husband, whom I love and honor; from whom I cannot, will not part."
She uttered the words slowly, in a monotonous tone, like something learned by rote, and now paused like a scholar who has forgotten her lesson.
"What does this farce mean?" said Gotthold.
The door of the sleeping-room opened, Gretchen put her curly head in, and then came bounding towards her mother. Cecilia clasped the child passionately in her arms, and hastily continued, while a feverish flush replaced her former death-like pallor: "Save him from the bankruptcy into which he will fall, if you do not help him. The matter concerns--concerns--"
She released Gretchen, and pressed both hands upon her brow.
"Mamma, mamma," screamed the little one, beginning to cry aloud, as Gotthold supported the tottering figure to the nearest chair.
"What is the matter with my wife?" asked Brandow.
Gotthold had not heard him enter. At the first sound of his voice Cecilia raised herself from his arms, and stood erect between the two men, without support, clasping the child to her heart, pale as death, but with an expression of sorrowful resolution; and there was a strange, unvarying firmness in the tone of her voice, as, fixing her eyes upon her husband, she said:
"He knows, and will do it."
And then turning to Gotthold:
"You will do it for the sake of our old friendship, Gotthold, will you not? And farewell, Gotthold; we shall not see each other again."
She held out an icy hand to him, took Gretchen in her arms, and left the room without looking back, while the child stretched out its little hands over her shoulder, calling, "Bring me something pretty to-day, uncle Gotthold. Do you hear, uncle Gotthold?"