CHAPTER XLIII.
A week after the death of Hippus, Anton was sitting in his own room, writing to Fink. He was telling him that the lawyer's corpse had been taken out of the river at the wear at the end of the town, and that the cause of his death was uncertain. A child belonging to the house in which the wretched man lived had told that, on the evening of the search made by the police, Hippus had been met in the street, near his own dwelling; since then, nothing had been seen of him. Under these circumstances, suicide did not appear unlikely. However, the police were of opinion that the crushed hat afforded evidence of violence. No papers had been found at his dwelling, and a second search had been made there without results. Anton gave it as his own opinion respecting the fearful event that Itzig was in some way connected with it.
At that moment the door was opened, the Galician hastily entered the room, and, without speaking a word, laid an old pair of spectacles, set in rusty steel, on the table before Anton, who, looking at the agitated face before him, sprang from his seat.
"His spectacles," hoarsely whispered Tinkeles; "I found them close to the water. Just God! that any one should have such a fright as that!"
"Whose spectacles are they, and where did you find them?" inquired Anton, guessing at what the Galician lacked strength to tell, and looking with horror at the dim glasses before him. "Compose yourself, Tinkeles, and speak."
"It can not remain concealed—it cries to Heaven!" said Tinkeles, in great excitement. "You shall hear how it came to pass. Two days after I had spoken with you about the two hundred dollars, I went in the evening to the sleeping-room at Löbel Pinkus's. As I entered the court a man ran against me in the dark. I thought, is that Itzig, or is it not? I said to myself, It is Itzig; that is his run when he runs in haste. When I got up into the large room, it was empty, and I sat down at the table and looked into my pocket-book; and as I sat there, the wind rose outside, and there was a knocking in the gallery, as if some one was knocking who wanted to get in, and could not open a door. I was frightened, and put up my letters, and cried, 'If any one is there, let him say so.' No one answered, but the knocking went on all the time. Then I summoned up courage, took up the lamp, and went into the gallery, and searched every room. I could see no one. And again there was the knocking close to me, and then a great crack, and a door flew open, which had never been open before, and from the door steps led down to the water. When I put the lamp near the steps, I saw that a wet foot had come up them, and the marks of it were to be seen all the way to the room—wet spots on the floor. And I marveled, and said to myself, 'Schmeie,' said I, 'who has gone by night out of the water into the room, leaving the door open, like a spirit?' And I was afraid; and before I closed the door, I once more looked along the steps with the lamp, and then I saw something sparkle in the light close to the water, on the last step of all, and I ventured down one step after the other: woe is me, Mr. Wohlfart, it was a hard task. The wind howled, and blew my lamp about, and the staircase became as dark as a well; and that which I picked up is yonder"—pointing to the spectacles—"the glasses that he wore before his eyes."
"And how do you know that they are the dead man's spectacles?" asked Anton, in painful suspense.
"I know them by the joint, which is tied round with black worsted. I have often seen him in Pinkus's room with those spectacles on. So I hid the spectacles, and thought to myself that I would say nothing about them to Pinkus, but give them myself to Hippus, and see whether he could be of use to me in business. I carried about the glasses till to-day, expecting to see him; and when he did not come, I asked Pinkus for him, and he answered, 'I know not where he is hiding.' And to-day, at noon, as I entered the inn, Pinkus came running toward me, and said, 'Schmeie,' said he, 'if you want to speak to Hippus, you'll have to go into the water; he has been found in the water.' It went through me like a shot when he said this, and I had to hold on by the wall."
Anton went to his writing-table, dashed off a few lines to the detective, who had not long left him, rang the bell, and desired the servant to take the note in all haste.
Meanwhile Tinkeles had sunk down on a chair, and kept muttering unintelligibly.
Anton, scarcely less agitated, paced up and down the room. At last the silence was broken by the Galician raising his voice, and inquiring, "Do not you think that the spectacles will be worth the hundred dollars you have for me in your writing-desk?"
"I don't know," curtly replied Anton, continuing to pace up and down. Schmeie relapsed into exhaustion and silence. At length he looked up again and said, "At least fifty?"
"None of your bargaining at present," replied Anton, dryly.
"Why not?" cried Tinkeles, in dudgeon. "I have had a great fright; is that to go for nothing?" And he was again absorbed in distress.
The interview was interrupted by the appearance of the detective. This experienced officer made the Galician repeat his tale, took the spectacles, ordered a coach for himself and the reluctant Tinkeles, and said to Anton as he left, "Prepare for a sudden clearing up; whether I shall carry out my purpose is still uncertain, but there is a prospect for you of finding the documents you seek."
"At what a cost!" cried Anton, shuddering.
The drawing-room in Ehrenthal's house was brilliantly lit up, and through the drawn curtain a slight glimmer fell upon the small rain that sank down like mist on the streets. Several rooms were opened; heavy silver candelabra stood about; bright tea-services, gay sets of porcelain—every thing in the house had been brushed up, washed, and displayed; the dark floor had been newly waxed; even the cook had a newly plaited cap—in short, the whole house was renovated. The fair Rosalie stood in the midst of all this splendor, in a dress of yellow silk, trimmed with purple flowers, gorgeous as a houri of Paradise, and, like them, prepared to receive her elect. Her mother smoothed the thick folds of her dress, looked triumphantly at her, and said, in a transport of motherly love, "How beautiful you are to-day, Rosalie, my only child!"
But Rosalie was too much accustomed to this admiration to heed it, and went on trying to fasten a bracelet on her round arm. "It was really too bad of Itzig to bring me turquoises; he ought to have known that they are out of fashion."
"They are very handsomely set," said her mother, soothingly. "The gold is massive, and the pattern quite new."
"And where is Itzig? To-day, at least, he ought to come early; the relatives will all be here before the bridegroom," said Rosalie, complainingly.
"He will be here in time," replied Itzig's patroness. "You know how he toils and moils that you may have a brilliant establishment. You are fortunate," said she, with a sigh; "you are now entering upon life, and you will be a lady of consequence. You must go to the capital for a few weeks after your marriage, to spend the honeymoon quietly, and be introduced to my relations; and, meanwhile, I shall have this story furnished for you, and will move up stairs, and spend the rest of my life in nursing Ehrenthal."
"Will my father make his appearance to-day?" inquired Rosalie.
"He must do so on account of our relations. He must pronounce the paternal blessing upon you."
"He is sure to bring disgrace upon us, and to talk nonsense again," said the dutiful daughter.
"I have told him what he is to say," answered her mother; "and he nodded, to show that he understood me."
The bell rang, the door opened, and company appeared. The room soon filled. Ladies in gorgeous gold-embroidered silk dresses, with sparkling chains and ear-rings, occupied the large sofa and arm-chairs around. They were mostly large in figure, with here and there a pair of lustrous eyes and a set of handsome features. They looked like a gay tulip-bed out of which the gardener has rooted every sober-colored flower. Behind them stood the gentlemen, with cunning faces and hands in their pockets, altogether much less imposing and agreeable to behold. Thus all the company waited for the bridegroom, who still delayed his coming.
At length he appeared. His eyes wandered suspiciously around; his voice faltered as he accosted his betrothed. He strove to the utmost to find some polite words to say to the beautiful girl, and could almost himself have laughed savagely at the blank he felt within. He did not see her brilliant eyes, her gorgeous bust, and magnificent attire. Even when at her side he was obliged to think of something else—of that of which he was always thinking. He soon turned away from her and joined the gentlemen, who became more conversable after his arrival. A few commonplace observations, made by the younger men, were heard from time to time, such as, "Miss Rosalie looks enchantingly beautiful;" and, "I wonder whether Ehrenthal will appear;" and, "This long continuance of fog is unusual, and very unhealthy: one is obliged to wear flannel." At length some one uttered the words "four and a half per cent." There was an end of detached remarks; a subject of conversation had been found. Itzig was one of the loudest, gesticulating on all sides. They spoke of the funds—of wool—of the failure of a money-broker who had over-speculated in paper. The ladies were forgotten; and, being quite accustomed to it on such occasions, they solemnly held their tea-cups in their hands, smoothed the folds of their dresses, and moved their throats and arms so as to make their bracelets and chains sparkle in the light.
The conversation was now interrupted by a strange sound: a door was opened, and in the midst of profound silence a heavy arm-chair was rolled into the room.
In the arm-chair sat an old, white-haired man, with a fat, swollen face, with staring eyes, bent frame, and arms supinely hanging down. It was Hirsch Ehrenthal, the imbecile. The chair being rolled into the midst of the assembly, he looked slowly round, nodded, and repeated over and over again the words he had been taught: "Good-evening—good evening." His wife now bent over him, and, raising her voice, said in his ear, "Do you know the company here assembled? They are our relatives."
"I know," nodded the figure; "it is a soiree. They all went to a great soiree, and I remained alone in my room, and I sat on his bed. Where is Bernhard, that he does not come to his old father?"
The guests who had surrounded the arm-chair now retreated in confusion; and the lady of the house again screamed in the old man's ear, "Bernhard is traveling, but your daughter Rosalie is here."
"Traveling?" mournfully inquired the old man. "How can he be traveling? I wanted to buy him a horse, that he might ride it; I wanted to buy him an estate, that he might live on it, like a respectable man, as he always was. I know," he cried, "when I last saw him, he was in bed. He lay on a bed, and he raised his clenched hand, and shook it at his father."
"Come here, Rosalie," cried her mother, distressed at these reminiscences. "When your father sees you, my child, he will have other thoughts."
Rosalie approached, and, spreading out her handkerchief, knelt down before the arm-chair. "Do you know me, father?" she cried.
"I know you," said the old man. "You are a woman. Why should a woman lie on the earth? Give me my praying-cloak, and speak the prayer. I will kneel in your place, for a long night has come upon us. When it is past, we will kindle the lights, and will eat. It will be time to put on gay garments then. Why do you wear gay garments now, when the Lord is wroth with the congregation?" He began to murmur a prayer, and again collapsed.
Rosalie rose impatiently; and her mother said, in much embarrassment, "He is worse to-day than he has ever been. I wished your father to be present at his daughter's betrothal, but I see that he can not perform the duties of the head of the family. I have, then, in my character of mother, to make a happy announcement to the company assembled." Then solemnly taking her daughter's hand, she said, "Draw nearer, Itzig."
Hitherto Itzig had silently stood with the rest, and stared at the old man, from time to time shrugging his shoulders, and shaking his head over the melancholy spectacle, as became his position in the family. But there was another form present before his eyes: he knew better than any who it was that wailed and groaned; he knew, too, who had died and had not forgiven. Mechanically he advanced, his eyes still fixed on Ehrenthal. The guests now formed a circle around him and Rosalie, and her mother took his hand.
Then the old man in the arm-chair began again. "Hush!" said he, distinctly; "there he stands—the invisible. We go home from the burial, and he dances among the women. He will strike down all he looks upon. There he stands!" he screamed, and rose from his chair. "There! there! Throw down your water-jars and fly into the house, for he who stands there is cursed of the Lord. Cursed!" he screamed; and, clenching his hands, he tottered like a madman toward Itzig.
Itzig's face grew ghastly; he tried to laugh, but his features quivered with fear. Suddenly the door was opened, and his errand-boy looked anxiously into the room. One glance sufficed to tell Itzig all that the youth had to say. He was discovered—he was in danger. He sprang to the door and disappeared.
Lay aside your bridal attire, fair Rosalie; throw off the turquoise bracelet. For you there is no betrothal—no marriage feast. Soon you will leave the town with drooping head, glad, by flying among strangers, to escape the mockery of cruel hearts at home. The gold that your father heaped up for his children by usury and fraud will again roll from hand to hand, will serve good and bad alike, will swell the mighty tide of wealth by which human life is sustained and adorned, peoples and states made great and powerful, and individuals strong or weak, each according to his work.
Without, the night was dark, small rain was falling, and the air was chill. Itzig rushed down the steps. A trembling voice called out after him, "The police are in the house; they are breaking open the room-door." He heard no more; a horrible dread filled his soul. Thought after thought passed through his brain with delirious rapidity. He felt his pocket, in which he had for the last week kept a large sum of money. It was not the hour of departure of any train that would take him to the sea, and at all the stations he would be watched for. He ran along through narrow streets in remote parts of the town, turning back whenever he got near a lamp, his pace increasingly rapid, his thoughts increasingly confused. At last his strength failed him, and he cowered down in a corner to collect himself. But soon he heard a watchman's hollow horn sound near him. Here, too, was danger. Again he rushed onward to the one and only place that stood out clearly defined in his thoughts—the place he shuddered at, yet turned to as a last refuge. As he neared the inn he saw a dark shadow at the door. The little lawyer had often stood there in the dark, waiting for Veitel's return. Was he standing there now and waiting? The wretched fugitive started back, then approached—the door was free; he stepped in, but the shadow rose again behind him and stood at the door. Veitel took off his boots and crept up stairs, groped in the dark for a room door, opened it with trembling hand, and took down a bunch of keys from the wall, with which he hurried to the gallery, hearing, as if at a great distance, the long-drawn breath of sleeping men. He stood at the door of the staircase; a violent shudder convulsed him as he went down step after step. When he first put his foot into the water he heard a lamentable groan. He clung to the banisters as that other had done, and looked down. Again there was a groan, and he now found out it was only his own breathing. He felt the depth of the water with his foot. It had risen since that time—it was higher than his knee, but he found a footing and stood safely in the stream.
The night was dark, the rain still came down, the mist hung thick over the houses—a gable, a paling peeping out here and there; the water rushed along, the only sound to break the silence of the night, and in this man's ear it roared like thunder. He felt all the torments of the lost while wading on and groping for his way. He had to cling to the slippery palings in order not to sink. He reached the staircase of the next house, felt in his pockets for the key—one swing round the corner, and his foot would be on the lowest step. Just as he was about to turn he started back, his raised foot fell into the water; he saw a dark stooping figure on the staircase. There it sat motionless. He knew the outline of the old hat; dark as it was, he could see the ugly features of the well-known face. He wiped his eyes, he waved his hands to dispel it; it was no illusion; the spectre sat there a few steps off. At length the horrible thing stretched out a hand toward him. The murderer started back, his foot slipped off the platform, he fell up to his neck in water. There he stood in the stream, the wind howling over him, the water rushing ever louder and louder. He raised his hands, his eyes still fixed upon the vision. Slowly it rose from its seat—it moved along the platform—it stretched out its hand. He sprang back horror-stricken into the stream—a fall, a loud scream, the short drowning struggle, and all was over. The stream rolled on, and carried the corpse away.
There was a stir along the river's edge; torches flared, arms glistened, loud shouts were heard, and from the foot of the steps a man waded into the water and exclaimed, "He was gone before I could reach him. To-morrow we shall find him at the wear."