The Song of Songs

by Hermann Sudermann

CHAPTER XVIII

No, it was not to come out in this way! Fate was not to lay hands on her quite so rudely and clumsily.

She was to be spared the disgrace of being caught like a criminal, and ultimately, by an act of self-denial, she was to prove that she had not been altogether unworthy of the great blessing of her life.

Since the name Salmoni had been mentioned between them, she scarcely dared venture into the streets in Konrad's company. As she walked with him arm-in-arm, she imagined that every step she heard coming behind them was that of the dreaded man who had once followed her into the Alte Jakobstrasse.

At last, to end the torture of this new anxiety, she made up a story to Konrad about a lady she was acquainted with calling on her, and asking who the tall, slim young man was in whose company she was now so often seen.

The result of this necessary lie was terrifying. He would not speak or eat, but strode about the room in great perturbation, finally leaving her at an hour when generally her bliss was just beginning.

The following day brought forth an explanation. He came at dusk, paler than usual, with unnaturally brilliant eyes.

"Listen, dearest!" he said. "I thought it over all last night, and I now see my duty clear before me. This must not go on."

She could interpret this only as a wish to leave her. Her body seemed to become numb; she faced him calmly, and awaited her death-blow.

"Since we have belonged to each other," he continued, "we have made no further allusion to your fiancé. Nevertheless, I have thought all the more about him in private. You, too, have been very reticent with regard to your friend Herr Dehnicke. I only know that he is at present travelling, and has left you, so to speak, without a protector."

She forced herself to smile. Why must he prolong the agony?

"To-day I must confess to you that in the midst of all my happiness I have felt that my taking advantage of such a situation is altogether despicable. But my feelings are not in question. The main consideration is, what will become of you? What I feared from the first has come to pass: people are beginning to remark on our being together.... You can't bind anyone to secrecy.... It would be lowering to one's dignity. Thus the mutual friend of you and your betrothed is certain, sooner or later, to hear all about it, and to call you to account. You will be, of course, too proud to deny it, and the upshot of it all is that you will be left stranded and alone--without any sort of guardianship in the world. For I, as matters now stand, have not even the right to protect you. The thought is perfectly intolerable to me, whatever it may be to others."

He jumped up, ran his fingers through the imaginary mane of hair, and tramped up and down.

She came slowly back to life and consciousness, as the blood began to course more naturally through her veins.

The dear, noble boy! How unsuspecting he was! She could have almost shrieked with laughter. But she controlled herself and said: "You needn't disturb yourself, Konni. His friend is not likely to hear anything, and if he does he won't believe it. And even if he does believe it, he will take good care that ..."

She could not go on. The great guileless eyes frightened her.

"You think, then, he would ..."

He too hesitated, unable to find words in which to express the unspeakable.

She examined the buttons on her bodice and didn't answer.

"When is Herr Dehnicke coming home?" he asked.

"It is not certain. He is gone wife-hunting," she replied, with a little feeling of triumph at having said something that placed her miles outside the radius of any suspicion now or to come.

"Where is he at present?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because I must have a talk with him."

She could hardly credit what she heard. He couldn't have said it. Surely, either he or she must be taking leave of their senses.

"Don't be anxious," he said. "I am quite aware what I owe to your reputation. But I must find out once for all what opinion he has of your position.... Here is a man in America who has your promise, yet makes no sign.... He doesn't turn up, and he doesn't write. Why doesn't he write? If he hasn't got your address, why should he not write through Herr Dehnicke, whose business is known all over Berlin? No one is even sure if he is still alive. For a long time I tried to explain his silence in various ways; but now I can't help saying to myself, the only explanation there can possibly be is that he is dead, or as good as dead. Are you to continue bound to a dead man? Is your social existence to be dependent, as it were, on a guard of honour who has nothing to guard? This is the point I would like to discuss with the mutual friend. He'll have to answer me, or do you think he'll object?"

Really, he has less knowledge of the world than is permissible, she thought compassionately; and aloud she replied, "I don't quite see, Konni, how you are justified in forcing an interview on a stranger."

"That's my affair," he said, throwing back his head defiantly. "First, I must know if he will let you be free to do as you like. I don't see why he should hold the slave-driver's whip over you."

"And I don't see why you should put yourself in a false position," she cried in newly awakened alarm. Already she heard fisticuffs and pistol-shots resounding in her ears. "I will speak to Herr Dehnicke myself; I will set myself free. I promise you that. But you ... if I let you go to him, what will he think of me? You will only succeed in compromising me."

He drew himself up. His eyes were those of a conqueror. "If a man loves you and wants you for his wife, I fail to see how that can compromise you."

---

It was dusk and oppressively close when these words were spoken. The little bullfinch flapped its wings languidly in its sand, the goldfish remained motionless behind their wall of hot glass, and the small naked monkey whimpered in his sleep. Heavy masses of bluish-black clouds were reflected in the slimy water of the canal. There was a menace of storm in the air--and this was the thunderbolt.

Her first feeling was one of surprise--certainly not pleasant surprise; then followed an unutterably plaintive cry, unheard by any human ear, and which hurt all the more because it was dumb.

"Too late ... played out ... past caring. No more happiness on earth ... too late ... too late!"

She leaned back in the sofa-corner and examined the ceiling minutely and carefully.

He waited for his answer.

If she lowered her eyes they must meet his, full of a fire which burned into her soul. No salvation from these eyes, no escape from what had to come!

And he waited.

Then she heard her own voice speaking quite calmly and distinctly, as if instead of herself Frau Jula was speaking--life's little mountebank with the brow of brass.

"I thought, dear Konni, we had agreed that neither of us should talk of marrying."

"How can you remind me of that?" he cried vehemently. "When I said so, could I foresee how things would turn out? Had I the least inkling then of what you are? Did I know you were so divine an angel, who can exalt a poor devil like me one moment into a seventh heaven of bliss, and the next plunge him into hell's torments?... Yes, I mean it! Torments, for to-day all must come out--the unvarnished truth. There's a gap in my life. All is in chaos: my work, my thought, my faith in you. You would be my good genius, but often you are something almost the reverse. Don't distress yourself. I am not reproaching you ... but only myself, for being so weak.... I want to work; I ought to work.... I have just undertaken a whole pile of new duties. I thought that if my duty was imposed on me from outside, I should be bound to stick to it. But the very opposite has happened. I am running to seed through perpetual inner wrestling and questioning.... If I don't bring our lives into a peaceful and equable channel, we must both be lost. I can't do it unless you belong to me properly and altogether, unless your room is next to mine and you are always within sight of my desk--always near, always beside me."

"I can arrange to come to you in the autumn," she interrupted timorously.

"No, not in that way! I will have no more secretiveness, no more ground for self-reproaches. Am I to have it on my conscience that every day you sacrifice yourself for me further you come nearer to your ruin? For in the end it must ruin you; it will stick to you like mud. And why should we make a polluted thing out of what is most sacred to us? Or is it that I am not good enough to be your lasting companion through life? Do you shrink from being my wife on the score of poverty?"

In repudiation of this idea she almost screamed aloud.

"What you have and how much," he continued, "I do not wish to inquire. I am well enough off for both of us. My uncle allows me three hundred marks a month, and I get four hundred from Dr. Salmoni."

Ah! how she shuddered at that name!

"Besides, I can easily earn three hundred marks by articles alone ... that's altogether a thousand marks a month. As good as a general's pay.... Isn't that enough for you?"

"Oh, for pity's sake, be quiet!" she cried, hardly able to contain herself. "I wasn't thinking of money."

"Of what, then?"

He planted himself in front of her with an air of challenge. The dent of wrath was between his brows, as if it had been chiselled there. She bowed her head. Since the days of the colonel she had never been so afraid of any man.

"Well, why not? Out with it and say what it is! To all appearances you do not love me sufficiently. You still cling, perhaps, to the memory of the fellow who has long ago forgotten you. You may probably have said to yourself, 'I can make use of this foolish boy as a lover pro tem. He's all very well as an amusement to pass the time, but when it comes to his seriously interfering with the course of my life, I must get rid of him--throw him over, eh?' Isn't that it? Be brave and say it straight out! I am merely a stop-gap, not the sort of man you want for a husband. Not till I have begun to make a name could you think of marriage. Am I not right? Very well."

He had taken up his hat, and looked as if he intended going.

"Oh, Konni, have mercy on me!" she implored. She had slid down from her seat in order to clasp his knees. Now she cowered on the floor between the sofa and his chair.

"There is no need for me to have mercy, or for you to have mercy!" he exclaimed. "Till to-day you have been the holiest thing on earth to me. But I cannot submit to being brushed away like a fly. Tell me why you won't marry me. One plausible reason will satisfy me. When you have given it, I promise never to return to the subject."

"Give me till to-morrow," she moaned.

"Why till to-morrow? To-day is the same thing. I cannot go through another night of torturing suspense."

"I'll write."

He was evidently amazed. "Write? What is there to write?"

"Whether I may or not. The reasons and everything."

"Some way out of it will come to me in the night," she thought.

"When shall I get the letter?"

"To-morrow morning by the first post."

"Very well. Till then I will have patience. Good-bye, Lilly, for the present."

He helped her back to the sofa and held out his hand in farewell, and as she saw his great eyes fixed on her, with that steadfast clearness which no lie or suspicion of a lie had ever clouded, she knew there was no escape for her. Evasion was no longer to be thought of; the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, was what Konrad must be told. It swept over her like a warm, soothing stream: "Whether it means your damnation or not, he shall know the truth." Only, to tell him face to face was more than any mortal could endure.

When she was alone, reaction set in. The instincts of self-preservation asserted their rights. Surely, what Frau Jula had done she could do. She had had far worse things to explain away.

Richard would undoubtedly keep silent, and that was the most important point. Now that he was bent on marrying, it would be in his own best interests to allow her to vanish as gracefully as possible out of his life. The rest of "the crew" might gossip as much as they liked. Konrad was invulnerable to their slander.

The one danger ahead was Dr. Salmoni. But she had only to go to him, to entreat his silence, and he, too, would hold his tongue. He certainly would have good cause to prefer that his abominable attempted assault should not be brought to light. So she reflected. Yet in the midst of her planning and scheming a sudden disgust of herself and what she was going to do seized her, and shattered with one blow the whole fabric of intended deception.

If the mere name of Dr. Salmoni had prevented her going out in the streets with Konrad, how could she expect to pass her life at his side without quailing in hourly fear? How numerous would be the snubs and humiliations she must expect directly Konrad made any attempt to introduce her as his wife into the society to which he belonged! She who had figured in the newspapers as the latest acquisition to the circles of the fashionable demi-monde! And what if he too began to suspect? How he would be consumed with shame and horror--he who was so proud, and the mirror of all refinement, whose pure unworldliness alone accounted for his not seeing what sort of life she had been leading! What an awakening that would be from a short tormenting dream!

No, she could not emulate Frau Jula after all. And she thrust from her with scorn the atrocious thought which in the stress of the hour she had stained her soul by entertaining.

An exultant longing for self-destruction came over her, and she felt a strong impulse to tear her heart from her breast and hurl it at his feet as she sat down and wrote:

"My dear sweet Konni,

"I have shamefully deceived you. I am a bad woman, and nothing else. The fiancé I have told you about never existed. That despicable little cur of a lieutenant for whom I was untrue to my husband never dreamed of marrying me, but handed me over to his rich friend, who made me his mistress. And that is what I am now. For years I have been living in a world of vice and vulgarity. Long ago I was ostracised from all decent society. Kept women and the lovers who financed them have been my sole associates. I have clung to you because you in your ignorance respected me, and I, in my slough of degradation, longed to be respected. So now you know why I cannot be your wife.

"If you want my kisses, come. For anything more, I am no longer good enough.

"Lilly."

The clock struck eleven. Adele had gone to bed. She would have to go down herself to drop the letter in the box. But the long-threatened storm just then burst in fury. Hailstones rattled down, and gusts of wind rushed through the open windows, scattering raindrops on the writing-table. The paper on which her dry feverish eyes were fixed became wet; it looked as if she had drenched it with her tears.

"That is a happy coincidence," she thought. Then she was ashamed. The time for acting was surely over. But as she settled herself to rewrite the letter she stopped, shuddering in horror. What was to be gained by such a monstrous indictment of self? And was it, after all, the truth? In the slanderous mouth, perhaps, of a back-biting woman who twists out of bare facts evidence of crime against a friend, or in that of one of those social hangmen who have a halter ready for every past. She alone knew how it had all come about. How from inner necessity and outer compulsion, from too-confiding trustfulness and unprotected innocence link by link the chain had been forged, which now clanked its weight of guilt about her limbs. She, at least, knew that there was another less harsh and hideous truth, which would excuse and purify her in the eyes of any sympathetic person.

So she tore up the sheet of notepaper and began again. She made a rough copy, and then polished and polished till it satisfied her.

Now the letter ran:

"Dearest and beloved Friend,

"She who writes you these lines is a most unfortunate woman, whom you really know very little about, and who had to deceive you until to-day because all that is most sacred to her--her love for you--was at stake. And now, by writing this, that also is lost! I sacrifice it on the altar of your happiness for the sake of the divine fire that flashes from your eyes, consecrating and ennobling my soul.

"The world has treated me cruelly. It has wrenched from me by degrees my faith in human nature, my ideals, my buoyancy of spirit; it has brought me to sin, and so robbed me of the right to continue my journey through life at your side.

"I set out once on that journey full of confidence and hopefulness, and pure to the very core of my being. But every man I was destined to meet plucked off a twig of my virtue. I lifted my eyes in adoring reverence to the aged husband who promised to be my hero and master, my pattern and god. He used me as a tool for his basest lusts.

"Another came, who was young as I was, whom I wanted to save while I saved myself in his arms. He took me and enjoyed me as if I were a romantic adventure, then flung me off and went to the dogs. He wrote a Uriah sort of letter to a friend of his, who took mean advantage of my stranded position, both spiritual and physical, and made me by a low trick so dependent on him that I found I had been long completely in his power without knowing it. Helpless and utterly crushed as I was, I yielded and became his victim and slave, and I had not even the spirit left to be angry with him.

"This was the pass to which my destiny brought me. In vain I tried to struggle out of the darkness of night, but nowhere did I see light breaking ahead. I caught with enthusiasm at any hand held out to me, but each seemed to pull me down lower, till my whole being seemed paralysed with hopeless despair.

"Then you came, my beloved, my saviour, my redeemer! Once more it was light around me, once more the world burst into blossom, the parched fountains were unsealed, and 'The Song of Songs' echoed again within me.

"And with pride and elation I recognised the fact that nothing impure had taken root in my character; that the days of degradation had passed over me without touching my integrity of soul, my desire for pure and beautiful things, my instincts for a lofty humanity. It had all been only slumbering, and you, beloved, have awakened it to new life.

"And even if I may not be your wife--only one free of stain deserves you--I want to be worthy of you, whether near you or far away, as you decree.

"I am quite resolved to free myself from the shackles that so long have encumbered me outwardly, and to ascend out of the misery of my lot to a higher life, more in harmony with the demands of my inner self. You have pointed the way, and in gratitude I kiss your dear, gentle, diligent hand.

"Good-bye, my love! If you want to punish me, never come near me again. But, if you can put up with the love of a woman who loves you as you never can be loved again on earth, do not let me perish. I have nothing but what I am to give you, but that is yours till death.

"Lilly."

She read and reread what she had written, and worked herself up into a state of rapture over it.

Now the truth appeared in quite another light. And then all at once the question rose within her: But is this the truth? Was it not rather a conglomeration of turgid phrases expressive of high-flown emotions which were not spontaneous or sincere, belonging to the pages of sensational novels, but not to herself? Instead of despair she had in reality only suffered from boredom, and in the "darkness of night" she had many times enjoyed herself thoroughly and held high revel. She had made out that the worthy Richard was a tyrannical despot and herself a poor downtrodden victim, whereas she had always been at liberty to do what she liked.

It was the truth, and yet it was--just as much and as little the truth as she had confessed in that first terrible letter. It was possible to write this letter and that letter, and many another; but the truth, the genuine, illuminating, naked truth, would not be in any.

She herself did not know what it was, and no one else knew.

The truth had dissolved into nothingness the moment after the events to which it related had happened, and no power on earth could conjure it up again. A distorted mirage, changing with her mood and as her pen moved over the paper, was all that was left of it.

"But I don't want to tell any more lies," she cried to herself, tearing up the second letter. "To-day, at any rate, I want to speak the truth."

Should she write a third letter?

It was long past midnight. Her eyes burned. Over-excitement made her temples throb. And to-morrow morning he must have his answer, as she had sworn he should.

Then suddenly she awakened to a consciousness of what had really been happening, how during the last four hours she had been face to face with the danger of losing him for ever. A frenzy of sickening anxiety overwhelmed her. She ran about the flat, reeled, battered herself against the walls, rushed to the window and cried out his name. She must go to him, go to him at once. It was the only thought she was able to grasp. She would get the front door opened somehow, wake him out of his sleep, force her way into his room, stay with him to-night and always, no matter what the consequences might be.... She did not care. Only to be quit of this dread, which consumed her like a furnace.

The thunderstorm had raged itself out, but rain was still falling steadily. She scarcely gave herself time to fling on a cloak. In her house-shoes, without hat or umbrella, she flew along the streets, splashing through the mud and puddles, followed by foul epithets from homeless night-waifs in dark doorways. She arrived breathless and panting at his lodgings.

Light glimmered in the two windows on the third floor. She clapped her hands and called out "Konni! Konni!" repeating his name several times. But he had closed the windows and did not hear her.

As she stared up at his window, she saw the shadow of his tall figure on the blind glide up and down, from one end of the room to the other--up and down, up and down. And all the time the rain was descending on her in torrents, and the chill dampness of the street creeping up her limbs.

"Konni! Konni!" she cried louder. Foot-passengers who went by offered her their umbrellas, others mimicked her, and called out too, "Konni! Konni!" Then at last the restless shadow came to a standstill. One of the windows was opened.

"Lilly, is it you?" he asked, in a voice hoarse with alarm.

"Now here you are at last, my sweetest Konni," answered, instead of Lilly, an exhilarated gentleman who insisted on holding his umbrella over her.

"My God!"

Upstairs it became dark, and a few moments later he was standing with the lamp and door-key in his hand at the glass entrance-door.

The exhilarated gentleman took his leave, with repeated bows.

"Lilly, what has happened? What are you doing here?"

She crouched trembling against the doorway. She could not speak. She had only one sensation--that she was with him now, and all would be well.

He felt her clothes.

"You are wet through!... You have only house-shoes on! My God, Lilly!"

She tried to say something, but she was ashamed that he should see how her teeth chattered.

"And I can't take you in. You know why.... But I must--yes, I must take you in. If I let you go home like this you'll catch your death. We must be very quiet--as we were before. We mayn't speak above a whisper. The invalid is still not out of danger. Give me your hand.... Come!"

With eyes half closed, she suffered him to lead her up the stairs. Her wet dress flapped against, the banisters. She felt as if she must cower down on one of the steps and lie there till the charwoman came with her broom and swept her away. Yet she went on climbing the stairs, drawing nearer every minute to the fate in store for her above. With bowed head she followed him down the passage into his room, where the lingering sultriness of the summer day half stifled her. Konrad pushed her down into his easy-chair. He drew off the soaked velvet rags from her feet, and brought her dry stockings. The wet dress too he peeled from her body, threw his great-coat round her shoulders, and wrapped her in warm blankets.

She let him do it all impassively, wishing to enjoy to the full his tender care of her. So far she had not spoken a word. Now, when she wanted to thank him, he pointed to the door of the adjoining room.

"Speak low," he whispered in her ear beseechingly. "The poor thing seems to be having a good night for the first time."

Faint compassion awoke in her; yet talking was imperative.

"What is the matter with her?" she asked under her breath. "Tell me."

He hesitated. "The landlady has sworn me to strictest secrecy.... But you are part of myself; I may tell you. The girl, her only child, ran away three or four months ago, and was confined in secret. Her mother went and brought her home, and for six weeks she has been lying between life and death; at last she has taken a turn for the better."

"Poor thing!" she said, and then the consciousness of her own wretchedness came over her with renewed force.

"Konni, Konni," she wailed whisperingly on his breast, "it's all over now. I wanted to starve with you, beg, do anything; but what's the use?... When you know all...."

"How can that make any difference, dearest?"

"I mean about me--my life, my past."

He disengaged himself with a slight jerk and sat down opposite her. The inquiring look of consternation, which stiffened his pale face like a mask, filled her with a fresh fear. This time it was not fear of him, but fear for him. She was afraid of causing him pain, making her own suffering his.

"I was going to write to you everything exactly as it happened, but somehow it wouldn't come. As I wrote, it got all wrong. So instead I came, came to you in the middle of the night. If you like, I will tell you ... all ... now."

She could not go on, and buried her face on the edge of the writing-table.

"Why don't you speak, then?"

He had quite forgotten his strict injunctions about keeping quiet. Both started at the sudden sound of his voice.

"She is probably asleep," he said, again lowering his tone. "So speak out at last. What can it be that you have to say?"

His breath came heavily, under the weight of anxiety that oppressed him.

And she began. Bending towards him, she tried to relate in a whisper the history for which she had not been able to find words at home.

And this time, too, it was not the truth. She felt that it was not. It was even less, much less, the truth than what she had written in her letters. No power on earth could have induced her to pain him with every sordid detail. So she told of a long succession of martyrdoms, and in a funereal train let her injuries, humiliations, and insults pass in review before him. All had been darkness around her, unrelieved by a ray of hope or light. She had struggled in vain for deliverance and salvation, had made a dismal sacrifice of herself for no end. So she talked on. And he, half turned to stone, with wide-open eyes, listened. Only at the name "Salmoni," which she dared not withhold, he started and shrank from her.

They had both entirely forgotten the patient in the next room. Constantly she had to wipe tears out of her eyes; she grew indignant with herself and others by fits and starts, skated gingerly over places where the ice was thin, indulged in self-reproaches, and said to herself defiantly as she drew near the end: "This is the truth." And it was, in the sense that it was an inventory of the best in her; the truth as she hoped, with justice, it might shape itself in his perplexed vision.

There was silence. Her glance glided guiltily beyond him and rested on the portrait which leered at her from the writing-table with cynical worldly eyes, as much as to say: "I know you, my dear child, better than you know yourself." Something familiar and confidential lay in those eyes, a sort of reflection from that mad merry world which she had just been representing as a purgatory of tortures.

Fascinated, she dared not look away from them, and their mocking searching gaze stripped her soul bare, and caused every gleam of hope to die within her.

The silence became painful. Their thoughts seemed to vibrate in zigzags through the breathless stillness of the room. Then suddenly it was broken by a low piteous moaning, muffled at first, as if a handkerchief were being thrust into the mouth, then breaking out again more violently and loudly. It came from the next room, where the sick girl who had sinned secretly had been struggling for so many weeks for her young life. Soon, crooning words of comfort mingled with the moans. The girl's mother had come from the room beyond where she slept to ascertain the cause of this fresh outburst of grief.

Their eyes met. "She must have heard everything," their glance seemed to say.

For a moment another's misfortune made them forget their own. The great flood of suffering common to humanity swept over them, softening the sting of their own personal woes. The sobbing now was smothered by the pillows.

"My pet, my own!" entreated the mother's consoling voice, every intonation of it overflowing with love; "be good again, my darling ... it's not so very dreadful.... We will bring up the little one, and even if he doesn't marry you it won't matter so much. Think we shall have the little baby, and what a joy it will be when the baby laughs and says, 'mamma.' You see, it is not so very bad, after all, my pet, is it?"

The sobbing subsided and gave place to a gurgling sigh of content.

"'It's not so very bad, after all.' Ah! I wish someone would say that to me," thought Lilly.

But no one ever would. A burning desire to be soothed and comforted, even as the poor little sinner in the next room was being comforted, rose within her. "She has her mother!" she moaned, bursting into tears, "but I haven't anyone."

Konrad bent over her and drew her hands from her face. In his sorrowful eyes a radiance dawned, so dear, so full of unspeakable loving-kindness, that he was quite transfigured, and seemed like a visitant from another world.

"Haven't you got me?" he asked.

"Yes, but you can't help me now," she said. "How can you endure me any longer?"

In the next room all was still again. Now the girl's mother must also be aware that he was entertaining a belated guest.

"Listen," he whispered, with his lips close to her ear. "We mustn't talk much, and my head's going round; but there's one thing that seems quite clear to me, and that is, the absurdity of everything that we call guilt and sin when two people love each other ... and when one of them has suffered like you. To me you have always been an angel, and an angel you shall continue to be in the future."

"In the future?" she stammered, listening eagerly. "Is there any future?"

He wiped his forehead, which was damp from perspiration.

"I don't know yet," he said. "I only know that I cannot live without you."

She closed her eyes. She wanted the dream to last.

"It may not be now as we hoped, of course." She noticed that his words came haltingly. "Everything will have to be different."

"But nothing in your life ought to be altered," she said; "it mustn't be different."

"You can't disregard facts, dear. Where we shall live it's impossible to say yet; but we shall find some corner of the earth where no one knows us."

For the first time it dawned on her what he meant. And forgetful of herself, the sick girl, and everything else, she sank down on her knees with a cry, and sobbed:

"I won't let you! You shall not do it! You know the world so little. You are far too young. You don't know what you are doing. You mustn't sacrifice yourself.... I don't want to ruin you. I love you too well for that."

He bent back her head and stroked the hair out of her eyes. Oh! if there had not been that heavenly light of goodness and of suffering in his eyes! A whole world of grief already burned in their depths.

"If we've come to the question of sacrifice," he said, "then I must ask you to make a sacrifice for me. Will you?"

"Yes--anything. Do you want me to die? Say it."

"I only want you to do one thing. Come to me as you are. Don't bring a single bit of your property with you. Never go back to your ... that flat. From this moment let it all be as if it had never been. Promise me that."

She struggled against a feeling of shock.

Not go home! Never see her dear corner drawing-room again, nor the little bullfinch; never give Peterle his dinner again! Never!

A horrid feeling that it was insane folly to ask this came and went like a splash of mud. Then she answered in hasty resolution:

"Yes, I promise."

He breathed deeply. "Now we will keep quite still," he said. "The girl must get her sleep, and to-morrow I will explain everything to the landlady."

"But your great work?" she asked, attacked by another fit of self-reproach. "What will become of it?"

A melancholy smile stole over his face.

"Who knows? It will depend on my uncle. If he consents, we can live as we like.... All will be well."

"And if he doesn't?"

His right hand, which had been caressing her hair unceasingly from her forehead downwards to her neck, for a moment pressed her crown almost painfully, as if by the closer contact gathering strength for the approaching life's battle.

"Then all will be well too," he said, and smiled again.

A few minutes later she lay beside him on the narrow camp-bedstead, the hard edges of which hurt her limbs. Her head was on his shoulder; her arms, one under his back, the other flung across his chest, clung to him as always, when she sought solace and protection from him in trouble. But this time she slept, and he kept watch.