"No--let me finish. I tell you I will not live without you. If you do not love me, it must be a matter of indifference to you what becomes of me. But if you love me, then you must feel that we must be united in one way or another. How that can be done, I do not see yet; but I shall reflect upon it and you will reflect upon it, and we will find a way. Now tell me: Do you love me? or do you not love me?"
"I love you!" said Oswald; and he really believed at that moment what he was saying.
Emily threw herself into his arms. "And I love you, Oswald, as woman never loved you before--as woman never will love you again on earth: And now," she continued in a calmer tone, while they were walking on slowly, "let us consider our position. For the present, I see, things must remain as they are; but I must see you from time to time or I shall become insane. Here in the city, where a thousand eyes are watching us, that is difficult; but I have another plan. Over there in Ferrytown [this was a little village on the coast just opposite Grunwald, where the ferry-boats landed], an old nurse of mine is living, who is devoted to me. She is a widow, and has an only son of my own age, who would go through fire and water for me. She is an invalid; send her every day something, and often call on her; hence nobody will notice it if I go to see her again. Her son is a hand on the ferry-boat, which belongs to her, and he will carry us safely and secretly over and back again. In a few weeks, perhaps in a few days, the ice will hold, and then the thing will be much simpler. If we do not before.... What do you say, Oswald?"
"The plan is a good one," said Oswald, "especially because I see nothing better. When shall we carry it out?"
"To-morrow, if you choose."
"When?"
"At five o'clock in the afternoon. You know we must not cross at the same time. I will go earlier. You follow me when it is darker. We will arrange about the return. The house of Mr. Lemberg--do not forget the name--is the last on the right hand near the shore. Oh, Oswald! Oswald! Think of the happiness of being with you for hours and hours and no one to disturb us! But now, my Oswald, go! You must not be seen with me. I must be alone when I get home. Farewell--farewell till to-morrow."
The slender figure of Emily had reached the gate of the villa without being seen. Oswald heard the bell; the gate was opened and closed again; Oswald was alone.
He was alone; alone with a heart in which it was dark like the dark night which covered the cold, lifeless earth as with a black shroud. Not a star of hope in the heavens, and none in his soul; dark, all dark from sunrise to sunset. He could not fix his thoughts upon any point except the one that he would like to die--that it would be fortunate for him if his life could come to an end--for him and for others. Did not misfortune follow his footsteps? Was it not his fate to carry confusion and sorrow wherever he went? And this last bond, which bound him irrevocably, if he would not prove himself faithless as--as what?--as he had always been! Melitta! Helen! Emily!--what had Emily that the others did not have, except that she happened to be the last?
Thus he wandered about in the park, down to the shore and back again, and once more to the sea-shore and back again, driven about by the furies of his own conscience. The damp cold air penetrated through his clothes, he did not mind it; he hurt himself against the dripping tree, he scratched his hand against the thorn-bushes, he did not feel it. Murmuring curses against providence, against mankind, against himself, he drank in full draughts from the cup of sorrow which a man prepares for himself in his folly, against the will of the gods and the counsel of fate.