What the Swallow Sang: A Novel

by Friedrich Spielhagen

"Or had it taken," growled a third.

They again put their heads together, even more eagerly than before. That Hinrich Scheel had not reaped the fruits of his crime alone, nay, possibly, had been wholly cheated out of them, was an opinion which had obtained a firm hold upon the public mind, although the rumor had not assumed a definite form. This time also people either could not or would not mention any names; on the contrary, the affair grew darker and darker the longer they talked it over, and the more frequently the thick little glasses filled with a greenish liquid were emptied. Herr Peters looked on well satisfied; it might be doubtful which of the disputants would first call for a bowl of his famous mulled wine; but that the call would be made within the next five minutes was perfectly certain. Herr Peters had already made a signal through the little window that opened into the kitchen to his daughter, who was standing by the hearth.

Meantime Gotthold drove on through the pouring rain, which shrouded the whole landscape in a gray veil that grew denser and denser hour by hour. The wind whistled through the chinks in the leathern curtains, which had been buttoned down to protect the occupants of the chaise from the storm; the crazy old vehicle creaked and groaned whenever--which happened only too often--the wheels on the right or left slipped into the holes of the rough road; but the horses were powerful, and the driver, who expected a liberal fee, was willing, so it rolled forward with tolerable speed, although by no means rapidly enough to suit Gotthold's increasing impatience.

Yet he was compelled to acknowledge to himself, and did so again and again, that there was no sensible reason for his haste, that nothing depended upon one hour more or less, nay, that another hour, which might perhaps mature some definite resolution in his mind, would be welcome. Yet, even while he said so, he leaned forward to shout to the driver that the road was perfectly smooth here, and he might drive faster.

Then he leaned back again into the corner of his little damp prison, drew out Wollnow's letter and gazed at it as if he could not believe any one could write such words as those in a hand so firm, characters so large and clear. And for the second time he read:

"What I have to tell you to-day, my dear friend, is so bad that the most skilful preamble would not make it better. So without any introduction: the upsetting of the carriage on the moor was no unlucky accident, but a shameful crime, of which Brandow was the instigator. Secondly, the money was stolen. The originator of the theft, which might be termed murder, was Brandow again; he was probably present at the time, or else appeared on the scene directly after; at any rate, the fruits of the robbery fell into his hands. Whether the two crimes may to a certain extent be considered one--I mean whether the first was committed that the second might be executed, or whether the second was perpetrated on the spur of the moment, after the first had been performed--I do not know, and probably no one ever will, since it is to be feared that a third terrible crime has resulted from the first two.

"Who betrayed this horror to me? That which is so often the betrayer of crimes--chance.

"A chance than which nothing could be more accidental.

"The money in the packet consisted of hundred, fifty, and twenty-five thaler notes. I had myself, as you know, counted and put up the amount; but of course that would not enable me to positively swear to the identity of any one of the bills, even if it came back to me again. With one, however, I am in a position to do so; the note is once more in my hands, and I can prove in whose possession it has been in the mean time.

"I was obliged to pay out this bill ten years ago at a very critical time--it was the last money I possessed, and in a humorous freak I marked on it the words, 'a lucky journey,' and the date in small, almost microscopical characters, on the upper right-hand corner of its face. Four years ago this same note came back to me. I honored my old friend with the word 'welcome,' which, together with the date, I wrote on the left-hand upper corner of the back, and gave it, as a luck-penny, a place in my pocket-book, where it remained until three weeks ago. You will remember that ready money was rather scarce with me, and I took advantage of the opportunity to punish myself for my superstitious feelings by adding this note to the rest.