“Ask him,” she said, hoarsely, and in the growing anxiety of her heart she folded her hands on her breast and groaned aloud.
“Heaven grant that he may ever be able to answer again,” murmured Douglas. Then he ordered the servants to bring the old man’s body into the house. He had already sent for a doctor; he himself would drive to the sisters and give them the news.
The guests, horror-stricken, came rushing out to the cart, which stopped before the flower-decked veranda.
“Elsbeth, how ill you look! Elsbeth, spare yourself,” cried out her aunts, and tried to take possession of her.
“Go away!” she said, and repulsed the caressing hands with a movement of horror.
Then the gay bridegroom, who during this night had played such a lamentable part, came to her and tried to persuade her to leave the helpless body. But she looked at him with an absent, wandering glance, as if she did not remember ever to have seen him before. Depressed and discouraged, he left her alone.
The aunts, wringing their hands, hurried to old Douglas, who was walking up and down before the stables awaiting a conveyance. His powerful chest heaved, his white, bushy brows were knitted, and his eyes shot lightning. A storm seemed to be passing over his soul.
“Have pity,” cried the women; “make Elsbeth rest; she must recover herself; she looks as if she were going mad.”
“If it is as she says,” he muttered to himself, “if he has sacrificed all his belongings.... Plague you, leave me in peace!” he cried to the women who surrounded him.
“But think of Elsbeth,” they called out. “At twelve o’clock the vicar comes, and what will she look like?”