Part 19

At this Johanna turned round abruptly, clung to her, and seemed as if she would have drawn her head down to hers and kissed her. But the moment she felt the cool, soft arms of the woman she had so long hated touch her throat, she tore herself away shuddering and rushed to the window, to put as much distance as possible between her and the fair, smiling sinner; from this coign of vantage she began speaking.

"I have allowed myself to be cajoled by you, Felicitas. I am now as defenceless as yourself. You say that I love--aye, I love him. Triumph over me, then, for you have him, and I can do nothing but pray for him. But what do you know of how I love him? I might as well say to you I don't love him, and in your sense it wouldn't be a lie. My love is spiritual, and partakes of worship. I want nothing further from him. To worship him is the same to me as belonging to him. I love him as I love the risen Lord, the saint who will one day kneel with me before God's throne. But what do you understand of love like this? You all jeer at me. No, but you don't despise me. You have a slight inkling into what I feel, and you envy me. But, nevertheless, you have no idea of what it is--of what it is at night to see the Gates of Heaven open, and the glory of God flame down, and the white wounds of the Saviour begin to bleed. Such a miracle has happened here more than once."

And she contemplated the crucifix hanging over the praying-stool with great hungry eyes.

Felicitas cringed. She had begun to be afraid. It seemed to be true what people said, that Johanna's fanaticism had driven her out of her mind. When the latter saw her shiver, she broke into a laugh.

"You are frightened," she said. "I can well believe it.... No lies, no mask have any avail with the naked, bleeding One.... Come, give me your hand."

The imperious command met with no resistance. Felicitas, half-fearful, half-curious, drew nearer and felt her hand seized by one as if in fever.

"Why do you tremble?" asked Johanna. "You ought to be glad, for now I am in your power, as much as you are in mine. You are afraid to meet the eyes of the Crucified, but look well. Do you know who has eyes like those?"

"No," said Felicitas.

"And you pretend to love him! Oh, you dissembler! Now, listen, either your mind is pure and clear as gold, like the blood that flows from those wounds, and I have been deceived in you; or it is an abysmal sink of iniquity beyond my capacity to measure in this life."

"The truth is about halfway between the two," thought Felicitas.

"But we will leave that. If you desire that our enmity shall be over from this hour, you will not refuse to take the oath I require of you."

"It won't be so awful," thought Felicitas, and with downcast eyes she replied--

"I am not afraid of any oath."

"Then kneel down."

"Why, where?" asked Felicitas, nervously.

"Here, on my stool."

"Very well, even that I will do," said Felicitas, and knelt as she was bidden, carefully drawing aside her festive skirts as she did so.

"Place your hands on the Saviour's feet."

Felicitas dared not refuse. When the tips of her fingers came in contact with the cold marble, she cowered and shivered. She felt as if an icy stream ran over her from those white feet, which threatened to freeze the blood in her veins, but she held out bravely. And then in a low, slightly tremulous voice, she repeated the words Johanna dictated to her, like a confirmation candidate kneeling in white muslin at the altar, stammering forth her confession of faith.

"I swear to Thee, merciful Lord, I confess and protest in Thy name, that I am filled with penitence for my sin, and shall be penitent till my life's end."

"If nothing further occurs," she thought meanwhile.

"I will cherish no other thought, no other wish than to repent what has happened. Ulrich's happiness and honour shall be my expiation, and my only object in life till he dies."

"Amen," added Felicitas, with a sigh of relief, and was going to get up hastily, but Johanna held her down on the stool.

"We haven't done yet," she said, and laughed between her clenched teeth.

Felicitas thought, "I don't care," and prepared herself to repeat further what was poured into her ear in broken whispers mingled with hot gasping waves of breath.

"If my heart is not pure, if I take this oath, as a blind. ..."

Felicitas hesitated a little to test herself.... No it was no blind. She really meant what she was promising.

"If in future I set my desires on vain pleasure, or nourish sinful wishes, so shalt Thou punish me through the dearest I possess. Thou shalt shame me in the sight of all men."

"Thou shalt shame me in the sight of all men," repeated Felicitas, and looked timidly round her.

"The child Thou hast given me shall die," was whispered in her ear.

A cold shiver ran along her spine, and then she repeated even this.

"And I shall be his murderess."

Felicitas was silent and trembled.

"Well ... why do you hesitate?"

"Johanna, it is so awful, what you want me to say."

"It is, but only thus can I be sure of you. Say it or not. You have your choice."

"And ... I ... shall ... be ... his ... murderess."

"Right, now say Amen."

"Amen."

Then she sank with her forehead on the edge of the desk. She glanced at her fingers, which had relaxed their grasp on the feet of the Crucified, as if she expected there must be traces on them of the blood which Johanna saw streaming from the wounds. It seemed to her as if she had sworn away her life, as if with those last words the sun had gone down, never to rise again.

Then she slowly raised herself. The next moment, she felt Johanna's arms round her, and the feverish lips, struggling against repulsion pressed to her own.

She returned the pressure mechanically, thinking with a shudder--

"And this too is a kiss."

Johanna seized her hand. "Now you can return to your place which you have occupied as undisputed mistress till to-day," said she. "You also shall have your way, and may count me your friend from henceforth; and now, let us go over to them. Ulrich must know that we are reconciled."

"And Leo too," thought Felicitas, smoothing out the folds of her dress which were crumpled from kneeling.

As she walked into the open air by Johanna's side and saw the sun shining, in spite of all that had happened, greenish-gold through the leaves, she took comfort for the first time. The new position of affairs seemed already more familiar.

"The oath may do good," she said to herself. "It will, at least keep me from doing silly things."

Frau von Sellenthin and Ulrich Kletzingk sat together on the terrace, keeping up a somewhat constrained conversation, because both were awaiting, full of impatience, Lizzie's return. A mounted messenger had been sent out to the fields to summon Leo home. Elly, irradiating placid rosy innocence, stitched at her embroidery, which was spread out on her knees; while Hertha, with idle fingers, was on the _qui vive_ for coming events. Even the presence of Ulrich, to whom she had felt drawn long ago in the bonds of a glowing friendship, could not dissipate the panic which the mysterious meeting between the two women had awakened in her. She was the first to become aware of their approach. Walking close to each other, they loomed against the background of the park--the one in her black, flapping weeds resembling a gliding shadow, and the other like a white summer cloudlet.

Now grandmamma saw them coming.

"Thank God!" she murmured, rolling up her crochet, and giving Ulrich a sign to look round.

"Thank God," he repeated, as he kissed the old lady's hand. "Now at last we are at peace."

Every one had got up and looked towards the two women as they ascended the steps of the terrace.

"Well, I don't think it seems altogether like peace," thought Hertha, observing the expression of bitter chagrin which made her mother's features appear more severe and sour than ever before. Her eyes were searching Ulrich's face. "She looks at him as if she would like to swallow him," thought Hertha.

And then she came under the spell of Felicitas's charms, which held her close captive.

"Oh, how very beautiful she is!" she said to herself with a sigh. "How I should love to be like her."

Greetings were exchanged, and half-murmured, significant words spoken; but Hertha heard nothing, being completely fascinated by the fair stranger whose smile was so melancholy, and who knew how to bow her head with such gentle grace.

She had a dim sensation as if hearing music--low, dreamy, strange music, which grew stronger directly the beautiful woman made a movement, and died softly when she sat motionless and silent.

When she kissed her husband, Hertha envied him; and when she greeted Elly in a friendly manner, Hertha felt herself alone and deserted. But then the fair creature turned to her and gave her an astonished yet exquisite smile. Hertha glowed to the roots of her hair.

"This is, then, Countess Hertha, of whom I have often heard?" asked Frau Felicitas.

"Whom has she heard of me from?" wondered Hertha, without daring to lift her eyes.

And now she beheld a rounded, snow-white hand stretched invitingly out to her. She would like to have rushed at it, to have kissed it; but in her awkwardness she could only lay three fingers in it uncertainly, and then quickly withdraw them.

"You are like a fairy princess, Countess Hertha," she heard the stranger's sweet, soft voice breathe close to her--"so tall and so proud. We must be friends."

"Oh!" exclaimed Hertha, glowing with gratitude for so much kindness, and what was more, the beautiful woman threw her arms round her and kissed her on the lips. Then something happened which she could not have explained. At the moment the stranger's lips touched hers, she was seized anew with the same uncanny feeling which her stepmother's exclamation had awakened in her a few hours earlier. As if turned to stone, she allowed herself to be kissed, and gasped, for the deadening perfume which this embrace exhaled streamed over her and almost took her breath away.

Then she heard grandmamma say, "She is still shy ... she hasn't seen much society yet." Dear, dear grandmamma, and she nearly crushed the old, protecting hand, that so kindly guided her stumbling destiny. Now every one sat down on the terrace, and tea was served. It was long past the vesper hour. Hertha sat in a dream, and eat and drank absently as if she hadn't broken her fast for days.

Her attention was first caught again by overhearing bits of the conversation which passed between her stepmother and the Baron Kletzingk.

There was nothing remarkable about the conversation itself, for it turned on the pedagogic principles which governed Ulrich's education of the village children. Only the tone in which it was conducted was extraordinary.

There was something like suppressed scorn in her stepmother's indifferent words, one moment she seemed as if she would like to cry, the next she would collapse into brooding reflection, and her eyes would be fixed on his face, full of stony pain. He, on his side, talked to her as if she were an invalid who was to be humoured. He did not contradict her, but modified at once anything that seemed to displease her ... and when she threw in a derogatory or incredulous remark with her nervously trembling lips, he pretended that he heartily shared her opinion, saying that her reasons were important enough to make him change his mind. But after such a concession he got hardly more than a shrug of her shoulders for answer.

"What can he have done to her that she hates him so," thought Hertha; and then her attention wandered again to Felicitas, at whom she stared admiringly.

In the middle of the flagging conversation a firm footstep was heard in the breakfast-room, accompanied by the pattering of the St. Bernard's feet. Whoever was speaking broke off before finishing his or her sentence.

Every one sat upright and glanced expectantly at the door. Hertha felt her heart beating quickly. For an instant her eyes met those of the beautiful woman, and it seemed to her that the pale face had grown a shade paler.

The door was flung back, and Leo burst on to the terrace. Suddenly he paused and drew back. His hand fidgeted with the ends of his beard, his eyes fastened on Felicitas with a searching, threatening gaze.

"He doesn't like her," was Hertha's inward comment.

Ulrich went up to him quickly, and seized his hand. "What you see here, old man, means reconciliation. Now we are all going to enjoy ourselves together at last."

"You two?" asked Leo, indicating with his finger the two women.

"Yes, certainly, we are reconciled," responded Johanna, with her bitterest smile. He was going to say more, when Ulrich admonished him. "Think of the children," he said.

"It is to be hoped now that you will not disdain to shake hands with me, sister," Leo said.

"I have come here expressly with that purpose," answered Johanna, rising.

Their hands touched, and they looked into each other's eyes. To him her hand said, "I hold you in its hollow," and her glance, "Be careful."

Then he turned to greet Felicitas with a fleeting smile.

"I wonder why he doesn't like her?" Hertha asked herself, rather puzzled at everything.

XX

It was late in the evening of the following day. Hertha, already half undressed, stood at the bedroom window and looked at the moon. Her breast heaved under its burden of woe. She had just written to her best friend, Ada--Ada von Wehrheimb--with whom, since they were at school together, she had been supposed to share every joy and sorrow. The letter, with two postscripts, lay on the table.

At last she had had the courage to tell her friend of the utter wreck of all her hopes, and, having once written her woes, she realized, as she had not done before, their full extent, for till now a vague mistrust of herself had prevented her taking her own suffering altogether seriously. And when one wanted to feel thoroughly unhappy, there were so many little things to interrupt one--the cocks and hens, the foals, the saddle-horses, the swing, Elly's silly chatter, archery, and, last but not least, grandmamma and her cookery-book. On the other hand, friends and nourishers of the unhappy mood were "Poetic Greetings" by Elise Polkos, Leo the dog, embroidery, and, above all, the moon.

Slowly it sailed, now, above the rustling treetops. The true September moon--big, white and cold, with sharply defined shadows visible in its brilliant orb. It swept the grey clouds which seemed to disperse like silver dust, so soon as it touched them, leaving only a faint mist behind on the smooth floor of the sky.

The garden-lawns lay brightly illumined in the moonbeams. A swarm of silvery sparks chased each other over the carp pond directly the breeze ruffled its waters. It was like a shower of hoar-frost skimming a white body. In the middle of the flashing circle of light rose the obelisk--a clumsy pile of blackness with sharp-cut corners. On one side it seemed to project a little as if a round piece had been added on to it there, and within this arch something dark-red was glowing like a fiery eye.

Hertha looked at it again. She thought she must be mistaken; but the fiery eye did not disappear. It winked at her roguishly and pryingly as much as to say, "I know you. You and your stupid love-lorn heart!"

This heart began to beat louder. What could it be at this time of night making fireworks in the deserted sleeping garden? "If you had an atom of pluck you would go at once and find out."

When Hertha's will called her courage in question, she was sure to act. So she flung a grey waterproof over her shoulders, threw an inquiring glance at Elly, who, with slightly pouting rosy lips, slept the most profound sleep, and in her slippered feet slid out into the corridor, where the moonlit window-panes cast a galaxy of bright shapes on the long wall.

Now she began to be afraid in earnest, but it was not far to the wicket. The latch clicked, and, breathing quickly, she entered the garden, the damp dew-laden grass of which struck icy cold through her thin stockings. All the time the fiery eye still gleamed across at her. For a moment it seemed as if a lid had dropped over it, but then it appeared again in a somewhat darker corner. One instant she almost decided to turn round, but the next she was ashamed of her cowardice and began to hurry straight towards the suspicious object, at the top of her speed. Then suddenly a dog barked, and a voice that made her heart stand still, cried--

"Who is there?"

She was so terrified that she could neither speak nor move a step backwards or forwards. As if glued to the spot, she stood there till Leo, the dog, with a friendly whine, pressed his damp nose into the palm of her hand.

"Who the devil is there?" the voice called out once more, and then _his_ figure rose up like that of a huge Hun and began to stride towards the tree that she crouched behind.

"It's only me," she gasped chokingly.

"Child, you! Why aren't you in bed?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"And so are running about out-of-doors late at night. Grandmamma ought to know this."

He had caught hold of her hand, which in vain struggled to get free. The short pipe in his mouth emitted clouds of white smoke around her. Its glowing bowl had been the fiery eye which had blinked at her so suspiciously.

"You are out yourself," she answered, biting her lips till her teeth ground together.

"That is a different thing. I am a robust fellow who can stand all weathers."

"So can I."

"Now, now."

"And if I can't, what does it matter? Nothing could be worse than my life is at present."

He made a sound of pity with his tongue. "Child, child," he said, "are we beating our wings again?"

"Oh, go away--leave me alone." And she warded him off with her elbows; she was not far from sobbing.

"Don't begin the old game, Hertha; I haven't done anything to you for a long time."

"No, that's true," she replied, "you haven't done anything to me, nothing at all either bad or good."

He stroked his beard meditatively. "As we are here, child, and it seems that we both can't sleep, come and sit down. Sit down beside me; we may find lots to talk about."

She felt dimly, "Now I must defend myself." But how could she resist? Already he had seized her by the shoulder and drawn her to the steps of the obelisk, where he had been sitting before.

"What am I to do here?" she asked, cowering down.

"Be sincere, out with it. You are not happy, my child?"

She shrugged her shoulders twice. "Not even _now_!" she said.

He suppressed a smile. "Come, confess.... What ails you? We have all remarked on the change in you. Grandmamma is beginning to worry about it. If you are fond of her, you will be sorry for that, eh?"

She shook her head, struggling with her tears. "I want to be fond of everybody--everybody."

"Yes, and don't you see we are all anxious that you should be happy? Don't you understand _that_, you obstinate one?"

"Don't, you only try to hurt me." And she thrust her elbows at him.

"I?" he asked. "Good Heavens! how?"

"You will speak to me always as if I were a child."

"And that hurts you?"

She was silent. Now was the time to tell him all that was in her heart. The hour of reckoning had come.

But she felt as if her lips, had been sealed. There was a whirling and rushing in her head. She felt a sensation as of a douche of water falling from her crown over her limbs, and with a soft sigh she sank against the stone. He was afraid that faintness had attacked her; and supporting her with his left arm he bent his head down to hers. The moon lit up one half of her face, while of the other only the contour of the oval cheek showed faintly against the darkness.

"Be reasonable, sweet child," he begged.

She did not move, and he could contemplate her at his leisure. Here and there in the dusky masses of her loose hair shone a high light like a glowworm, and a few dark strands waved in spiral form over the high smooth forehead. A line of care which he had not noticed before hovered at the corners of her softly curved mouth. Taken altogether, it was no longer the face of a child that lay there shining white in the moonlight; and, clearer than weeks before after the meeting at the inn, there awoke in his heart the self-reproach, "Here is the happiness which you will pass lightly by."

The dreamy sunny premonition, "It will be," dared no more arise out of his soul's depths. What _had been_, held him in fetters. The past, of which he had delusively believed himself to be master long ago, ever stretched its spectre-like form in front of him with more threatening mien. It filled him at every pore with a dull repellant anguish.

Not for nothing had he come at midnight to set out here and brood over emotions, which would not exist if one tried to define them with names, but which suddenly overwhelm a man when he thinks that he is safest from them. Not for nothing had he foregone sleep, he who at daybreak must be up and at his work.

His heart went out in a tenderness that was half pain, to this naive immature being leaning against his arm, full of the unconscious cravings of youth. It seemed to him that in helping her he must help himself. He stroked her cheek with an unsteady hand.

"Come now, be good, sweet child," he said in a comforting tone. "Speak ... unburden your heart."

She sighed heavily and turned her little head slightly towards his shoulder as if she would like to nestle there.

"Just the same as she was then," he thought--"shy and defiant, but completely melted by kindness."

She was still silent

"Look here," he said, "I live under the same roof with you, but of your life, of your past, I know absolutely nothing."

"You have never asked me about it," she replied.

"Would you have told me if I had?"

"Of course I would.... I will tell you now, this minute, if you like."

She disengaged herself from his arm; an eager blissful smile lit up her face.

"Of course I should like it. So fire away."

The expression, "fire away," did not please her. It seemed scarcely suitable to the solemnity of the occasion, but his interest so delighted her that she quickly forgot the jarring note.

"God knows," she said, "there isn't much to tell, after all. So far I haven't had many experiences, and what I have had are mostly stupid."

"Do you remember your mother?" he interposed, to give her an opening.

She cast her eyes up at the stars. "Yes, thank God!" she said. "I was nearly seven years old when she died. Ah! how I cried.... We lived in a big castle, amidst pure Poles. The castle was on a hill, and it had a colonnade leading down to the Weichsel, which was at the foot of the hill. She used to sit in the colonnade when it was warm, and the maids with red handkerchiefs on their heads carried shawls for her. And every minute she would say, '_Mnie jest zimno_,' which means, 'I am cold,' and then they used to put another shawl over her. The long rafts glided by on the river below, and on Wednesdays and Saturdays the steamboat came. She always watched the steamboat till it was out of sight and not a puff of its smoke to be seen, and when it had quite disappeared she used to say, '_Podniescie mnie_,' and that meant, 'Lift me up.' She wanted to see if she could catch another glimpse of it, standing up. She had brown hair and a face like wax, with very big dark eyes. There were always drops of perspiration on her cheeks. She was not tall, but rather small, and she had thin arms; but that came from illness and from grief, and perhaps from ennui. For she said constantly, 'I am very unhappy, and dreadfully dull.'"

"And your father--where was he?" Leo asked.

Her face hardened into an expression of hate.

"I would rather not speak of my father," she answered; "he was bad.... Yes, he was bad, and I shall be bad too, for I am like him."

"Good gracious!" he remonstrated; "who put that nonsense into your head?"