Part 28

They discussed the affairs of the neighbourhood and topics of the hour in a calm, matter-of-fact way; the harvest, the increase of pauperism, and the strike in Saxony, which threatened even here to become a social evil. And thus they came to speak of the parish of Wengern.

The superintendent smiled. "Your deceased father," he said, "filled the cure there with a queer sort of fellow. To-day it wouldn't be possible, for the law of sanction is exercised much more rigidly than it used to be. I will confess to you that more than once I have prevented a storm bursting over his head, for the consistory would be glad to have done with him. He is only saved by his orthodoxy and the strict morality he preaches. If half of his goings-on were known, he would long ago have got his dismissal."

"And you, as his superior, tolerate him?" asked Leo.

"Yes, dear Herr von Sellenthin. How shall I express it? It lies in the weakness of the human heart that a man sometimes can't do what he ought. I believe that the pastor has eight children. I have only five. Peter is the rock on which the Church stands, but it also has its John. Why should one not take John for a model, so long as one isn't a member of the consistory?"

Leo pressed the simple man's hand in gratitude.

"And then, you know, Herr von Sellenthin, that in conference, Pastor Brenckenberg is the only man who has what, at the university, we called 'ideas.' It's a funny thing what becomes of those so-called ideas. When we were young we all had them in abundance, but they diminished as we grew older, and now one hardly knows what they are like. When one comes across them in another, they are apt to irritate at first, but finally one feels that they do good. Therefore I suffer Brenckenberg gladly in our midst. And besides that, Herr von Sellenthin, there is a homely saying which I have often found true, and which may apply even to your case. It is, that the majority of things are not so bad as they seem. You will ask, what about the deadly sins? God knows they exist in plenty. Seven of them, the Scripture says. But the main point is this. Why did the Saviour die on the Cross if we were to despair in our sins? Either that death seems to us an act of folly, which God forbid, or we believe in it even as a miracle, which every day of our lives is worked anew, and which to-morrow will be worked especially for you, my dear friend."

Filled with his harmonious views of life, he waved his cup to and fro complacently, to stir up the sugar in the dregs of his milk-coffee.

Leo rose to take his leave. This man, so inoffensive that one couldn't help liking him, was not the priest that his soul needed. So he hurried away, as much without comfort as he had come. He felt as if he could have shaken the dust of that home of peace from his feet, only there was no dust there to shake. He drove through the rainy twilight towards Uhlenfelde. Night had fallen before he drew up at its closed gates. His horse splashed in a pool of water, and a shower-bath of raindrops trickled on him from the leafless branches which flanked the road. He would have got down to pull the bell, but a numbness which had overtaken him made him set still instead, and stare in front of him.

The gate-posts stood there like a pair of black hounds on their hind legs, glowering at each other. To right and left a piece of the wall crept out into the night; the rest was hidden by the darkness. Only from the castle came one pale path of light. It was the lamp burning in the bay where Ulrich's writing-table stood. It shimmered towards him along the damp undergrowth of the park, which stood out of the darkness here and there in mirrorlike patches, as if it wished to guide him to the place which he hesitated to approach. But the further it penetrated the fainter became the light, till at last it was powerless to withstand the night-shadows which swallowed it.

Leo felt an icy shiver pass through his drenched body. "There is the priest I want," he thought; "the only one on earth who can save me."

But of what avail were these weak longings? He would only stand before him to-day, as always, biting his lips, his frightened glance wandering along the walls, a martyr to nervous fears and yearning, his ears strained to hear if a gliding step was coming along the corridor, the step of one who would sweeten his distress, and destroy his hope. What object would there be in coming here to-day, if he did not confess and repent? His whip cracked. The horse stamped as he turned round in the spluttering water, through which the wheels ploughed with a creaking sound. He gave a last look, full of impotent rage and dull, painful longing at the peaceable stream of light which, like everything else in the world, served only to reproach him, and then he drove furiously back by the way he had come, still faintly hoping for what now was hopeless.

The next morning the rain had ceased. A pale sunlight, broken up by the drifting masses of cloud for several minutes, and then gliding down on to the yellow plain, illumined the larches, and threw a sort of lantern reflection on the variegated walls of the outlying forest.

Leo drove, as he had done on the previous day, alone to church. This time he preceded instead of following his party, for he did not wish to be disturbed at the outset by Johanna's grim scrutiny. His soul was now busy with a host of happy plans and pious resolves. An old glimmer of his joyous childhood's faith had awakened in him again. He would humbly lay down the burden of his sins at the foot of God's throne, and receive the pardon which the Lord held in readiness for him, with quiet thankfulness. It pained him to think of the ferocity of his yesterday's mood. He had stretched out the greedy hand of a thief to snatch redemption, to obtain heaven's greatest blessing in an embittered and obstinate spirit. But to-day it was coming to him unbidden. The November wind was like a divine breath against his heated brow; the faint sunlight poured a wealth of gold on his head. "The miracle is beginning to work," he thought.

But at the bottom of his heart crouched still the demon of fear, and would not budge--the fear of meeting her.

If only he could have gone alone to the altar! But wherever he went she was there also. From her there was no escape. In the same way as she stood between him and his friend, she stood between him and his God.

The Uhlenfelde barouche was close in front of his dog-cart as he turned into the church square. There she was! That black-veiled graceful creature descending the steps of the carriage with a dainty swing of her rustling skirts was the woman he would have liked at that moment to take in his giant arms and crush--crush like a ball of putty. He pressed his nails deep into his flesh at the thought of how easy it would be to do it. Ulrich, slightly yellower than usual, and with more brilliant eyes than usual, came up to him on his stork-like legs.

"You left me in the lurch yesterday," he said, in mild reproach.

"It was too late to come in," apologised Leo. "I was afraid I should not get the trap over the ferry."

"Pity!" replied Ulrich, "I wanted you dreadfully."

"For anything special?"

"I wanted a father confessor," Ulrich said, smiling.

"And I was to be _that_," thought Leo, grinding his teeth; meanwhile he cast a sidelong glance at Felicitas, who was arranging her veil and hair, and ribbons, behind the carriage, and seemed in desperate need of a mirror. "To-day she is going to 'fetch' God Almighty" he reflected, and anger possessed him in every limb as he thought how he loathed her.

Then he went to offer her his hand. Her eyes, swimming in tears, looked up at him in sweet entreaty through the thick veil she wore. She pressed his hand twice in hers, a signal of freemasonry between them hatefully reminiscent to him of their mutual sin.

A few minutes later his own people drove up. They were all in black. Mamma's lips were rounded from sheer pious ecstasy, and Elly, who seemed to-day strikingly to resemble her, wore the expression.

"We have all fasted," Leo's mother whispered to him, full of pride.

Hertha was very pale and studiously avoided locking at him. Johanna, who appeared terribly aged and haggard, suddenly came and asked him to let her take his arm. He acquiesced in amazement, for such a thing had not happened since he came home.

"This coming to the Holy Sacrament is my doing," she said, in a low tone.

"So I thought," he replied.

"And do you guess what my object is in doing it?"

"I think that I can."

"It is designed, above all things, to perfect the reconciliation between us two."

"And what more?"

"Can't yourself tell you?"

Their eyes met in bitter hostility.

"Leo!"

"Well."

"Is it not well that it should be so?"

"Oh yes! It's an excellent idea, ... really beautiful. Ha! ha! ha!"

The others, who had walked on, looked round. This outburst of hilarity was not in keeping with the sacramental mood.

At due door of the vestry he dropped his aster's arm and avoided speaking to her again. The superintendent was sitting at his official table, peaceably conning his sermon.

Leo went to him and spoke a few words of greeting. With a furtive smile of understanding the good man grasped both his hands, as much as to say--

"You and I, we know all about it?"

"Ah, if only you _did_ know," thought Leo, in bitter irony; and then once more he found himself searching for an excuse to get out of the way of the sweet, pale-faced, accursed woman who man[oe]uvred without ceasing to take her place at his side. How was it possible to collect one's thoughts for reverence and devotion as long as that white throat with its double dimple was craning itself amorously in his direction?

In the church they sat in the same order as they had done on the previous day. Leo with his mother and Elly in the first row, behind Ulrich and Felicitas, while Johanna and Hertha withdrew to the third bench.

Every seat in the church was full. On the plain altar, covered with a red cloth, two wax candles burned in the sconces, according to the custom on Communion days. The building, with its grey choir and galleries, its faded-looking painted pillars, and bare whitewashed ceiling, enclosed in its bald dreary spaciousness countless black rows of melancholy human worshippers. Only the reflection from the stained-glass window made a feeble effort to cast a little colour and character into the drab monotony, and over the altar niche shone brighter, it seemed, than before the words which promised such volumes--

"Peace be with you."

Peace, peace, at any price! Yet, was it not further off than ever?

The sense of the fatal woman's nearness was making all his pulses sting and throb. And while the sermon proceeded, like a tinkling brass on a tinkling cymbal, he sat hunched up, leaning forward against the book-rest, trying to follow an idea, and looking out for allusions which he could not grasp for all his suspicion.

Suddenly he felt ashamed of himself, and proud memories began to flash through his brain. He saw himself half-clothed galloping across the prairie, on his wild Arab; he heard the sounds of mad revelry round the camp fires at night, his own laugh, that of his drunken comrades, and he scented the mud vapour rising from the rushing leviathan rivers which he had forded many a time on his horse's back.

A very different motto had ruled that merry, devil-may-care life. Then, "Repent nothing" had been written in sunbeams on his heart. "Repent nothing!" had cried the voice of the tempest and the laughter of his mistresses, and everything that had language.

But now?

The autumn wind moaned against the leaden casements of the church windows. It made a sort of plaintive, whimpering melody--almost like the whimper of a penitent soul; and when a faint ray of sunshine found its way into the gloomy edifice, it pointed at once a didactic finger at the words which held out hopes of a churchyard solace--

"Peace be with you."

He stretched his limbs and leaned back, and as he did so he heard behind him, scarcely a foot from his ear, a low, soft, bitter weeping; such weeping as comes only from the heart of little children or love-sick women.

He shuddered. A wave of stupid pity, which made him vexed with himself, passed over him and seemed to soften him towards her. In another moment he would have turned round to whisper a word of comfort. But then Ulrich's voice was heard saying, in affectionate remonstrance, "Pull yourself together, dear child." And at the sound Leo became frozen again.

But the sobbing continued. Tender and ingratiating, like an oft-repeated question, it got on his nerves and penetrated to his soul.

"Oh, that I might be left in peace," a voice within him cried. "Alone with my God."

But the woman was there, and there she would stay, sucking from his heart with her sobs all his calmness and strength of purpose.

"Leo!" his mother whispered warningly in his ear.

"What is it?"

"Stand up. It's the bidding prayer."

He dragged himself on to his feet. The voice of the superintendent came from the chancel in a subdued sing-song--

"Jesus, Bread of Life, grant that we come to this Thy table not in vain, or to the injury of our soul."

"Let us hope so," thought Leo; and a desperate doubt as to his own worthiness shot sharply through him.

The first service was over, and the stream of worshippers moved towards the doors--only the communicants stayed in their places. Felicitas kept her head buried in her prayer-book, but the rebellious little rings of gold hair on her forehead could be seen glittering through her crape veil. Ulrich seemed to be lost in deepest meditation. Then, as he met Leo's glance, his face cleared. He blinked twice with his short, tired lids, and infinite affection and confidence radiated from beneath them.

The church had emptied itself. The minister re-appeared in front of the altar, and read the prayer of invitation from a large, flat book which he moved to and fro in his hands. Then he lifted the folded serviette from the sacred vessels, which were set out on the right-hand corner of the altar.

Every one rose to draw near the Lord's table. The altar was surrounded by a balustrade covered with red baize, and at the foot there was a praying stool. Leo, without lifting his eyes, offered his arm to his mother, and walked with her, leading Elly on the other side, up the steps of the choir. Ulrich and his wife followed close behind.

Johanna and her step-daughter hung back a few paces. Hertha bit her veil and clung to her mother's arm. At the bottom step she reeled and nearly fell. They knelt down on the circular stool. To Leo's left were two vacant places, and Ulrich was on the point of taking the one next him, when at the last moment Felicitas, letting go her husband's arm, pushed herself between the two men.

Leo perspired with horror. He felt as if he must spring up and flee, but that would never have done. He daren't move an inch, and was forced to submit quietly to her skirts overlapping him, and the upper part of her arm resting warmly against his.

The administering of the sacrament began. "Take and eat; this is My body." Two lean, apparently interminable fingers, on one of which flashed a wedding-ring, came in contact with Leo's mouth. He took the sacred morsel and thought, "At least I shall not share that with her." The minister went on murmuring, as he gave the bread to each, the portion of a sentence, "which was given for you ... do this in memory of Me." And as there were fifteen people gathered round the altar at the same time he began again. "Take and eat; this is My body."

Leo gazed fixedly at the silver embroidered cross in the middle of the altar-cloth. He could almost have counted the threads, it seemed so near. On the bottom part of it there was a spot of grease which dimmed its lustre.

"Perhaps it, too, is blood," Leo thought.

The arm that pressed against him began to tremble as if it wanted the pressure returned. At that moment the minister took hold of the chalice and lifted it high above his head. A ray of sun shining through the painted window was reflected in the golden body of the cup, and it flashed forth a bluish flame.

"Take this and drink." The cup was being held to Ulrich's lips. "This is My blood----"

And now it was Felicitas who was drinking from it. "She is drinking my blood, too," thought Leo. With a slight swing the cup was withdrawn from her and it approached his own mouth. A dark mist blinded him. The sharp edge, as it knocked against his teeth, was still warm from lips which had just rested on it. The pungent wine was flowing into his mouth, and with a shudder he swallowed it.

Then in a lightning flash he saw what he had done. He had eaten and drunk damnation, and he deserved to be cast out for ever from the community of Christians. For in drinking the sacred blood he had drunk her kisses.

XXIX

Winter came suddenly in the first days of December. The world lay hidden in snow, and the ruts of the roads wound over the great white plain like black ribbons. A sky resembling a smoky ceiling hung low over the earth, and the twilight of night seemed to fall before the day had properly begun.

The months from December to March are, as a rule, a period of rest and recreation for the country squire. He is now at liberty to enjoy social pleasures, take trips to the capital or travel in Italy. He may drink and gamble, or if his tastes are cultured he can order from his bookseller the latest novels and the newest sensation in current literature.

But none of these things had any attraction for Leo. He didn't care to associate with the neighbouring families, for he knew that matchmaking mammas regard, him as a catch. He was sick of travelling. It would have been a herculean task to get drunk, as he required so much to bring about that happy condition, and at Monte Carlo he had played so high that his empty coffers, as a memorial of his losses, warned him against further gaming. As for reading, he had neither the taste nor the powers of concentration necessary for enjoying it. Even the consolation of sport was denied him, for the big game of the prairies had spoilt him for partridge shooting.

Nothing remained but to do what turned up next, and to amuse himself according to the whim of the moment. And all the time longing devoured him. Yes, he could no more hide it from himself, he longed for her.

He had not met her since the ceremony of taking the Sacrament. Afterwards he had torn away as if hunted by demons, without shaking Ulrich's hand, without heeding his people's looks of hurt surprise. He had wanted to get away as quickly as possible from the perfume that she exhaled, away from the questioning eye of his friend, away from the house of God, whose gift of grace had been transformed for him into a curse. "For whoso eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh his own damnation."

So ran the text in the Bible which he had once learnt at school, and which now was brought home to him with such terrifying force. Gradually, however, he had come to a calmer state of mind. Religious brooding was so foreign to his nature that he succeeded in throwing off the consciousness of being damned eternally. And yet on that day he had lost his last hold on his old happy-go-lucky will. Henceforth he lay more or less under the ban of a dull depression, which threatened to build a barrier between him and his fellow-creatures. Ulrich had been in Berlin a month, and during that month Leo had not set foot in Uhlenfelde.

"Don't go near her," was now, as it had been five months ago, the upshot of his wisest reflections, but the resolve which then had had its foundation in a courageous and vigorous character, was now prompted by weakness and fear.

He avoided, too, associating with any of the inmates of his house, except at meals. He saw plainly how much they were estranged from him. Johanna scarcely noticed him; Elly was frightened of him; and Hertha defiant; even his beloved old mother had no longer the heart to force him into conversation. Never, indeed, had there been a sadder Advent time at Halewitz.

The sixteenth of December had always been a high feast-day in the annals of the county gentry, for it was Frau von Stolt's birthday. She did not send out invitations, but took it as a personal insult if people did not come on that day without.

Leo felt that he would be bound to put in an appearance at Stoltenhof, or risk a feud with his neighbours. He did not expect that _she_ would be there, as Ulrich was still away, but at the bare possibility his heart seemed to jump into his throat.

There was a scurrying up and down the corridors, banging of doors without end; for the two "chicks" were going to their first dance to-day, so the whole household was in a fever of excitement.

At dusk grandmamma came into Leo's study, her bosom bristling with pins.

"Won't you, for once, drive with us to-night, dear son?" she asked.

"No."

"Johanna is not going."

"Still I say no."

"Leo!" With her hands folded and gulping back her tears, she came and stood close to him.

"What is it, mother?"

"Leo, are you ill?"

"No." He fixed on her a morose and vacant gaze.

"Have we offended you, Leo?"

"No."

"Haven't you the least bit of love left for me?"

He saw her pleading eyes, her quivering lips, and for a moment he was moved to sorrow, but the rising emotion was extinguished instantly, like a lighted match in a water-butt.

"Leave me alone," he said. "I want nothing but to live in my own way, and not to be too intimate with any one," and he turned his back.

She stroked his sleeve twice, thrice, and with this timid endearment slipped quietly away.

The next moment he heard her scolding the lady's maid because she had not ironed a strip of tulle properly.

"Fortunately things don't go very deeply with her," he thought. And then he was filled with disgust at his own conduct. Was he going to sacrifice his mother, too, to that nameless ghost of the past?

The big covered sleigh came round at seven o'clock, and half an hour later he followed it, in a small sleigh with one horse, as usual driving himself. A pale moonlight illumined the white expanse of snow from which the peasants' huts and farm-buildings rose in shapeless masses of shadow. The distance was enshrouded in a milky haze, setting the groups of trees in silver.

The road lay on this side of the river, but passed through Wengern and close by the ferry. Two sleighs belonging to distinguished company had just been deposited here as he came up, and he heard the music of their bells as they rattled on ahead of him. He would have known the tone of the Uhlenfelde sleigh-bells amongst a thousand, and he was satisfied that they were not amongst these. Would she be there? Would she be there?

And he stretched himself, for he was stiff and cramped with suspense. But when he reached the stables certainty awaited him. There stood the Kletzingks' old Wilhelm, touching his cap to him with the familiar grin which is permissible from the servants of a friendly house. It occurred to him that, after all, Ulrich might have come too, and the thought filled him with alarm. He would have liked to ask, but an undefinable feeling of shame stifled the words in his throat.

Then he slowly walked to the house. The castle of Stoltenhof to-night resembled a camp. The hall was arranged with booths and refreshment-stalls like a fair, and civil and military uniforms moved about in the gay throng. The officers of both the Muensterberg and Wartenstein-Uhlan regiments were everywhere very active, rendering the assistance which seemed too much for the legs of the more deliberate country "junkers."

Leo was met by his host, whose copper-coloured countenance, with its record of past pleasures, was beaming with good-humour and self-satisfaction.