Part 36

He longed for a companion. He was in sore need of the sound of a human voice, the touch of a human hand. And this desire, which he supposed would be his last on earth, was strangely enough fulfilled.

It was nearly ten o'clock when the front door bell clanged violently through the house. Leo's hand went out involuntarily towards the wall where his weapons hung. "They have come to fetch me," he thought, with a sudden, horrid fear of arrest. He drew himself to his full height and awaited his visitor.

Christian announced that Pastor Brenckenberg had called and urgently requested an interview.

"Hurrah!" cried Leo; "the very person I want. Let him come in."

All the grim resentment he had so long cherished in the bottom of his heart for this old man rose to the surface. He felt that he had been delivered into his hand at an auspicious moment. In this hour he would make him rue it. In his company he would celebrate his farewell to life. In a voice of thunder he welcomed the belated guest, who, kicking the snow off his boots with his heels, entered the room in breathless haste. He was attired in a shabby fur coat like an Esquimaux's, and had twisted a thick brown woollen scarf two or three times round his throat. His fleshy face was purple either from the winter winds or from excitement. Sweat ran down his hanging cheeks, and in his fierce bulldog eyes, which in vain endeavoured to look round him with serenity, there was an expression of eager impatience.

"Well, old fellow!" Leo exclaimed. "The Almighty has done well to lead you here to-night. See, this is something extra special. A farewell drink." And turning to Christian, he gave him orders to bring in another armful of bottles and ice with them.

The pastor had remained standing at the door, tugging violently at the woollen scarf which in the heat of the room nearly suffocated him.

"Take it off, take it off, old man," said Leo.

He did as he was commanded, stroked back the oiled strands of hair on his neck, and, with his mouth open, breathed heavily like an animal wanting to sneeze.

"I am glad to see you so well satisfied with yourself, my son," he said at last. "Just as if you had performed some heroic action."

"Of course," Leo answered; "to me heroic actions come naturally." And he poured him out a glass.

"Your health, old man."

The pastor stole a timid glance at the sparkling wine. "Do you know why I have come here at this hour, when most people are in their beds?" he asked sourly, leaning against the door.

"To your health! Didn't you hear me?" cried Leo.

Whereat the pastor staggered towards the table, and raised the glass with two trembling hands. But he put it down again.

"I can't," he groaned, and protruded his lower jaw, half sobbing with disgust.

"What?" shouted Leo. "You despise my best wine? What fad is this?"

"Nothing, nothing," muttered the old clergyman, and pushed the glass nervously away from him to the other side of the table. "In my present condition, I should outrage my body and outrage the wine if I drank it."

"Condition!" jeered Leo. "And what sort of condition do you suppose that I am in? Have you ever seen a wild boar run to earth in a swamp, quenching its thirst with foul water, when the hounds have almost begun to tear it to pieces? Well, that is the condition in which I am drinking here. But I am going to drink another for all that. To your health, old man!"

The pastor regarded him with a disconcerted expression, then silently raised the glass, emptied it, and gave himself a shake.

"Isn't it nice?" laughed Leo. "You and I sitting and drinking here amiably together, cheek by jowl. We ought to be happy and sing that good old song, 'Sublime and sacred, brothers, is the hour which unites us here again,'" and he sang the couplet. "Or perhaps you would prefer some more obscene chorus? I am ready for any dare-devilry."

He tossed down two more glasses of the iced wine, feeling as he did so how his imagination began to go mad. All sorts of pictures shot up before his eyes, and disappeared again directly he tried to retain them.

The old man, who had been brooding gloomily with his chin on his breast and a fixed glare in his eyes, raised himself slowly with his hands grasping the edge of the table, and struggled with the unpronounced words which half strangled him.

"Do you know why I have come?" he asked a second time.

"I think that I may safely hazard a guess," laughed Leo. "It was my unpleasant duty, this evening, to give your young hopeful a drubbing which he won't forget in a hurry. Come, here's to his health. Long may your son and heir flourish!"

"Look here, Fritzchen," said the pastor, "this is mocking and jeering at a poor parent whom anxiety has driven out into the night. I call it low of you, Fritzchen. I couldn't have believed you capable of it, knowing what your character used to be. But I'll describe to you the state of things at home, and then, perhaps, you will be stirred to a little human pity. We were sitting at supper, my wife and the children and I, when the boy rushed in, as white as a sheet and his lips running with blood. He fell on the ground and clutched at my knees. 'For God's sake, tell me what has happened, my son!' said I. And he cried out, 'Father, father, kill me! Kill me--I am disgraced, dishonoured; all decent men will kick and spurn me like a mangy cur in future.' Then I dragged him into my study and said, 'Tell me all, lad.' And so I learnt what had passed. Fritzchen, why have you disgraced my own flesh and blood? How have I sinned against you that you should have done this thing?"

"You have sinned against me enough, old man," replied Leo; "but of that, more hereafter. As for your precious son, he has behaved himself like a cad to my sister, and insulted my family and me; so I was forced to punish him. Punishment is just, you know--that is your own principle."

"Why didn't you challenge him," asked the pastor, "according to the custom of our country?"

Leo laughed at him derisively. "Challenge! As if I had the time to waste bullets on every silly youth living on his father's bounty. Whoever doesn't earn his bread doesn't deserve that a man should take the trouble to load a pistol on his account. A cane serves the purpose best, or a ruler, if it comes handy."

The pastor nodded his head in dumb distress, and Leo continued to fix a hard, revengeful gaze upon him.

"Now then, cheer up, cheer up," he bantered. "You haven't come here to sit with a dry whistle and your mouth shut."

"Fritzchen," began the old man again, "you may be right in everything, and I'll admit that the boy is a rascal; but he is the best I have got at present. My second boy won't be a man for another ten years. And you, whom I have always loved, must needs come and ruin him for life. Fritzchen! it won't do--it won't do."

"Nonsense!" pished Leo.

"No, Fritzchen. He has generally been able to pull himself together again after a scrape, but now he is completely done for. He must slink about for the rest of his days like a criminal, and when he appears amongst his equals they will give him the cold shoulder because of the stain that rests on him. You see, Fritzchen, that I am an old corps-student myself, and know what it means to be thrashed without the chance of defending yourself. If it had been a burglar or an escaped lunatic who had done it, he might get over it. But you are the Baron von Sellenthin, whom all the world knows, and if you decline to give satisfaction, the world will conclude that you have very good reasons for doing so, and be on your side."

Leo groaned, and thought of the shame that he was about to bring the next night on his own good name and memory.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked; "am I to go and humbly beg his pardon, and promise not to do it again?"

"No, Fritzchen; but when he sends a second bearing his challenge to you, to-morrow, you ought to accept it and arrange the usual formalities."

"And then?"

"The rest, Fritzchen, will be your affair."

"Look out!" cried Leo, in a threatening tone. "You know I never jest. My bullet never misses the mark at which I choose to aim. I have sent one man into eternity already--remember that."

Then the pastor slowly rose to his feet, and with a solemn movement of his arms, he said--

"I am an old man, and I have not got much to look forward to. He is my first-born, my heart's delight, my hope. But I would a thousand times rather hand him over to you to do with him what you did with that other, than that he should continue to live despised and disgraced."

Leo was shocked for a moment, but the next he felt a wild satisfaction that buoyed him up. Here was an old man coming to him--a murderer and would-be suicide--to beg him take his son's life. And he asked the favour over two foaming glasses of wine. Truly they were a well-assorted couple. The devil himself could not have matched them better.

"Your health, old 'un!" he would have shouted again, but the words stuck in his throat.

And the old man, who could scarcely stand on his legs, dragged his corpulent body ponderously round the table, and laid both hands on Leo's shoulders. Speaking down into his ear from over the back of his chair, he said--

"Think, my son, for how many years your training was in my hands. I taught you to fight for honour and right till the last drop of blood. You were a wild lad, and tyranny would have been dearer to you than justice. But my rod hung over you, and you were obliged to obey, however much you kicked against the pricks. And for that I claim your gratitude to-day."

"You have my thanks," sneered Leo. "And if you want a testimonial here it is--you were a severe taskmaster."

"No, Fritzchen; that I was not. For I was fond of you, and you were fond of me. Don't you remember that September evening when we went out into the meadows and climbed on to a haystack, and lay looking up at the clouds? Nothing happened, but all of a sudden you crept close to me and, laying your head quietly against my arm, began to sob. I think that you must remember it, for on that evening I became your friend. Then there was the day we went into the town to see 'William Tell.' In the night you came to me, and, sitting on the edge of the bed, took your solemn oath that you, too, would die for your Fatherland, for liberty."

"Oh, my God!" groaned Leo, and buried his head in his hands.

"You see, Fritzchen," went on the old man, "I may have been at that time a good-for-nothing, and as fond of a glass as I am to-day; but your young soul I guided aright, you must allow. And have you forgotten how I encouraged your friendship with Ulrich? How my only wish was to play third in the covenant when Johanna could not officiate? And then again, my son, there was the time when your heart first beat in response to another. Have you forgotten that too? The eldest daughter of the forester at Knutzendorf, who used to bring the weekly paper every Saturday to the castle? She was eleven and you were thirteen. I believe she didn't know that two and two make four. But she grew into a devilish clever girl later; but never mind that. Do you remember confiding in me the secret that you had run after her in the road and kissed her, and that she had let herself be kissed quite calmly, and it made you so happy, Fritzchen, so confoundedly happy?"

With an exclamation of anguish Leo raised his elbows and shook off the old man's heavy touch.

That had been the beginning of it; his introduction to love, and now it had come to an end.

He sprang to his feet

"What do you want with me, man," he cried, "that you torture me thus?"

The pastor bowed his massive head almost humbly.

"I only want to remind you that you owe me a debt of gratitude," he said, "and I wish you to make it good to my son. Here I stand--may God pardon me--here I stand and entreat you to fight with him, and if you can't help yourself, shoot him dead."

There was a silence.

The old clock in the corner chimed half-past eleven.

"This time to-morrow," thought Leo, "I shall be walking to my death." And with this reflection he thrust from him the old memories which had begun to weave a coil of softening sentiment about his soul. He would have liked to pour out the whole gamut of emotions surging within him, in curses on the head of this old man who had come to fight a desperate battle on behalf of his despicable little son's honour.

He placed himself in front of him with his legs apart and his hands in his pockets and laughed.

"Look at me," he shouted.

"I _am_ looking at you," replied the pastor.

"How jolly mild you are to-day, old fellow. You bleat like a lamb instead of roaring like a lion. Now tell me, what do you see in my face?"

"Mockery and scorn," was the answer, "scorn of me and the Lord above us. That is all I see."

"Well, then, you don't see half. If you had the faintest conception of who it is stands before you here, you would hurry off as fast as your fat legs would permit. You come and talk to me about affairs of honour--to me, and I am little more already than a living corpse! You want me to singe a hole in your son's body, so that in a fortnight's time he'll be all right again, and able to swagger with renewed cocksureness--for that is what you are driving at with all these sugary entreaties; but no, my old friend, I am not to be got over with any such artifice--murder is in my heart. A cloud of blood hangs before my eyes. You, too, seem to be swimming in it, and the lamp and everything is red and dull from undiluted blood. Now you know what I am. And I will tell you what more I am going to be. A perjurer, a cowardly hound, sneaking out of the world in his thwarted lust and desperation. I have desecrated the hearth of my dearest friend with my unlawful passions, and I am going now to sprinkle it with blood rather than play the basest part of all towards him. Yes, I shall heap scandal on scandal, so that you will be ashamed, old man, that you ever knew me. And the fine wines that you have drunk under my roof will taste as bitter as gall in your remembrance. So tipple some more of it. Here goes! Your health; to your health, old priest!"

And he drank, drank the whole bottle empty, and dashed it into a corner.

The pastor stood like a man turned to stone. He tried to speak, but speech forsook him.

"You think me a fool, I dare say, to blurt out all this," Leo continued, "but I'll tell you why I do it. Simply because I can't resist the tempting opportunity of holding a reckoning with you. For who is to blame for the whole business? Why you--you, first of all, and then Johanna. Between you, you have hounded me into this slough, where I must sink. You began it. In the autumn I spoke my mind to you, but then I was an angel of God compared with what I am to-day, and did not foresee the end. Repent--I was to repent, repent, repent! Didn't I raise my hands in self-defence and implore you to leave me alone, leave me to live my life in my own way! But you had no mercy, neither you, nor Johanna, nor _she_ who now is driven to the same extremity as I am. Women in this world delight to send us to the devil. But now it is your turn, my friend. You had no mercy on me then, so now I will show you none. Let your charming boy heal his injured skin as best he can, let him lay dock leaves on the wounds or ammonia, which he likes; and let him heal his outraged honour with texts from the Bible. As for you, see that you clear out of here as soon as possible. I have done with you, and you with me. Christian!" He opened the door. "Christian, help the Herr Pastor on with his coat. Good night" So saying, he threw himself full length on the sofa and drummed on the leather with his heels, taking no further notice of the pastor's proceedings.

The latter staggered out, hardly knowing what he did.

The cold night air brought him to his senses. He paused under the courtyard gateway and considered. Then, instead of taking the road home to Wengern, he skirted the park palings in the deep snow and went to the dower-house. There he thundered with the knocker till he brought a maid-servant, half asleep, to the door, and asked to speak to old Frau Graefin instantly.

The next morning at eight o'clock a telegram was despatched from the post-office at Muensterberg by Pastor Brenckenberg.

"_To Baron Kletzingk, Koenigsberg_,

"_Hotel Deutches Haus_.

"_Come home at once. Your house is in danger_.

"_Johanna_."

XXXVIII

Felicitas returned from her last interview with Leo, glowing and intoxicated with the idea of death. What a harmonious ending it would be to die in the arms of her lover, breathing her last breath on his lips.

She recalled a picture that she had once seen in Koenigsberg, afterwards famous all over the continent It was called "Tired of Life," and represented a man and a woman who had bound themselves together with ropes, and were about to hurl themselves from some steps in the foreground into the sea. She had felt an envious tremour then, and now all at once the old foolish dream was to be fulfilled at Leo's side.

She had nothing to bind her to life; in every way it would be best to quit it. Ulrich became more and more of an invalid, and less and less disposed to make things bearable for her. The society of the neighbourhood afforded her no consolation; the women hated her, the men persecuted her with their love; and one was as unsatisfying and dull as the other. The future promised her nothing. She saw herself slowly fading away, bored to extinction by discussion about the crops and new scientific theories of drainage, of farm and dairy management. To die now would be a thousand times preferable.

"If only I had my little Paul," she thought, "there would at least be something to live for," and the momentary re-awakening of the maternal instinct within her filled her eyes with hot tears.

But in the midst of her tender compassion for herself and her dead child, the thought seized her like an icy hand, that in a few days, she, like him, would be lying in the dark damp earth. Was it possible? could it be?

In a year--or better still in ten years' time, after this love had burned itself out, it would be all very well. But now, when a new ready-made happiness lay before them, and would have to be left untasted, unenjoyed? Would it not be folly?

Once more she thought of the picture "Tired of life," and derived a little solace from it.

The man had not been in the least like Leo. As far as she could remember, he had worn a velvet coat like an artist, or something of the kind. Oh yes, artists, with their wide views and great minds, were the men who understood the hearts of women, and how to drag them into eternity. She wasn't sure about the velvet coat after all. But the woman's white satin dress she remembered distinctly; it had fitted like gleaming armour over the bust. That wasn't the fashion now, but what did fashions matter when one was going to die? The only thing that mattered was to look beautiful in death. And she began to consider what she should put on. Among her peignoirs and _sautes de lit_, she possessed one of softest _crepe de chine_ which fell in straight Greek folds, and was drawn in above the waist by a golden girdle. She had ordered it from Paris before her second marriage, and had been keeping it for some special occasion. This occasion would certainly have arrived now if Leo had not got hold of the stupid idea that they must creep out into the night-mists to put an end to themselves.

In any case, she would not forego the pleasure of trying on the artistic garment. She locked the doors, put shades of pink gauze on the toilette-table candles, and undressed. As she stood before the glass, her figure in the graceful Greek draperies illumined seductively by the subdued purple light, she was ravished by the sight of her own beauty.

He must see her like this. Just for one second, and all thought of dying would be abandoned. How glad she was that she had extracted that promise from him at the last, to come and fetch her. When she met him thus attired, what else could he do but snatch her in his arms, and instead of dying with her in the gruesome manner that he had proposed, he would tread again at her side the primrose path of passion, which Rhaden's jealousy had so hatefully interrupted.

Yes, so she would win him back to her altogether, her big, adoring boy.

But the night that she passed before this contemplated enjoyment was anything but peaceful. She recalled his face when he had said, "This time it will be no joke. We shall not drink toothache drops." And even granted that she could bring him to reason, there was always the vision of Johanna hovering in the background, eager to shatter their new-found bliss.

Was there no way out of it? She pondered and pondered till her head ached, staring into the darkness with wide, anxious eyes. The plan that she hit on at last did not differ eventually by a hair's breadth from the one which Leo had rejected as unworthy. She would write to Ulrich to-morrow and impress on him how Johanna's brain was becoming more unhinged every day. She would give striking examples of it, pity and defend the unfortunate creature, hint at a pending catastrophe, and so prepare his mind for having to deal with the delusions of a mad woman, if she should really make a betrayal of her secret.

That would do beautifully; and content at last, she quietly fell asleep.

The whole of the next day she was in a more or less happy mood. A kind of bridal excitement quickened the blood in her veins. It was true that every now and then a sickening memory of Leo's death-threats overcame her. But she was too confident of the victorious power of her beauty, which of old had held his senses captive, to entertain any serious fears.

She leaned back dreamily in a chair by the window and stared across the stream in the direction of Halewitz, counting the hours. Old Minna, who the day before had been told of Leo's coming midnight visit, and had received her instructions, ventured, as she hobbled through the room, to assist her mistress in this employment. "Now it is only eight hours, gracious little lady," and then, "Only seven and a half now." And so the time grew shorter.

At dusk a powdering of snow began to fall, renewing the purity of the far-stretching grey plains, and quickly obliterating the roads. Laughing blissfully, she began to beat with her fingers on the window-panes and to sing a song of the knight who came through floods and tempests, and by dangerous paths to greet his lady love.

Then she thought of her dead boy, and shed a few tears. "Ah, my little son," she murmured, clasping her hands, "you may be glad that you have found eternal peace so early."

And this made her joyous again, and so she passed a highly agreeable afternoon giving herself up to pleasant dreams, and she was no further troubled by suspense.

At five o'clock the lamps were brought in, and towards eight supper was served. Half an hour later a housemaid rushed in greatly excited, and announced that the gnaediger Herr had driven into the courtyard.

"Which gnaediger Herr?" Felicitas asked.

So calm and self-possessed was her mood that she didn't in the least grasp what had happened. The maid repeated her information, and her first emotion was one of resentment at her husband's coming home. She would have liked to beg him to turn round and go away again.

Only gradually did she become alive to the danger which hung over her. Half-stunned, she remained sitting at the supper tablet and rolled up her serviette.

"Johanna has played me this trick," she thought, for she hated her old friend so intensely that she attributed to her any evil that befell her, as a matter of course.