"She was only like an irresponsible child," he said to himself, "following the whim of the moment. I ought to have thought of that and have remained firm in opposing her, even when it was the fate of her own flesh and blood that she was deciding upon."

And then, what was worst of all was, that she had done it for him and him alone. So that he might continue to enjoy the friendship of the man who bore on him the stain of having killed the child's father, that child had been sent into banishment to meet his death. A sacrifice so cruel and unnatural had, as it was bound to be, been avenged, and, as things had shaped themselves, it had all been of no avail. The object for which the stupendous sacrifice had been made was not attained.

For he could no longer shut his eyes to the fact that he was losing his friend, his boyhood's comrade and well-beloved who, ever since he could remember, had been first in his thoughts, who had been his pride and glory and rock of strength, who seemed to embody all the health and physical power that fate had denied to himself.

He no longer understood him. The laws that governed his emotions were strange to him, and what once had seemed to him like a perfect, rushing harmony of Mother Nature's, now was like a shrieking confusion of discordant notes.

Whether it was himself who had changed so much, or the other, he couldn't say; he was only clear on one point, that every fresh utterance of Leo's estranged and hurt him.

No one knew better than his friend how dear the small step-son had been to his heart; but on the day of the funeral he had got a letter from Leo so stiffly and frigidly expressed, that it might have been the conventional condolences of an absolute stranger.

It was indeed a melancholy home-coming for Ulrich. No one met him at the station. But the station-master, who recognised the baron as he flashed his lantern upon him, helped him out of the railway-carriage, and spoke a few words of respectful sympathy.

The old coachman, Wilhelm, seated on the box, wiped away his tears at his master's approach, and when he laid his hand on his shoulder and said to him in a low voice, "Ah, Wilhelm, we shall not see our boy again," he nearly let the reins slip out of his weather-beaten hands from emotion.

Ulrich had brought back with him Paulchen's trunks and play boxes, and these were piled high on the back seat of the sleigh. Among them were the two big Christmas parcels of toys which the little fellow had looked out for so expectantly on Christmas Eve, and gone in search of.

They had been delivered the next day by the pleased postman.

The sleigh glided on through the moonless night. On the plain the whiteness of the snow made a faint glimmer; the poplars bordering the road emerged in blurred outline one after the other out of the dark.

Ulrich fancied that from behind each tree Paulchen must appear and call to him, "Take me home. I am afraid; so afraid. Take me home, please."

Then came the long bridge which had been Paulchen's delight. It was a hundred and fifty paces in length, and had bal.u.s.trades of black and white palings, on which he had always said that he wanted to climb when he was "big enough." Underneath the bridge, where it was often dry enough to walk, there was an echo, and when a carriage pa.s.sed overhead it was like the rolling of thunder.

And a little further on was the chief wonder of the road, a windmill that stood on a roof. Think of it! a windmill high up on a roof!

Forlornly it spread its snowy wings now, like the ghost of a giant stretching its arms into the grey night sky.

So the drive continued till the demesne of Uhlenfelde came in sight.

Here there seemed scarcely an inch of land that was not sanctified by some a.s.sociation with the dead boy. How gloomy and desolate were the wide fields! They looked as if a bright day could never dawn again to bathe them in sunshine; as if eternal winter had settled on the world.

He looked forward to the prospect that awaited him with shuddering. He dreaded alike his work and his leisure.

Then he thought of Felicitas, and was ashamed of thinking so much of his own feelings. The task before him was to coax with gentle patience and tactful caution, a despairing woman, slowly back to the ordinary walks of life.

A burst of compa.s.sionate love for her gushed forth from his soul. He felt as if she and Leo were a legacy left to him by the poor little fellow who had died so tragically.

Yes, with Leo too he must try and set things right. He would go to him, look him straight in the eyes, clasp his hand; and say--

"Man, speak out, and over the dead tell me honestly, what is the barrier that has grown up between you and me?"

The sleigh turned through the courtyard gateway. The servants and labourers lined the drive in black groups, and in silent sympathy bared their heads. All had foregone their beer, and none had spent the sabbath hours of repose at home with wife and child, because they all wished by their presence there to show him how they felt for him in his bereavement.

The sleigh drew up. His heart beat faster, for he feared Felicitas would come out to meet him; but she did not come. She was waiting for him in her corner-boudoir, standing erect by the writing-table. Her deep mourning-dress made her look taller. She appeared to him almost majestic, or was it her sorrow which invested her in his eyes with majesty? yet the expression of the haggard eyes, which looked bigger than ever because her face had grown so thin, was not one of sorrow.

Rather did it appear to be anxiety and horror that gazed out of them, as if she feared being surprised in a defenceless position.

"Lizzie," he stammered, holding out his arms to her.

She dropped her lids, and leant against the wall for support. He drew her head to his breast and led her to an easy-chair, murmuring over her, softly, words of comfort. All the love with which his heart was overflowing he lavished upon her. He spoke of their belonging to each other more completely than ever before, of the sacred hallowing influence the death of the innocent child would have upon both their lives. He promised to give her for the future boundless confidence, most fervent trusty and tenderest consideration; all, indeed, that he had given her for years, which for years she had accepted with smiling indifference, and without heeding the giver.

So soon as it dawned on her that he was not in the least disposed to make her responsible and call her to account, her nervous rigidity relaxed; she slid on to the carpet, and, burying her head on his knees, sobbed bitterly.

He went on speaking to her in the same soothing, gentle tone. She wrung her hands, and beat her forehead. For an instant her maternal grief, which in spite of everything was strong within her, had full sway without any _arriere pense_ interrupting it. But her expressions were so wildly exaggerated, that soon even her grief became artificial, and the last remnant of pure and n.o.ble sentiment she had possessed was destroyed.

Gradually she grew calmer, and she let her arms fall to her sides. A la.s.situde that was almost pleasant overcame her. She let him raise her and lay her on the couch. She felt the burning desire that children feel after a whipping--to be pitied and consoled.

"Oh, Ulrich," she murmured, "what I have suffered!"

He started. A sense of disappointment suddenly damped his sympathy.

Surely at this hour her first words should not have been words of pity for herself.

He said nothing; but his eyes wandered about the room as if he were pondering on some new experience. Supper was announced. The officials who generally sat at table with them had tactfully begged to be excused to-night. Husband and wife were alone.

The tea-kettle hummed, and the bronze hanging-lamp shed a soft l.u.s.tre on the snowy damask and gleaming silver.

Felicitas busied herself about his creature-comforts, acting on an impulse to pay off the gigantic debt she owed him with the small coin of little kindnesses and attentions. She prepared his sardines in his favourite way, cut him the thinnest bread-and-b.u.t.ter, and poured two spoonfuls of rum in his tea--a pick-me-up he was obliged sometimes to resort to. She put a cushion at his back, and drew the shade low over the lamp, so that his "poor tired eyes" should not be dazzled.

He watched her in painful amazement. He would have preferred satisfying his hunger to-night silently and un.o.bserved, like a dog, and not to have been reminded that there were such things as dainty living and t.i.t-bits in the world.

"How can she think of these trifling matters, when a few moments ago she was idling on the floor in despair?" he asked himself.

With a fine instinct she divined what was pa.s.sing in his mind, and changing her tack, began again to give a harrowing account of her own sufferings.

"No, Ulrich," she said, "you can't conceive what torture it was to me to think of you alone at his grave: not to be there to help you, and stand by you. But it could not be helped. The doctor gave strict orders that I was not to attempt the journey; besides, I was very ill; a little more and you would not have found me alive."

She paused, expecting him to question her about the attempted suicide; but as he was silent she led the conversation round to it herself.

"Are you still angry with me, dearest?" she asked.

"Why should I be angry?"

"Because I acted so wickedly, and, in the first shock of my grief, doubted G.o.d and His mercy, so that I believed it was impossible to go on living. Ah, Ulrich, if you knew the state I was in then, you would, I am sure, forgive me."

"I have nothing to forgive, Felicitas."

"But you say it so severely, Ulrich. I know, of course, that I have committed a great sin, that one ought to endure patiently any misery G.o.d inflicts on us; but I was so alone, so utterly alone--you away, no one to turn to. First, I thought of throwing myself in the river. That would have been the quickest; but the river was frozen. Next, I thought I would roam about the fields and freeze to death--and I did stay out half one night, and it didn't kill me, and so I came home, and s.n.a.t.c.hed up some poison--the first that came to hand--and drank, drank. It was like liquid fire in my throat, and I saw dancing suns before my eyes, and then I fell, and I don't know what happened afterwards. Do you see, Uli, what a terrible time your poor little wife has gone through?"

In her longing to hear him console her, she began to cry once more. But the desired consolation was not forthcoming.

"Ah! how much better it would have been," she lamented further, "if I had never awoke. What is life? Nothing but sorrow, wretchedness, and misunderstanding. When one's heart is torn, one is always most alone.

Ah, Uli! for you, too, it would have been best. Would you have mourned for me a little?"

He did not answer. He looked at her, and looked again, and she turned him to stone. He had been waiting for the bitter cry of maternal anguish. But she talked of herself, and only of herself. His eyes beheld her in her fair loveliness, rocking herself to and fro on her chair. The rounded curves of her slender figure were set off by the close-fitting mourning-gown. Her ma.s.ses of curly golden hair shone like a halo above her forehead and small rosy ears. The perpetual smile, half-melancholy, half-injured, on the small face, seemed to say that she would like to smile all death and pain out of existence. He was conscious of a slight repulsion as he examined her, and was ashamed of it the next moment. Why was he suddenly become so embittered? Had he not always known that patience was very necessary in dealing with this fair, light creature?

And in a voice more of reproach than blame, he said, "Have you no questions to ask about the boy, Felicitas?"

She held out her hands in horrified entreaty.

"Not to-day, dearest," she implored. "Not to-day. It would excite us both too much. I have pictured it all a thousand times over. All the dreadful scenes have floated before my eyes by night and day, and I am tired, oh, so tired, I crave for sleep--for one real good long sleep--and never to wake again How beautiful that would be!"

Shutting her eyes, she laid herself across the arm of the chair, so that her full creamy throat dimpled over the tight folds of black chiffon that encircled it.