In a narrow, dark chamber, where disused furniture was piled up, he found him sitting on an overturned wooden case, brooding with his head in his hands.

"Robert, my boy, what are you doing here?" he cried out to him.

He raised his head slowly and said, "I suppose there are merry goings-on in the other part of the house?"

The physician laid his hands on his shoulders:

"I am anxious about you, my boy. Since three days you grudge a word to any of us; you are on the road to madness, if you go on like this."

"What do you want?" answered Robert, with a sigh that broke from him like a cry of anguish. "I am calm, quite calm." Then he once more rested his bushy head upon his two hands, and fell again to brooding.

The old man sat down at his side and began to remonstrate with him. He forgot no single thing that one is won't to say in such cases, and added many a comforting, strengthening word of his own making. Robert sat there motionless, he hardly gave any sign of interest. But when the old man came to no stop, he interrupted him, and said:

"Leave that, uncle, that is sweet stuff for little children. To the one question on which for me depends life and death, you, too, can give me no answer."

"What question?"

"Uncle, see, I am calm now--wonderfully calm--no fever, no frenzy is upon me as I speak, and so you will believe me when I tell you that I do not know--how I shall live through this night!"

"For G.o.d's sake, what are you about to do?"

Robert shrugged his shoulders.

"I do not know," he said, "whatever suggests itself at the moment will do for me. I am only sorry for the poor little mite that will have to go on living without a father--perhaps I shall take it with me on my journey--I do not know. I only know the one thing, that I cannot go on like this any longer!"

The old man, trembling with fear in every limb, heaped reproaches upon him. That would be cowardly, that would be unmanly, and only worthy of a miserable weakling.

Robert listened to him calmly, then he said:

"You would be right, uncle, if it were her death which made me despair of myself and of my happiness! But, good heavens!"--he laughed harshly and bitterly--"I have long since accustomed myself to lay no claim to happiness. As for me, I would quietly bear my affliction,--(I have experience in that, as you know, for I have already lowered one loved being into the grave),--and go on raking and sc.r.a.ping money together, as I have been doing for so long, and doing in the midst of the deepest sorrow; for the interests, you know, they take little notice of the state of one's feelings, and even if one's hand grows numb with pain and despair--they have to be paid! But that is not what makes my brain so disorganised--for I am disorganised, you may believe me; before my eyes sparks are constantly dancing, my body is convulsed, and my blood rushes like fire through my veins. And yet I am quite calm with it all, and see everything all around as clearly as if I could look right through it. Only the one thing I cannot comprehend--it haunts me like a terrible phantom by day and by night, and when I seek to grasp it, it escapes me--this one thing: _Wherefore_ did she die?"

The old man started. He thought of the letter and the promise that the dead girl had therein required of him.

Robert continued: "There is a voice which constantly screams into my ears, 'It is _your_ fault!' _How_ so I do not know; for however much I probe the depths of my soul, I find no wrong there that I did her; and yet the voice will not be silenced. I tell myself,--'This is a fixed idea.' I tell myself, 'You are tormenting yourself; you are a fool and wicked--wicked towards yourself and your child;' but it is no good, uncle!--it will not be silenced. And, after all, there may be something in it, uncle? Would Olga not be alive yet, if it were not for me? If, on the preceding evening, things had not happened----"

He stopped, shuddering, and covered his face with his hands. Tearless sobs shook his mighty frame. Then he said: "Uncle, I cannot--I dare not think of it; it drives me out of my senses. I feel--as if I must break and dash to pieces everything with these fists."

"And yet you must pull yourself together, my boy," said the old man, "and tell me everything successively; for that is the only way to throw light upon the mystery."

There ensued a silence in the dark room. The old man trembled in every limb. He saw the outlines of the ma.s.sive figure that stood out darkly against the light window of the chamber; he saw the heaving of the chest which rose and sank and panted and groaned like the crater of a volcano; he felt on his skin the hot waves of breath from Robert's mouth.

"Pull yourself together, my boy," he repeated softly.

Robert waged a conflict within himself Then he stretched himself as if with newly awakening energy and said:

"All right, uncle; you shall know all....

"Since the day on which she so proudly and coldly refused my offer I had not met her again. It is true she came as before to the manor to look after the child and the household. I know now that it was for Martha's and not for my sake; but there was a silent understanding between us, so that we avoided meeting each other. She chose the hours when she knew I was busy out in the sheds and stables, and I did not return to the house until I had seen her disappear through the gate.

"On Tuesday, as it happened, I was obliged to go out to the manor farm; but half a mile outside the town, on that bad road, my axle broke. As I had taken no driver with me, and far and wide there was no one in sight, I myself mounted the harnessed horse and rode back to fetch help. At the manor the overseer told me that the young lady had gone home some time before. It was, in fact, already beginning to grow very dark. 'Well, then there's no danger,' I think to myself, and walk into the house.

"When I open the door of the sitting-room, I see in the dusk a dark shadow that flits hurriedly out of the room.

"'Who may that be?' I think, and follow in pursuit.

"In the child's room I find--_her_--just as she is trying hard to unbolt the door leading to the corridor, which, as you know, is always kept locked on account of the draught.

"Then, uncle, it comes over me as if I must rush towards her; but just in time I recollect who she is--and who I am.

"I see how her hands are trembling. 'Do not be angry with me, Olga,' I said, stammering; 'I did not wish to do you any harm. I am only here by chance. I will henceforth arrange so that you may never meet me.'

"Then she lets her hands drop, and gives me a look that makes me feel hot and cold all over. 'Martha never looked at me like that,' I think to myself. I want to speak, but the words will not come, for I am so confused and embarra.s.sed. She stands pressing her tall figure close up to the door, as if to take refuge there from me. I hear her heavy, feverish breathing. 'Olga,' I say, 'it was presumption on my part that I ever dared to think of gaining your hand; I know very well that I am not worthy of you. I beg of you, forget all about it; I will never remind you of it.'

"And at this moment, uncle--how shall I describe it to you?--leave me for a second the memory--yet what boots it?--I will be strong, uncle--I will pull myself together--at this moment she rushes towards me, clasps me round, covers my face with kisses, and then suddenly she sinks down with a sigh and lies there at my feet as if felled by a stroke. I gaze down upon her like one in a dream.

"'It is not true,' I cry to myself; 'it is madness. You were ready to look up to her as to a G.o.ddess, and now she throws herself away on one who is not worthy of her.'

"I hardly dared to touch her; but I had to raise her up; and when I held her in my arms she began to sob bitterly, as if she would cry her very soul out. 'Olga, why are you crying?' say I. 'All is well now.'

But even I, giant of a fellow as I am, start crying like a little child.

"'Forgive, me, Robert!' I hear her voice at my ear; 'I have grieved you sorely, but I will never--never do so again.'

"'And will you always love me now?' I ask; for even now I cannot realise it yet.

"'Oh, you--you,' she says, 'I love you more than anything else in the world,' and hides her face upon my neck.

"But now, uncle, hear what followed! When I see her dark head of curls lying so submissively upon my shoulder the question arises within me: 'Is this the same Olga who, a few days ago, turned from you so calmly and proudly when you modestly and humbly asked her consent?'

"So I said to her: 'Olga,' said I, 'how could you torture me so? Have I become a different man in this short s.p.a.ce of time?' Then I see her grow as white as the chalk on the walls, and hear her voice in my ear: 'Do not question me; for G.o.d's sake do not question me!'

"A feeling of terror awakens within me lest I may perhaps lose her to-morrow--as I have won her to-day.

"'Olga,' say I, 'if you are so changeable in your decisions, who will give me surety----?'

"I stop short, for in her face lies something which commands silence.

She tears herself away from me and flings herself into a chair.

"'As you wish to know,' she says, and the while with darkening brows stares upon the ground--'I was afraid--I doubted your love, and thought you might let me feel that I came to you without a penny----'

"And with that the lie makes her face all aflame.

"'Olga,' I cry out, 'could you think that of me? Do you remember 'What I reminded her of was one night on her father's estate when I came wooing Martha and thought to return sadly with a refusal; for Martha was ready to sacrifice herself and her happiness, so that I might marry another. Then she--Olga--had come to me in the middle of the night, and had opened my eyes for me, blind fool that I was, and spoken words to me, words full of contempt for mammon, which sounded like Love's song of triumph in my ears. _Those_ words I spoke to her now; for each one was indelibly stamped on my memory.

"'At that time, then--you had such brave and generous thoughts--when you spoke on Martha's behalf,' I cried out to her, 'and now--when they apply to yourself----' I look into her face, which is trying to smile and ever smiling; but this smile grew rigid, and in the midst of it she closed her eyes and fell down fainting, like a log of wood.

"It was trouble enough to bring her back to life; for I did not care to call in any help. Quite a quarter of an hour she lay there--not much otherwise than she is lying now--then she opened her eyes, and for a long time gazed silently into my face--so sorrowfully, so wearily and hopelessly, that I quite trembled for her. And thereupon she folded her hands and spoke up to me softly and imploringly:

"'Give me time, Robert; I have overtaxed my strength. I must first grow accustomed to it----'