Part 46 (2/2)
”That you will not do! You are a man; and a man is a great deal more than the birds under the heavens.”
Oldenburg turned round in amazement, to see who it was that could have spoken these words in such a calm, firm tone. Close behind him stood old Baumann.
”I come,” said the old man, answering Oldenburg's anxiously inquiring looks, ”by order of Frau von Berkow.”
”What is it?” said Oldenburg, his blood rus.h.i.+ng madly to his heart; ”speak out! Frau von Berkow is ill, is she?”
”Not Frau von Berkow,” replied Baumann; ”another woman, who came about an hour ago to our house, with a child, and who wishes to see the baron once more before her death, which seems not to be very far off.”
”A woman--with a child!” It seemed as if a veil had fallen from the baron's eyes.
”Come!” he said.
Melitta's sleigh, with two powerful bays, was standing before the door of the Solitude. The men got in; Oldenburg took the reins and the whip from the hands of the servant, who sat behind, and off they went at full gallop through the dark pine-woods; out of the woods into the level land, which gradually falls off towards Fashwitz, and into the wide snow plain, with its distant gray horizon, and a few scarcely-perceptible trees and cottages here and there, thickly covered with snow. The road also was nearly hid, and even the track made by the sleigh in coming had long been effaced by the storm. It required all of Oldenburg's familiarity with the country, and all of his skill in driving, to be able to race as he did through this wilderness, up hill and down hill, between bottomless mora.s.ses on both sides. Not a word was spoken on the way, and half an hour later the sleigh with the steaming horses was standing before the door of the great house at Berkow. They went into the house.
”Will you please, sir, step into the garden-room?” said old Baumann.
He went in first. A lamp was lighted on the table, and in the grate a fire on the point of going out. The old man screwed up the lamp, kindled the fire afresh, and then disappeared through the door which led into the red-room.
Oldenburg was standing before the fire-place, warming his cold hands. A thousand confused thoughts filled, his mind at once; he walked up and down the room a few times, and then stood again before the fire.
”Melitta was right,” he said to himself. ”Before this wrong is atoned for, I cannot expect any happiness. And how can I make atonement? Is it not the curse of an evil deed that it brings forth more and more evil deeds? It was the shadow of to-day which fell upon our souls yesterday in antic.i.p.ation. How stupid I was, how blinded by pa.s.sion, that I did not understand the warning! Yes, she has an older, a holier right; and woe is me if I were to disregard this right! It would rise ever and again and testify against me! But it is terrible that the Furies should follow us even into the temple where we desire to purify ourselves of our guilt--even into the sacred shrine which holds our whole happiness!”
The rustling of a lady's dress behind him made him start. He turned round, and there stood Melitta, pale and serious, her sweet, fair eyes s.h.i.+ning with the traces of recent tears.
”Melitta,” said Oldenburg, offering her both hands, ”can you forgive me?”
”I have nothing to forgive, Adalbert,” she replied, placing her hands in his; ”let us bear in patience what must be borne.”
They looked silently into each other's eyes for a moment.
”There is still much between us,” said Oldenburg, sadly. ”I cannot see to the bottom of your heart.”
”That is why we must bear in patience,” said Melitta.
Oldenburg let go her hands.
”How is she?”
”She is very feeble: in a state between sleeping and waking, but she knows me; and she has asked for you several times.”
”Is Czika with her?”
”Yes.”
”May I see her?”
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