The Silent Mill Part 16

He begins with that first meeting with Trude, up to the moment when horror drove him forth from Martin's embrace--out into the stormy night.

"What came after that," he concludes, "can be told in a few words. I ran without knowing whither, until the cold and wet restored me to consciousness. Then the post-chaise from Marienfeld just happened to come along. I stopped it--at last I got under cover by this means. Thus I came to the town, where I have been putting up till now. Lob Levi had just given me a hundred thalers. With these I rigged myself out afresh, for I did not want to face Trude in the dilapidated state I was in."

"Miserable wretch--are you going to ...?"

"Don't kick up a row," he says roughly. "It is all arranged, already. I gave a note for her to a little boy I met in the street, and waited till he came back. She took it from him in the kitchen without even a servant noticing anything. At eleven o'clock she will be at the weir, and I--ha-ha-ha- ... I too!"

"Johannes, I beg and implore you, don't do it," cries Franz in sheer terror. "There's sure to be a misfortune." Johannes' reply is a hoa.r.s.e laugh, and, with burning eyes, his mouth put close to his friend's ear, he hisses: "Do you really think, man, that I could manage to live and to die in a strange country if I did not see her just once more? Do you imagine I should have courage to stare for four weeks at the sea without throwing myself into it--if I did not see her once more? The very air for breathing would fail me, my meat and drink would stick in my throat, I should rot away alive if I did not see her just once more!"

When Franz hears all this he refrains from further discussion.

Johannes' restless glance wanders towards the clock. "It is time," he says, and takes his cap. "At midnight the mail-coach comes through the village. Expect me at the post office and bring me two hundred-thaler notes; that will be enough for my pa.s.sage. The rest you can give back to him; I shan't want it! Good-bye till then!" At the door he turns round and asks: "I say, does my breath smell of brandy?"

"Yes."

He breaks into a coa.r.s.e laugh; then he says: "Give me a few coffee beans to chew. I don't want Trude to get a horror of me in this last hour."

And when Franz has given him what he wants he disappears into the darkness.

It is high water to-day. With a great hissing and roaring the waters shoot down the declivity, then sink down into their foaming grave with dull, plaintive rumblings, while the glistening spray breaks over them in one high-vaulted arch.

The howling of the storm mingles with the tumult of these volumes of water. The old alders alongside the river bow and bend to each other like shadowy giants come forth in their numbers to dance a reel in one long line. The heavens are obscured by heavy rain-clouds,--everything is dark and black except the snowy froth, which seems to throw out an uncertain light against which the outlines of the wood planking are dimly visible. Above that projects the rail of the little drawbridge, in appearance like the phantom form of a cat, creeping with outstretched legs across a roof.

On the drawbridge the two meet. Trude, her head covered by a dark shawl, has been standing for a long time beneath the alders, seeking shelter from the rain, and has hurried to meet him as she saw the outline of his figure appear on yonder side of the weir.

"Trude, is it you?" he asks hurriedly, looking searchingly into her face. She is silent and clings to the rail. The foam is dancing before her eyes, in blue and yellow colors.

"Trude," he says, while he tries to catch hold of her hand, "I have come to bid you farewell for life. Are you going to let me go forth to a strange land without one word?"

"And I have come for the peace of my soul," says she, shrinking back from his groping hand. "Hans, I have borne much for your sake; I have grown older by half a lifetime; I am weak and ill. Therefore take pity on me: do not touch me--I do not want to return again guilt-laden to your brother's house!"

"Trude--did you come here to torture me?"

"Softly, Hans, softly--do not pain me! Let us part from one another with clean and honest hearts, and take peace and courage with us--for all our lives.... We must surely not rail at each other--not in love and not in hatred," She stops exhausted; her breath comes heavily; then, pulling herself together with an effort, she continues: "You see, I always knew that you would come long before I got your note to-day; and, a thousand times over I thought out every word--that I was going to say to you. But of course--you must not unsettle me so."

His eyes glow through the darkness; his breath comes hot; and with a shrill laugh he says:

"Don't make a halo round us. It is no good--we are both accursed anyway in heaven and on earth! Then let us at least--"

He stops abruptly, listening.

"Hush! I thought--I heard--there in the meadow!"

He holds his breath and hearkens. Nothing to be heard or seen. Whatever it was, the storm and the darkness have engulfed it.

"Come down to the river's edge," he says, "our figures are so clearly defined up here."

She leads the way; he follows. But on the slippery woodwork she loses her footing. Then he catches her in his arms and carries her down to the river. Unresisting, she hangs upon his neck.

"How light you have got since that day," he says softly, while he lets her glide down, then raises her up.

"Oh, you would hardly recognize me if you saw me," she replies equally softly.

"I would give anything if only I could!" he says, and tries to draw away the shawl from about her face. A pale oval, two dark, round shadows in it where the eyes are--the darkness reveals no more.

"I feel like a blind man," he says, and his trembling hand glides over her forehead, down to her cheeks, as if by touch to distinguish the loved features. She resists no longer. Her head drops upon his shoulder.

"How much I wanted to say to you!" she whispers. "And now I no longer can think of anything--not of anything at all."

He twines his arms more closely around her. They stand there silent and motionless while the storm tugs and tears at them, and the rain beats down upon their heads.

Then from the village come the cracked notes of the post-horn, half drowned by the blast.

"Our time is up," he says, shivering. "I must go."

"Now--the night?" she stammers voicelessly.

He nods.

"And I shall never see you again?"

A wild scream rends the storm.

"Johannes, have pity, I cannot let you go. I cannot live without you!"

Her fingers dig themselves into his shoulders. "You shall not--I will not let you."

He tries to free himself by main force.

"Ah, well--you are going--oh--you--you--you are wicked! You know that I must die if you go, I cannot--Take me with you! Take me with you!"

"Are you out of your senses, woman?" He covers his face with his hands and groans aloud.

"So--this is what you call being out of one's senses! Does not even a lamb struggle--when led to the slaughter? And you are capable of----Ah, is this all your love for me? Is this all? Is this all?"

"Don't you think of Martin?"

"He is your brother. That is all I know about him. But I know that I must die if I stay with him any longer. It makes me shudder to think of him! Take me with you, my husband! Take me with you!"

He grasps both her wrists, and shaking her to and fro, he whispers with half-choked utterance:

"And do you know besides that I am ruined and disgraced--an outcast, a drunkard, no good at all in the world? If you could see me, you would have a horror of me, good people shun me and loathe me--do you think I should be good to you? I shall never forgive you for coming between me and Martin--never forgive you for making me sin against him as I have done for your sake. He will be between us as long as we live. I shall insult you--I shall beat you when I am drunk. You will find it h.e.l.l at my side. Well? What do you say now?"

She bows her head demurely, folds her hands and says: "Take me with you!" A scream of exultant joy escapes his lips. "Then come--but come quickly. The coach stops for a quarter of an hour. No one will see us except Franz Maas--the only one he will not betray us. In the town you can get clothes and then.... Stop! What does this mean?"

The mill has awakened to life. A yellow light streams out into the darkness from the wide-opened door. A lantern sways across the yard then, thrown to one side, flies in a gleaming curve through the air like a shooting star.

Martin lies in bed asleep. Suddenly there is a tap at the window-pane.

"Who is there?"