The Silent Mill Part 13

"Not because I danced with some one else?"

"Oh! dear no!"

"You know, Hans, I suddenly felt so lonely and forsaken that it was all I could do to keep from crying. He might have said he didn't want me to dance with anyone else, I said to myself--for whom else did I go to the fete but for him? For whom did I adorn myself but for him? And my foot hurt me a thousand times worse than before; and then suddenly--well, you know yourself what happened."

He sets his teeth; his arms twitch, as if he must press her to him. Her head leans softly against his shoulder; her s.h.i.+ning eyes beam up at him--when suddenly she gives a loud cry: her injured foot which she can only just drag along the ground, has. .h.i.t against a pointed stone. She tries to keep up, but her arm slips away from his, and overcome by pain, she lets herself drop on to the gra.s.s.

"Just for a moment I should like to lie here," she says, and wipes the cold perspiration from her brow; then she throws herself down on her face and lies there for a while motionless. He grows frightened when he sees her thus. "Come on," he exhorts her, "you will catch cold here."

She stretches out her right hand to him with her face turned away and says, "Help me up," but when she attempts to walk, she breaks down once more. "You see, it won't do," she says with a faint smile.

"Then I will carry you," he cries, opening out his arms wide.

A sound, half of pain, half of joy, escapes her lips; next moment her body lies upraised in his arms. She sighs deeply, and, closing her eyes, leans her head against his cheek--her bosom heaves upon his breast; her waving hair ripples over his neck; her warming breath caresses his glowing countenance. More firmly does he press her trembling body to him. Away, away further, ever further away, even though his strength fail! Away, to the ends of the earth! His breath becomes labored, acute pains dart through his side, before his eyes there floats a red mist--he feels as though he were about to drop down and give up his ghost--but he must go on--further, further.--

Over there the river beckons; the weir's hollow roaring comes through the silent night; the splas.h.i.+ng drops of water sparkle in the moonbeams.

She lets her head fall back upon his arm; a melancholy yet blissful smile plays about her half-opened lips; and now she opens her eyes, in whose somber depths the reflection of the moon is floating.

"Where are we?" she murmurs.

"At the river's edge," he gasps.

"Put me down."

"I must--I cannot."

Close to the water's edge he lays her down; then he stretches himself full length on the gra.s.s, and presses his hand to his heart and struggles for breath. His temples are throbbing, he is in a fair way to lose consciousness; but, pulling himself together with an effort, he bends his body towards the river, ladles out a handful of water and bathes his forehead with it.

That restores him to consciousness. He turns to Trude. She has buried her face in her hands and is moaning softly to herself.

"Does it hurt very much?" he asks.

"It burns!"

"Dip your foot in the water. That will cool it."

She drops her hands and looks at him in surprise.

"It has done me good," he says, pointing to his forehead, from which single drops of water are still trickling down. Then she bends forward and tries to pull off her shoe, but her hand trembles, and she grows faint with the effort. "Let me help you," he says. One pull--her shoe flies to one side; her stocking follows, and, pus.h.i.+ng herself forward to the very edge of the bank, she dips her bare foot up to the ankle in the cooling stream.

"Oh, how refres.h.i.+ng it is!" she murmurs with a deep breath; then, turning to right and to left, she seeks a support for her body.

"Lean against me," he says. Then she lets her head drop upon his shoulder. His arm twitches, but he does not dare to twine it round her waist; he hardly dares to move. His breath comes heavily; his eyes stare on to the stream, through the crystal waters of which Trude's white foot gleams like a mother-o'-pearl sh.e.l.l resting in its depths.

They sit there in silence. Just in front of them, at the weir, the water's rush and roar. The spray forms a silver bridge from bank to bank, and the waves break at their feet. From time to time the soft night-breeze wafts hushed music towards them, and the monotonous droning of the big drum comes to them mingled with the dull note of the bittern.

Suddenly a shudder pa.s.ses through her frame.

"What is the matter with you?"

"I am s.h.i.+vering."

"Take your foot out of the water at once." She does as she is bid, then draws from her pocket the dainty little cambric handkerchief which she had for the ball. "That is no good," he says, and with a trembling hand pulls out his own coa.r.s.er handkerchief. "Let me dry you!" Silently, with a dumb, pleading look, she submits, and when he feels the soft, cool foot between his hands, everything seems to whirl before him; a sort of fiery madness comes over him, and, bending down to the ground, he presses his fevered brow upon it.

"What are you doing?" she cries out.

He starts up. In wild ecstasy their eyes meet--one wild, exuberant cry, and they lie in each other's arms. His kisses burn hot upon her lips.

She laughs and cries and takes his head between her hands and strokes his hair and leans her cheek against his cheek and kisses his forehead and both his eyes.

"Oh, my darling, my darling! How I love you!"

"Are you my very own?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Shall you always love me?"

"Always! Always! And you--you will never again leave me alone like to-day so that Martin--"

Abruptly she stops short. Silence weighs upon them! What terrible silence! The big drum drones in the distance. The waters roar.

Two deathly pale faces gaze at each other.

And now she screams aloud. "Oh Lord, my G.o.d!" is the cry which resounds through the night.

Loudly moaning, he covers his face with his hands. Tearless sobs shake his frame. Before his eyes everything is aflame--aflame with a blood-red light as if the whole world were set on fire. Now it is all suddenly made clear as day to him! What dawned mysteriously within him in yonder midsummer night, what flashed like lightning through his brain on that evening when Trude broke down sobbing in the middle of her song--all now arises before him like a glowing ball of fire. Every flame speaks of hate; every ray flashes with torturing jealousy through his soul, every gleam pierces his heart with fear and guilty consciousness.

Trude has thrown herself face downwards upon the ground, and is weeping--weeping bitterly.

With bowed head and folded hands he gazes upon her fair form, lying before him in an agony of woe.

"Come home," he says tonelessly. She lifts her head and plants her arms firmly upon the ground; but when he attempts to help her up, she screams out: "Do not touch me!" Twice, thrice, she endeavors to stand upright, but again and again she breaks down. Then without a word she stretches forth her arms, and suffers herself to be drawn up by him. In silence he guides her feeble steps to the mill. Her tears are dried up.

The rigidness of despair has settled upon her deathly pale features.

She keeps her face averted and resistingly allows him to drag her along. Before the threshold of the veranda she loosens her arm from his, and, with what little strength is left to her, she darts away from him towards the house-door. Her figure disappears among the dark foliage.

The knocker gives forth its dull beats. Once--twice, then shuffling footsteps become audible in the entrancehall; the key is turned; a dark yellow ray of light beams out into the moonlight night.

"For heaven's sake, madam, how pale you look!" the maid e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es in a terrified voice.... The door closes with a bang.

For a long time Johannes keeps on staring at the place where she has disappeared.--A cold s.h.i.+ver which runs through him from head to foot rouses him at length. Absentmindedly he slinks across the moonlit yard,--strokes the dogs that with joyous barking drag at their chains,--casts an indifferent glance towards the motionless mill-wheel, beneath the shadows of which the waters glide along like glittering snakes. Some indefinable impulse drives him forward and away. The ground of the mill-yard burns beneath his feet. He wanders across the meadows, back to the weir--to the spot where he was sitting with Trude.

On the gra.s.s there gleams her blue silk shoe, and not far from it lies her long, fine stocking. So she must have limped home with her bare foot and probably is not even conscious of the fact! He breaks into a shrill laugh, takes up both and flings them far into the foaming waters.

Whither shall he turn now? The mill has closed its portals upon him forevermore. Whither can he go now? Shall he lay himself down to rest under some haystack? He cannot sleep even if he does. Stay! He knows of a jolly set of fellows--though he despised them a little while ago, they will just suit him now.

When, at two o'clock in the morning, Martin Rockhammer has shaken himself free of his drinking companions and is stepping, in the happiest of moods, out on to the festival ground, when the bluish-gray light of dawning day is beginning to illumine the doings of these night-birds, he is met by a band of drunken louts, who, singing obscene songs, break in single file through the ranks of the promenading couples. They are headed by the locksmith Garmann, a fellow of bad repute who practices poaching by night and in whose train now follow other good-for-nothing scamps. Intending to turn them out of the place forthwith, Martin steps towards them. But suddenly he stops as if turned to stone; his arms drop down at his sides: there in the midst of this crew, with gla.s.sy eyes and drunken gestures staggers his brother Johannes.

"Johannes!" he cries out, horrified.