The Song of Songs

She paused.

"What is that?" he asked. "I don't know it at all."

"That is my 'Song of Songs,'" she replied, drawing a deep breath.

Never before had she mentioned its name to a living soul.

"Your 'Song of Song'?" he asked in astonishment.

And what lay before her was as clear as daylight; she would perhaps never have such a chance again. This was the moment to lay bare the secret of her youth to him.

"Put down the oars and listen, I am going to confide something to you. You may think it quite silly and ridiculous, but to me it has always been sacred."

Speechless, he shipped his oars,

"You must come and sit beside me, so that I can see your face."

His eye swept the water with a searching glance. The boat was again drifting serenely on the mirror-like bosom of the lake, which seemed to have gathered on its ripples all the throbbing blue and purple shadows of the summer night. There was not the slightest sign of danger ahead, so he obediently did as she wished.

They crouched close together at the bottom of the little craft, with their heads propped against the seat that Konrad had occupied for so long, and she told her story. She related how the legacy her poor runaway father had left behind exercised a powerful influence on her at all periods in her life.... If the years of her girlhood had been full of it, later it even attained a higher and more mysterious significance. It became, as it were, a symbol of all her efforts and actions. When her life became a whirl of useless frivolity then it was silent--sometimes for years together--but whenever her soul had an uplifting, whenever her pursuits and ideals accorded, then it came to life again. It outsang all that was low and unlovely in the world. From disgrace and wickedness outwardly it had not been able to protect her altogether, but it had at least kept her free within, and susceptible to the advent of one for whom she had unconsciously waited. And now that this one of all others had really come, she felt that the hour of fulfilment, both for herself and for her "Song of Songs," had sounded. Now it seemed that it must go forth into all the world to touch and conquer every heart and to bring its creator and herself glory and redemption.

So she talked herself into such a state of exalted enthusiasm that she became unmindful of time and place, and everything but the one thought that she still had more of what was best and purest within her to lay at his feet. But she had said as much as she could say, more than she could ever have believed she would confide to any human being, more than till this hour she had known of herself. He now held her noblest, truest self in the hollow of his hand, to do with it what he listed. All that was lax and impure, all that had brought ruin into her heart and life, was gone. She need no longer trouble herself about it.

While she had been telling him this wonderful tale, she would have liked to see what effect it had upon him, but had not trusted herself to glance at his face. Now, however, that it was finished, she ventured to turn in his direction, and became aware that his eye rested on her with a curiously confused and wild expression, such as she had never noticed in him before; for, as a rule, he kept his emotions at a distance with, as it were, fisticuffs. Her heart began to beat loudly, and the unrest of expectation to which she could give no name became so strong that she nearly ran to the other end of the boat to control it and prevent herself suffocating.

Then she saw him shut his eyes and throw his head back against the sharp edge of the seat. "You will hurt yourself," she whispered; and, instead of fleeing from him as she wanted to do, she placed her arm to serve as a cushion between his neck and the seat.

Now he lay on her breast and breathed heavily.

"Shall I sing you some more out of it?" she asked, bending over him tenderly.

"Yes, yes, please," he murmured.

And she sang, in a half-coaxing voice, as if she were singing lullabies, all those arias which, since the day her poor mother's mind had sunk into eternal night, had never been heard by any human ear. "The lily of the valleys" and "The rose of Sharon" she sang, and that other lyric in which all the sounds and magic of spring were mingled:

So she went on singing, more and more. When she sometimes paused and asked if he had heard enough, he only shook his head and pressed closer to his soft pillow.

Once she glanced round and saw that they were moored in the reeds, and that it was now completely night. But why should she mind that? Somehow or other they would manage to get home.

She was drawing to the end. There were only "Set me as a seal upon thine heart," "How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, O prince's daughter," to come; and, above all, the verse which began with words so singularly appropriate to this day's adventures: "Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field." But when she came to the lines:

her breath failed her and she could not go on.

"Why have you stopped singing?" she heard him ask.

There was a buzzing of bees and a ringing of bells in her ears.

"Be brave!" a voice shouted within her; "be brave, or you will lose him for ever."

But at that moment she felt two trembling lips seeking hers, and then it was all over with thoughts of being brave.

Midnight was long past when the boat at last put in to the shore. The bathing pavilion was dark and deserted, but in the hotel lights still glimmered.

In extreme trepidation they rang the bell.

"There's always a room ready here for belated young married couples," said the deferential, smiling landlady reassuringly.

CHAPTER XVI

It would be incorrect to say that no lucky star shone on Lilly's love at this stage of its development. In the first place, Adele proved, in her born uncommunicativeness and passionate partiality for the handsome "friend" of her mistress, a valuable ally. Secondly, Richard, who on the memorable Sunday had been obliged to go off and join his mother at Harzburg, remained away not for a day only, but for a whole week; thirdly, when he visited her on his return, he was so full of his own affairs that he had no eyes for her guiltily embarrassed reception of him.

He affected a lofty and superior air, the nasal drawl of his cavalry-officer days, and wore a monocle dangling over his navy-blue silk waistcoat. Judging from which, and such symptoms as his head inclining to an extreme angle on his left shoulder and his eyes blinking slyly, it might have been gathered that instead of joining his mother dutifully, he too had been on a spree à deux in the country on his own account.

This, however, proved an erroneous supposition. He had not only been actually at Harzburg till the evening before, but he had to go back there at once for a longer stay--for a month, at least.

"What's the matter with you?" he exclaimed; for Lilly, in a seventh heaven of delight at the news, fell back in her chair almost swooning.

It was true that she immediately scrambled up again and would not own to anything unusual in her behaviour; but he insisted on piling cushions at her back, and would not allow her to risk the exertion of pouring out tea for him. His every act was eloquent of a guilty conscience.

"A summer holiday together is out of the question for us," he said, trying to return to his lofty manner. "And not only that, we have become much too dependent on each other. It will be well for both of us to go our own gait for a bit, and best for all parties concerned. In fact, it's absolutely necessary in view of coming circumstances."

This speech sounded as familiar to Lilly as an old tune in music. She knew exactly what was coming.

"Confess," she said, smiling. "What's on the cards now?"

And then he came out with it, stuttering and drawling out his words. An American, born of German parents, with millions of dollars, of irreproachable style, extremely chic, approved by his mother, and her own parents not averse, and she herself to all appearances agreeable. If he didn't do it now, he never would.

"I congratulate you," Lilly said, tapping his hand playfully. He stared at her with astonished and somewhat reproachful eyes.

"Is that all you've got to say to it?" he asked.

"What else should I say?"

"You can take it so coolly? Are you so utterly without feeling that the thought of parting from your old friend doesn't affect you in the least? I thought you were a little more womanly and sympathetic; I must say I did."

"Please recollect," she said, "that every time that you have talked of marrying you have made the same reproach when I have said I have no desire to stand in your way. You talk as if it was I who was showing you the door, instead of its being the other way about."

Then he flared up. "What expressions you use! How can you possibly tell what I am going through--the wrestling and struggles I have with myself? How many nights do you think I haven't slept a wink for wondering what is to become of you? But you go on as if it had nothing on earth to do with you. You are, in fact, as frivolous and heartless as you can be; so now you know my opinion of you."

At his words, delightful visions of her freedom danced before her eyes, glowing nights given up to uninterrupted love, days of sweet anticipatory dreams. Anything that might happen afterwards seemed as far off as the end of the world. She listened to the rest of his harangue with an absent, indulgent smile.

"If you don't see there's anything to worry about in your future," he wound up, "that's all the more reason why I should take it into consideration. I have to provide for you, and mamma agrees that it's my duty."

The word "mamma" made her pull herself together.

Since the terrible scene in the counting-house, her name by mutual consent had been left out of their conversations. They had substituted for it evasions which each had understood and appreciated in the other.

Now, without warning, "mamma," the symbol as it were of all that was disgraceful and degrading in her existence, flamed before her eyes.

"Any scheme that she has a finger in," Lilly cried, "must humiliate me to the dust. I tell you both straight that you had better be careful. If you make any proposals to me about an allowance of money, I shall consider it a bitter insult and never forgive you."

He paced the room, wringing his hands. "There you are, talking nonsense again! Don't you see that the world would cry shame on me if I turned you off with nothing? And, apart from that, what do you think would become of you?... You'd be on the streets. Woman, do you realise that?"

With sublime indifference, she ignored both him and his heroic zeal on her behalf.

"I can think of other ways," she said, half to herself.

Before her rose a life full of struggle and strenuous triumphs, a tossing hither and thither through storms and hardships, and a jubilant victory as she entered at his side into the society of those who were as good and steadfast as he was. But that final consummation could only come later--much, much later.

Richard interpreted her differently. His eyes were fixed on her suspiciously. He paused in front of her and asked, with a slight shudder, "I say, are you going ... to act like a fool and injure yourself?"

She burst out laughing. Already he evidently pictured her beautiful corpse being dragged out of the water and laid out.

"No, I am not going to commit suicide ... at least, certainly not on your account; and, if I wanted to, I would manage it with such good taste that you would not be inconvenienced or have anything to reproach yourself with."

"You can't mean that you think you'll marry!" he rejoined, still unconvinced. "What decent fellow would marry you after you've lived with me for four years?"

"There are other ways," Lilly repeated obstinately.

He seemed relieved, but went on: "I don't half like leaving you here to mope alone. You'll get depressed, and then you'll be nasty to me. What do you say to having a little change somewhere? You might go to Ahlbeck or Screiberhau, or some strait-laced place like that."

Only by a slight quiver of the eyelids did she betray the scornful laughter that convulsed her inwardly.

"You know I hate making acquaintances," she answered lightly; "and in the midst of people who don't want me I feel doubly alone."

He relapsed into frowning meditation.

"Well, then," he hesitated, and drawled out his words as people do who are afraid of their own boldness, "then ... perhaps the best thing would be for you to come ... somewhere near."

"Near where?"

"Don't pretend you don't know what I mean."

"I do know, but I can hardly believe my ears."

"What is there so wonderful in it?" he growled. "I could look after you sometimes, and have a chat about one thing and another."

"And show me her, I suppose, to get my opinion and my blessing?"

"Well, what if I did? You and I have consulted each other about everything we have done for years.... I cannot for the life of me see why it should be so monstrous in this case."

She felt something of patronising pity for him. She patted his hand and said:

"I don't think, my dear boy, that I am quite the right person to assist in your courtship."

"Good Lord! What next? You talk quite theatrically to-day. You are evidently suffering from swelled head. Yes, swelled head, I say! You are trying to get a rise out of me, and I don't like it, just now especially."

She laughed and stretched herself. How petty it all was, and how ridiculous! How little she cared! And why should she care?

Alone--to be alone with him. That was the only thing that mattered in the whole world.

"You would rather not, then?"

She silently shook her head.

"Very well," he said, and looked as if he were going to leave her in anger; but he hadn't the strength of mind, "Lilly."

"Yes?"

"I should like to prevent any future misunderstandings between us. You seem to think that, this time too, it's all a joke."

"Not at all, Richard. I wish you every happiness. Only, with the best intentions, I cannot be of much use to you in this matter."

"Of use to me! Who was saying anything about your being of use to me? Mamma is right! She says if I don't pull it off this time I never shall. So, understand once for all, in a few weeks all will be over between us."

She nearly said, "So much the better"; but seeing that there were tears in the corners of his eyes she refrained, for she didn't wish to hurt him.

Four years of life spent together lay behind them. He was so dependent on her for sympathy that she could not let him go without a word of advice and encouragement. She spoke to him as if he were a child, said that his mother was right, praised his scheme, and enumerated the many good reasons why it ought to come about; and in order to put his mind at ease with regard to her own complacent attitude, she reminded him that it had always been her highest ambition that he should feel free to do as he liked. She also assured him that to the end of her life she would retain her sentiments of friendship towards him. And in the end they both shed tears at parting.

CHAPTER XVII

Now the way was clear, now the new life might be consecrated with rejoicing and thanksgiving. July came and scorched the deserted streets. Those who remained in the aristocratic West-end, with no employer to ply the lash, spent dreamy days behind closed shutters, and wandered between bedroom and bath.

Lilly did not come to life till evening, when the town breathed out the heat that it had absorbed during the day in a redhot glow, when dusty clouds rolled over the yellow surface of the canal, and behind the parched and prematurely faded chestnuts the red furnace of the sky melted into the reflected lights of the street-lamps.

Then at Konrad's side she strolled through the blue twilight of the streets, using her eyes so as to escape observation from acquaintances who might chance to be about.

They met worthy, middle-class families on their way to the gardens. Lovers joined each other at appointed street corners. And between these two extremes was the floating element of those detached beings who are alone and solitary in crowds, and who yearn to steal from laughing Chance what they have prayed for in vain from sterner gods. A sultry vapour of secret desires hung over the exhausted city, in which conventional reserve and genuine sentiment flickered up and were extinguished as if they had never been.

How long ago seemed the days when she herself had sauntered around, hoping for fate to come her way, yet not daring to compel it. And, with a shudder at the thought of the dangers she had escaped, she clung closer to Konrad's protecting arm.

They always succeeded in finding some private nook after their own heart to dine in, where a gipsy band scraped their fiddles wildly, or Tyrolese played their zithers, or the landlord himself, a musician who had known better days, acted as conductor of an orchestra. In ivy-clad arbours, where the hot breeze stirred the dust on the evergreens in tubs, they could pass the evening hours together without fear of discovery. In the meantime a change had come over their intercourse. There were still instructive and erudite harangues on every conceivable subject, and listening attentively she hung on his lips with as much eagerness as ever, but her holy zeal for scientific studies had evaporated.

That God did not exist, that Fra Filippo Lippi was a scoundrel, that a line gone mad should be consigned to an asylum even if it was modern of the modern, that baroque art had its redeeming qualities--all this and much else that was interesting Lilly had heard many times, but it no longer provoked argument.

Often they looked long and silently into each other's eyes with a tender smile of yearning, as if that were the most eloquent language in which they could converse. Often too his thoughts wandered away on their own solitary excursions, and only came back to her under coercion. Then she was sad and jealous, and begged to go home.

Not till he was pillowed in her arms, lying close to her heart, was she content. The heat of the day had baked the walls through. The curtains were oppressive, and through the blinds a kind of desert cyclone blew; but they took no notice, the sultriness suited their mood.

They dreaded falling asleep as a misfortune, which shamefully abbreviated the hours of their being together, and so they promised that the one who kept awake longer was to rouse the other.

It was she who always kept awake longer; for he was exhausted by the day's work. For him there was no prospect of another doze after breakfast in bed, or of a siesta on the couch as alleviation from the midday heat. And as he lay with tired limbs outstretched, twitching like a noble hound's after a day's sport, she had not the heart to keep her promise. Then she would sit up beside him, and in the light cast from the pink-shaded, dimly burning lamp gaze at him hour after hour without tiring.

There was always something in his face to study. The frown of wrath, or rather of power, between his brows was more sharply defined than it used to be, and still frightened her a little. The muscles in his temples were never at rest, and the firm, curved upper lip trembled at the corners as if he were smiling at her in his sleep. He had become thin. In the haggard hollows of his cheeks were shadows spreading towards the jaws which they darkened, and there was a line of suffering about his nostrils. He was like a young Christ, made to be worshipped.

Often as she gazed at him she thought, "If I killed him at this moment--plunged a hat-pin into his heart--then he would belong to me entirely, now and always."

Then she would grope on his left side for his heart, lay the hollow of her hand against it, and fancy that she held it fast in her power, and with his heart, his love for her, and need never more relinquish either.

Once while she stooped over him, contemplating him thus earnestly, she woke him, and he looked at her in alarm, and, still half-asleep, asked:

"What is the matter? Have I hurt you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Your eyes have such a curious expression, almost as if you were angry with me."

She made a vow that she would not gaze at him any more, but she could not help herself, and stared at him as much as ever. She loved him so dearly.

It was terrible when a sudden anxiety possessed her that she might lose him. Many a night this feeling of fear came over her with such cruel realism that she could hardly resist the impulse to rave and scream and tear her hair out by the roots. But she must not wake him, so she crept gently closer to his side, put one arm behind his back, and flinging the other across his breast, laid her head under his shoulder, and clung to him so tightly that she felt almost as if she were growing into a limb of his body.

Thus she became by degrees calmer, and could have a good cry, or give herself up to fancying how infinitely happy she would make him.

Never since time began would a son of Adam have been so happy. She would wrap him in a mantle of love, so soft and thick that no rude strokes of fate could penetrate it. She would be his Egeria and inspire his muse; with an invisible aureole surrounding her head she would stimulate and encourage him to noble undertakings and great achievements; she would tend him with the holy devotion of a sister of mercy.... She would attend cookery classes, learn laundry-work and dressmaking. No, it would be better for her to go to University lectures, study science and music, and a hundred other useful things, so that he should never find her a dull companion, or a useless helpmate.

For all this, she must of course be free and get rid of Richard. She thought a great deal about him, too; invariably without bitterness or resentment. Long ago he had been forgiven for setting her feet on the downward path.

"Everyone has his own standard of right," Konrad was wont to say. And, after all, to Richard she once owed her salvation.

The new life was to begin publicly as well as privately, with his engagement, which he wrote was on the eve of taking place. But she still felt hardly equal to a crisis. She shuddered at the thought of all the lies that would have to be told to Konrad as soon as a change took place in her household.

She preferred to avoid as long as possible the inevitable hardships lying before her in the future. Only at night, when she lay on the sleeping man's breast, did she work herself up into an ecstasy of sufficient rapture to look forward to poverty and privations shared with him as a royal inheritance of purple and gold. At three o'clock in the morning, when the lamps outside were extinguished one by one, and the reflection of the first grey shadows of cold dawn lay on the ceiling, she was bound in honour to wake him.

He must not meet other residents in the house on account of his own reputation and hers.

As he dressed, he fumbled, half-asleep, among the ivory coroneted brushes, and managed to complete a hasty toilette in time to reach the nearest Viennese café as soon as it opened for a pick-me-up in the shape of a black coffee.

For from Lilly's arms he insisted on going straight to his desk. She could not talk him out of this insane proceeding. It was an atonement that the night's pleasure demanded from him, and so he would sit brooding among his books and papers till noon, often unable to write a line from fatigue.

She, on the other hand, sank into a profound slumber, from which she was awakened about ten o'clock by the entry of Adele, smiling approvingly, with the breakfast-tray.

Every other night she allowed him to devote to his work. She had no desire to sap his young life's blood. He made her anxious enough as it was. She did not like his hectic colour, nor the glitter in his eye. It disquieted her to see the abrupt changes in his mood from uproarious gaiety to absent-minded self-absorption.

All this should be altered when--what?

Oh! why bother about plans? Why not go on just as she was--loving him and making him happy? She passed her days in half-joyous, half-terrified dreams. She now had lost her zest and delight in mental exertion. There were other things that seemed more important than cultivating her intellect--the abject desire to be ever pleasing to his eyes, to hand him with unfailing regularity the intoxicating draught that held him in her toils. Hitherto she had accepted her personal charms as a matter of course, and valued them little more than anything else that was not seen and of no use. Now the cult of her body became a mania, for she so dreaded falling short of the ideal of her that she knew he had engraved on his heart. The desire to be beautiful, and the necessity of remaining beautiful, drove her to adopt methods which she had hitherto disdained. She took as much pains with herself as a woman in a harem. She perfumed her baths, tinted her nails, lengthened her eyebrows, powdered her arms and shoulders, and continually fancied she saw blemishes which needed new cosmetics to remove.

Then she was overtaken by a dread that all this care might only convert her appearance into that of a beautiful professional harlot. For this reason she left off wearing jewellery, and dressed more quietly than a parson's wife. Only the eye of a connoisseur could detect the amount of artistic ingenuity that her plain garb concealed.

Most of all when she was alone did jealousy occupy her thoughts. Not that she imagined he had anything to do with other women. He was far too noble to be suspected of that. But she was jealous of all that he did, and of all his concerns. It was torture to her to think of his writing-table. Every hour not spent in her society seemed like treachery to their love, and she cherished an hostility towards his friends such as she could never have believed herself capable of. Often, on the nights that he spent apart from her, she would keep watch on his rooms. She would stand opposite the house and look across the street and up at the windows, much as she had once done in the Alte Jakobstrasse. If the lamp was burning in his window she was content, but if she saw him going out or coming in she did not close her eyes all night.

He lived not far away, on the third floor of a Karlsbad lodging-house. It was long before he would allow her to visit him there. Next door to him, he had told her, was an invalid who needed the utmost care; any excitement caused by the sound of strange voices might prove fatal to her. When he spoke of the invalid his eyes avoided meeting hers, and she thought there were a hundred chances to one that he was keeping some secret from her.

When, however, after her persistent entreaties, he admitted her one afternoon she found nothing to confirm her suspicion. She was only besought to speak in a low tone, and she had known she must do this beforehand. His room was little more than a student's den. It was lofty, with two windows, but cheaply furnished--with no sofa and no carpet. On the walls hung rare engravings, and the usual pier-glass was displaced by a valuable copy of the "Madonna de Foligno," which looked down with sublime serenity on the barren wastes of northern Philistinism. Heaps of books were ranged on long low shelves, while others were simply piled on the floor in different corners of the room, covered with pieces of American cloth to keep them from the dust.

The writing-table alone, as might have been expected, boasted a certain luxuriousness. Like the pictures and books, it was Konrad's personal property. It stood, with its handsome carving and wide, open leaf, like a dark and solemn altar in the middle of the room. Not a single photograph of a woman was anywhere to be seen. She had not given him hers, and no other woman's was worthy of a place on his desk. Behind maps and ink-bottles was propped the portrait of an old gentleman in a frame. The face was that of a weather-beaten old gourmet, with beautiful, well-kept white hair, and eyes, peculiar to connoisseurs of women, blinking shrewdly under wrinkled drooping lids.

This was the famous old uncle who had paid for Konrad's education and now supported him.

Lilly was conscious of a profound depression of spirits as she looked at the portrait, as if one glance of those keen old eyes could read her soul and bring to light the secret that she was keeping from her lover with a thousand artifices and subterfuges.

"I'll take care that I never meet him," she thought,

Konrad took from a drawer his proudest treasure, the introduction to his great work, and showed her the closely written sheets of the manuscript.

She let her fingers pass caressingly over it. She regarded it with quite reverent awe. But then all of a sudden the jealousy that had of late been tormenting her soul attacked her with renewed force.

This manuscript was his real love, and she was nothing but a dark, bloodless shadow, who preyed on his nights like a vulture.

"Lock it up again," she said; and she turned despondently to go.

As if the magnum opus was not enough, there was a number of smaller things that kept him drudging. The more his name became known as that of a specialist in literary circles, the more frequently was he asked to contribute articles, and he strove to execute every order he received.

One day it came out what the important post was that he had been offered and had mentioned to her three weeks ago, on their memorable expedition into the country.

"I haven't dared to come to a decision till to-day," he said. "But now I have made up my mind. The editor of the periodical which I am to sub-edit in future has called on me, and left me no loophole for refusing. I was obliged to say 'Yes.' He is a charming fellow! In spite of his great intellectual ability, a man of almost childlike simplicity ... and so frank, so genial.... You must get to know him--if you don't know him already."

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Dr. Salmoni."

CHAPTER XVIII

No, it was not to come out in this way! Fate was not to lay hands on her quite so rudely and clumsily.

She was to be spared the disgrace of being caught like a criminal, and ultimately, by an act of self-denial, she was to prove that she had not been altogether unworthy of the great blessing of her life.

Since the name Salmoni had been mentioned between them, she scarcely dared venture into the streets in Konrad's company. As she walked with him arm-in-arm, she imagined that every step she heard coming behind them was that of the dreaded man who had once followed her into the Alte Jakobstrasse.

At last, to end the torture of this new anxiety, she made up a story to Konrad about a lady she was acquainted with calling on her, and asking who the tall, slim young man was in whose company she was now so often seen.

The result of this necessary lie was terrifying. He would not speak or eat, but strode about the room in great perturbation, finally leaving her at an hour when generally her bliss was just beginning.

The following day brought forth an explanation. He came at dusk, paler than usual, with unnaturally brilliant eyes.

"Listen, dearest!" he said. "I thought it over all last night, and I now see my duty clear before me. This must not go on."

She could interpret this only as a wish to leave her. Her body seemed to become numb; she faced him calmly, and awaited her death-blow.

"Since we have belonged to each other," he continued, "we have made no further allusion to your fiancé. Nevertheless, I have thought all the more about him in private. You, too, have been very reticent with regard to your friend Herr Dehnicke. I only know that he is at present travelling, and has left you, so to speak, without a protector."

She forced herself to smile. Why must he prolong the agony?

"To-day I must confess to you that in the midst of all my happiness I have felt that my taking advantage of such a situation is altogether despicable. But my feelings are not in question. The main consideration is, what will become of you? What I feared from the first has come to pass: people are beginning to remark on our being together.... You can't bind anyone to secrecy.... It would be lowering to one's dignity. Thus the mutual friend of you and your betrothed is certain, sooner or later, to hear all about it, and to call you to account. You will be, of course, too proud to deny it, and the upshot of it all is that you will be left stranded and alone--without any sort of guardianship in the world. For I, as matters now stand, have not even the right to protect you. The thought is perfectly intolerable to me, whatever it may be to others."

He jumped up, ran his fingers through the imaginary mane of hair, and tramped up and down.

She came slowly back to life and consciousness, as the blood began to course more naturally through her veins.

The dear, noble boy! How unsuspecting he was! She could have almost shrieked with laughter. But she controlled herself and said: "You needn't disturb yourself, Konni. His friend is not likely to hear anything, and if he does he won't believe it. And even if he does believe it, he will take good care that ..."

She could not go on. The great guileless eyes frightened her.

"You think, then, he would ..."

He too hesitated, unable to find words in which to express the unspeakable.

She examined the buttons on her bodice and didn't answer.

"When is Herr Dehnicke coming home?" he asked.

"It is not certain. He is gone wife-hunting," she replied, with a little feeling of triumph at having said something that placed her miles outside the radius of any suspicion now or to come.

"Where is he at present?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because I must have a talk with him."

She could hardly credit what she heard. He couldn't have said it. Surely, either he or she must be taking leave of their senses.

"Don't be anxious," he said. "I am quite aware what I owe to your reputation. But I must find out once for all what opinion he has of your position.... Here is a man in America who has your promise, yet makes no sign.... He doesn't turn up, and he doesn't write. Why doesn't he write? If he hasn't got your address, why should he not write through Herr Dehnicke, whose business is known all over Berlin? No one is even sure if he is still alive. For a long time I tried to explain his silence in various ways; but now I can't help saying to myself, the only explanation there can possibly be is that he is dead, or as good as dead. Are you to continue bound to a dead man? Is your social existence to be dependent, as it were, on a guard of honour who has nothing to guard? This is the point I would like to discuss with the mutual friend. He'll have to answer me, or do you think he'll object?"

Really, he has less knowledge of the world than is permissible, she thought compassionately; and aloud she replied, "I don't quite see, Konni, how you are justified in forcing an interview on a stranger."

"That's my affair," he said, throwing back his head defiantly. "First, I must know if he will let you be free to do as you like. I don't see why he should hold the slave-driver's whip over you."

"And I don't see why you should put yourself in a false position," she cried in newly awakened alarm. Already she heard fisticuffs and pistol-shots resounding in her ears. "I will speak to Herr Dehnicke myself; I will set myself free. I promise you that. But you ... if I let you go to him, what will he think of me? You will only succeed in compromising me."

He drew himself up. His eyes were those of a conqueror. "If a man loves you and wants you for his wife, I fail to see how that can compromise you."

It was dusk and oppressively close when these words were spoken. The little bullfinch flapped its wings languidly in its sand, the goldfish remained motionless behind their wall of hot glass, and the small naked monkey whimpered in his sleep. Heavy masses of bluish-black clouds were reflected in the slimy water of the canal. There was a menace of storm in the air--and this was the thunderbolt.

Her first feeling was one of surprise--certainly not pleasant surprise; then followed an unutterably plaintive cry, unheard by any human ear, and which hurt all the more because it was dumb.

"Too late ... played out ... past caring. No more happiness on earth ... too late ... too late!"

She leaned back in the sofa-corner and examined the ceiling minutely and carefully.

He waited for his answer.

If she lowered her eyes they must meet his, full of a fire which burned into her soul. No salvation from these eyes, no escape from what had to come!

And he waited.

Then she heard her own voice speaking quite calmly and distinctly, as if instead of herself Frau Jula was speaking--life's little mountebank with the brow of brass.

"I thought, dear Konni, we had agreed that neither of us should talk of marrying."

"How can you remind me of that?" he cried vehemently. "When I said so, could I foresee how things would turn out? Had I the least inkling then of what you are? Did I know you were so divine an angel, who can exalt a poor devil like me one moment into a seventh heaven of bliss, and the next plunge him into hell's torments?... Yes, I mean it! Torments, for to-day all must come out--the unvarnished truth. There's a gap in my life. All is in chaos: my work, my thought, my faith in you. You would be my good genius, but often you are something almost the reverse. Don't distress yourself. I am not reproaching you ... but only myself, for being so weak.... I want to work; I ought to work.... I have just undertaken a whole pile of new duties. I thought that if my duty was imposed on me from outside, I should be bound to stick to it. But the very opposite has happened. I am running to seed through perpetual inner wrestling and questioning.... If I don't bring our lives into a peaceful and equable channel, we must both be lost. I can't do it unless you belong to me properly and altogether, unless your room is next to mine and you are always within sight of my desk--always near, always beside me."

"I can arrange to come to you in the autumn," she interrupted timorously.

"No, not in that way! I will have no more secretiveness, no more ground for self-reproaches. Am I to have it on my conscience that every day you sacrifice yourself for me further you come nearer to your ruin? For in the end it must ruin you; it will stick to you like mud. And why should we make a polluted thing out of what is most sacred to us? Or is it that I am not good enough to be your lasting companion through life? Do you shrink from being my wife on the score of poverty?"

In repudiation of this idea she almost screamed aloud.

"What you have and how much," he continued, "I do not wish to inquire. I am well enough off for both of us. My uncle allows me three hundred marks a month, and I get four hundred from Dr. Salmoni."

Ah! how she shuddered at that name!

"Besides, I can easily earn three hundred marks by articles alone ... that's altogether a thousand marks a month. As good as a general's pay.... Isn't that enough for you?"

"Oh, for pity's sake, be quiet!" she cried, hardly able to contain herself. "I wasn't thinking of money."

"Of what, then?"

He planted himself in front of her with an air of challenge. The dent of wrath was between his brows, as if it had been chiselled there. She bowed her head. Since the days of the colonel she had never been so afraid of any man.

"Well, why not? Out with it and say what it is! To all appearances you do not love me sufficiently. You still cling, perhaps, to the memory of the fellow who has long ago forgotten you. You may probably have said to yourself, 'I can make use of this foolish boy as a lover pro tem. He's all very well as an amusement to pass the time, but when it comes to his seriously interfering with the course of my life, I must get rid of him--throw him over, eh?' Isn't that it? Be brave and say it straight out! I am merely a stop-gap, not the sort of man you want for a husband. Not till I have begun to make a name could you think of marriage. Am I not right? Very well."

He had taken up his hat, and looked as if he intended going.

"Oh, Konni, have mercy on me!" she implored. She had slid down from her seat in order to clasp his knees. Now she cowered on the floor between the sofa and his chair.

"There is no need for me to have mercy, or for you to have mercy!" he exclaimed. "Till to-day you have been the holiest thing on earth to me. But I cannot submit to being brushed away like a fly. Tell me why you won't marry me. One plausible reason will satisfy me. When you have given it, I promise never to return to the subject."

"Give me till to-morrow," she moaned.

"Why till to-morrow? To-day is the same thing. I cannot go through another night of torturing suspense."

"I'll write."

He was evidently amazed. "Write? What is there to write?"

"Whether I may or not. The reasons and everything."

"Some way out of it will come to me in the night," she thought.

"When shall I get the letter?"

"To-morrow morning by the first post."

"Very well. Till then I will have patience. Good-bye, Lilly, for the present."

He helped her back to the sofa and held out his hand in farewell, and as she saw his great eyes fixed on her, with that steadfast clearness which no lie or suspicion of a lie had ever clouded, she knew there was no escape for her. Evasion was no longer to be thought of; the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, was what Konrad must be told. It swept over her like a warm, soothing stream: "Whether it means your damnation or not, he shall know the truth." Only, to tell him face to face was more than any mortal could endure.

When she was alone, reaction set in. The instincts of self-preservation asserted their rights. Surely, what Frau Jula had done she could do. She had had far worse things to explain away.

Richard would undoubtedly keep silent, and that was the most important point. Now that he was bent on marrying, it would be in his own best interests to allow her to vanish as gracefully as possible out of his life. The rest of "the crew" might gossip as much as they liked. Konrad was invulnerable to their slander.

The one danger ahead was Dr. Salmoni. But she had only to go to him, to entreat his silence, and he, too, would hold his tongue. He certainly would have good cause to prefer that his abominable attempted assault should not be brought to light. So she reflected. Yet in the midst of her planning and scheming a sudden disgust of herself and what she was going to do seized her, and shattered with one blow the whole fabric of intended deception.

If the mere name of Dr. Salmoni had prevented her going out in the streets with Konrad, how could she expect to pass her life at his side without quailing in hourly fear? How numerous would be the snubs and humiliations she must expect directly Konrad made any attempt to introduce her as his wife into the society to which he belonged! She who had figured in the newspapers as the latest acquisition to the circles of the fashionable demi-monde! And what if he too began to suspect? How he would be consumed with shame and horror--he who was so proud, and the mirror of all refinement, whose pure unworldliness alone accounted for his not seeing what sort of life she had been leading! What an awakening that would be from a short tormenting dream!

No, she could not emulate Frau Jula after all. And she thrust from her with scorn the atrocious thought which in the stress of the hour she had stained her soul by entertaining.

An exultant longing for self-destruction came over her, and she felt a strong impulse to tear her heart from her breast and hurl it at his feet as she sat down and wrote: