The lights round Olga's coffin had burnt down.

The guests, who for so long had surrounded the bier in solemn silence, began to move to and fro, and to look round for refreshments.

Mrs. Hellinger, who was receiving condolences, and at the same time, with a great profusion of tears and pocket handkerchiefs, extolling the virtues of the deceased, suddenly, in the midst of her grief, proved herself an attentive and liberal hostess. The guests gave a sigh of relief when the doors of the dining-room were thrown open, and from the resplendent table a sweet odour of roast meats, compÔtes and herring salad greeted them.

Mr. Hellinger, senior, praised the Lord, and with a few privileged friends, drank the specially fine claret which he set before them in honour of the occasion. They were not yet agreed whether an innocent game of cards would be disparaging to the general mourning, and decided to send delegates to the hostess to obtain her permission.

There was plenty of life and bustle in the Hellingers' house--one might have imagined one were at a wedding.

The physician, who dropped in late upon this merry company, looked about anxiously for Robert. He was nowhere to be seen.

Thereupon he took one of the guests aside and inquired after him. Yes, he had been there, had looked about him with startled eyes, and had silently moved aside when any one wanted to shake hands with him. But after a very few minutes his disappearance had been noticed.

The physician went into the entrance-hall, and hunted among the guests' wraps for Robert's cloak. It was lying there yet.

With the freedom of an old friend of the family, he then commenced his search through the back rooms of the house, which were quiet and deserted; for the servants were busy waiting at table.

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 God'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 scraping 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 massive 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 embarrassed. 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 goddess, 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 space 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 God'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----'

"I, however, was so filled with the exuberance of my new happiness that I believed I could by force compel her too to be happy. 'If we love each other, Olga,' I cried, 'and the deceased says "Yes" and "Amen" to our union, I should like to see who could object! Therefore be brave and cheerful, my child!' But she was anything but brave or cheerful. And not till now--when she is dead--have I realised how utterly miserable and broken down she was as she lay there on the cushions--she who as a rule was so proud and severe in her behaviour to herself and others. It was as if some intense sorrow had cut the innermost nerve of her life in twain. That is all clear to me now, but then I did not see it--I would not see it; and I went on remonstrating with her, comforting her as I thought. She listened to me, but said nothing; only now and then she nodded her head, and a smile of unutterable sadness and weariness played about her lips.

"I put it all down to the excitement of the moment and to the sadness of the last few years, which must rise up once more all the mightier within her, now that, for her too, a new happiness was dawning to supplant it.

"'And the first thing we do,' said I, 'Olga, shall be to visit the churchyard. When we have stood at Martha's grave, my mother's resistance and the ill-will of the whole world need no longer affect us.'

"Then she let her hands drop from her face, looked at me with great terror-stricken eyes, and asked in a perfectly toneless voice: 'You want to go to the churchyard with me?'

"'Yes, with you,' I answered; 'and now, at once, if you are willing.'

"'Then a shudder ran through her frame, and in a strangely hoarse tone she said: 'Have patience till to-morrow; to-morrow I will do what you wish.'

"'Yes, my dear, good child,' I then said; 'put all foolish fancies out of your head by tomorrow, and think to yourself that she is not angry with us. We shall certainly not forget her! And must not our mutual grief for her bind us all the more closely together for the whole of our lives? Her memory will always be with us; and do you not also believe that from her whole heart she would bless our union if she could look down upon us from heaven? Has she not left us her child as a legacy, that we might watch over it together, and not surrender it to any stranger?'

"Then she threw herself down in front of the little cot, in which the little creature lay blissfully dozing, and pressed her face against its little head.

"Thus she lay for a long time, and I let her lie.

"When she rose up, the rigid calm once more rested upon her face that we were wont to see there. She gave me her hand, and said: 'Go, my friend; leave me alone.' And I went, for I was ready in all things to do her bidding; I did not even embrace her.

"A quarter of an hour later I saw her cross the courtyard. I waited at the window; but she did not look back any more.

"Next morning--well, you know, uncle, how I found her then. And at that moment I was as if struck by lightning. Uncle, I may grow old and grey--that moment will destroy every pleasure, and every laugh will die away from my lips as its consequence. But at least I might live. I might drag on this miserable existence, so that my child should not be deprived of its modest share of happiness. Only that one thing I must know--I must be freed from that one horrible idea, else I cannot go on--I cannot, however hard I try. Else I shall rot away alive.... Some one must arise, even if it be from the other side of the grave, and must tell me wherefore she died!"

Once more there was silence in the dark room. Nothing was audible but the heavy breathing of the two men and the rustling of a rat, which had accompanied Robert's story with the monotonous, hollow music of its gnawing.

The old man struggled hard within himself. Should he treacherously disclose the secret of her life as he had already betrayed the secret of her death? But was there not, in this case, a good deed to be done? Did it not mean freeing him whom she had loved above all things, from the torments to which--either a mistaken idea or a secret consciousness of guilt--condemned him? It seemed like a miracle, like special heavenly grace, that the mouth which seemed closed for ever, should once more be permitted to open, to bring peace to the loved one.

The old man gave a deep sigh. He had taken his resolution. "And supposing she should have taken thought, Robert," he said, "to give an account to you from beyond the grave?"

Robert uttered a cry, and clutched his wrists.

"What do you mean by that, uncle?"

"If you had not burrowed in your grief like a mole, and taken flight before every human face, you would have known long ago what is in every one's mouth, namely, that on the morning of her death I received a letter from her----"

"You--uncle--from her----?"

"Goodness, my boy, you are breaking the bones in my body. Do first listen to me patiently"--and he told him the contents of the letter.

Robert had started to his feet and was nervously running his fingers through his hair. His eyes, which were staring down upon the old man, gleamed through the darkness.

"And the book--give it to me--where is it?"

The old man informed him how great was the danger in which Olga's secret was hovering, and what anxiety he had himself passed through on its account.

"Wait, I will fetch it," cried Robert, and hurried towards the door.

The old man held him back. "Your mother has the key--take care that her suspicion is not aroused."

"The door is half broken, I will smash it entirely."

"They will hear you downstairs."

"They are enjoying themselves much too well!" answered Robert, and laughed grimly. "Come, we will go together."

And through a back door, along the dark corridor, up the creaking stairs, the two men crept like two thieves who have come to take advantage of some festive occasion.

Opening the door proved even easier than they had hoped. The loosened hinge of the lock moved out of its joints almost without pressure.

At the door both stopped, overcome with emotion, as the dark room, faintly illumined by the starry clearness of the night, lay before their eyes. All traces of death had been removed: the empty bedstead--whose supports stood out darkly against the grey wall--alone indicated that its occupant had sought another resting-place. The odour of her dresses, the faint scent of her soap, still filled the room with their fragrance. Even the towels on which she had dried herself were still hanging, in fantastic whiteness, near the black Dutch stove.

Robert, unable to keep himself upright, dropped down upon a chair, and in long, eager breaths, which resembled a sobbing, he drank in the fragrance of the room. It was as if he were trying to absorb into his being the very last trace of her life.

A short, dazzling gleam of light darted through the room, danced along the walls, strayed with a yellow flicker across the writing-desk, and made the white-draped dressing-table stand out from the darkness like some crouching phantom.

The old man had struck a match and was groping by its aid for the little green-shaded lamp which had lighted Olga's sleepless nights. It stood on the pedestal, in the same place where Olga had extinguished it when about to plunge into eternal night. Its glass bowl was yet nearly full of petroleum. She had been in a hurry to get to rest.

Carefully he lifted down the globe and lighted the wick. With a peaceful twilight glow the veiled flame cast its light across the silent chamber. Then he stepped up to the bookshelf, where the gilded volumes were ranged in rows and gleamed in the light. His hand for a little while groped along the wall and then pulled out to the light some blue, rolled-up object.

"We have it, Robert," he cried, triumphantly; "come away!"

The latter shook his head in silence. The old man urged him again; then he said: "We will read here, uncle--here--where she wrote it."

"What if any one should surprise us?" cried the old man, fearfully.

Robert shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the floor.

The old man was satisfied; they softly drew up their chairs within light of the lamp. After this nothing was audible but the rushing of the winter wind as it swept through the leafless lime-tops, and the monotonously hoarse voice of the reader, accompanied from time to time by the chorus of the funeral party--now swelling up loudly, now dying away to a whisper.