The Silent Mill Part 8

"What a question!" she says with feigned indignation. "Think of that rifle fete three years ago. All the girls told wonders of how well you held them during the dance--not too loose and not too tight;--and that you were tall and good-looking I could see for myself--but what good was all that to me? You overlooked me as utterly as if I were nothing but empty air."

"How old were you at that time?"

She hesitates a little, then says dejectedly: "Fourteen and a half."

"Well, that's the explanation," he laughs. "But I was then already tall and--and--full grown," she answers eagerly. "It wouldn't have hurt you to have whirled me round the room a few times."

"Well, we can make up for it in a fortnight at the rifle fete."

"Yes, can we?" she asks with beaming eyes.

"Martin is one of the patrons of the shooters' company. That is in itself a reason for his being present."

Trude gives vent loudly to her delight; then in sudden perplexity she says: "But I have no dancing shoes."

"Have some made for yourself."

"Oh, our village cobbler is such a clumsy worker."

"Then I will order you a pair from town. You need only give me your measure."

"Will you really? Oh, you dear, darling Hans!" And then she suddenly withdraws her arm, runs forward a few steps, calls out "catch me," and whisks away. Johannes starts in pursuit,--but he is tired--he cannot overtake her. Across the drawbridge of the weir the chase proceeds across on to the vast gra.s.s plain, stretching as far as the distant pine wood. Trude dodges him cleverly,--runs past him--and before he can follow, she is once more on this side of the river. Breathlessly she makes a dash for the chain by which the drawbridge is regulated; from on sh.o.r.e--she tears at it with all her might; the wood-work moves creaking on its hinges--and jerks upwards--at the very moment when Johannes springs on to the foot-plank. He staggers, he cries out,--and clutching hold of the main beam, he manages by sheer force to stem its movement just as the gap is opening. Trude has turned as white as a sheet, she stares speechlessly at him, as, gasping for breath, he gazes down into the dark abyss.

"I didn't--think of that, Hans," she stammers with a look which very eloquently pleads forgiveness.

He laughs out loud. A wild, devil-may-care feeling of happiness has come over him.

"Oh you--you!" he cries, opening out his arms. "I shall have you yet."

And with a fool-hardy leap he jumps on to the narrow main-beam, which, with its two slanting, roof-shaped sides, spans the river.

"Hans--for G.o.d's sake--Hans!"

He does not hear--beneath him is the foaming abyss--he has hard work to keep his balance--he moves forward--he trembles he sways--three more--two more steps only one more daring leap--he is over.

"Now run!" he cries, with a wild shout of glee.

But Trude does not stir. She stares in his direction, paralyzed with terror. Like a tiger he springs towards her--he encircles her with his arms--he presses her to him--she closes her eyes and breathes heavily--then he bends down and lays his hot and thirsting lips upon hers. She gives a loud moan--her body trembles feverishly in his embrace. Then he lets her glide down--his affrighted gaze travels around--has no one seen it? "No, no one!" And what if they have? May Martin's brother not kiss Martin's wife? Did not he himself once require it of him?

She opens her eyes as though awakening from a deep dream. Her eyes avoid his.

"That was not nice of you, Hans," she says softly, "you must never do that to me again!"

He does not answer and stoops to pick up the rose which has fallen from her bosom.

"Let me go home," she says, casting a frightened look around.

They walk along side by side for a while in silence; she gazes into s.p.a.ce; he smells the rose he has found.

"Do you like roses?" he continues. She looks at him. "As if you did not know that," her look says.

"By the bye," he goes on gaily, "why do you no longer put flowers at my bed-side now?"

"He has forbidden me," she stammers.

"That alters the case," he replies, crestfallen. Then their conversation comes to a standstill altogether.

On the veranda Martin receives them with a good-natured scolding. He declares he is ravenously hungry, and supper is not yet served.

Trude hurries to the kitchen to give a helping hand herself.... The meal is consumed in silence. The two do not raise their eyes from their plates. An atmosphere of unbearable sultriness oppresses the earth. The hot wind whirls up small dust clouds and bluish grey veils of mist settle down slowly.

Johannes leans his head against the gla.s.s of the veranda window, but that is as hot as if it had been all day in a fiery furnace. Then Trude suddenly jumps up.

"Where are you going to?" asks Martin.

"Into the garden," she replies.

After a while they hear her mounting the stairs that lead to the turret room. When she comes out again she gives Johannes a quick, timid look, then takes her seat with downcast eyes.

From the village green come sounds of merry-making and screams of enjoyment, mingled with the squeak of the fiddle and the drone of the double-ba.s.s.

"I suppose you'd like to go there, children?" They are both silent and he takes their silence for consent. "Well, then come along," he says, getting up. Trude stretches out her arms in silent anguish, looks across wistfully at Johannes, then with a shake of her head she says, "Don't care about it!"

"Why, what's up?" cried Martin, quite taken aback. "Since when do you get out of the way of dance music? I suppose you two have been squabbling again, eh?"

Johannes laughs curtly and Trude turns away. Suddenly she gets up, says laconically, "Good-night," and disappears.

A little later the brothers, too, part company.

With heavy limbs Johannes mounts the stairs--he opens the door of his room--an intoxicating fragrance of flowers wells towards him. He draws a deep breath and utters a sigh of satisfaction. Then this was the reason for going at such a late hour into the garden! By the side of his pillow stands a huge bunch of rose and jasmine. He drops into bed as if he would like to bury himself beneath this ma.s.s of blossoms. For a while he lies a-dreaming quietly to himself, but his breathing becomes more and more labored, his senses grow dim,--at every pulsation a poignant pain darts through his temples,--he feels as though he must succ.u.mb beneath this overpowering fragrance.

Exerting all his force of will, he pulls himself up and pushes open a window. But even this brings no calm, no relief. A very chaos of fragrance wafts up to him from the garden--the wind breathes hotly upon him, lukewarm, tingling drops of rain beat upon his face. Down in the village the fires from the tar-barrels shoot fitfully through the nebulous clouds of mist veiling the distance.

Johannes looks down. He is waiting. His heart is beating audibly. His longing appears to him almighty--he will force that window below to open and ... hark! Softly the latch is pushed back, one sash is thrown open, and there, leaning far out, framed by waving unbound tresses, Trude's face appears, straining upwards to him with mute yearning.

One moment--then it has vanished. He knows not--shall he exult, or shall he weep?--Now he may sink into sweet unconsciousness--What can the fragrance harm him now?

He undresses and goes to bed; but before he drops to sleep he once more raises himself up, gropes with a trembling hand for the vase, and buries his face in the flowers.

How like it all is to that first evening, and yet how different! Then he was peaceful and happy; now ...

A suddenly awakened memory makes him start; his fingers clutch the handle of the vase more tightly--he listens and listens--he feels as if that merry laugh which then so softly sounded through the floor, must at this moment again greet his ears--he listens with increasing fear till his whole brain is humming and buzzing--an ugly feeling of hatred and jealousy suddenly uprises within him; and, bursting into a wild laugh, he hurls the vase far away into the middle of the room, where it shatters with a crash.

Next morning Johannes is ashamed of himself. It all seems as if it had been a bad dream. He collects the fragments of the vase, fits them together and resolves to get some cement from the chemist and mend it.

Much as he considers the matter, he cannot explain the feeling which prompted him to this act of apparent school-boy folly; he only knows that it was something wicked and loathsome.

He presses his brother's hand more heartily than at other times and gazes silently into his eyes as if to plead forgiveness for some grave crime.

Trude looks pale and as if she had not slept. Her eyes avoid his, and the cup of coffee which she hands him rattles in her trembling hand.