The Breaking of the Storm

the mire, that every beggar might tread upon them with impunity. Death would have atoned for so much, perhaps almost for all! The worst part of the disgrace would have been hidden in the darkness of the grave, and that which had been left behind on earth⁠—the whispers of malicious tongues⁠—would soon have been silenced! Had he required too much? Was death more bitter than the agony of mind which he had endured in these last terrible hours? And if it were, Ottomar must surely know how to die; he could not add to the disgrace of his forgeries, the thousand times greater disgrace of a cowardly flight. And could Schönau have given his consent to this shameful course? He had not done so with goodwill evidently; he hinted even at accompanying circumstances, which he could have wished omitted, but which appeared to have been unavoidable, though he could not take upon himself the responsibility of them. Could this man think and write so, whom he had often, and not merely in jest, called a knight sans peur et sans reproche? Had he so entirely misconceived his and the Colonel’s opinion? Did he remain the sole survivor of an earlier and better time, incomprehensible to the present generation as they were incomprehensible to him? What difference remained then between a nobleman and officer and an adventurer who runs away from his creditors, a clerk who flies with his master’s strong box⁠—what difference between Ottomar von Werben and Philip Schmidt? There was none; the bankrupt tradesman and the aristocratic forger stood on the same level, only that the former might say, “I at least had not the face to compromise an honest man’s daughter, to morally compel my father to go to the girl’s father, and put himself in the humiliating position of being refused⁠—brightly and wisely, as the result shows!”

To the General’s overexcited imagination the scene of that morning suddenly presented itself as if it had only happened an hour before. The day had been gloomy, like this day; the autumn wind had howled round the walls as the March wind was doing today, and the rain had pattered against the window just as it did now. It had been a terrible hour, when he had been forced to humble himself so deeply before the proud plebeian, even though the man himself bore the stamp of nobility⁠—which nature can give and which life often confirms⁠—upon his broad forehead, and on every feature of his fine and venerable countenance. If he should ever again meet this man, should have to endure the look of those deep, shining eyes, where, where could he turn his own?

The General, who had been standing, hardly knowing where he was, with his fixed eyes to the floor, looked up as one of the glass doors on to the platform opened with some noise, and the man whom he had just been seeing in his mind’s eye entered, and closing the door came towards him.

He passed his hand across his forehead. Had his senses really forsaken him? Was that the reason why this vision so little resembled the reality?⁠—why the fire in the deep eyes was extinguished?⁠—why the head, which had been held so high, was now bent low?⁠—why the voice which now addressed him was not harsh with anger and hate, as it had been that morning, but a deep, gentle voice, gentle as the words he now began to understand, and which roused him to a sense of reality?

“I have just heard, General von Werben, that you also wish to go to Sundin; I must suppose, for the same business that takes me there. I have been promised a special train in half an hour. Will you do me the honour of making use of it also?”

The General’s stern, self-controlled countenance looked so distracted and wild with grief, the clear, commanding eyes looked so bewildered, so helpless, that Uncle Ernst could not but feel, as the other had done before, that he was now the stronger and more collected. With a courteous movement he pushed forward a chair to the General, who was leaning unsteadily against the table, and when he mechanically followed the suggestion, seated himself opposite to him.

“I take it for granted. General, that you have received Herr von Schönau’s letter, and that your presence here is the result of that letter?”

The General appeared not to have understood him, and, indeed, he had only heard the words. What did Herr Schmidt know of Schönau’s letter? He uttered the question as it crossed his mind. It was now Uncle Ernst’s turn to look up in surprise.

“Have you not received a letter from Herr von Schönau?”

“Yes.”

“Mentioning that your son⁠—has gone away?”

The General nodded.

“An hour ago⁠—from this station⁠—to Sundin?”

“To Sundin?” repeated the General. Strange that he had not guessed that at once! If Ottomar intended to live, his first thought must naturally be revenge upon that scoundrel⁠—or was it rather the last thing that he wished to accomplish before his death? He might have left it to his father; but, still, here was a gleam of light in the terrible darkness⁠—a spark from the heart of the son, who was not, after all, so entirely lost, into that of the father. “It was not mentioned in the note,” said he. He had raised his head a little, and a feeble fire shone in his sad eyes; there was some look in him again of the iron soldier with whom Uncle Ernst had had that terrible passage-of-arms the other day.

“Not mentioned?” said Uncle Ernst; “but, good heavens⁠—”

He broke off suddenly; his face darkened, and his voice sounded harsher, almost as it had done that morning, as he continued:

“Then in his brief note. Captain von Schönau probably did not mention the circumstance that Herr von Werben undertook the journey in question with my daughter!”

The General drew himself up at these words, like a man who was about sharply to resent an unexpected insult. The looks of