ground, where the air was quivering with the heat of the sun.
And, suddenly, he felt a thrill. There lay, outspread, the long and undulating dunes!
"Now, Johannes!" said Pluizer, with a grin, "now you have your wish, you see."
Only half believing, Johannes continued to gaze at the dunes. They came nearer and nearer. The long ditches on both sides seemed to be whirling around their centre, and the lonely dwellings along the road sped swiftly past.
Then came some trees – thick-foliaged chestnut trees, bearing great clusters of red or white flowers – dark, blue-green pines – tall, stately linden trees.
It was true, then; he was going to see his dunes once more.
The train stopped and then the three went afoot, under the shady foliage.
Here was the dark-green moss – here were the round spots of sunshine on the ground – this was the odor of birch-sprouts and pine-needles.
"Is it true? Is it really true?" thought Johannes. "Am I going to be happy?"
His eyes sparkled, and his heart bounded. He began to believe in his happiness. He knew these trees, this ground; he had often walked over this wood-path.
They were alone on the way, yet Johannes felt forced to look round, as though some one were following them; and he thought he saw between the oak leaves the dark figure of a man who again and again remained hidden by the last turn in the path.
Pluizer gave him a cunning, uncanny look. Doctor Cijfer walked with long strides, looking down at the ground.
The way grew more and more familiar to him – he knew every bush, every stone. Then suddenly he felt a sharp pang, for he stood before his own house.
The chestnut tree in front of it spread out its large, hand-shaped leaves. Up to the very top the glorious white flowers stood out from the full round masses of foliage.
He heard the sound he knew so well of the opening of the door, and he breathed the air of his own home. He recognized the hall, the doors, everything – bit by bit – with a painful feeling of lost familiarity. It was all a part of his life – his lonely, musing child-life.
He had talked with all these things – with them he had lived in his own world of thought that he suffered no one to enter. But now he felt himself cut off from the old house, and dead to it all – its chambers, halls, and doorways. He felt that this separation was past recall, and as if he were visiting a churchyard – it was so sad and melancholy.
If only Presto had sprung to meet him it would have been less dismal – but Presto was certainly away or dead.
Yet where was his father?
He looked back to the open door and the sunny garden outside, and saw the man who had seemed to be following him, now striding up to the house. He came nearer and nearer, and seemed to grow larger as he approached. When he reached the door, a great chill shadow filled the entrance. Then Johannes recognized the man.
It was deathly still in the house, and they went up the stairs without speaking. There was one stair that always creaked when stepped upon – Johannes knew it. And now he heard it creak three times. It sounded like painful groanings, but under the fourth footstep it was like a faint sob.
Upstairs Johannes heard a moaning – low and regular as the ticking of a clock. It was a dismal, torturing sound.
The door of Johannes' room stood open. He threw a frightened glance into it. The marvelous flower-forms of the hangings looked at him in stupid surprise. The clock had run down.
They went to the room from which the sounds came. It was his father's bedroom. The sun shone gaily in upon the closed, green curtains of the bed. Simon, the cat, sat on the window-sill in the sunshine. An oppressive smell of wine and camphor pervaded the place, and the low moaning sounded close at hand.
Johannes heard whispering voices, and carefully guarded footfalls. Then the green curtains were drawn aside.
He saw his father's face that had so often been in his mind of late. But it was very different now. The grave, kindly expression was gone and it looked strained and distressed. It was ashy pale, with deep brown shadows. The teeth were visible between the parted lips, and the whites of the eyes under the half-closed eyelids. His head lay sunken in the pillow, and was lifted a little with the regularity of the moans, falling each time wearily back again.
Johannes stood by the bed, motionless, and looked with wide, fixed eyes upon the well-known face. He did not know what he thought – he dared not move a finger; he dared not clasp those worn old hands lying limp on the white linen.
Everything around him grew black – the sun and the bright room, the verdure outdoors, and the blue sky as well – everything that lay behind him – it grew black, black, dense and impenetrable. And in that night he could see only the pale face before him, and could think only of the poor tired head – wearily lifted again and again, with the groan of anguish.
Directly, there came a change in this regular movement. The moaning ceased, the eyelids opened feebly, the eyes looked inquiringly around, and the lips tried to say something.
"Father!" whispered Johannes, trembling, while he looked anxiously into the seeking eyes. The weary glance rested upon him, and a faint, faint smile furrowed the hollow cheeks. The thin closed hand was lifted from the sheet, and made an uncertain movement toward Johannes – then fell again, powerless.
"Come, come!" said Pluizer. "No scenes here!"
"Step aside, Johannes," said Doctor Cijfer, "we must see what can be done."
The doctor began his examination, and Johannes left the bed and went to stand by the window. He looked at the sunny grass and the clear sky, and at the broad chestnut leaves where the big flies sat – shining blue in the sunlight. The moaning began again with the same regularity.
A blackbird hopped through the tall grass in the garden – great red and black butterflies were hovering over the flower-beds, and there reached Johannes from out the foliage of the tallest trees the soft, coaxing coo of the wood-doves.
In the room the moaning continued – never ceasing. He had to listen to it – and it came regularly – as unpreventable as the falling drop that causes madness. In suspense he waited through each interval, and it always came again – frightful as the footstep of approaching death.
All out-of-doors was wrapped in warm, mellow sunlight. Everything was happy and basking in it. The grass-blades thrilled and the leaves sighed in the sweet warmth. Above the highest tree tops, deep in the abounding blue, a heron was soaring in peaceful flight.
Johannes could not understand – it was an enigma to him. All was so confused and dark in his soul. "How can all this be in me at the same time?" he thought.
"Is this really I? Is that my father – my own father? Mine – Johannes'?"
It was as if he spoke of a stranger. It was all a tale that he had heard. Some one had told him of Johannes, and of the house where he lived, and of the father whom he had forsaken, and who was now dying. He himself was not that one – he had heard about him. It was a sad, sad story. But it did not concern himself.
But yes – yes – he was that same Johannes!
"I do not understand the case," said Doctor Cijfer, standing up. "It is a very obscure malady."
Pluizer
