III

THE ACCUSED

Now at last the pent-up wrath found a vent.  From the distracting condition of wandering uncertain suspicion, it had been recalled into the glad security of individual hate.  Although up to this time Kerkel had borne an exemplary reputation, it was now remembered that he had always been of a morose and violent temper, a hypocrite in religion, a selfish sensualist.  Several sagacious critics had long “seen through him”; others had “never liked him”; others had wondered how it was he kept his place so long in Lehfeldt’s shop.  Poor fellow! his life and actions, like those of every one else when illuminated by a light thrown back upon them, seemed so conspicuously despicable, although when illuminated in their own light they had seemed innocent enough.  His mother’s frantic protestations of her son’s innocence—­her assertions that Franz loved Lieschen more than his own soul—­only served to envelop her in the silent accusation of being an accomplice, or at least of being an accessory after the fact.

I cannot say why it was, but I did not share the universal belief.  The logic seemed to me forced; the evidence trivial.  On first hearing of Kerkel’s arrest, I eagerly questioned my informant respecting his personal appearance; and on hearing that he was fair, with blue eyes and flaxen hair, my conviction of his innocence was fixed.  Looking back on these days, I am often amused at this characteristic of my constructive imagination.  While rejecting the disjointed logic of the mob, which interpreted his guilt, I was myself deluded by a logic infinitely less rational.  Had Kerkel been dark, with dark eyes and beard, I should probably have sworn to his guilt, simply because the idea of that stranger had firmly fixed itself in my mind.

All that afternoon, and all the next day, the busy hum of voices was raised by the one topic of commanding interest.  Kerkel had been examined.  He at once admitted that a secret betrothal had for some time existed between him and Lieschen.  They had been led to take this improper step by fear of her parents, who, had the attachment been discovered, would, it was thought, have separated them for ever.  Herr Lehfeldt’s sternness, no less than his superior position, seemed an invincible obstacle, and the good mother, although doting upon her only daughter, was led by the very intensity of her affection to form ambitious hopes of her daughter’s future.  It was barely possible that some turn in events might one day yield an opening for their consent; but meanwhile prudence dictated secrecy, in order to avert the most pressing danger, that of separation.