SENTENCED.
Leuthold had listened to the conversation between Johannes and
Ernestine until it reached the point where he saw that Johannes would
prevail. Several times he wondered whether it might not be best to
break in upon them and try to give their interview another colour, but
he reflected that the attempt would be useless with a man of Moellner's
determination, and that he should only be forced to listen to fresh
accusations. Then he devised another plan, and determined to make use
of the opportunity to effect his own escape. Convinced now that his
game was lost, he gathered together the contents of his strong
box, and wrote a few lines to Ernestine that might be found upon his
writing-table when his absence was discovered. They ran thus:
"I have listened to your conversation, and have heard the unfortunate
turn for me that it has taken. I can no longer cherish any hope, and
all that I can do is to outwit this fellow and escape while he is with
you. I take with me whatever of money there is in the house, to defray
the expenses of my journey. I cannot wait until Moellner has gone to ask
you for it, for he would stand guard at the door again, and I should
never escape from his clutches. My life, and my child's future
existence, are at stake. I cannot delay. If you should still decide to
leave with me to-day, you will find me at the railroad-station. There
are still two hours before the departure of the train. If you remain, I
will send you the money for the journey as soon as I can. Farewell,
and, I hope, _au revoir_."
Having written these lines, he slipped out to the stables, had the
horses put into the carriage, and drove to the station. In two hours
his fate would be decided! Once off in the train, and he was safe!
The time spent by Ernestine in mortal struggle with her doubts and
reawakening faith was no less a time of torture to him who was the
cause of all her woe. Any one who has waited a couple of hours for the
arrival of a railroad-train at some insignificant station knows the
meaning of the word "patience." To stand about upon a desolate
platform, stamping your feet to keep them warm, now peering forward to
look along the endless level road, in hopes of discovering the red
spark in the distance, then walking up and down the narrow space again,
and interrogating the sleepy superintendent as often as you think his
patience will permit, as to whether the train will not soon arrive, and
always hearing the same answer, "It will soon be here now,"--an
assertion which the official himself does not believe,--then, for a
change, to wander into the dreary refreshment-room, with its eternal
leathery sandwiches and its faded waiter-girls, who reward you with
such an offensive want of interest because you are not sufficiently
exhausted by a long journey to be brought down to the point of
purchasing any of their stale provisions,--to look at the clock every
ten minutes, under the full conviction that at least half an hour must
have elapsed since you looked last,--and finally, when, stupefied with
fatigue and dully resigned to waiting, you have sunk upon a seat, to be
roused with a start by the shrill whistle of the locomotive, causing
you hastily to collect your seven bundles and rush out, only to be
stopped by the station-porter, because this is not the train you want,
but one that passes before your train,--all these are the miseries of
human life at a railroad-station that every one is familiar with. But
for him who is waiting for the iron steed to save him from pursuit and
death, they become the most terrible tortures that malicious demons can
devise.
Leuthold experienced them to the utmost, with the added anxiety of
watching in two different directions,--in that whence the train was to
approach, and in that whence he himself had come, and where the avenger
might now be upon his track. Thus he passed two hours upon a mental
rack--and when at last the glittering point appeared upon the horizon,
and, coming nearer and nearer, the train swept up before the station,
he thought he should fall senseless at the sound of the whistle that
rung in his ears. With all the strength that he was master of, he
mounted the high steps of the car, and the black, red-eyed, guardian
angel of thieves and murderers spread abroad its smoky pinions and
steamed away with him into the night.
Safety seemed assured. Upon the iron path, along which he was carried
with such fiery speed, no pursuit could overtake him, except through
the electric spark,--that might outstrip him and cause his arrest at
some other station. But this fear did not trouble him greatly, for no
one knew whither he had fled. To baffle pursuit, he had purchased a
ticket for a distant town on the left bank of the Rhine while he
intended going directly to Hamburg, first stopping at Hanover to take
his daughter from her boarding-school.
It was a cold, disagreeable night. Overpowered by fatigue, he fell
asleep once or twice. He dreamed he was in the cabin of a vessel upon
the ocean,--once more he breathed freely--his fears were at an end. And
as we are apt to say, when some danger is past, "Now we are on dry land
again," he, on the contrary, exulted in being on the water. But
suddenly the cruel guard shouted in at the door his monotonous "Five
minutes for refreshment!" and recalled him to the consciousness that he
was still on the land, on the land where for him there was no real
safety. Thus the night passed between waking and sleeping. The other
travellers looked compassionately, by the flickering light of the
car-lamp, at the pale, beardless man leaning back so wearily in the
corner, and thought he must be very ill.
At last the dawn flushed the horizon, and revealed the uninteresting
level landscape. The usual beverage was offered at all the
stopping-places, and drank for coffee by the chilly travellers, who,
reduced to a state of physical and mental weakness, made no complaints,
only murmured, "At least it is something warm!"
An old lady, who had got into the car during the night, and, seated by
Leuthold, fairly drank herself through the whole journey, was greatly
troubled by the presence of the pale man who appeared impervious to
earthly needs and sat perfectly motionless in his corner. What kind of
a man could this be, who never stirred, never took any refreshment,
never smoked, never spoke, not even to answer the usual question,
"Where are we now?" which is almost sure to open a conversation?
Nothing makes friends more speedily than common discomfort in
travelling at night. All the other travellers in the car had grown
confidential,--had stretched themselves, and told whether and how they
had slept. Leuthold alone was as if deaf and dumb. Of course the others
leagued against him. They watched him curiously, and made whispered
remarks upon his appearance. At last he grew very uncomfortable. The
restlessness of the old lady by his side tormented him, she was
perpetually burying him beneath her huge fur cloak, which, she informed
him, she had brought into the car with her because it would not go into
her trunk, and now it had turned out quite useful--who would have
thought a September night would be so cool? Still, she must take it
off, lest she should take cold, and she disentangled herself from the
voluminous garment, almost smothering Leuthold in the process. The
other gentlemen smilingly assisted her, and Leuthold extricated himself
impatiently. The cloak was at last, with considerable pains, secured in
the place made for portmanteaus on one side of the car, during which
process the towers of the capital, looming in the light of morning,
were approached unperceived. The pains had been fruitless, for the
guard opened the door with the words that would release Leuthold,
"Tickets for Hanover, gentlemen!"
"Oh, good gracious I are we there already?" cried the old lady,
rummaging her pockets for her ticket, which Leuthold fortunately picked
up from the floor and handed to her.
Appeased by his courtesy, she asked him if he too was going to get out
at Hanover, and, upon his answering by a brief "Yes," she informed him,
to his horror, that she was going to take her youngest daughter from
the boarding-school there, to establish her as companion with a lady in
Copenhagen. She had a hard journey before her, for she should continue
it that very night.
Therefore he determined not to take the night train for Hamburg, as he
had at first intended, since then he would have to travel the long road
thither from Hanover in company with this officious old gossip and her
daughter. He could not avoid them, as the daughter was in the same
boarding-school with Gretchen, and probably one of her friends. It was
incumbent upon him to have no companions to whom he might become known
and who could thus afford intelligence to the authorities concerning
his route. Great as was the danger in delay, this peril was still
greater. He must choose the lesser evil, and lose a day.
The train stopped. The old lady emerged from the car, like a mole from
the earth, and was greeted with a joyful exclamation from her daughter,
who was waiting for her at the station.
Leuthold threw himself into a droschky, and drove to a hotel, whence he
dispatched a few lines to his daughter, requesting her to come to him.
A long half-hour ensued. What would the daughter be whom he had not
seen for seven years? Was she what she seemed in her letters? If she
were, how should he meet her and gaze into her innocent eyes?
There was a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," he cried eagerly, and
there entered a creature so lovely in her budding maidenhood that
Leuthold could only open his arms to her in mute delight.
The girl stood for one moment timidly upon the threshold, and then
threw herself upon her father's breast with a cry of joy,--a cry in
which all the home-sickness of years was dissolved in the rapture of
reunion. Closer and closer each clasped the other,--neither could utter
a word. The child wept tears of joy in her father's arms, and bitter
drops fell from Leuthold's eyes upon the head that he pressed to his
breast as if this happiness were to be his only for a few minutes.
"Father, let me look at you," Gretchen said at last, extricating
herself from his embrace. And she put her hands upon either side of his
head, and gazed into his eyes with the clear, frank glance of
innocence. He bore her look as he would have borne to look at the sun:
it seemed to him that it must blind him, and that he should never be
able to raise his eyelids again.
"Father dear, I can see how you have laboured and suffered," said
Gretchen sadly. "It was high time for you to allow yourself a little
relaxation. Ah, how good it is of you to come to me,--to me!" And her
emotion found vent in kisses. "But the surprise!" she cried with a long
breath, "the surprise! I could hardly believe my eyes when your note
was handed to me. 'My father's hand,' I thought, 'and from here?' I
opened the note and read,--and read,--in distinct letters, that my
father was really here. I gave such a cry of delight that every one
came running to know what was the matter. I was just out of bed, and
would gladly have run to you in my dressing-gown! Oh, heavens! I could
scarcely dress myself--everything went wrong. I should never have got
through if the Fraeulein had not helped me,--I was in such a hurry!" And
she laughed, and cried, and threw her arms around her father again, as
if she feared he might vanish from her sight. "Ah, father, what shall I
call you? My own darling father, is this really you? Are you going to
stay with me now for a while? Are you half as glad to see me as I am to
see you?"
Thus the innocent, joyous creature overwhelmed him with love and
caresses, and he, lost as he was, heard his condemnation in every one
of her tender words.
Could this angel ever descend from her upper sphere to a knowledge of
her father's crime? Could her pure soul ever be stained with thoughts
of sin, of which as yet she had no idea, and learn to despise, as a
criminal, him whom she now held dearest in the world?
But this was not all that he feared. What if his disgrace were to be
visited upon his child? What if this young bud should be buried beneath
the ruins of his shattered existence? Who would have anything to do
with the daughter of a criminal?
"Visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children to the third and
fourth generation!" These words, hitherto only empty sounds to him,
haunted his memory in terrible distinctness. They perfectly expressed
the dread that possessed him.
"Father, how silent you are!" said Gretchen timidly.
"Oh, my child,--my life! I can do nothing but look at you and delight
in you! Your loveliness is like a revelation to me from on high! I have
become a new man since I know myself the father of such a child! I
cannot jest and laugh,--my joy is too deep! So let me be silent, and,
believe me, the graver I am, the more I love you."
Gretchen instantly understood and sympathized with her father's mood.
"You are right,--we do not jest and laugh in church, and yet I am so
filled there with gratitude for God's kindness to me! How I thank Him
now for this moment! I have prayed Him for so many years to send you to
me, and now my prayer is answered,--you are here. His way is always the
best. He has not sent you before, because I was not old enough to
appreciate this happiness." Leuthold had seated himself by this time,
and she stood beside him and pillowed his head upon her breast. "You
are worn out, father dear. You look so sad. But now you are mine, and I
will tend you and cherish you until you forget all your care and
anxiety. Oh that Ernestine,--I will not wish her ill, but would she
only give back to me every smile that she has stolen from you,--to me,
who have nothing but your smile in this world!" She imprinted upon his
forehead a kiss that burned there like a coal of fire.
"We will not speak of Ernestine now, my child," said Leuthold. "Let her
be what she is. We will talk of her by-and-by. Lately she has not been
so hard to control, and has often spoken of you affectionately. I think
she will shortly marry, and then she will be gentler, for love always
ennobles. She has not quite decided as to her future course yet, but I
think she will marry. At all events, she will take care of you if
anything should happen to me. Yes, she will,--I am sure of it."
"Father," cried Gretchen in alarm, "how can you talk so? What could
happen to you?"
"Why, my child, I might die suddenly. We must be prepared for
everything, the future is in God's hand."
Gretchen knelt down beside him, and pressed her rosy lips upon his
slender hand. "Father dear, why cast a shadow upon this happy hour?
Just as I have found you, must I think of losing you? Oh, my Heavenly
Father cannot be so cruel! You are in His hand, and He who has brought
you to me will let me keep you."
She laid her head upon his knee with childlike tenderness, and was
silent.
"Visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children" rang again in the
ears of the happy and yet miserable father. Thus several hours passed,
amid the girl's loving talk and laughing jests, until at last, at noon,
she sprang up and declared she must go home to dinner. Leuthold would
not let her go. He said they would not expect her at the school,--they
would know she would stay with her father. And so they dined together,
for the first time after so many years. But to Leuthold the meal was
like the last before his execution.
After dinner he went to see the governess of the Institute, and asked
her to allow Gretchen to take a pleasure-trip of a few weeks with
him,--a request that was readily granted, although madame declared that
she could not tell how she should do without Gretchen so long. "For I
assure you," said she, "that Gretchen has richly rewarded us for our
trouble. When she really leaves me, she will carry a large piece of my
heart with her."
"Oh, how can I thank you?" cried Gretchen, throwing herself into her
kind friend's arms.
Leuthold was deeply troubled. Should he snatch this child from the soil
into which she had struck root so securely, and where she had blossomed
so fairly in the sunshine of peace and good will? And yet could he
leave her here to lose her forever? If justice should pursue him to
America, he never could send for his daughter without betraying his
place of refuge. She was his child. He had a sacred claim upon her,
and, since he had seen her again, was less able than ever to do without
her. She should share his fate.
While he was in the parlour of the Institute, the old lady who had been
his travelling companion, and who had passed the whole day with her
daughter, entered, and was charmed to meet him again, only regretting
that they were not to continue their journey together that evening.
Madame invited him to return to tea,--an invitation that he could not
refuse,--and he left the house for awhile for a walk with Gretchen. The
girl's delight knew no bounds when she found herself promenading the
streets upon her father's arm. She had on her prettiest bonnet and her
best dress,--she wished to be a credit to her father and to please him,
and she entirely succeeded. She was charming. Leuthold regarded her
with increasing admiration, and his busy mind began to weave fresh
plans for the future out of her brown hair and long eyelashes. The
world stood open for this angel, might she not pass scathless through
it with a father who had been proscribed? Who could withstand those
half-laughing, half-pensive gazelle-eyes, and those pouting lips;
pleading for a father?
As she walked beside him thus, her elastic form lightly supported upon
his arm, prattling on with all the grace of a nature full of sense and
sensibility, he too began to smile and to revive. He might be most
wretched as a man, but he was greatly to be envied as a father.
Gretchen interrupted his reverie. "Father," she said in a low voice,
"when I was a little child, you never liked to have me speak of my
mother. But I want very much to know what became of her after she
married that head-waiter. Will you tell me to-day?"
"I can tell you nothing,--I know nothing of her since she left Marburg,
after her father's death. At the time of the divorce she sent me the
sum that she was to contribute to the expenses of your education, and
her coarse husband permitted no further correspondence between us. He
sent back to me unopened every letter in which I tried to arrange
matters more methodically. I learned through a third person that she
had left Marburg. I do not know where she is living now."
Gretchen shook her head and said nothing.
"I look like you, father, do I not?" she asked anxiously. She did not
want to resemble her faithless mother in anything.
"You inherit her beauty, refined and ennobled, and my way of thinking
and feeling."
Gretchen nestled close to his side. "I would like to grow more like you
every day."
"God forbid!" Leuthold thought to himself, in the full consciousness of
what he was, as he turned to go back to the Institute. If he could only
have thus retraced his steps in the path of life!
The evening passed more slowly than if he had been alone with Gretchen,
although he was delighted by fresh proofs of her ability and progress.
He was especially surprised by her artistic talent,--her drawings and
sketches in colour. She had not exaggerated when she wrote to him that
she was as entirely fitted as a girl could be to earn her own
livelihood. He was perfectly satisfied upon that point. And as he lay
down to rest at night, a sense of relief filled his mind greater than
any he had felt for a long time, and it soothed him to repose.
The next morning Gretchen heard, to her surprise, that her kind father
desired to give her a glimpse of the ocean. He would wait until they
were on board of the steamer, he thought, before he told her of his
real plans. They took the early train for Hamburg, and arrived there
towards evening. Leuthold thought it advisable to go directly to a
large hotel, where an individual would not excite as much observation
as in a smaller house. He selected one of the most splendid hotels in
the gayest street in Hamburg.
Gretchen was enchanted with the sight of this northern Venice. The
extensive basin of the Alster lay before them, framed in hundreds of
bright lights, on its bank the brilliantly illuminated Alster Pavilion,
while the rippling waves reflected the moon's rays in a long path of
shining silver. Like pictures in a magic lantern, the gondolas glided
hither and thither, and the fresh sea-breeze wafted the notes of gay
music from the other side. The waves of the sea of light and of sound
burst in harmony upon Gretchen's eyes and ears, and made her fairly
giddy with delight. She could almost believe that the Nixies, scared
away to their depths during the day by the passing to and fro upon the
waters of so much life and vivacity, were now beginning to sport there
in the moonlight, playing around the skiff's and singing their enticing
strains. And when she turned her eyes to the shore, bordered by palaces
and crowded with restless throngs of pedestrians and gay equipages,
presenting a scene of reality to counteract the dreamy impression
produced by the expanse of water, the world seemed to the child a
garden of enchantment, and her father the mighty magician reigning over
it, who had brought her hither to enjoy its splendours. She threw her
arms around him and kissed his hands, and could not thank him enough
for giving her such new delight.
The carriage stopped at the entrance of the magnificent hotel, and the
attendants came running to offer their services. The head-waiter stood
in the doorway, ready to receive the new arrivals. Leuthold helped out
Gretchen and handed over the baggage to a servant. As he ascended the
steps, he glanced for the first time at the dignified and trim deputy
of the host. He started, and the man too was evidently startled. Each
seemed familiar to the other; one moment of reflection, and the
recognition was mutual. Leuthold held fast by Gretchen, or he would
have staggered. There stood the headwaiter of his father-in-law's
inn,--Bertha's husband.
They exchanged a hostile glance of recognition. Then the man cried with
a perfectly unconcerned air, "Louis, show Dr. Gleissert and his
daughter to Nos. 42 and 43."
It seemed to Leuthold that the servant smiled at the mention of his
name, and that he exchanged a significant glance with his chief. But
this was probably only an illusion of his excited fancy. He hesitated
whether it would not be better to go to another hotel. But that would
look like flight,--he had been recognized, and, if the man chose to
pursue him, he could follow him to any inn in Hamburg.
His enemy stood aside with a contemptuous obeisance, and Leuthold
followed his guide up to the fourth story. "Have you no room in a lower
story?" he asked.
"Very sorry, sir," replied the servant with a smile, "they are all
occupied--you have a very good view here of the river."
Leuthold was silent. He seemed to have fallen into a trap. How had he
come to choose in all this wide city the very house where dwelt his
worst enemy? How did the fellow come here?
The servant Louis opened a charming room, looking out upon the water,
and Gretchen could not suppress an exclamation of delight as she looked
down from such a height upon all the beauty below them. It seemed like
heaven to her. Louis lighted the candles, and awaited further orders.
"How long has Herr Meyer been head-waiter here?" Leuthold asked as if
incidentally.
"For about a year," Louis replied, arranging his napkin upon his arm.
"He is a relative of the proprietor of this house, who, when his only
son died, sent for Herr Meyer, that the business might not pass into
strange hands."
"Indeed--then will Herr Meyer succeed him?"
"I believe so,--yes, sir."
Leuthold walked to and fro upon the soft carpet.
"Will you have supper, sir?"
"Yes."
"Will you go down to the dining-hall, sir?"
"No, I had rather not mount those four flights of stairs again. Bring
our supper here, if you please."
"Very well, sir, I will get you the bill of fare instantly."
"Here--stop a moment----"
"What do you wish, sir?"
"Bring me up a couple of newspapers at the same time."
"Very well, sir."
As the door closed behind the man, Gretchen turned round from the
window, where she had been standing with clasped hands. "Father," said
she, "I am fairly dazzled with all that I see. I never was so happy in
my life before. But, in the midst of it all, I never forget whom I have
to thank for all this pleasure." And she knelt upon the carpet and laid
her head upon the lap of her father, who had flung himself exhausted
into a chair. "Do not you too, father, feel easy and free up here in
the pure, clear air, with this lovely view of the shining water?"
"Oh, yes, dear child," said Leuthold, his breast filled the while with
deadly forebodings.
Gretchen sprang up again, and took two or three deep breaths. "Oh," she
cried, running to the window again, "it seems to me that I have been
thirsty all my life, and am now drinking deep refreshing draughts in
looking at those rolling waves." She leaned her fair forehead against
the window-frame, and eagerly inhaled the fresh breeze that blew into
the room from the Alster. "How happy those are who are at home upon two
elements," she continued, "land and water! We, poor land-rats, must
cling to the soil. Think of inhabiting all four of the elements, now
working and walking upon the earth, then soaring aloft into the air,
now floating dreamily upon the waves, or dancing in the ardent glow of
fire,--would not that be glorious?"
"Then you would be man, fish, bird, and salamander all at once," said
Leuthold, smiling in surprise at the girl's earnest tone. "Well, well,
it might be all very delightful at sixteen, but a man as aged as your
old father is thankful if he can live respectably upon the earth only."
"My old father!" laughed Gretchen, hastening to his side again--"you
darling papa, how can you call yourself aged? Come with me to the
window, the prospect there will make you twenty years younger." She
drew him towards it. "It is very strange, I think, but certainly a new
revelation of beauty should make the old younger, and the young older.
It is a new experience for the young, and experience always makes us
mature. It is a memory for the old, for they are sure to have seen
something of the kind in previous years, and it carries them back to
the earlier and youthful sensations that it first awakened in them.
Such a memory should lighten the soul of ten years at least."
Leuthold looked at his daughter with unfeigned surprise. "Child, where
did you learn all that?"
"Why, out of some book that I have read, I suppose," said Gretchen
modestly. "One always remembers something, you know."
"Blessed be the day that gave you to me,--you are all that I have."
There was a knock at the door, and the servant entered with the bill of
fare and the newspapers.
"Excuse me, sir, for keeping you waiting. I had to go to Madame for
to-day's paper."
"No matter," said Leuthold, almost gaily. His talk with his daughter
had done him good.
He ordered a little supper, and, when the man left the room, seated
himself on a sofa and began to read.
Gretchen took her work,--she was just at the age when affection finds
instant pleasure in embroidering or crocheting some article for the
beloved object. So she sat and sewed diligently upon a letter-case that
she was embroidering for her father while he read. Now and then she
turned and looked out of the window, to be sure that all the splendour
there had not vanished.
Suddenly she was startled by a profound sigh from her father, and,
looking up, she saw him sitting pale as ashes, staring at the paper
that had fallen from his hands. In an instant he sprang to his feet and
walked up and down the room in mute despair.
"What is the matter, dear, dear father? what is it?" she asked in
alarm, but, receiving no reply, she picked up the newspaper, to see if
she could discover from it what had caused his agitation. She read
unobserved by him--he was leaning out of the window for air--read what
seemed to her a strange tongue, to be deciphered only in her heart's
blood. It was a telegraphic order from the magistrate of W----. "Dr.
Leuthold Gleissert, former Professor in Pr--, is charged with having
appropriated, by means of forgery, and expended upon his own account,
the property, amounting to upwards of ninety thousand thalers, of his
ward Ernestine von Hartwich, of Hochstetten, and also of having robbed
the mail. You are desired to arrest and detain him." A personal
description of him followed, but Gretchen had read enough. "Father!"
she screamed, "father! father!" And, as if in these three words she had
summed up all there was to say, she fell forward with her face upon the
floor, as though never to raise it again.
There stood the guilty man, forced to behold his child crushed
beneath the ruins of his shattered existence. He did not venture to
touch the sacred form extended before him in anguish. He looked down
upon her like one almost bereft of reason. God had visited his sin
upon him, probing the only place in his heart sensitive to human
feeling--his punishment lay in the sight of his child's agony without
the power to relieve it.
Suddenly Gretchen raised her head and looked at him with those clear,
conscious eyes whose gaze he had always endured with difficulty, and
before which his own eyes now drooped instantly. "It is not true--it
cannot be! Father, you are innocent--you cannot have done this thing!"
"For God's sake, Gretchen, do not speak so loud," Leuthold entreated.
"You tremble--you will not look at me. Father, if you have thus
burdened your soul, I cannot be your judge--I will be your conscience.
I will not let you enjoy a single hour of rest or sleep until you have
restored what does not belong to you. I will die of hunger before your
eyes, rather than taste a morsel that is not honestly earned. But what
am I saying? I am beside myself! It is not possible!--not possible!
Relieve me from my misery by one word. My soul is in darkness, cast one
ray of light into it." She clasped his knees imploringly. "Father,
swear to me that you are innocent----"
"My child----"
She interrupted him. "No, no oath, no asseveration--there is no need
between us of any such--only a simple yes or no, and I will believe
you! Look at me, father,--oh, look at me! Do not speak, do not even say
yes or no,--let me but look into your eyes, and my doubts will
disappear."
"Gretchen," whispered Leuthold, trying to extricate himself from her
clasping arms, "listen to me!"
"No, father, no, I will not let you go. I want no explanation, no
argument. If you have committed this crime, nothing can extenuate it. I
will hear nothing, know nothing, but whether you have committed it or
not." She sought, in childlike eagerness, to meet his eye--she
unclasped her arms from his knees to seize his hands and cover them
with kisses, while a flood of tears relieved her heart. "Forgive me,
forgive me for daring to speak thus to you, a child to a father. Oh,
God! how unworthy I am of your affection! The false accusation invented
by evil men could lead me astray, and I dare to ask if you are
innocent! Forgive me, my kind, patient father--see, I will not ask you
again, I will not even look inquiringly into your eyes. The touch of
your hand, this dear, faithful hand, suffices to reassure me and lead
me back to the knowledge of a daughter's duty." And she laid her face,
wet with tears, upon his hands, with a touching humility that cut him
more deeply than any accusations could have done.
"There--that's quite enough!" suddenly said a voice behind them, that
curdled the blood in Leuthold's veins. "I will teach you a daughter's
duty!" And from the doorway of the adjoining room Bertha's stout figure
made its appearance boldly advancing.
"Good God, my mother!" shrieked Gretchen, and she recoiled
involuntarily.
"Gretel," said the woman, "are you afraid of your mother while you are
on your knees to that villain?"
Leuthold stepped between her and his child. "Bertha," said he, "it
seems to me my punishment is sufficient. Surely you need not avenge
yourself by snatching from me my child's heart,--a heart that you never
prized, and will never win to yourself. If there is a particle of
maternal tenderness in your breast, spare, not me, but this innocent
angel. Do not destroy the most precious possession of a youthful
heart,--confidence in her father. Bertha, Bertha, you will harm the
daughter more than the parent! Give heed to your maternal heart, which
must throb more quickly at sight of this fair flower, and spare me a
blow that would annihilate her."
Frau Bertha folded her arms, and looked upon Leuthold with exceeding
disdain. "Oho! now it is your turn to beg. I am no longer rude, clumsy,
and coarse as a brute, as I was when you drove me off because I was too
awkward to help you to steal the inheritance."
"Bertha!" cried Leuthold, pointing to Gretchen, whose imploring eyes
were turning from one parent to the other in increasing distress.
"Yes, yes, she shall hear it all! She shall know what a charming papa
she has, and that you are not unjustly accused in the papers. Why
should you stop at such a crime as that, when you would have beggared
Ernestine as a child, persuading old Hartwich to make you his heir?
There is nothing that you would not do. I can tell her that,--I, your
wife, who lived with you for years. And your child shall curse you,
instead of adoring you as a saint. No one can tell what a fine game you
might have played, if you had once got off to America with such a
pretty girl."
At these words Gretchen uttered a loud shriek.
Bertha pitilessly continued, "And just because I have maternal feeling
enough to try to save my child, I will prevent your evil designs.
You shall not carry the poor thing away with you to such a life as
yours,--not while I live!"
"Bertha," cried Leuthold, forgetting all caution, "hush, or mischief
will be done here!"
"What mischief? Will you try to throttle me, as you did when Hartwich
made Ernestine his heir instead of you? Only lay a finger on me! There
is a police-officer outside in the passage, whom my husband placed
there lest Louis should not be able to serve my fine gentleman with
sufficient elegance."
"Great God!" gasped Gretchen, staggering as if mortally wounded.
"Is it really so? Could your mean desire for revenge degrade you thus?"
asked Leuthold, still incredulous.
"It was not I, but my husband, who owes you a grudge because I played
him false and married you. A gentleman came here this morning with the
chief of police to search this house, as well as all the other hotels
in the city, and left orders that if you arrived here he was to be
informed of it. My husband sent for him, and, for greater security's
sake, for a police-officer too,--I only wanted to speak to poor Gretel
beforehand, and take her under my protection when her father was
arrested." She approached the girl, who fled like some frightened
animal to the farthest corner of the room.
"Go!" she cried, trembling in every limb. "Do not touch me! You can do
nothing for me now but kill me, and put an end to the agony you have
brought upon me."
She burst into a piteous fit of sobbing. No one observed that the door
had been gently opened, and that a young man was standing upon the
threshold, regarding the unfortunate girl with the deepest compassion.
"My child," said Leuthold, going timidly up to her, "my child, will you
not listen to one word from your unworthy father?"
"Do not speak, father. What good can it do? I cannot believe you any
more,--cannot save you,--cannot, although I would so gladly do
it,--wash away your guilt, even with my heart's blood. I can only weep
for you."
"Forgive one entirely unknown to you for intruding upon such grief,"
the stranger now said, in a voice trembling with pity. "I am compelled
by cruel circumstances to appear as an enemy, when I would gladly act
the part of a friend and comforter." He turned to Bertha. "May I
entreat you to leave us a few minutes alone?"
She went out grumbling.
"Herr Gleissert," he continued, "my name is Hilsborn. Do not start. I
am not come to avenge my dead father. His sainted spirit would disdain
revenge. He forgave you freely while he lived. I come in place of my
friend Moellner, who is detained by the dangerous illness of your niece,
to vindicate the rights of Fraeulein Ernestine. We learned from Frau
Willmers that you had sent your effects to Hamburg _poste-restante_
several days ago, and that you would of course be obliged to come
hither to reclaim them. Moellner requested me to pursue you without
delay, and, without one thought of personal revenge, I consented to
assist my friend in reinstating your unfortunate ward in her rights. I
little knew what my acceptance of this duty would cost me, for the few
minutes that I lingered on that threshold taught me that my task is not
alone to hand you over to justice, but to deprive a daughter of her
father."
"You shame me, sir, by such kindness at a moment when a less
magnanimous man would have believed himself justified in heaping me
with insult. I am the more grateful to you since you, of all others,
have most reason to hate me. Your humanity, under these sad
circumstances, relieves me with regard to the fate of my unfortunate
child, for it emboldens me to hope that you will extend your chivalrous
kindness to her also."
"Rely upon it, I will do so," Hilsborn assured him.
"And let me hope, my child, that you will not reject the noble
protection thus offered you. Herr Hilsborn, remember, has done your
father no wrong,--he has only, in his natural desire for justice, lent
his aid to the hand that is pursuing me. I presume," continued he,
turning to Hilsborn, "that you have provided for my immediate arrest?"
"Yes, Herr Gleissert," said Hilsborn gently, "the superintendent of the
hotel has assisted me to do so."
"Then I will place no unnecessary obstacles in your way. I shall submit
to the investigation with a good conscience."
Hilsborn laid his hand lightly upon Leuthold's arm. "Herr Gleissert, do
not reject advice that is well meant." He spoke in a whisper, that
Gretchen, who was listening with feverish eagerness, might not hear
what he said.
"Well?" asked Leuthold.
"Do not attempt denial, you will only weaken your case. The proofs of
your crime are most decisive."
"How so?" asked Leuthold quietly, believing that he had destroyed every
scrap of paper that could criminate him.
"On the evening of your flight, a letter was received from a former
maid of Fraeulein Hartwich's, who travelled in Italy with you, demanding
immediate payment of her yearly stipend, for which she had written
several times in vain. She reminds you, Herr Gleissert, of what she has
done for you,--how she worked sometimes all night long, trying to
imitate Fraeulein von Hartwich's signature, that she might be able to
counterfeit her successfully before the notary. In short, the letter
proves beyond a doubt that you deceived the notary by substituting the
person as well as the signature of the maid for your ward's, that the
deed might be complete by which the Orphans' Court was induced to
resign the estate in its charge."
Leuthold stood before the young man pale and mute. Hilsborn saw the
terrible agony of his soul.
"I do not tell you this to humiliate you or to increase your pain, but
only to warn you," he continued, "that you may not lose any time by a
false plan of defence, and perhaps thereby deprive yourself of the
sympathy sure to await a man of your culture who makes frank and
remorseful confession of his guilt."
Leuthold's lips quivered at these well-meant words. "Have steps been
taken to secure the person of the maid?" he inquired, in the tone in
which he would have asked, "How long have I to live?"
"Professor Moellner telegraphed immediately to O----, the girl's present
place of abode, and just before I left him he received intelligence
that she had been placed under arrest. The notary also has been
summoned. Be assured that, as your arrest has been conducted with the
greatest foresight, no measures will be neglected to insure your
conviction. The only course left for you is to endeavour to secure the
sympathies of the jury."
"I thank you!" said Leuthold.
Gretchen had been standing leaning against the window-frame, and had
understood more than Hilsborn had intended that she should. The waters
of the Alster were still rolling below her, the lights were sparkling,
and, in the terrible silence that now ensued, the music of the waltzes
in the pavilion could be plainly heard. Was it possible that there was
no change outside, while she felt as if the world were crumbling in
pieces around her?
Again the door opened, and several figures appeared. Everything swam
before Gretchen's eyes, her heart beat as though every throb were its
last. An official entered, "Excuse me, sir," he said to Hilsborn, "I
cannot wait any longer."
Leuthold looked towards the door. Two police-officers were standing
outside, and Bertha with her husband. And who were those? Other figures
were constantly appearing in the brilliantly lighted hall, inmates of
the house, eager to witness the arrest. And was he to be led through
all that gaping, staring crowd? He, who, with all his crimes, had
always preserved appearances,--was he at last to be as it were held up
to public contempt, dragged through the lighted passages and down the
staircases by policemen, like a common thief? Of course there would be
an eager crowd below, and another upon his arrival at N--. His only
road now lay through long rows of curious faces, dragged from
examination to examination, from disgrace to disgrace,--he, a man who
had always preserved an outward respectability,--until he should end
either in a convict's coat or the strait-jacket of a madman! The time
for reflection was over. He turned a little, only a very little, aside,
and drew a folded paper from his pocket,--it did not take a moment, no
one observed the motion. And what else? it was so easy to put his hand
to his lips and swallow the powder that the paper contained, far easier
than to pass through that brilliant hall, through that murmuring,
staring mob, to the courtroom, and thence to a jail! Only an
instant,--it was done. It tasted bitter, and he drank a glass of water
to destroy the taste upon his tongue. Then he stepped up to Gretchen,
who was upon her knees, her face buried in her hands. "Gretchen," he
said almost inaudibly, "forgive your unhappy father!"
"Father? Almighty God, I have no father!" burst from the lips of his
tortured child.
Leuthold looked at her with dim eyes. "I am condemned!" was all he
could say.
Then he turned to the officials. "Gentlemen, at such a moment as this,
it is surely natural for a father to provide for the future of those
whom he may leave behind him. I am ill, and may die at any moment. In
case of my demise, therefore, I appoint, before all these witnesses,
Herr Professor Hilsborn my daughter's guardian, as I hold her mother,
who survives me, entirely unfit in every respect to be her guide and
protector. The fact of her having forsaken her daughter at a tender
age, and never troubling herself to inquire concerning her afterwards,
will prove the justice of what I say. I pray you, gentlemen, to attest
the validity of this my last will, when the hour for doing so arrives.
Observe that I am at present in full possession of my mental
faculties."
The by-standers looked at him in amazement. Bertha would have spoken,
but her husband restrained her.
The officer said, coldly but politely, "Your directions shall, if
necessary, receive due attention. Rely upon it."
"You have no objections to make?" Leuthold asked Hilsborn.
"Your wish shall be sacred to me," the young man assured him.
"And now, sir, I beg for one great favour," Leuthold whispered to the
officer. "Grant me one half-hour's delay."
"I am sorry, but I have waited too long already."
"Only one-half hour, sir, for the love of Heaven,--a quarter of an
hour!" Leuthold pleaded. The poison was beginning to work. His knees
trembled, his gray eyes were glassy in their sockets, his features grew
rigid.
"Not a minute longer!" the official replied impatiently, and beckoned
to the police-officers.
"Have some pity!" the tortured man gasped out to Hilsborn. "I have
taken poison. For humanity's sake, induce him to let me die here with
my child."
"Good God!" exclaimed Hilsborn. "Let instant aid----"
Leuthold clutched his arm, and with a ghastly smile whispered, "It will
be of no use, my friend!"
Hilsborn was horror-struck. "Sir," he said, "I unite my entreaties to
those of Herr Gleissert. Allow him to remain here only until I have
spoken with your chief."
"If the arrest is an unjust one, it will soon be at an end. I have
nothing to do with that. I must obey orders."
Hilsborn whispered a few words in his ear, but he shrugged his
shoulders. "Any man could say that. We will stop at a physician's as we
drive past. That is not contrary to orders. We must go!" The policemen
entered.
Hilsborn whispered to Leuthold, "I will bring you an antidote. I hope,
for your child's sake, that you will take it. God have mercy on you!"
Leuthold would have replied, but a spasm prevented him from uttering a
word.
Hilsborn saw that the poison had already infected the blood, and that
all aid would come too late. Nevertheless, he would do what he could.
In passing, he lightly touched Gretchen's shoulder. "Fraeulein
Gleissert, your father is going. Say one word to him."
Gretchen started, as if from a swoon, looked around her, and saw
Leuthold between the officers. "Father!" she shrieked, and rushed
towards him. She clasped him in her arms, and pressed kiss after kiss
upon his blue lips. Her cries wrung the souls of the by-standers, and
Bertha hurried away, that she might not hear them.
"I take back what I said," Gretchen moaned. "How could I say I had no
father? Now that I am going to lose you, I feel that I can never
forsake you!"
Leuthold writhed in agony in her embrace, but he managed to speak once
more. "My child," he gasped thickly, "if there is a God, may He bless
you! and when you hear that your father took his own life, remember
that estate, freedom, honour, were gone past recall, but that by his
own act he at least avoided a public exposure."
Gretchen gazed at him speechless. She tried to reply, but her lips
refused her utterance. She only knew that her father was taken from
her, and that stranger hands loosened her frantic clutch of his
garments. She heard footsteps retreating, a door closed, and there was
silence. For a few moments she lost consciousness. But other noises
roused her from the fainting-fit that had brought her repose from
grief, and recalled her to herself. Were the footsteps approaching
again? Yes, they came on to the door of her room. What a strange murmur
mingled with them! She raised her weary head with a mixture of fear and
hope.
The door was thrown open as wide as it could go. Four men entered,
bearing a well-nigh senseless burden. Her father had returned to
her,--but how? They laid him upon the bed. Gretchen would have thrown
herself into his arms, but he thrust her from him convulsively, for her
clasping arms, her loving kiss, were tortures too great to be borne. He
tried to speak, but in vain. Amidst frightful spasms, alternating with
utter exhaustion, he breathed his last sigh, and his spirit bore its
burden of guilt to new, unknown spheres of existence.
He had avoided all "public exposure."
But the only judge that he had acknowledged upon earth,--his
child,--lay crushed at his feet expiating the crimes of the condemned.