THE ORPHAN.
Day was again mirrored brightly in the waters of the Alster, and again
the streets swarmed with life. The prattle and laughter of children on
their way to school, the monotonous cries of the street-hawkers, the
rattle of passing vehicles, were all borne aloft into the quiet room
where Leuthold had died, and where Gretchen still knelt beside the bed,
and, by her constantly recurring bursts of grief, showed that the long
night had not sufficed to exhaust the fountains of her tears. Her head
lay upon the edge of the bed, and her arms were stretched across the
empty mattress,--for the host had insisted upon the immediate removal
from his house of the body of the suicide. But Gretchen could not yet
be induced to leave the desolate room, the vacant couch. Since she was
not allowed to follow her father's corpse, she would at least pillow
her head where he had lain. She repulsed all her mother's advances.
When everything had been done that the law requires in such terrible
cases, and the officials had vacated the apartment, she shot the bolt
of the door behind them, and thanked God that she was alone with her
misery, alone by her father's death-bed.
What human eye can pierce the depths of a young heart lacerated by such
anguish? All that goes on in the soul at such moments, when the
creature wrestles with its Creator, must remain a profound mystery,--a
mystery known to almost every human being, but never to be revealed, no
mortal language can declare God's revelations to us in our direst need.
Experience alone can enlighten us, and those who have lived through
such a time can only clasp the hand of a fellow-sufferer, and say, "I
know what it is," and henceforth there is a bond between them that is
none the less close because it can never be explained.
Thus was it with Gretchen and Hilsborn when the latter's low knock at
the door aroused the girl from her grief, and she arose from her knees
and admitted him. She put her hand in the one he held out to her, and
looked confidingly into his serious blue eyes.
"You never went to bed, dear Fraeulein Gleissert," said he. "I can see
that."
"How could I rest?" she replied. "They would not even let me watch by
his body. All that I could do was to wake and pray for him here where
he drew his last breath. How hard it is to have to leave what one has
loved so dearly, and not to be allowed to cling to it at least until it
is consigned to the earth! Suppose he were not quite dead. If he should
stir, no one will be near to fan the spark of life into a flame. If he
should open his eyes once more and find himself alone, and then die in
helpless despair----Oh, the thought is madness!"
"I can assure you, Fraeulein Gleissert," said Hilsborn quietly, "that
your father sleeps peacefully. I did what you were not permitted to
do,--I spent the night by his body."
"Could you do this for the man for whom you could have had no regard?"
cried Gretchen.
"I did it for you. I could imagine all you felt, and I knew it would be
some comfort to you this morning to know that I had done it."
"Oh, how can I thank you, sir? I am too childish and insignificant
to thank you as I ought. My heart is filled with gratitude that will
not clothe itself in words! You watched by my father from pure
humanity,--compelled by no duty, no obligation,--only that you might
soothe the grief of a poor orphan. I cannot express what I feel. You
must know----" She could go no further. Tears gushed from her eyes. She
took his hand, and, before he knew what she was doing, had imprinted
upon it a fervent kiss.
"Fraeulein Gleissert!" cried Hilsborn, in great embarrassment. And a
deep blush overspread his cheeks.
Gretchen never dreamed that she had committed any impropriety,--how
could she, at such a moment? And Hilsborn knew this, and would not
shame her by hastily withdrawing his hand. She was still but a child,
in spite of her blooming maidenhood, and the kiss was prompted by the
purest impulse of her heart.
"You reward me far more richly than I deserve," he said softly.
"Although it is long since I suffered the same sorrow, I know what it
is. Grief for the death of my father never deserts me. Sorrow easily
unites with sorrow, and you are more to me in your affliction than any
of the gay, laughter-loving girls of my acquaintance. Let me do what I
can for you,--it will be done with my whole heart,--and, for your own
sake, do not give way to grief. Remember,--it is a melancholy
consolation, nevertheless it is a consolation,--that it is far better
for him to die before his crime brought its dreadful consequences. His
home could never again have been among honourable men. What, then,
would have become of you? Believe me, it is better as it is!"
"Do you think, then, my father does not deserve these tears? I know how
great his offences were, and that every one is justified in condemning
him,--every one but his child,--I cannot blame him. Do you think I
ought not to grieve for him as I should for an honourable father? Ah,
sir, is it less sad to lose a father thus, just as I was reunited to
him, to find that he whom I so revered was a criminal, and to have him
vanish in his sin before I could even breathe a prayer to God for mercy
upon him? Whatever he may have done, I must mourn for him all the more,
for he was and always will be my father. And there never was a kinder
father. Let others curse his memory, I can only mourn for him. If the
holy words are true, 'With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured
to you again,' I must give him nothing but love, for he never meted to
me anything else. Do not despise me. I do not feel his guilt the less,
although I cannot love him less."
Hilsborn looked down at her with admiration. "How can you suppose that
I could despise this sacred filial affection? I respect you all the
more for it. It reveals in you treasures of womanly tenderness! Most
certainly he who had such a daughter, and knew how unworthy he was of
her, is doubly to be pitied. I will not try to console you. You have in
yourself a richer consolation than any that mortal words can give. What
can such a stranger as I say to you or be to you? I can only stand
ready to protect and advise you, should you need advice or protection."
"If you will be so kind as to direct my first steps in life, it lies
all so untried before me, my poor father will bless you from beyond the
grave."
She paused, startled, for the door opened hastily, and Bertha entered.
She regarded her daughter with a satisfaction that equalled the
aversion that she excited in her child. Bertha's beauty had been of a
kind that endures only for a season and then gradually becomes a
caricature of its former self. Her fresh colour had turned to purple.
Her mouth had grown full and sensual, with a drooping under-lip. Her
sparkling black eyes had receded behind her fat cheeks, and had an
expression of low cunning. An immense double chin and a round, waddling
figure added to the coarseness of her appearance. This was the woman
who stood ready to claim affection from a daughter whose whole
education had tended to create disgust at her mother's chief
characteristic--coarseness. What was this woman to her? She had heard
that she was her mother, but she had never felt it. She had not seen
her since she was scarcely five years old. She could feel no stirring
of affection for. She could hardly connect her with the image in her
mind of her father's faithless wife. While she was thus regarding
Bertha with aversion, the man entered the room whom she was
henceforward to consider in the light of a father,--her mother's second
husband.
Involuntarily Gretchen retreated a step nearer to Hilsborn, as if
seeking in him a refuge from the pair.
"Well," began Bertha, "if Fraeulein Gretel is at home to young
gentlemen, surely her father and mother----"
"Forgive me," said Gretchen gently but with decision, "my father is
just dead, and I lost my mother when I was very young. I pray you to
respect my grief and not mention names so sacred to me."
"Just hear the girl!" exclaimed Bertha. "Instead of thanking God that
she still has parents to take care of her and not feel her a disgrace,
she pretends to have no other father than the thief, the----"
"You must not speak thus in Fraeulein Gleissert's presence," cried
Hilsborn indignantly. "Can you not see how you wring her heart?"
"Oh, sir, I thank you," said Gretchen with dignity. She turned to
Bertha. "Whatever your unfortunate first husband may have been, he was
my father in the truest sense of the word, and no one can have a second
father. Just so a mother who has once ceased to be such can never be a
mother again. Call me false and heartless if you will,--God, who sees
my heart, knows how it can love."
"This is all one gets for kindness," grumbled Bertha. "Here have I been
beating my brains half the night to think what I could do for the girl,
how I could take care of her, and this is all the thanks I get! Well,
it's no wonder. 'What's bred in the bone will never come out of the
flesh.'"
"Mammy! mammy! they want you to get out some clean sheets," a
bullet-headed lad called aloud at the door.
"Come here, Fritz," cried Bertha. "There, look at your sister." And she
drew the boy towards her, evidently expecting the sight of him to
produce a deep impression upon Gretchen. "Look, Gretel, this is your
brother,--doesn't this touch you? We have three more of them. But that
makes no difference, you shall be the fifth; I want some one to take
care of the little ones. Only think how fine it is for you to find
parents and brothers and sisters all at once. They'll take care of
you." And suddenly a tear rolled down her fat cheek. "For you are my
child, after all!"
And she took Gretchen's face between her hands and pressed upon it a
smacking kiss. The girl patiently endured the caress, but when her
mother released her she stood erect again, like a fair flower upon
which dust has been cast without robbing it of its fragrance or soiling
its purity. As the flower differs from the soil whence it springs, this
child differed from her mother. And as surely as the flower turns from
the ground to the sun, the girl's pure spirit turned from her mother to
the light that her education and training had revealed to her.
"Mammy," the boy persisted, plucking Bertha by the skirts, "come,
hurry!"
"You'll tear my dress, you bad boy!" cried his mother, slapping his
hand.
The boy screamed. "You're so slow when any one is in a hurry, I had to
call you."
"Hold your tongue!" his father now interposed. "Leave the room. What
will your new sister think of you?"
"I don't mind her," said the boy insolently, as he left the room.
Gretchen and Hilsborn exchanged one long look. It was as if they were
old acquaintances and could understand each other without a word.
Gretchen shuddered at the thought of living in this family, and,
besides, she had during the night formed a resolution that she was
determined to carry out although it should cost her her life.
Her step-father broke the silence. "We shall never come to any
conclusion in this way. Where's the good in talking? You must be taken
care of, whether you like us or not. You might at least show some
gratitude to us for taking any trouble about you." He stroked his
smooth, oily head as he spoke, and his artistic fingers gave a fresh
curl to the lock just above his ear. "The case is simply this: My wife
thinks it her duty to support you. As you may suppose, it comes rather
heavy upon us with our four children, and it stands to reason that you
should do a little something for yourself. We will not ask anything
unsuitable of you, for I can see plainly that you are a young lady of
education. But, if we are to fulfil the duty of parents towards you, it
is only fair that we should claim some filial duty from you in return."
He concluded his speech with the bow that he always made in presenting
travellers with their little account.
"Oh, is that all?" said Gretchen, greatly relieved. "Then do not have
any anxiety on my account. I renounce all claim to a support, and, in
the presence of this witness, to any parental duties from you. I ask
nothing of you, and shall never ask anything of you, but that you will
allow me to depart without hindrance."
The man looked significantly at Bertha, who clasped her hands in
amazement. "Do you want to go, then? Why, what will such a child as you
do without money or friends?"
Here Hilsborn interposed. "You forget that your deceased husband
appointed me his daughter's guardian, and I assure you solemnly, I have
never valued my life as I do now that this duty is mine,--a duty that I
am determined not to give up."
Gretchen looked confidingly at Hilsborn. "You see, I am not without
friends. I will go with this gentleman. There is but one path for me in
this world, and that leads me to Ernestine's feet. There is but one
duty for me,--atonement for my father's sin. I cannot restore to
Ernestine what has been taken from her,--that I learned from the papers
yesterday. I can offer her nothing but two strong young arms to work
for her. The Bible says, 'The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon
the children,' but I will not wait until they are visited upon me. I
will blot them out, as far as I may, and make the curse powerless, that
rests upon my unhappy father's grave. I will do what he had no time to
do here,--make atonement for his crime." She raised her hands to Bertha
in entreaty. "Oh, if you are my mother, open your heart to the first
and last request of your child, and do not take from me the hope of
obtaining pardon for my father by my labour and suffering!"
And she fell upon her knees before Bertha, who sobbed aloud.
"Ah, Gretel, my child, you are a dear, good girl. How could I ever
forsake such a true, brave child? I see now how wrong and foolish I
was. But I will do better. You shall learn to love me again. Only give
up this silly idea of doing penance for your father. Why should you,
innocent creature, suffer for his fault? you are not responsible for
his actions."
"I am his flesh and blood, a part of him,--his honour is mine. The
curse that strikes him strikes me too. Whatever burdened his conscience
weighs upon mine. How could I find rest, living or dying, if I did not
do all that I could to make good what he did that was wrong? If he took
what was not his, ought I to keep it? Is it not my duty to restore it?
And, if I cannot do this, should I not try to pay the debt, although I
can do so in no other way than by constant labour?"
"But tell me what you want to do. Your cousin has nothing more. What
will you both live upon?" asked Bertha.
"I do not know yet I only know that, thanks to my poor father, I have
been taught everything to enable me to support myself, and even another
besides. I only know that I will dedicate my whole future life to
Ernestine. I long to go to her,--she has suffered most from my father's
fault."
The head-waiter drew Bertha aside, and whispered to her, "Let her go,
be thankful that we have not a fifth child to support."
"But, oh, I love the girl so much!" said Bertha.
"That's all very well,--but are we in a condition to take such a charge
upon ourselves, just for a whim? And do you suppose that, if we force
her to stay, this spoiled princess will be of the least use to us? She
would cry from morning until night, instead of working. Let her go wherever
she chooses. You have done without her long enough not to make such a fuss
now about having her with you. I should think four children were enough
for you."
"Yes, but----"
"Hush, now, or we will leave the room," her husband whispered
emphatically. "I will not burden myself with Dr. Gleissert's daughter
against her will. Let her go with her new champion, and let us hear no
more of her!"
"As you choose, then. It is my fault, and I must bear the
consequences," said Bertha, for the first time with real sorrow.
"Fraeulein Gleissert," the man said, turning to Gretchen, who had
meanwhile been talking in a low tone with Hilsborn, "if you will not
make any claim upon us hereafter, we are ready now, hard as it is, to
relinquish our rights in favour of this gentleman, who was appointed
your guardian by your father."
"I will promise never to do so, sir," replied Gretchen with a long sigh
of relief. "I am ready to give you all the security I can."
"There is no need of that," replied Herr Meyer politely, with great
satisfaction. "You know that the giving up of our claims depends upon
your keeping your promise."
"Yes, I know that."
"Well, then, we will not trouble you further. Probably you would prefer
settling the account for this room. It is not much,--you have eaten
nothing."
"Come, that is too mean of you!" Bertha here interposed. "Is my own
child to pay for the shelter of this roof for one night? No, I will not
have it. Gretel, do not listen to him,--you shall have something to
eat, too, before you go. I am not quite such an unnatural mother. And
now come, Meyer, you ought to be ashamed of playing such a disgraceful
part."
And half angrily, half good-naturedly, she drew her smart husband from
the room.
"O God, I thank thee!" cried Gretchen from the depths of her soul.
Suddenly she paused, and reflected with evident hesitation and
embarrassment. Hilsborn took her hand.
"Well, my dear little ward, will you not tell me what is troubling
you?"
Gretchen blushed and still hesitated. At last she conquered herself,
and confided this grief also to her faithful friend.
"It has just occurred to me that I am not sure that I have money enough
to pay my travelling expenses. I have something with me that I can
sell, but if it should not be enough!"
Hilsborn smiled. "Is that all? Oh, never mind that, I have enough for
both of us."
Gretchen looked mortified. "But I cannot take it from you, certainly
not."
"What, Gretchen, will you not take it from your guardian? Why, this is
a guardian's duty. And I will not give it to you, I will only lend it,
and you can repay me when you are able."
"You will have to wait a long time,--I have so little that I can call
my own. It will embarrass me very much to be in your debt."
"Gretchen," said the young man earnestly, "do not let us speak of such
trifles. I transport you to N----, you transport me to heaven. Which
owes most to the other--you or I?"
Gretchen could not reply. These new, strange words bewildered her. The
sunlight streaming from them penetrated her heart, crushed by the
tempest of grief that had swept over it. The blossom opened,--she was
no longer a child!
She looked down in confusion. Hilsborn too was embarrassed. Neither
could immediately recover from a certain constraint.
"Will you do me a great favour?" the girl asked at last
"Well?"
"Take me to where my father is lying, and let me bid him farewell once
more."
"My dear Fraeulein Gleissert, I would do so with all my heart, but it
would take us half an hour to reach the house where he lies, and the
train starts in three-quarters of an hour. If you will remain here
another day, I will do what you ask."
"No, oh, no!" cried Gretchen in alarm. "I would not for the world
trespass any longer upon Herr Meyer's hospitality, or wound my mother's
new-found affection any further. It is better to go as quickly as
possible. If my poor father still sees and hears me, he must know that
I feel the pain of parting from him thus quite as much as if I were
allowed to weep beside his lifeless body."
"That is right. Better dwell in thought upon the spirit that was all
affection for you, than linger beside the senseless clay that it
informed----" He ceased, for Frau Bertha entered with breakfast. She
had a black dress hanging upon her arm.
"There, Gretel, my dear, is something to eat. I will not let you go
until you have taken something. And, if the gentleman will be kind
enough to step out one minute, we will try on this dress. You must have
some mourning, and where else can you get it, poor child?"
She spread the table hastily, and Hilsborn left the room.
"Now come here, and let us see how this fits. It is the very dress that
I bought ten years ago, when your step-uncle Hartwich died. But it is
as good as new. I have worn it but little, and, if you put the skirt on
over the pointed waist, it has quite a modern air. Just look! It is not
much too large. I was smaller then than I am now, and I have taken it
in wherever I could. I was afraid it would be too big for you. Look at
that little spot,--that is where you threw your cake into my lap when
you were a little thing. I hid it so,--in a fold. Dear, dear! I had
this very dress on when I left you. I never thought then that you would
one day put it on and leave me, as I was leaving you!"
There was something touching in these simple words, and, for the first
time, Gretchen threw herself into her mother's arms and burst into
tears. "Gretel," said Bertha, crying bitterly, "you must one day feel
that you are my child, just as I feel that I am your mother. I hope you
will not then repent leaving me."
"Ah, mother," sobbed Gretchen, "how could you be so cruel to my poor
father? How could you so wring my heart when I first saw you again that
I turned away from you? I might have learned to love you. A child must
try to honour its parents. I would never have reproached you for
forsaking me, but the abyss into which you plunged my father lies
between us, and can never be bridged over."
"But, Gretchen, Gretchen," cried Bertha, "I have done no worse than the
young gentleman whom you think so much of. Why do you not blame him?"
"He only did his duty by a friend, and performed it in the kindest way
possible. My father saw that, and reposed the greatest confidence in
him in intrusting me to his care. But you, mother, permitted Herr Meyer
to bring the stranger here who came to hand over my father to
punishment, and to whom my father was only the enemy of his friend. It
was not his duty to spare my father. But, mother, he had once been your
husband, he was the father of your child, and yet, when, hunted and
pursued, he sought the shelter of your roof, you had the heart to
betray him and deliver him up to death and disgrace. I will not judge
you, but ask yourself, mother, did he deserve such treatment at your
hands?"
"Ah, merciful Heaven! you may be right, but it really seemed that it
was to be so. I had forgotten everything but the wrong he did me. He
has had his punishment, and I must have mine, for, indeed, to love you
and lose you so is a heavy trial."
Hilsborn knocked at the door. "Frau Meyer, it is almost time to go."
"Yes, yes. Come in," cried Bertha. "Gretchen is dressed."
Hilsborn entered. He regarded compassionately the touching figure in
the black dress,--the lovely childlike face, with those sad, large
eyes, reminding him of a wounded doe's. His heart overflowed with pity,
and he held out his hand, with, "Come, we must be upon our way."
"I am ready," Gretchen murmured.
"Stop," cried Bertha. "You must take something first." And she poured
out a cup of chocolate, and followed Gretchen, who was collecting her
various trifles for her travelling-bag, about the room, until she
persuaded her to take some of it. "And you must eat some of this cake.
You used to be so fond of it, and your lamented,--well, yes,--your
lamented father too. Ah, I used to be well treated when I put that
cake on the table! Will you not taste it? Well, then, take some with
you." And she crammed as much of it as she could into the girl's
travelling-bag.
One minute more, and Gretchen was ready to leave the room. "Good-by,
mother," she said, throwing herself once more into the arms of her
mother, whose hot tears fell upon her child's neck. "I will never
forget your kindness to me to-day, and if you ever need me you will
find me a daughter to you."
"My child, my good child!" sobbed Bertha. "Try to think as well of me
as you can."
"Yes, yes, dear mother. God bless you and yours!"
Hilsborn hurried the girl away. She gently extricated herself from her
mother's arms, and, in anguish of soul, descended the stairs that her
father had on the previous day ascended for the first and last time.
"Write to me now and then," Bertha called after her.
"Indeed I will, I promise you."
When they reached the hall, they found there a crowd of curious
idlers, all eager to see the suicide's daughter. Gretchen paused,
overcome with dismay. She could hardly trust her limbs to bear her
through the throng. A soft, warm hand clasped hers,--it was Hilsborn's.
He drew the little hand under his arm, and led her through the gaping
loiterers to the carriage. Gretchen was scarcely conscious, she only
felt that, supported by this arm, she could raise her head once more,
and she was filled with gratitude towards the man who did not shrink
from thus espousing the cause of the child of a criminal.
Herr Meyer made them a formal bow as they entered the carriage, and it
rolled away past the gay, sparkling waters of the Alster, now swarming
with boats.
Gretchen looked out of the carriage window. Yesterday all this had been
the world to her,--to-day her world was within, and all this was mere
outward show.