THE EAVESDROPPER.
Elise was now alone with her father. She had sunk down near the fatal
door, and her colorless lips murmured faint prayers.
Gotzkowsky stood there, still relentless; but his agitated
countenance, his lowering brow, his flashing eyes, betrayed the deep
and passionate emotion of his soul. Struck and wounded fatally in his
most sacred feelings, he felt no pity, no compassion for this poor
trembling girl, who followed his every motion with a timid, anxious
eye. His whole being was filled with burning rage against his
daughter, who, his misgiving heart told him, had trampled his honor in
the dust.
A long and dreadful pause occurred. Nothing was heard but Gotzkowsky's
loud, heavy breathing, and Elise's low-muttered prayers. Suddenly
Gotzkowsky drew himself up, and threw his head proudly back. He then
walked to the door leading into the balcony, and to the opposite one,
and ascertained that they were both closed. No one could intrude, no
one interrupt this fearful dialogue.
Elise was terribly conscious of this, and could only whisper, "Pity,
pity, merciful God! I shall die with terror!"
Gotzkowsky approached her, and, seizing her hand, raised her rapidly
from the floor. "We are alone now," said he with a hoarse, harsh
voice. "Answer me, now. Who is concealed there in your room?"
"No one, my father."
"No one!" repeated he, sternly. "Why, then, do you tremble?"
"I tremble because you look at me so angrily," said she, terrified.
Her father cast her hand passionately from him. "Liar!" cried he. "Do
you wish me to kill him?"
He took his sword from the table, and approached the door.
"What are you going to do, my father?" cried she, throwing herself in
his way.
"I am going to kill the thief who stole my daughter's honor," cried
Gotzkowsky, his eyes flashing with rage.
"Father, father, by the God in heaven I am innocent!" cried she,
convulsively, striving to hold him back.
"Then let me have the proof of this innocence," said he, pushing her
back.
But she sprang forward with the agility of a gazelle, rushed again to
the door, and clung with both hands to the lock.
"No, no, father, I remain here. You shall not insult yourself and me
so much as to believe what is dishonorable and unworthy of me, and to
require a proof of my innocence."
This bold opposition of Elise only excited Gotzkowsky's anger the
more, and was to him a fresh proof of her guilt. His rage overpowered
him; with raised arm and flashing eye he strode up to Elise, and cried
out: "Away from the door, or by Heaven I will forget that I am your
father!"
"Oh," cried she breathlessly, "you have often forgotten that, but
think now; remember that I am the daughter of the wife whom you loved!
Trust me, father. By the memory of my mother, I swear to you that
my honor is pure from any spot; and, however much appearances may be
against me, I am nevertheless innocent. I have never done any thing of
which my father would have to be ashamed. Believe me, father; give me
your hand and say to me--'I believe your innocence; I trust you even
without proof!'"
She sank down on her knees, raising her arms imploringly to him, while
burning tears streamed down her cheeks. Gotzkowsky gazed at her long
and silently, and his child's tears touched the father's heart.
"Perhaps I do her injustice," said he to himself, looking thoughtfully
into her weeping face. "She may be really innocent. Let us try," said
he, after a pause, pressing his hands to his burning temples. As he
let them drop, his countenance was again calm and clear, and there was
no longer visible any trace of his former anger. "I will believe you,"
said he. "Here, Elise, is my hand."
Elise uttered a cry of joy, sprang up from her knees, rushed toward
her father, and pressed her burning lips on his extended hand. "My
father, I thank you. I will ever be grateful to you," cried she,
fondly.
Gotzkowsky held her hand firmly in his own, and while speaking to her
approached, apparently by accident, the door so bravely defended by
Elise. "You are right, my child; I was a fool to doubt you, but I am
jealous of my honor, the most precious property of an honest man. Much
can be bought with gold, but not honor. True honor is bright and clear
as a mirror, and the slightest breath dims it. Oh, how would this
envious, grudging, malignant world rejoice if it could only find a
spot on my honor! But woe to him who dims it, even if it were my own
child!"
Elise turned pale and cast down her eyes. Gotzkowsky perceived it. He
still held her hand in his, and approached the door with her, but he
compelled his voice to be gentle and mild.
"I repeat," said he, "I wronged you, but it was a terrible suspicion
which tortured me, and I will confess it to you, my child. The Russian
flag of truce which came into town to negotiate with the authorities
was accompanied by ten soldiers and two officers. While the
commissioner was transacting business in the Council-chamber above,
they remained below in the lower story of the building. I accompanied
the commissioner, as he left the Council, down-stairs, and we found
his military escort in a state of anxiety and excitement, for one of
the officers had left them two hours before, and had not yet returned,
and they had called and hunted for him everywhere. The Russians were
furious, and cried out that we had murdered one of their officers.
I succeeded in quieting them, but my own heart I could not quiet;
it felt convulsively cramped when I heard the name of this missing
officer. Need I name him?"
Elise did not answer. She looked at her father, with tears in her
eyes, and shook her head languidly.
Gotzkowsky continued: "It is the name of a man to whom I formerly
showed much friendship; toward whom I exercised hospitality, and whom
I made free of my house, and who now shows his gratitude by stealing
the heart of my daughter, like a pitiful thief. Oh, do not attempt to
deny this. I know it, Elise; and if I have hitherto avoided speaking
to you about this matter, it was because I had confidence in your
sound sense, and in the purity of heart of a German girl to sustain
you in resisting a feeling which would lead you astray from the path
of duty and honor. I do not say that you loved him, but that he wished
to seduce you into loving him clandestinely, behind your father's
back. That is his gratitude for my hospitality."
Speaking thus, Gotzkowsky pressed his daughter's hand more firmly in
his own, and continued approaching more closely to the door. "Only
think," continued he, "the mad thought crossed my mind--'How if this
man should be rash and foolhardy enough to have gone to my daughter?'
But I forgot to tell you his name. Feodor von Brenda was the name of
the treacherous guest, and Feodor von Brenda was also the name of
the officer who left the commissioner, perhaps in search of some love
adventure. But why do you tremble?" asked he in a loud tone, as her
hand quivered in his.
"I do not tremble, father," replied she, striving for composure.
Gotzkowsky raised his voice still higher till it sounded again.
"Forgive me this suspicion, my daughter. I should have known that,
even if this insolent Russian dared to renew a former acquaintance, my
daughter would never be so mean, never stoop so low as to welcome him,
for a German girl would never throw away her honor on a Russian boor."
"Father," cried Elise, terrified and forgetting all her prudence, "oh,
father! do not speak so loud."
"Not so loud? Why, then, some one can hear us?" asked Gotzkowsky,
pressing the arm of his daughter. "I will speak loud, I will declare
it aloud. He is a scoundrel who conceals himself in a dastardly and
dishonorable manner, instead of defending himself! a coward who would
put the honor of a maiden in the scale against his own miserable life.
No German would do that. Only a Russian would be base enough to hide
himself, instead of defending his life like a man!"
At this moment the door of the bedroom was violently torn open, and
the Russian colonel appeared on the threshold, his cheeks burning and
his eyes flashing with anger.
* * * * *