A PESSIMIST.
That same afternoon the Reverend Otto paid a pastoral visit to Dorothea
Weglein, the lamb who was about to give herself over to the jaws of an
infidel and socialistic wolf. His own fate was sealed, as he knew very
well; the stalwart Lottie already comported herself with the dignity of
a Frau Pastorin; but a certain latent chivalry in the heart of the
little man had been developed by his love for Dora, certainly the purest
and most unselfish feeling he had ever known; and he would have perilled
his dearest possession, his children or his vanity, to avert the fate
that was coming upon her.
His way lay from the German quarter of the city, through its business
centre, to the region where dwelt the privileged few, where clustered
the stately homes of the wealthy manufacturers, for whose sake
Micklegard and the world are permitted to exist by an all-wise
Providence. Nevertheless, this German quarter deserves more than a
passing mention.
It had been originally a distinct settlement, and had only lately been
incorporated in the city. There were, as we already know, old people
living there who were as ignorant of English as on the day they first
trod the shore of America. Indeed they had no especial use for English,
since around them were German shopkeepers of all descriptions, as well
as German doctors and apothecaries. Over the shop doors stood German
signs, German tones resounded on all sides; even the houses, though the
ear-marks of America were upon them, had evidently been erected by
Germans, and were, for the most part, surrounded by tiny gardens, whose
overwhelming luxuriance betokened German thrift upon American soil.
The residence of Mrs. Randolph, Dora’s employer, was at quite the
opposite end of the town; the North End, where are the seats of the gods
and the horn of plenty. It was a large, square mansion, built of
brownstone, and surrounded by a spacious lawn, that sloped down to the
river, blackly and barely enough at this Christmas season, but no more
uselessly than in summer, when its closely mown turf, too precious to be
walked on, might, perhaps, have soothed a tired eye, but otherwise
benefited neither man nor beast.
The pastor rang at the side door, and was admitted into a small square
hall, luxuriously furnished. A divan ran along two sides, gorgeous
tiger-skins lay upon the tiled floor; here and there stood ottomans and
lounging-chairs; the walls were decorated with Japanese pottery, pipes
of all nations, and swords of not a few; opposite the door a wood fire
burned under an elaborately carved mantel-shelf, upon which leaned
negligently a tall, finely proportioned man of about thirty, his fair,
composed, and slightly sarcastic face distinctly reflected in the mirror
above, as he gazed down into the fire.
As he saw the pastor standing, somewhat aimlessly, where he had been
left by the servant, this young man took his elbow off the mantel, and
advanced a step.
“I have really no right to ask you to sit down in this house,” he said,
with a smile that he could not make unkindly, “but if you will do so, I
do not suppose any one will object.”
“Perhaps,” said the pastor, slightly bewildered by this mode of address,
and not quite sure that he had fully understood his interlocutor. He
sank vaguely into the nearest chair, and gazed around him so helplessly
that his companion, partly from pity and partly from a certain
nervousness which he would by no means have acknowledged, was impelled
to continue the conversation.
“You are a German, and a minister, _nicht wahr?_” he said, in the
other’s native language.
“_Ja, gewiss!_” said the pastor delightedly. “I am the Pastor of St.
Peter’s Lutheran Church.”
“So? And you find the sheep of your pasture obey your words? or is the
crook sometimes needful to coerce them into the right way?”
“They are as good as other people,” returned the pastor, relapsing into
bewilderment. His questioner shrugged slightly his shapely shoulders, as
he turned away to his old position. “You are happy if they are no
worse,” he said.
At the same moment, he started into sudden vigor and alertness, with a
gleam in his eye that told of eagerness for the fray. A heavy silk
curtain that hung beside the fireplace was suddenly swept aside, with an
angry rattle of rings upon a brass rod, and in the opening appeared a
handsome, stately, well-dressed woman, of something more than his own
age.
“Dr. Richards, I will speak with you in a moment; I wish I could say
that I am glad to see you. Herr Schaefer, you wish to see Fräulein
Dora?” Her tone was sharply military rather than rude; but contrasted a
little absurdly with the meek obsequiousness of the pastor’s reply.
“If you permit me, gracious lady,” he said, executing his fifth bow.
“I shall be delighted if you can make her see the error of her present
course,” said Mrs. Randolph. “You have heard of her betrothal, I
suppose? Betrothal, indeed! Upon my word, I think all the girls have
gone crazy together!”
The corners of Dr. Richards’s mouth twitched amusedly.
“So?” he said, under his breath; but perhaps the lady caught the sound,
or saw the movement of his lips in the mirror, for she grew suddenly
very red as she motioned the pastor towards the doorway.
“You will find a servant just beyond, who will direct you,” she said,
“and I hope you will succeed in convincing Fräulein Dora that marriage
to one of Karl Metzerott’s opinions can bring her nothing but misery.
And now, Dr. Richards”—
“If you will pardon the interruption,” said that young man easily, “I
wish to say that, although quite unacquainted with the peculiar tenets
of the person referred to, I am entirely at one with you in believing
marriage to one of _any_ opinions so exceedingly likely to lead to
misery that an opposite result can only be considered a happy accident.”
Mrs. Randolph stared into his calm face with angry amazement.
“And you ask my sister to expose herself to such a future?” she said. “I
am at a loss to understand you, sir.”
“My dear madam, misery is, unfortunately, peculiar to no state of life.
I love your sister, and she is good enough to love me. Such being the
case, if she prefer misery with me to misery without me, I can only say
that I share her taste, and will do my best to make her as little
miserable as fate may permit.”
“If your efforts prove as weak as your arguments, Dr. Richards, that
‘best’ will be a very poor one. ‘Misery without you!’ Why, I will give
Alice one year, just one, in America, or six months in Paris, to forget
you, and be as happy as a queen.”
“I have always heard,” said Dr. Richards, coolly, “that good Americans
go to Paris when they die, so perhaps you may be right.”
“You mean she will never forget you while she lives?” asked the lady
scornfully.
“I mean that if you _can_ make her forget me, you are quite welcome to
try.”
“Ah! this is coming to the point, indeed. I am glad to find you so
sensible. So you will not oppose her going abroad with us?”
“I shall not oppose anything that Miss Randolph wishes.”
The lady frowned, knowing well in what direction those wishes tended;
but, before she could answer, the silken curtain was gently moved by the
hand of a young girl, whose appearance filled Frederick Richards’s blue
eyes with the light of anything but misery.
She was about eighteen, of medium height, and slender, with the
unconscious grace of a gazelle. Gazelle-like, too, were the large,
brown, trustful eyes, her only really beautiful feature, though the
brown abundance of her hair, the delicately roseate cheeks and scarlet
lips, made her very charming, at least in one pair of eyes. But to us
who are present in the spirit, dear reader, at this interview, the most
noticeable thing about Alice Randolph is that, despite the shy grace of
every movement, and the childlike innocence of the face, we read at once
that she will not quail before any pain the future may hold in store for
her. Suffer she will; blench or falter, she will not.
She did not speak as she entered the room, but went quietly to Dr.
Richards’s side, looked for one instant into his face, and laid her hand
in his.
Certainly they seemed well matched, for he also was silent as he held
fast the hand she had given him. Then his firm lips curved into a
triumphant smile. “Well, Mrs. Randolph?” he said.
The lady’s face flushed again, rather unbecomingly.
“There is only this to be said,” she cried angrily, “Alice, by her
father’s will, cannot marry without my husband’s consent, or she
forfeits every penny she has in the world. If you marry a beggar”—
“You forget, my dear madam; at twenty-five she becomes her own
mistress.”
“Ah? you have read the will? That accounts for your prophecies of
misery.”
“Wrong, Mrs. Randolph. I have not read your father-in-law’s will, though
I shall make it a point to do so as soon as possible. I know only what
Alice has told me, and hence am well aware that she will lose her
fortune in the event of becoming my wife.”
“Yet you urge her to do so!”
“You mistake. I leave her to decide for herself.”
“Harry would not refuse his consent if it were not for you,” interposed
Alice. “It is really you who oppose us, Jennie.”
“And have I not good cause?” cried Mrs. Randolph. “Would your father
himself have consented to your marriage with an infidel, an atheist?”
Alice Randolph grew pale, then flushed deeply as she hesitated to reply,
while her sister looked on, in her turn triumphantly.
A sparkle came into the blue eyes of her lover as they searched hers.
“That,” he said, “is a strong argument, Alice. Weigh it well, and
dispose of it once for all. If you marry me, I don’t want _that_ to
contend with. I _am_ an atheist, for I _cannot_ believe in a God who
leaves nine-tenths of his creatures to hopeless suffering.”
She gave the other hand to his clasp, and looked up trustfully into his
face.
“It is a great mystery,” she said, “but I don’t think my giving you up
would help you to solve it.”
“If it can be solved,” he answered.
“I have never tried,” she said; “my life has been so sheltered, I know
almost nothing of the pain that is in the world. But you will tell me,
and perhaps we may solve the mystery together.”
For all answer he stooped and kissed her.
Mrs. Randolph was furious,—and slightly undignified.
“Very well,” she cried, “go to perdition your own way, Alice Randolph. I
have tried to be a mother to you, and this is my reward. You will lose
not only your money but your soul, by marrying that man.”
“Be consoled, my dear madam,” returned the young man, sarcastically,
“the first will be very useful to you and your children; the second can
be of no benefit to any one but the owner. For my part, though I should
find it hard to justify myself in holding property under the present
régime, I am not exactly a beggar. My practice is a good one, and I can
maintain my wife in comfort, if not in luxury.”
“And if your health should fail, or you should die?” sneered Mrs.
Randolph.
“And if Mr. Randolph’s calculations should fail, his workmen strike, and
his mill burn down?” he answered coolly. “In the present state of
things, Mrs. Randolph, a shade more or less of uncertainty as to the
future is of very little moment. It is settled, then, Alice?”
“Yes,” she said softly; then her eyes suddenly flashed, her cheeks grew
crimson; she turned upon her sister with the air of a lioness defending
her young.
“Do you suppose I have not seen,” she cried, “how you wish me to marry
him while pretending to oppose it? I am ashamed for you, Jennie, ashamed
to put your motive into words, because you are my brother’s wife. But
don’t delude yourself with the idea that it is your work; I would have
given up the money in any case rather than force him to act against what
he believes to be right; and I love him so dearly that I had rather
endure misery, cold, and hunger _with_ him than to be a queen without
him.”
Here, woman-like, her vehemence resolved itself into a burst of tears,
and, turning, she threw herself into the arms that were open to receive
her.