Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google books
Transcriber's Note:
1. Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=IG8PAAAAYAAJ&dq
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
A
HERO OF THE PEN.
BY
E. WERNER,
AUTHOR OF "GOOD LUCK," "BROKEN CHAINS," ETC.
TRANSLATED BY
FRANCES A. SHAW.
NEW YORK:
R. WORTHINGTON, 750 Broadway.
1880.
Copyright
WILLIAM F. GILL & CO.
1875.
Trow's
Printing and Bookbinding Company,
205-213 _East 12th St_.,
NEW YORK.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Love and Death
CHAPTER II.
A Strange Cavalier
CHAPTER III.
Was it Sickness or----?
CHAPTER IV.
The Hero of the Pen
CHAPTER V.
Face to Face
CHAPTER VI.
A Strange Presentment
CHAPTER VII.
Lovers, yet Strangers
CHAPTER VIII.
The Heiress at Bay
CHAPTER IX.
On The Scent
CHAPTER X.
For Value Received
CHAPTER XI.
The Dawn Of War
CHAPTER XII.
A Rocket in the Camp
CHAPTER XIII.
The Triumph of Pride
CHAPTER XIV.
Farewell
CHAPTER XV.
Following the Clue
CHAPTER XVI.
An Agonizing Doubt
CHAPTER XVII.
The Pen and the Sword
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Rival Lovers
CHAPTER XIX.
The Lover's Accusation
CHAPTER XX.
The Fateful Hour
CHAPTER XXI.
A Desperate Resolve
CHAPTER XXII.
A Fearful Alternative
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Vengeance of Passion
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Shadow of Doom
CHAPTER XXV.
To the Rescue
CHAPTER XXVI.
A Mortal Agony
CHAPTER XXVII.
Treason
CHAPTER XXVIII.
The Sacrifice of Blood
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Murderer and the Attack
CHAPTER XXX.
Waiting
CHAPTER XXXI.
The Balance Of Power
CHAPTER XXXII.
The Brand from the Burning
CHAPTER XXXIII.
An Unexpected Meeting
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The Riddle Solved
A HERO OF THE PEN
CHAPTER I.
Love And Death.
The scene of our story is a town on the Mississippi, about midway in
its course from Lake Itasca to the Gulf; the time is a cloudless
January day of the year 1871. A score of years ago, this town consisted
of only a dozen or so roughly built wooden houses; but emulating the
marvellous growth of American cities, it has expanded into a populous,
thriving business centre.
The dazzling, midday sunbeams enter the windows of a large, suburban
mansion, situated upon a hill commanding an unequalled prospect. The
elegance of its surroundings, the exquisite taste and richness of its
appointments, its artistic and expensive construction, distinguish this
residence of the millionaire, Forest, from all others far and near.
In the magnificent parlor, giving evidence of that superfluity of
expensive comfort and luxury which to wealthy Americans seems an
absolute necessity of life, sits a young lady, in an elaborate and
costly home dress. She is a girl of some twenty summers, and sitting
near the open fire, whose shifting gleams light up her face and form,
with her head resting thoughtfully in her hand, she listens to the
conversation of the man opposite her. The face a perfect oval, of a
clear, colorless, brunette complexion, with large, brown eyes and
perfectly regular features, is set in a frame of dark, luxuriant hair,
and possesses undeniable claims to beauty. And yet there is something
wanting in this exquisite face. It is that joyous, artless expression
which so seldom fails in youth; that breath of timidity we look for in
young maidenhood, and that look of gentleness a woman's face seldom
entirely lacks, and never to its advantage. There is a chilling gravity
in this young girl's whole appearance, a confident repose, an
undeniable self-consciousness; and yet it does not seem as if heavy
life-storms or premature sorrows can have brought to her the sad
experiences of later years. For this her brow is all too smooth--her
eyes too bright. Either inborn or inbred must be that seriousness
through which her beauty gains so much in expression, although it loses
infinitely in the tender grace and charm of both.
In a low arm chair, on the other side of the fireplace, sits a young
man in faultless society-dress. There is marked similarity between
these two. It lies not alone in hair and eyes of the same color, in the
same clear, pale complexion. It is more in that expression of cold,
dignified repose, and self-conscious pride peculiar to both. In the
young girl this expression assumes the most decided form; in the young
man it is partially hidden by a conventional polish and formality,
which much detract from the manly beauty of his face, and the manly
dignity of his bearing. He has for some time been engaged in an
animated conversation with the young lady, and now continues a recital
already begun:--
"My father thinks this European journey necessary for the completion of
my mercantile education, and I readily yield to his wishes, as it
promises so much of interest to me. I shall first pass a few months in
New York, where the business affairs of our house demand my personal
supervision, and from there I shall sail for Europe in March. A year
will suffice me to gain some acquaintance with England, France and
Germany, and for a short tour through Switzerland and Italy. The next
spring I hope to return home."
The young lady had listened with evident approval to the plan of the
proposed journey; now she raised her head and looked at the speaker.
"A rich, profitable year lies before you, Mr. Alison! My father will
regret that his illness renders it impossible to see you before your
departure."
"I also regret that Mr. Forest is too ill to receive my adieux,
personally. May I beg you, Miss, to present them to him in my name?"
She bowed slightly. "Certainly! And meantime, accept my best wishes for
a prosperous journey and a happy return."
With quiet friendliness she rose and reached him her hand. He took the
cold, beautiful hand, and held it fast; but an unwonted expression
flashed from the young man's eyes.
"Miss Forest, may I ask you a question?"
A momentary flush passed over the young girl's face, as she replied:
"Speak, Mr. Alison!"
He rose hastily, and still holding the hand fast, he stepped closer to
her side.
"Perhaps the time for a declaration is ill-chosen; but I only too well
know that Miss Forest is the object of so many solicitations that
absence might be dangerous to my hopes. Therefore, pardon me, Miss
Jane, if I at this moment venture to speak of an affection which,
perhaps, is no secret to you. May I hope that my wishes may find
fulfilment, and that, upon my return, I may be allowed to clasp this
hand anew, and hold it fast for life?"
He had begun in a calm, almost business sort of way, but his voice grew
warm, as if beneath this outward calm there lay an almost violently
repressed emotion; and now, in consuming anxiety, his eyes hung upon
hers, as if there he would read her answer.
Miss Forest had listened in silence. No flush of surprise, or maidenly
embarrassment, not the slightest change in her features betrayed
whether this proposal was welcome or unwelcome to her; the immobility
of her face offered a striking contrast to his, and the reply came firm
and distinct, without the least hesitation or concealment.
"My answer shall be frank as your question, Mr. Alison. I am aware of
your affection for me; I reciprocate it, and upon your return, with the
fullest confidence I will place my hand in yours for a united future."
A beam of joy broke through the icy repose of Alison's features, but
the usual calmness at once came back, and he seemed almost ashamed of
the momentary emotion.
"Miss Jane, you make me very happy," he said. "Can I not now speak with
your father?"
"No, I would prefer to tell him myself," she replied hastily. "I have
one condition to impose, and you must yield to it, Mr. Alison; I cannot
become your betrothed at my father's death-bed; I cannot and will not
deprive him of one of those hours the new relation might demand.
Therefore let the words you have just spoken to me remain secret, at
least to all but those immediately concerned. Until you return, demand
from me none of the rights my answer gives you; I cannot and will not
now grant them."
There lay little of a betrothed bride's submission in this decided, "_I
will not!_" at the first moment of acceptance. Alison must have felt
this, for a slight cloud shadowed his forehead.
"This is a hard condition, Jane! You will permit me to delay my
departure, and remain by your side, if, as I fear, the inevitable
stroke is close at hand?"
She shook her head. "I thank you, but I need no support. What is before
me"--here for the first time during the interview the young girl's lips
quivered--"I shall know how to bear, and I can bear it best alone. I
would not have you delay your departure one hour, or hasten your return
one week. In a year we shall meet again; until then my promise must
content you, as yours does me."
She had risen, and now stood opposite him, with an air of such full
determination that Alison at once saw the impossibility of opposing her
will; he saw that indeed she needed no support, and he yielded
unresistingly to the necessity imposed upon him.
"I will prove to you, Jane, that I know how to honor your wishes, even
though it is difficult for me to do so. But if I may claim none of the
rights of your betrothed husband, you at least will not deny me the
first, and for the present, the only boon I ask."
Jane did not answer, but she made no resistance as Alison took her in
his arms, and kissed her lips. There was again an impassioned gleam in
his eyes, and for a moment he pressed her close to his heart; but as
more ardently, more warmly, he sought to repeat the caress, she broke
from him with a sudden movement.
"Enough Henry! We make parting unnecessarily difficult. In a year you
will find your bride; until then--silence."
He stepped back somewhat offended at this hasty repulsion, and his
features again assumed the cold, proud expression, which had not left
hers for a moment. Mr. Alison evidently was not the man to beg for
caresses which were not freely granted him.
An approaching step in the anteroom demanded that both should
immediately resume their company manners; the young lady as before, sat
in the arm chair, and Alison opposite her, when the person who had thus
announced his coming, entered the parlor. He was a small, elderly man
with gray hair and sharp, penetrating eyes from which gleamed an
inconcealable irony, as he saw the young couple sitting there so much
like strangers.
"The physician is about to drive away, Miss Jane. You wished to speak
with him," he said.
Jane rose hastily. "Excuse me, Mr. Alison, I must go to my father. I
will tell him of your visit, this evening."
She reached him her hand. A significant pressure, a glance of deep,
calm, mutual understanding, then they parted with a hasty adieu, and
Jane left the room.
As the door of the ante-room closed behind her, the last comer stepped
up to Alison, and laid a hand upon his shoulder,
"I congratulate you!"
The young man turned quickly around. "For what?" he asked sharply.
"For your betrothal."
Alison frowned. "It appears, Mr. Atkins, that you have chosen to play
the spy."
Atkins took this reproach very unconcernedly.
"Possibly! But you ought to know, Henry, that I do not belong to those
disinterested persons from whom the affair is to be kept secret."
The young man's forehead cleared somewhat. "You certainly are an
exception, and so--"
"And so, you accept my congratulations without further hesitation,"
added Atkins. "But you two got through the affair quickly enough. 'Will
you have me? I will have you,'--all right. 'The wedding shall be a year
from now!'--all short, smooth, clear, without much eloquence or
sentimentalism, quite to Miss Jane's taste. But our deceased Mrs.
Forest would have thought quite differently of such a betrothal."
Alison's lips curled in scorn. "If Miss Alison had resembled her
mother, I should scarcely have sought her hand," he said.
"There you are right!" replied Atkins dryly. "She was not to my taste
either, always ill, always inclined to tears and scenes, full of
sentimentality and extravagances,--a real German woman, she died of
homesickness at last. Happily the daughter has inherited none of this
nonsense. She is just like her father."
"I know it! And no one will accuse Mr. Forest of an excess of
sentimentality."
"No!" said Atkins gravely, "and yet it seems to me that he too, once
possessed his proper share of such emotions; but fortunately, he was
sensible enough to leave all sentiment and whatever else could not be
of use to him here, over yonder. When Mr. Forest landed here twenty
years ago, sentimentality would have been sadly out of place, for he
brought with him a very healthy hatred against Germany and all
connected with it. With a sort of morose energy, he flung from him
every remembrance of the fatherland, and even Americanized his name--it
was Forster there, you know--and when our colony grew, and the German
settlers naturally clung together, he kept aloof from them and
fraternized with the Americans. But this his wife could not endure; she
could not accustom herself to the new life; there were endless quarrels
and hard feelings between them, and as the child grew up, matters
became still worse. The father wanted to educate her as an American,
and he carried his point, as Miss Jane very soon most decidedly placed
herself on his side. This quite broke the mother's heart. We had scenes
enough, I tell you; there was no peace until Mrs. Forest died of
homesickness at last. As things now stand, I fear the husband will not
long survive her."
The voice of the speaker, at these last words, had involuntarily
changed from a mocking to a serious tone; Alison, who had listened in
silence, now took his hat from the table.
"You have heard all; I am not to delay my departure; in fact, urgent
business calls me to New York. If the event happens, which we must soon
expect, stand by Miss Forest's side. But if"--here Alison busied
himself with buttoning his gloves--"if there should be difficulties in
relation to the arrangement of the property, my father will stand ready
to aid you to the full influence of his business knowledge and
connections. It would seem especially desirable that the interests of
his future daughter should not remain foreign to him, as my journey
will prevent my becoming acquainted with them."
The old irony again gleamed from Atkins' eyes, as he sarcastically
replied; "I thank you kindly for the proposal, but the property remains
by testament in my hands, and consequently all will be found in perfect
order. You and your father must wait patiently for a year until Miss
Jane herself brings her dowry into your house. Meantime, I can give you
this one satisfaction; Mr. Forest is very rich; richer indeed than
generally supposed, of this the glance you desire into our business
affairs would at once convince you."
Alison made a passionate gesture. "Mr. Atkins, you are sometimes most
horribly inconsiderate," he said.
"Why so?" asked Atkins phlegmatically. "Do you mean this as a reproach?
Or do you suppose I could seriously think you would commit the folly of
marrying a young lady without fortune, now, when the immense
development of your business house and the relations you will establish
in Europe make capital doubly necessary to you? No, Henry, I cherish
too high an opinion of you to think you capable of any such unpractical
romance."
Alison turned and looked searchingly into Atkins face, "I have
certainly, as partner and future chief of our house, been circumspect
even in my choice of a wife, but I give you my word that if Miss
Forest's fortune falls far short of my expectations, I still prefer her
to any richer heiress."
Atkins laughed. "I believe that of you without oath, Henry! You are a
great deal in love, and I wonder whether you will inspire a like
sentiment in our beautiful, cold Miss Forest. Well, that will happen in
time; in any event it is fortunate if the merchant and the lover do not
come in conflict, and here each is quite sufficient to itself. Once
more I congratulate you!"
After leaving these two, Jane had hastily passed through several rooms,
and now entered a half-darkened, but richly and tastefully furnished
sleeping-chamber. Gliding softly over the carpet, she approached the
bed, and flung back its heavy curtains.
Now it was evident whence the young girl derived that strange
expression of face which made her so unlike other girls of her own age,
intense seriousness, cool determination, energetic pride; all these,
unobliterated, unsoftened by the traces of illness, were repeated in
the face of the man who lay here upon the pillow. He slowly turned his
head towards the daughter who bent over him, saying:--
"They have just told me of the physician's visit. He was alone with
you, and I wished to be present. Was this your command, my father?"
"Yes, my child! I wanted to hear an opinion from him which it would
have been difficult to give freely in your presence. I now know that I
have but a few days to live."
Jane had sunk on her knees at the bedside, and pressed her head into
the pillows. She did not answer, but her whole form shook with the
tearless sobs she energetically suppressed. The sick man gazed down
upon her.
"Be calm, Jane, this opinion can surprise you as little as it does me,
although we have both, perhaps, expected a longer respite. It must be,
and you will not make the necessity of the separation more bitter
through your tears."
"No!" She suddenly drew herself up, and gazed down upon her father; her
sorrow was suppressed by the most absolute self-mastery; her lips
scarce quivered. The sick man smiled, but there lay a sort of
bitterness in that smile; perhaps he would rather have seen her not
obey him so readily.
"I have to speak with you, my child, and I do not know how many quiet,
painless hours may be granted me. Come nearer to me, and listen."
Jane took her place by her father's bedside, and waited silently.
"I can calmly leave you, for I know that despite your youth, you need
no stay and no guardian. In outward emergencies, you have Atkins at
your side; his sarcastic, eternally mocking nature has never been
agreeable to me; but in an association of almost twenty years, I have
proved his integrity and devotion. You know that he long since amassed
a fortune of his own, but he preferred to let it remain in our house.
He will be at your side, until you confide yourself to the protection
of a husband, which will perhaps happen soon."
"Father," interrupted Jane, "I have something to tell you. You know
that Mr. Alison has been here; he has asked for my hand."
The sick man drew himself up with an expression of lively interest.
"And you?"
"I have given him my promise."
"Ah?" Forest sank back upon his pillow, and was silent.
Jane bent over him in astonishment. "And are you not willing? I felt
certain of your consent in advance."
"You know Jane, that I will neither restrict nor control you in your
choice of a husband. It is your own future for which you have to
decide, and I am convinced that you have not decided without serious
deliberation."
"No; the proposal did not come unexpectedly to me. I have implicit
confidence in Mr. Alison's character, and in his future; his family is
one of the first in our city, his position is brilliant, and I am
certain that his mercantile genius will in after years secure him an
important place in the business world. Does this not appear sufficient
to you, my father?"
"To _me_? certainly, if it is enough for _you_!"
With an expression of surprise, Jane fixed her dark eyes upon her
father. "What more could be demanded from a marriage?" Forest again
smiled with the same bitterness as before.
"You are right, Jane, quite right! I was only thinking of my own
wooing, and of your mother's promise. But it is just as well. Mr.
Alison indeed possesses all the advantages you have named, and in these
respect you are more than his equal; you will be very content with each
other."
"I hope so!" said Jane, and now began to tell her father the conditions
she had imposed upon her betrothed, and the delay upon which she had
insisted. Forest listened with eager attention.
"I like that! Without knowing it you met my wishes in this decision,
for I, too, have a condition to impose upon you. What would you say if
I demanded that you should pass this year of freedom in Germany with
our relatives?"
With a movement of the most painful surprise, the young girl rose from
her chair.--"In Germany? _I_?"
"Yes, do you not love Germany?"
"No," replied Jane coldly, "as little as you, my father. I do not love
the country that blighted your youth, embittered your life, and at last
thrust you out like a malefactor. I could not forgive my mother, that
with a consciousness of all you had suffered there, she always clung to
the fatherland, and made you and herself inexpressibly unhappy with
that incurable homesickness."
"Be silent, Jane!" interrupted Forest passionately. "There are things
which you do not understand, will never learn to understand! I met no
consideration in your mother, that I confess; she indeed made me
unhappy; and still, she gave me hours of happiness, such as you will
never give your husband--_never_, Jane! But then Mr. Alison will have
no need of them."
Jane was silent. She had become accustomed to find her father very
irritable in his sickness, sometimes quite incomprehensible. With the
consideration one gives the sick, she now bore this passionate
outbreak, and quietly resumed her place at his bedside.
A few minutes after, Forest again turned to her. "Forgive me, child!"
he said mildly, "I was unjust. You have become what I educated you to
be, what I would have you be, and I do not now regret having given you
this direction. You will better endure the life-conflict than your
weak, sensitive mother. Let this rest; it was something different you
were to hear from me. Do you know that you have a brother?"
Jane started up in terror, and in questioning expectation, fixed her
eyes upon her father.
"As a child I sometimes heard a hint of this; but lately no one has
ever spoken of him to me. Is he dead?"
A deep sigh rent Forest's breast. "Perhaps he is dead, perhaps not. We
have never been able to learn with certainty. I at last forbade all
mention of his name, because his remembrance threatened to kill your
mother; but the silence was of little avail; she never forgot him for a
single hour."
With eager intentness Jane bent down yet closer to her father. He took
her hand and held it fast in his.
"You are not unacquainted with the recent history of your native
country, my daughter; you are aware of the glowing enthusiasm which in
the thirtieth year of the present century took possession of all
Germany, and especially of its high schools. I was a student at that
time, and, a youth of eighteen years, I was animated like so many of my
comrades with visions of the freedom and greatness that might come to
my fatherland under a new and more liberal order of things. We sought
to carry out these revolutionary ideas, and for that crime the
government repaid us with imprisonment, in many cases with sentence of
death. I was doomed to die, but by especial favor, my sentence was
commuted to thirty years' imprisonment. Seven of these years I endured;
but as you have often enough heard the story, I will not repeat it now.
Even these bitter years resulted in good to me; they ended for all time
my youthful ideals and youthful illusions. When the amnesty at last
came, under the iron pressure of the prison, in endless humiliations,
in glowing hatred, had been ripened a man, who better than the twenty
years' old dreamer knew how to bravely assume and patiently endure the
struggle with life and misery."
Forest was silent for a moment, but the hard, savage bitterness which
now lay in his features, and which was even more grimly reflected in
Jane's face, showed that these remembrances were not foreign to her,
and that the daughter had always been her father's confidant.
After a short pause the father continued: "Scarce was I free, when I
committed the folly of marrying. It was madness in my position, but
already, while at the university, I had become betrothed to your
mother. She had waited long years for me, for my sake had renounced a
brilliant position in life, and she now stood alone and forsaken, an
orphan, dependent upon the favor and cold charity of _relatives_. This
I could not bear; rather would I venture all. We were married, and a
year after, your brother was born. He was not like you, Jane."--As he
said these words, a lingering, almost painful glance swept the
beautiful face of his daughter. "He was blonde and blue-eyed like his
mother, but his possession was not unalloyed happiness to me. The first
eight years of my marriage were the darkest of my life; more terrible,
even, than those days in prison. There I suffered alone; here it was
with wife and child that I must endure the conflict against misery and
utter destitution which with all its horrors threatened them. My career
was naturally ruined, my connections severed. Whatever I began,
whatever I undertook, to the demagogue every door was closed; every
means of support withdrawn. At that time I put forth my best strength,
and did my utmost in a struggle for daily bread; and still, my most
unremitting efforts did not always suffice to keep my family from want.
"We might perhaps have perished, but the year 1848 came, and showed
that the old dreamer had not yet fully learned to renounce his ideals.
He allowed himself again to be enticed; for the second time, he
listened to the syren's song, only to be dashed anew against the
rocks.--I took my wife and child to a secure place among relatives, and
threw myself headlong into the tide of revolution. You know how it
ended! Our parliament was dissolved, the conflict in Baden broke out. I
was one of the leaders of the revolutionary army; we were beaten,
annihilated. For the first time a propitious destiny protected me from
the worst. Now I was free.
"I would not again, and this time perhaps forever, be shut up in
prison; I would not give up my family to irretrievable ruin; therefore
I decided upon flight to America. My brother-in-law offered me the
necessary passage-money; perhaps from kindness of heart, but more
probably it was to be rid of the accursed demagogue, the disgrace of
the family. Great circumspection was needed, for from one end of
Germany to the other, the minions of the law were already let loose
upon our track.
"In disguise, and under an assumed name, I reached Hamburg, where my
wife and children were awaiting me. You had been born during these last
months. Poor child! It was in an evil hour I first pressed you to my
heart. With the first kiss of your father, tears of glowing hatred, of
bitter despair fell upon your infant face. I fear they have thrown a
shadow over your life; I have never seen you carelessly merry like
other children.
"On our way to the ship we separated so as not to attract attention.
Your mother carried you in her arms, I followed at some distance,
leading my boy by the hand. When half way up the ship's stairs, I
recognized a face of evil omen. It was that of a spy. I knew him, he
knew me; if he saw me, I was lost. Hastily forming my decision, I told
the boy to follow his mother; he was old enough to understand, and she
stood there in sight. I flung myself into the thickest of the throng at
the harbor. An hour later, the spy had vanished, and I reached the ship
unremarked. My wife, who had been prepared for possible delay on my
part, hastened to meet me; her first inquiry was for the child. After a
few words of terrible import, we understood the situation. He had not
joined his mother; he must be on shore. In mortal apprehension, I
rushed back regardless of the imminent danger to myself. I searched the
whole harbor up and down, asking tidings of my boy of all I met. No one
had seen him; none could give me information.
"The signal for departure was given. If I remained on shore I was lost,
and my wife and child would sail, forsaken and friendless, on the wide
ocean to a strange continent. The choice was a fearful one, but I was
forced to make it. When I trod the ship's deck without my child; when I
saw receding from me the shores where he was left alone, a prey to
every danger,--that moment--when I broke loose from home and country
forever, the persecutions and bitternesses of a whole lifetime all came
back; that moment set the seal to our separation, and darkened every
remembrance of the past to me.
"The first hour of our landing in New York, I wrote to my wife's
brother; but weeks passed before he received my letter. Doctor Stephen,
my brother-in-law, pursued the search with the warmest ardor and the
fullest sympathy. He went to Hamburg himself, he did everything in his
power; but it was all in vain. He did not find the slightest trace of
your brother. The boy had vanished utterly; he remains so to this day."
Forest was silent. His breathing became difficult, but Jane bending
forward, eager and intent, had not thought of preventing an excitement
which might prove dangerous, perhaps fatal to him; such regardful
tenderness did not lie in the relations between this father and
daughter. She had a secret to hear, a last legacy to receive, and if he
died in the effort, he must speak the words necessity demanded, and she
must listen. After a short space for rest he began anew:
"With this last sacrifice, the evil fates that had pursued me were
propitiated, our misfortunes ended. Success attended me from the first
step I took on American soil. In New York, I met Atkins, who was there
gaining a precarious livelihood from a secretaryship. He rescued me and
my little all from a band of swindlers who already had me, the
inexperienced foreigner, half in their net. Out of gratitude, I
proposed that he should accompany me to the West. He had nothing to
lose, and came with me to this place, then a vast, unpeopled solitude.
Our plough was first to break up the prairie sod; the board cabin we
reared with our own hands was the first dwelling erected here. Perhaps
you remember when, in your earliest childhood, your father himself went
out to the field with scythe or spade, while your mother did the work
of a maid-servant in the house. But this did not last long.
"Our settlement made rapid strides. The soil, the location, were in the
highest degree favorable; a town arose, a levee was built--lands
which I had bought for a song rose to a hundred-fold their original
value. Undertakings, to which I pledged myself with others, had an
undreamed-of success. Participation in public life, and the position
for which I had once so ardently longed, with social importance and
consideration past my most sanguine hopes, became mine; and now, my
daughter, I leave you in a position and in pecuniary circumstances,
which make even our exclusive Mr. Alison consider it an honor to win
your hand."
"I know it, my father!" The self-importance of Jane's manner at this
moment was more noticeable even than before; but it did not seem like
her usual haughtiness; her pride was evidently rooted in the
consciousness of being her father's daughter.
With an effort so violent as to show that his strength was failing,
Forest hastened to the end of his recital:
"I need not tell you, Jane, that I have never abandoned the search for
your brother; that I have renewed it again and again, and that since
means have been at my command, I have spared no outlay of money or of
effort. The result has been only disappointment. Latterly, I have lost
hope, and have found solace in you; but your mother's anguish at the
loss of her child, was never assuaged. To the hour of her death, she
clung to the hope that he was living, that he would sometime appear.
This hope I had long since relinquished, and yet upon her death-bed she
exacted from me a promise to go myself to Europe and make one last
search in person. I promised this, as the last amnesty had lifted the
bar which had hitherto prevented my visiting my native land; and I was
just making preparations for a long absence, when illness prostrated
me. But the last, ardent wish of your mother ought not to remain
unfulfilled. Not that I have the slightest hope that a trace, which for
twenty long years has eluded the most vigilant search, can now be
found.
"You are simply to fulfil a pious duty in keeping the promise I have no
power to keep; you are to go through a form to assure yourself, before
my entire fortune falls into your hands, that you are in reality the
only heir; and for these reasons solely, I send you to the Rhine. In
the business steps to be taken, your uncle will stand at your side; you
are only to add to your proceedings, that energy of which he is
incapable. It will not appear strange to our social circle if you pass
the year of mourning for your father among his relatives, in his former
home. If Alison wishes, at the end of his European travels, he can
receive your hand there, and return with you; but I leave this matter
to you alone. I place only one duty in your hands, Jane; you will
fulfil it."
Jane arose and stood erect before her father with all her energies
aroused for action.
"If a trace of my brother is to be found, I shall find it, father! I
shall yield only to impossibilities; I give you my hand upon that!"
Forest clasped her hand in his, and now the peculiar gravity of the
relation between this father and daughter was evident, there were no
kisses, no caresses, a pressure of the hand as among men, sealed the
given and the accepted promise. For a few moments deep silence reigned;
then the dying man said suddenly and in a subdued voice:
"And now, draw back the curtains; I can no longer endure the darkness.
Let in the light."
She obeyed. She drew back the heavy, green damask curtain, and through
a large corner window, streamed into the room the full dazzling glow of
the midday sun. The dying man raised himself upright, and gazed
intently out upon the broad prospect offered to his view. There
lay the city, with its streets and squares, its sea of houses, the
river-landing with its boats; there lay the lordly Mississippi dotted
with its fairy isles, among which glided in and out the countless
skiffs and steamers. Scattered near and far, were suburban homes
surrounded by broad cultivated acres, and smiling in peace and plenty,
while away to the horizon's utmost verge stretched the illimitable
prairies, green, billowy seas of verdure, relieved here and there by
groves of oak and stretches of uplands.
Forest fixed his glance upon the magnificent panorama. Perhaps he was
thinking of the time, when no human foot-fall had profaned this
primeval solitude, when poor and friendless, he had come here to wrest
from nature her as yet unappropriated wealth; perhaps he was gazing
with pride upon the city which owed its birth and expansion to him;
perhaps he was sad at the thought of leaving all this beauty and
grandeur and prosperity. Convulsed with emotion, he sank back on his
pillow. Jane bent anxiously over him. But this was no sudden access of
bodily illness, no regretful feeling for the new home and the new-found
riches he was to leave for ever. It was a sudden, overmastering feeling
long repressed, which now compelled utterance.
"When you arrive in Germany, my daughter, greet the old home and the
old home-river for me! Do you hear, Jane? Salute Germany for me! Salute
our Rhine!"
The words came painfully subdued, almost inaudible from his lips. Jane
gazed at him in mingled surprise and terror.
"Have you then loved Germany so much, father? You have almost taught me
to hate it."
Forest was silent for a brief space; his lips quivered, and tears,
seemingly wrung from a terrible inward conflict, rolled down his
cheeks.
"The home-land had only misery for me," he said in a voice trembling
with emotion. "It persecuted, degraded me, cast me out; it denied even
bread to me and mine. America gave me freedom, gave me riches and
honor; and now, Jane, I would renounce them all--all, could I only die
upon the Rhine!"
There lay such harrowing anguish in this final utterance of a long
repressed sorrow, that Jane recoiled in terror before it. This fatal
homesickness! Her mother, the sensitive, delicate woman, after long
years of suffering, had died of it at last; and her father, that proud,
energetic man who had so entirely broken away from home and its
remembrances, who had united heart and soul with the land of his
adoption, and had seemed petrified into hatred against his fatherland,
he too had buried this agonized longing deep in his heart, only to
acknowledge it in his dying hour!
Jane stood dumb and bewildered before this discovery, but she felt that
here, just here, that strange something lay, which, despite all
misunderstanding, had yet made her father and mother one; which must
keep her eternally remote from both. She gazed intently at her father,
he now lay quiet, with closed eyes and compressed lips. She knew that
in such moments as this she must not disturb him. Softly gliding to the
window, she let down the curtain, and the usual subdued twilight again
ruled in the sick chamber.