Frida had fled to her own room in the upper floor of the villa. Another
might have given way to tears, or have poured out her heart to the
sympathizing Jessie; this girl did neither; but with restless haste
made the preparations for her journey.
The harsh repulse of her father, which burnt like fire into her soul,
left her only one thought. Away out of this house from which he wished
to drive her, away as quick as possible.
Frida had drawn out her travelling trunk, which still stood in the
corner of the apartment, and collected her things together. She did it
silently, tearlessly, but with a stormy haste, as if she would escape
some misfortune. She knelt before the open box and was in the act of
laying her dresses in it, when a step sounded outside. It must be her
uncle who was looking for her, she knew that he would come to her, and
would beg him to take her to an hotel. There they could arrange about
her return home. She would be docile, obedient in everything, only he
must not attempt to keep her longer here. The steps came nearer, the
door opened, and on the threshold stood--her father!
Frida trembled violently, the shawl which she held in her hand fell to
the ground, and she stood as if rooted to the spot.
Sandow entered and shut the door; he looked at the open box and the
things scattered around.
"You are going?"
"Yes."
Question and answer were alike short and abrupt. It seemed as if the
gulf between father and daughter would again open wide. Sandow was
silent for a few moments, he visibly struggled with himself; at last he
said--
"Come to me, Frida!"
She rose slowly, stood a moment as if undecided, and then approached
slowly, till she stood close before her father. He put his arm round
her, and with the other hand raised her head. Bending over her he
examined line by line, feature by feature, and his eyes seemed
literally to pierce into her countenance. The old suspicion arose once
more, and for the last time, but it vanished by degrees, as the father
saw his own features reproduced in his child.
A deep, deep sigh burst from Sandow's breast, and the half anxiously
seeking, half threatening look, melted into tears, which fell hot and
heavy on Frida's brow.
"Just now I gave you great pain," said he, "but do you think it was
easy to me to drive from me the one thing that could give me joy.
Gustave is right; it has been a terrible delusion, may it be forgotten
for ever. My child," his voice broke in deepest emotion, "will you love
your father?"
A joyful cry burst from the daughter's lips. At this tone, the first
which seemed really to come from the heart, vanished the bitterness of
the last hour, vanished also the recollection of the long years of
separation and estrangement.
Frida threw both arms round her father's neck, and as he pressed her
with a burst of tenderness to his breast, they both felt that the
gloomy shadow which had so long separated them, had vanished for ever!