Jessie had locked herself in her own room, and there gave full course
to her tears. Never in her life had she felt so profoundly unhappy, so
despairing, as at this hour. Now she felt how her whole heart clung to
this man, whom cost what it might she would drive from her.
Long ago, while he still lived in Germany, she had treasured a secret
interest in her guardian's brother. She did not know him, but his pen
wove an invisible bond between them. With what glowing eagerness had
she read his articles; with what enthusiasm had she followed the
flights of his idealism. She felt a community of ideas between them on
all points of thought and sentiment, and by degrees he became a sort of
ideal to her. And now the idealist had come--to falsify his whole past
by yielding himself to his brother's sordid speculations. Then he
concealed the best feelings of his heart from a cowardly fear of losing
that brother's wealth; he heaped intrigue on intrigue to secure the
coveted riches, then denied his bride rather than risk the fortune, and
again courted the heiress. The most miserable selfishness, the most
paltry calculations, were the mainsprings of his actions. Jessie hated
and despised him with all her soul, but that she was forced to do so,
that it was precisely this man whom she must despise, tore her very
heart.
She had thrown herself on her couch, and buried her face in the
cushions, smothering there her sobs, when suddenly she heard her name
called, and springing up, she was startled to see Gustave Sandow
standing in the middle of the room. She passionately cried--
"Mr. Sandow, how do you come here? I thought"--
"Yes, you bolted the drawing-room door," interrupted Gustave, "and you
ordered your maid to admit no one, but in spite of bolts and lady's
maid I am here. I must speak to you; it is necessary for your sake as
well as mine."
"But I will not listen!" cried Jessie, with a vain attempt at
self-control.
"But I will be heard!" replied Gustave. "At first I thought of sending
Frida as a mediator, but soon gave up the idea. It would have taken too
long. She is still with her father."
"With whom?"
"With her father--my brother!" Jessie stood as if petrified. The
revelation was so sudden that she could not at first realize it, till
Gustave said--
"May I now justify myself?"
Then through her soul flashed hope and happiness. She allowed him to
take her hand and to lead her to the sofa, and even to place himself
beside her.
"I have a confession to make to you, Miss Clifford," he began, "and to
make all clear to you I must go far back into my brother's past life.
By-and-bye, I may do it at greater length, but now I will only tell you
enough to justify myself."
He detained her hand in his, and Jessie left it unresistingly there.
She began to believe in the possibility of justification.
"My brother's domestic life was one of bitter experience. An apparently
happy wedded life ended in a terrible discovery. He found himself
betrayed by his wife and his dearest friend, and the circumstances of
the discovery were such that with his domestic happiness fell also his
outward prosperity. He neither would nor could remain longer at home,
and went to America, where your parents received him. But in Germany he
had left his daughter, his only child, who at that time was almost an
infant. In his hatred, his bitterness against all, he would not
acknowledge the child; it remained with the mother, who after the
necessary divorce had married that man."
He paused a moment. Jessie listened in breathless anticipation;
over her pale, tear-stained face crept a slight flush, as Gustave
continued--
"I was then at the university, and had no means of supporting Frida,
and all my representations in her behalf were fruitless. But I have
never forsaken my little niece. The poor child had a comfortless youth
in that family where her very presence was a rock of offence. Endured
against his will by her step-father, treated by her own mother with
indifference, nay, almost with aversion, she stood a stranger among her
step-brothers and sisters, and with every year more keenly felt her
loneliness. As soon as my means permitted, I assumed the rights of an
uncle, which were certainly readily granted me, and extricated my niece
from these surroundings. I placed her at school, where she remained
till her mother's death. That death broke the bond which caused
constant bitterness to my brother, and now I determined to come to
America and fight for her rights, cost what it might."
"And that was your reason for coming to America?" said Jessie, timidly.
"That alone! I had already made an attempt by letter, but was most
harshly repulsed by Frank. He threatened to break off all
correspondence with me if I ever touched on the subject again. So then
I placed all my hopes on the effect of Frida's own presence, but it at
first seemed impossible to carry out this plan. I could not allow a
young girl like that to cross the sea alone, and if she had appeared in
my company my brother would have instantly had his suspicions roused.
Then the death of your father, Miss Clifford, obliged him to think of a
new partner, and his thoughts turned to me. Under ordinary
circumstances the invitation to cast overboard my fatherland, my
calling, and my independence, yes, the very heart and soul of my former
life, for the sake of material interests, would have met with the most
decided refusal; now it seemed like a sign from heaven itself. I
apparently yielded, and started with Frida. She remained in New York
while I viewed the field of action, and then introduced her under an
assumed name into her father's house. You know what followed. The
discovery has cost a last but severe struggle. There was a scene, which
threatened to destroy all, but at last the father's heart awoke in my
brother's bosom, and now he is reconciled with his child!"
Jessie sat with eyes cast down and glowing cheeks while she listened to
this recital, which took one thorn after another from her breast. It
seemed to her as if she herself were released from a gloomy oppression,
now that the veil which so long had covered the "egoist" had fallen.
"Yes, Miss Clifford, now it is all up with the inheritance," said
Gustave mischievously. "It was indeed offered to me, and I have had a
hard fight for it, but only in the interest of the rightful heiress.
Unfortunately, I must also resign the honour of becoming a partner in
the house of Clifford. The editor and staff of the _K--sche Zeitung_
have bound me by a solemn oath as soon as my leave of absence is at an
end; and in the long run indeed 'keeping accounts' does not appeal
very strongly to me. I shall take up my old colours again, which,
by-the-bye, I have not so shamefully deserted as you supposed. Do you
still find my presence at the office desk so contemptible an action?"
Jessie looked at him, ashamed, confused, yet with a feeling of intense
happiness--
"I have wronged you, Mr. Sandow; it was certainly your own fault,
but--I beg your pardon?"
She could not offer him her hand, for he had never released it, but he
pressed a kiss upon it which this time was quite patiently endured.
"I have for weeks past rejoiced at the thought of this explanation,"
said he, laughing. "Do you think I would have endured my brother's
arbitrary manner and your contempt even for an hour, had I not been
certain of your petition at the end?"
"And Frida is really only your adopted child?" asked Jessie, with a
throbbing heart, which could not be controlled. "You do not love her?"
"Frida is my dear niece, and I am her venerated uncle, with that our
mutual relation is exhausted. Now that she has found her father, I am
become superfluous as an object of respect. But now that we are on the
subject of love, Jessie, I have one question to put to you."
The question seemed to be guessed, for Jessie's face was bathed in
blushes. She dared not look up, but that was also unnecessary, for
Gustave was already at her feet, so she was compelled to look down at
him, as he, with warmest devotion, whispered--
"My dearest, my beloved Jessie, it is now my turn to beg your pardon. I
have intrigued, I have lied even to you, that cannot be denied, but I
have also suffered for it, for you have compelled me to hear some
bitter strictures. But one thing has remained real and true in me since
our first meeting--the feeling which awoke in me when I first saw those
blue eyes! So you must be gracious to me!"
Jessie seemed certainly inclined to grace, that the blue eyes said
before the lips could express it. He sprang up full of passionate joy,
and the pardon was confirmed in every point, indeed, no necessary
formalities were omitted.
Half an hour later the two entered Frida's room, where Sandow still sat
with his daughter. Gustave had drawn Jessie's hand within his arm, and
now solemnly led her to his brother.
"Frank," said he, "in your inconsiderate plan was one sensible
idea--indeed a very sensible one--yes, my little Frida, do not make
such astonished eyes at your uncle and your future aunt--these are
things which you do not understand; with our mutual penetration we have
discovered that one sensible idea, and now introduce ourselves to you
as an engaged couple."