CHAPTER VI.

SENTENCED.

Leuthold had listened to the conversation between Johannes and Ernestine until it reached the point where he saw that Johannes would prevail. Several times he wondered whether it might not be best to break in upon them and try to give their interview another colour, but he reflected that the attempt would be useless with a man of Moellner's determination, and that he should only be forced to listen to fresh accusations. Then he devised another plan, and determined to make use of the opportunity to effect his own escape. Convinced now that his game was lost, he gathered together the contents of his strong box, and wrote a few lines to Ernestine that might be found upon his writing-table when his absence was discovered. They ran thus:

"I have listened to your conversation, and have heard the unfortunate turn for me that it has taken. I can no longer cherish any hope, and all that I can do is to outwit this fellow and escape while he is with you. I take with me whatever of money there is in the house, to defray the expenses of my journey. I cannot wait until Moellner has gone to ask you for it, for he would stand guard at the door again, and I should never escape from his clutches. My life, and my child's future existence, are at stake. I cannot delay. If you should still decide to leave with me to-day, you will find me at the railroad-station. There are still two hours before the departure of the train. If you remain, I will send you the money for the journey as soon as I can. Farewell, and, I hope, _au revoir_."

Having written these lines, he slipped out to the stables, had the horses put into the carriage, and drove to the station. In two hours his fate would be decided! Once off in the train, and he was safe!

The time spent by Ernestine in mortal struggle with her doubts and reawakening faith was no less a time of torture to him who was the cause of all her woe. Any one who has waited a couple of hours for the arrival of a railroad-train at some insignificant station knows the meaning of the word "patience." To stand about upon a desolate platform, stamping your feet to keep them warm, now peering forward to look along the endless level road, in hopes of discovering the red spark in the distance, then walking up and down the narrow space again, and interrogating the sleepy superintendent as often as you think his patience will permit, as to whether the train will not soon arrive, and always hearing the same answer, "It will soon be here now,"--an assertion which the official himself does not believe,--then, for a change, to wander into the dreary refreshment-room, with its eternal leathery sandwiches and its faded waiter-girls, who reward you with such an offensive want of interest because you are not sufficiently exhausted by a long journey to be brought down to the point of purchasing any of their stale provisions,--to look at the clock every ten minutes, under the full conviction that at least half an hour must have elapsed since you looked last,--and finally, when, stupefied with fatigue and dully resigned to waiting, you have sunk upon a seat, to be roused with a start by the shrill whistle of the locomotive, causing you hastily to collect your seven bundles and rush out, only to be stopped by the station-porter, because this is not the train you want, but one that passes before your train,--all these are the miseries of human life at a railroad-station that every one is familiar with. But for him who is waiting for the iron steed to save him from pursuit and death, they become the most terrible tortures that malicious demons can devise.

Leuthold experienced them to the utmost, with the added anxiety of watching in two different directions,--in that whence the train was to approach, and in that whence he himself had come, and where the avenger might now be upon his track. Thus he passed two hours upon a mental rack--and when at last the glittering point appeared upon the horizon, and, coming nearer and nearer, the train swept up before the station, he thought he should fall senseless at the sound of the whistle that rung in his ears. With all the strength that he was master of, he mounted the high steps of the car, and the black, red-eyed, guardian angel of thieves and murderers spread abroad its smoky pinions and steamed away with him into the night.

Safety seemed assured. Upon the iron path, along which he was carried with such fiery speed, no pursuit could overtake him, except through the electric spark,--that might outstrip him and cause his arrest at some other station. But this fear did not trouble him greatly, for no one knew whither he had fled. To baffle pursuit, he had purchased a ticket for a distant town on the left bank of the Rhine while he intended going directly to Hamburg, first stopping at Hanover to take his daughter from her boarding-school.

It was a cold, disagreeable night. Overpowered by fatigue, he fell asleep once or twice. He dreamed he was in the cabin of a vessel upon the ocean,--once more he breathed freely--his fears were at an end. And as we are apt to say, when some danger is past, "Now we are on dry land again," he, on the contrary, exulted in being on the water. But suddenly the cruel guard shouted in at the door his monotonous "Five minutes for refreshment!" and recalled him to the consciousness that he was still on the land, on the land where for him there was no real safety. Thus the night passed between waking and sleeping. The other travellers looked compassionately, by the flickering light of the car-lamp, at the pale, beardless man leaning back so wearily in the corner, and thought he must be very ill.

At last the dawn flushed the horizon, and revealed the uninteresting level landscape. The usual beverage was offered at all the stopping-places, and drank for coffee by the chilly travellers, who, reduced to a state of physical and mental weakness, made no complaints, only murmured, "At least it is something warm!"

An old lady, who had got into the car during the night, and, seated by Leuthold, fairly drank herself through the whole journey, was greatly troubled by the presence of the pale man who appeared impervious to earthly needs and sat perfectly motionless in his corner. What kind of a man could this be, who never stirred, never took any refreshment, never smoked, never spoke, not even to answer the usual question, "Where are we now?" which is almost sure to open a conversation? Nothing makes friends more speedily than common discomfort in travelling at night. All the other travellers in the car had grown confidential,--had stretched themselves, and told whether and how they had slept. Leuthold alone was as if deaf and dumb. Of course the others leagued against him. They watched him curiously, and made whispered remarks upon his appearance. At last he grew very uncomfortable. The restlessness of the old lady by his side tormented him, she was perpetually burying him beneath her huge fur cloak, which, she informed him, she had brought into the car with her because it would not go into her trunk, and now it had turned out quite useful--who would have thought a September night would be so cool? Still, she must take it off, lest she should take cold, and she disentangled herself from the voluminous garment, almost smothering Leuthold in the process. The other gentlemen smilingly assisted her, and Leuthold extricated himself impatiently. The cloak was at last, with considerable pains, secured in the place made for portmanteaus on one side of the car, during which process the towers of the capital, looming in the light of morning, were approached unperceived. The pains had been fruitless, for the guard opened the door with the words that would release Leuthold, "Tickets for Hanover, gentlemen!"

"Oh, good gracious I are we there already?" cried the old lady, rummaging her pockets for her ticket, which Leuthold fortunately picked up from the floor and handed to her.

Appeased by his courtesy, she asked him if he too was going to get out at Hanover, and, upon his answering by a brief "Yes," she informed him, to his horror, that she was going to take her youngest daughter from the boarding-school there, to establish her as companion with a lady in Copenhagen. She had a hard journey before her, for she should continue it that very night.

Therefore he determined not to take the night train for Hamburg, as he had at first intended, since then he would have to travel the long road thither from Hanover in company with this officious old gossip and her daughter. He could not avoid them, as the daughter was in the same boarding-school with Gretchen, and probably one of her friends. It was incumbent upon him to have no companions to whom he might become known and who could thus afford intelligence to the authorities concerning his route. Great as was the danger in delay, this peril was still greater. He must choose the lesser evil, and lose a day.

The train stopped. The old lady emerged from the car, like a mole from the earth, and was greeted with a joyful exclamation from her daughter, who was waiting for her at the station.

Leuthold threw himself into a droschky, and drove to a hotel, whence he dispatched a few lines to his daughter, requesting her to come to him.

A long half-hour ensued. What would the daughter be whom he had not seen for seven years? Was she what she seemed in her letters? If she were, how should he meet her and gaze into her innocent eyes?

There was a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," he cried eagerly, and there entered a creature so lovely in her budding maidenhood that Leuthold could only open his arms to her in mute delight.

The girl stood for one moment timidly upon the threshold, and then threw herself upon her father's breast with a cry of joy,--a cry in which all the home-sickness of years was dissolved in the rapture of reunion. Closer and closer each clasped the other,--neither could utter a word. The child wept tears of joy in her father's arms, and bitter drops fell from Leuthold's eyes upon the head that he pressed to his breast as if this happiness were to be his only for a few minutes.

"Father, let me look at you," Gretchen said at last, extricating herself from his embrace. And she put her hands upon either side of his head, and gazed into his eyes with the clear, frank glance of innocence. He bore her look as he would have borne to look at the sun: it seemed to him that it must blind him, and that he should never be able to raise his eyelids again.

"Father dear, I can see how you have laboured and suffered," said Gretchen sadly. "It was high time for you to allow yourself a little relaxation. Ah, how good it is of you to come to me,--to me!" And her emotion found vent in kisses. "But the surprise!" she cried with a long breath, "the surprise! I could hardly believe my eyes when your note was handed to me. 'My father's hand,' I thought, 'and from here?' I opened the note and read,--and read,--in distinct letters, that my father was really here. I gave such a cry of delight that every one came running to know what was the matter. I was just out of bed, and would gladly have run to you in my dressing-gown! Oh, heavens! I could scarcely dress myself--everything went wrong. I should never have got through if the Fraeulein had not helped me,--I was in such a hurry!" And she laughed, and cried, and threw her arms around her father again, as if she feared he might vanish from her sight. "Ah, father, what shall I call you? My own darling father, is this really you? Are you going to stay with me now for a while? Are you half as glad to see me as I am to see you?"

Thus the innocent, joyous creature overwhelmed him with love and caresses, and he, lost as he was, heard his condemnation in every one of her tender words.

Could this angel ever descend from her upper sphere to a knowledge of her father's crime? Could her pure soul ever be stained with thoughts of sin, of which as yet she had no idea, and learn to despise, as a criminal, him whom she now held dearest in the world?

But this was not all that he feared. What if his disgrace were to be visited upon his child? What if this young bud should be buried beneath the ruins of his shattered existence? Who would have anything to do with the daughter of a criminal?

"Visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children to the third and fourth generation!" These words, hitherto only empty sounds to him, haunted his memory in terrible distinctness. They perfectly expressed the dread that possessed him.

"Father, how silent you are!" said Gretchen timidly.

"Oh, my child,--my life! I can do nothing but look at you and delight in you! Your loveliness is like a revelation to me from on high! I have become a new man since I know myself the father of such a child! I cannot jest and laugh,--my joy is too deep! So let me be silent, and, believe me, the graver I am, the more I love you."

Gretchen instantly understood and sympathized with her father's mood. "You are right,--we do not jest and laugh in church, and yet I am so filled there with gratitude for God's kindness to me! How I thank Him now for this moment! I have prayed Him for so many years to send you to me, and now my prayer is answered,--you are here. His way is always the best. He has not sent you before, because I was not old enough to appreciate this happiness." Leuthold had seated himself by this time, and she stood beside him and pillowed his head upon her breast. "You are worn out, father dear. You look so sad. But now you are mine, and I will tend you and cherish you until you forget all your care and anxiety. Oh that Ernestine,--I will not wish her ill, but would she only give back to me every smile that she has stolen from you,--to me, who have nothing but your smile in this world!" She imprinted upon his forehead a kiss that burned there like a coal of fire.

"We will not speak of Ernestine now, my child," said Leuthold. "Let her be what she is. We will talk of her by-and-by. Lately she has not been so hard to control, and has often spoken of you affectionately. I think she will shortly marry, and then she will be gentler, for love always ennobles. She has not quite decided as to her future course yet, but I think she will marry. At all events, she will take care of you if anything should happen to me. Yes, she will,--I am sure of it."

"Father," cried Gretchen in alarm, "how can you talk so? What could happen to you?"

"Why, my child, I might die suddenly. We must be prepared for everything, the future is in God's hand."

Gretchen knelt down beside him, and pressed her rosy lips upon his slender hand. "Father dear, why cast a shadow upon this happy hour? Just as I have found you, must I think of losing you? Oh, my Heavenly Father cannot be so cruel! You are in His hand, and He who has brought you to me will let me keep you."

She laid her head upon his knee with childlike tenderness, and was silent.

"Visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children" rang again in the ears of the happy and yet miserable father. Thus several hours passed, amid the girl's loving talk and laughing jests, until at last, at noon, she sprang up and declared she must go home to dinner. Leuthold would not let her go. He said they would not expect her at the school,--they would know she would stay with her father. And so they dined together, for the first time after so many years. But to Leuthold the meal was like the last before his execution.

After dinner he went to see the governess of the Institute, and asked her to allow Gretchen to take a pleasure-trip of a few weeks with him,--a request that was readily granted, although madame declared that she could not tell how she should do without Gretchen so long. "For I assure you," said she, "that Gretchen has richly rewarded us for our trouble. When she really leaves me, she will carry a large piece of my heart with her."

"Oh, how can I thank you?" cried Gretchen, throwing herself into her kind friend's arms.

Leuthold was deeply troubled. Should he snatch this child from the soil into which she had struck root so securely, and where she had blossomed so fairly in the sunshine of peace and good will? And yet could he leave her here to lose her forever? If justice should pursue him to America, he never could send for his daughter without betraying his place of refuge. She was his child. He had a sacred claim upon her, and, since he had seen her again, was less able than ever to do without her. She should share his fate.

While he was in the parlour of the Institute, the old lady who had been his travelling companion, and who had passed the whole day with her daughter, entered, and was charmed to meet him again, only regretting that they were not to continue their journey together that evening.

Madame invited him to return to tea,--an invitation that he could not refuse,--and he left the house for awhile for a walk with Gretchen. The girl's delight knew no bounds when she found herself promenading the streets upon her father's arm. She had on her prettiest bonnet and her best dress,--she wished to be a credit to her father and to please him, and she entirely succeeded. She was charming. Leuthold regarded her with increasing admiration, and his busy mind began to weave fresh plans for the future out of her brown hair and long eyelashes. The world stood open for this angel, might she not pass scathless through it with a father who had been proscribed? Who could withstand those half-laughing, half-pensive gazelle-eyes, and those pouting lips; pleading for a father?

As she walked beside him thus, her elastic form lightly supported upon his arm, prattling on with all the grace of a nature full of sense and sensibility, he too began to smile and to revive. He might be most wretched as a man, but he was greatly to be envied as a father.

Gretchen interrupted his reverie. "Father," she said in a low voice, "when I was a little child, you never liked to have me speak of my mother. But I want very much to know what became of her after she married that head-waiter. Will you tell me to-day?"

"I can tell you nothing,--I know nothing of her since she left Marburg, after her father's death. At the time of the divorce she sent me the sum that she was to contribute to the expenses of your education, and her coarse husband permitted no further correspondence between us. He sent back to me unopened every letter in which I tried to arrange matters more methodically. I learned through a third person that she had left Marburg. I do not know where she is living now."

Gretchen shook her head and said nothing.

"I look like you, father, do I not?" she asked anxiously. She did not want to resemble her faithless mother in anything.

"You inherit her beauty, refined and ennobled, and my way of thinking and feeling."

Gretchen nestled close to his side. "I would like to grow more like you every day."

"God forbid!" Leuthold thought to himself, in the full consciousness of what he was, as he turned to go back to the Institute. If he could only have thus retraced his steps in the path of life!

The evening passed more slowly than if he had been alone with Gretchen, although he was delighted by fresh proofs of her ability and progress. He was especially surprised by her artistic talent,--her drawings and sketches in colour. She had not exaggerated when she wrote to him that she was as entirely fitted as a girl could be to earn her own livelihood. He was perfectly satisfied upon that point. And as he lay down to rest at night, a sense of relief filled his mind greater than any he had felt for a long time, and it soothed him to repose.

The next morning Gretchen heard, to her surprise, that her kind father desired to give her a glimpse of the ocean. He would wait until they were on board of the steamer, he thought, before he told her of his real plans. They took the early train for Hamburg, and arrived there towards evening. Leuthold thought it advisable to go directly to a large hotel, where an individual would not excite as much observation as in a smaller house. He selected one of the most splendid hotels in the gayest street in Hamburg.

Gretchen was enchanted with the sight of this northern Venice. The extensive basin of the Alster lay before them, framed in hundreds of bright lights, on its bank the brilliantly illuminated Alster Pavilion, while the rippling waves reflected the moon's rays in a long path of shining silver. Like pictures in a magic lantern, the gondolas glided hither and thither, and the fresh sea-breeze wafted the notes of gay music from the other side. The waves of the sea of light and of sound burst in harmony upon Gretchen's eyes and ears, and made her fairly giddy with delight. She could almost believe that the Nixies, scared away to their depths during the day by the passing to and fro upon the waters of so much life and vivacity, were now beginning to sport there in the moonlight, playing around the skiff's and singing their enticing strains. And when she turned her eyes to the shore, bordered by palaces and crowded with restless throngs of pedestrians and gay equipages, presenting a scene of reality to counteract the dreamy impression produced by the expanse of water, the world seemed to the child a garden of enchantment, and her father the mighty magician reigning over it, who had brought her hither to enjoy its splendours. She threw her arms around him and kissed his hands, and could not thank him enough for giving her such new delight.

The carriage stopped at the entrance of the magnificent hotel, and the attendants came running to offer their services. The head-waiter stood in the doorway, ready to receive the new arrivals. Leuthold helped out Gretchen and handed over the baggage to a servant. As he ascended the steps, he glanced for the first time at the dignified and trim deputy of the host. He started, and the man too was evidently startled. Each seemed familiar to the other; one moment of reflection, and the recognition was mutual. Leuthold held fast by Gretchen, or he would have staggered. There stood the headwaiter of his father-in-law's inn,--Bertha's husband.

They exchanged a hostile glance of recognition. Then the man cried with a perfectly unconcerned air, "Louis, show Dr. Gleissert and his daughter to Nos. 42 and 43."

It seemed to Leuthold that the servant smiled at the mention of his name, and that he exchanged a significant glance with his chief. But this was probably only an illusion of his excited fancy. He hesitated whether it would not be better to go to another hotel. But that would look like flight,--he had been recognized, and, if the man chose to pursue him, he could follow him to any inn in Hamburg.

His enemy stood aside with a contemptuous obeisance, and Leuthold followed his guide up to the fourth story. "Have you no room in a lower story?" he asked.

"Very sorry, sir," replied the servant with a smile, "they are all occupied--you have a very good view here of the river."

Leuthold was silent. He seemed to have fallen into a trap. How had he come to choose in all this wide city the very house where dwelt his worst enemy? How did the fellow come here?

The servant Louis opened a charming room, looking out upon the water, and Gretchen could not suppress an exclamation of delight as she looked down from such a height upon all the beauty below them. It seemed like heaven to her. Louis lighted the candles, and awaited further orders.

"How long has Herr Meyer been head-waiter here?" Leuthold asked as if incidentally.

"For about a year," Louis replied, arranging his napkin upon his arm. "He is a relative of the proprietor of this house, who, when his only son died, sent for Herr Meyer, that the business might not pass into strange hands."

"Indeed--then will Herr Meyer succeed him?"

"I believe so,--yes, sir."

Leuthold walked to and fro upon the soft carpet.

"Will you have supper, sir?"

"Yes."

"Will you go down to the dining-hall, sir?"

"No, I had rather not mount those four flights of stairs again. Bring our supper here, if you please."

"Very well, sir, I will get you the bill of fare instantly."

"Here--stop a moment----"

"What do you wish, sir?"

"Bring me up a couple of newspapers at the same time."

"Very well, sir."

As the door closed behind the man, Gretchen turned round from the window, where she had been standing with clasped hands. "Father," said she, "I am fairly dazzled with all that I see. I never was so happy in my life before. But, in the midst of it all, I never forget whom I have to thank for all this pleasure." And she knelt upon the carpet and laid her head upon the lap of her father, who had flung himself exhausted into a chair. "Do not you too, father, feel easy and free up here in the pure, clear air, with this lovely view of the shining water?"

"Oh, yes, dear child," said Leuthold, his breast filled the while with deadly forebodings.

Gretchen sprang up again, and took two or three deep breaths. "Oh," she cried, running to the window again, "it seems to me that I have been thirsty all my life, and am now drinking deep refreshing draughts in looking at those rolling waves." She leaned her fair forehead against the window-frame, and eagerly inhaled the fresh breeze that blew into the room from the Alster. "How happy those are who are at home upon two elements," she continued, "land and water! We, poor land-rats, must cling to the soil. Think of inhabiting all four of the elements, now working and walking upon the earth, then soaring aloft into the air, now floating dreamily upon the waves, or dancing in the ardent glow of fire,--would not that be glorious?"

"Then you would be man, fish, bird, and salamander all at once," said Leuthold, smiling in surprise at the girl's earnest tone. "Well, well, it might be all very delightful at sixteen, but a man as aged as your old father is thankful if he can live respectably upon the earth only."

"My old father!" laughed Gretchen, hastening to his side again--"you darling papa, how can you call yourself aged? Come with me to the window, the prospect there will make you twenty years younger." She drew him towards it. "It is very strange, I think, but certainly a new revelation of beauty should make the old younger, and the young older. It is a new experience for the young, and experience always makes us mature. It is a memory for the old, for they are sure to have seen something of the kind in previous years, and it carries them back to the earlier and youthful sensations that it first awakened in them. Such a memory should lighten the soul of ten years at least."

Leuthold looked at his daughter with unfeigned surprise. "Child, where did you learn all that?"

"Why, out of some book that I have read, I suppose," said Gretchen modestly. "One always remembers something, you know."

"Blessed be the day that gave you to me,--you are all that I have."

There was a knock at the door, and the servant entered with the bill of fare and the newspapers.

"Excuse me, sir, for keeping you waiting. I had to go to Madame for to-day's paper."

"No matter," said Leuthold, almost gaily. His talk with his daughter had done him good.

He ordered a little supper, and, when the man left the room, seated himself on a sofa and began to read.

Gretchen took her work,--she was just at the age when affection finds instant pleasure in embroidering or crocheting some article for the beloved object. So she sat and sewed diligently upon a letter-case that she was embroidering for her father while he read. Now and then she turned and looked out of the window, to be sure that all the splendour there had not vanished.

Suddenly she was startled by a profound sigh from her father, and, looking up, she saw him sitting pale as ashes, staring at the paper that had fallen from his hands. In an instant he sprang to his feet and walked up and down the room in mute despair.

"What is the matter, dear, dear father? what is it?" she asked in alarm, but, receiving no reply, she picked up the newspaper, to see if she could discover from it what had caused his agitation. She read unobserved by him--he was leaning out of the window for air--read what seemed to her a strange tongue, to be deciphered only in her heart's blood. It was a telegraphic order from the magistrate of W----. "Dr. Leuthold Gleissert, former Professor in Pr--, is charged with having appropriated, by means of forgery, and expended upon his own account, the property, amounting to upwards of ninety thousand thalers, of his ward Ernestine von Hartwich, of Hochstetten, and also of having robbed the mail. You are desired to arrest and detain him." A personal description of him followed, but Gretchen had read enough. "Father!" she screamed, "father! father!" And, as if in these three words she had summed up all there was to say, she fell forward with her face upon the floor, as though never to raise it again.

There stood the guilty man, forced to behold his child crushed beneath the ruins of his shattered existence. He did not venture to touch the sacred form extended before him in anguish. He looked down upon her like one almost bereft of reason. God had visited his sin upon him, probing the only place in his heart sensitive to human feeling--his punishment lay in the sight of his child's agony without the power to relieve it.

Suddenly Gretchen raised her head and looked at him with those clear, conscious eyes whose gaze he had always endured with difficulty, and before which his own eyes now drooped instantly. "It is not true--it cannot be! Father, you are innocent--you cannot have done this thing!"

"For God's sake, Gretchen, do not speak so loud," Leuthold entreated.

"You tremble--you will not look at me. Father, if you have thus burdened your soul, I cannot be your judge--I will be your conscience. I will not let you enjoy a single hour of rest or sleep until you have restored what does not belong to you. I will die of hunger before your eyes, rather than taste a morsel that is not honestly earned. But what am I saying? I am beside myself! It is not possible!--not possible! Relieve me from my misery by one word. My soul is in darkness, cast one ray of light into it." She clasped his knees imploringly. "Father, swear to me that you are innocent----"

"My child----"

She interrupted him. "No, no oath, no asseveration--there is no need between us of any such--only a simple yes or no, and I will believe you! Look at me, father,--oh, look at me! Do not speak, do not even say yes or no,--let me but look into your eyes, and my doubts will disappear."

"Gretchen," whispered Leuthold, trying to extricate himself from her clasping arms, "listen to me!"

"No, father, no, I will not let you go. I want no explanation, no argument. If you have committed this crime, nothing can extenuate it. I will hear nothing, know nothing, but whether you have committed it or not." She sought, in childlike eagerness, to meet his eye--she unclasped her arms from his knees to seize his hands and cover them with kisses, while a flood of tears relieved her heart. "Forgive me, forgive me for daring to speak thus to you, a child to a father. Oh, God! how unworthy I am of your affection! The false accusation invented by evil men could lead me astray, and I dare to ask if you are innocent! Forgive me, my kind, patient father--see, I will not ask you again, I will not even look inquiringly into your eyes. The touch of your hand, this dear, faithful hand, suffices to reassure me and lead me back to the knowledge of a daughter's duty." And she laid her face, wet with tears, upon his hands, with a touching humility that cut him more deeply than any accusations could have done.

"There--that's quite enough!" suddenly said a voice behind them, that curdled the blood in Leuthold's veins. "I will teach you a daughter's duty!" And from the doorway of the adjoining room Bertha's stout figure made its appearance boldly advancing.

"Good God, my mother!" shrieked Gretchen, and she recoiled involuntarily.

"Gretel," said the woman, "are you afraid of your mother while you are on your knees to that villain?"

Leuthold stepped between her and his child. "Bertha," said he, "it seems to me my punishment is sufficient. Surely you need not avenge yourself by snatching from me my child's heart,--a heart that you never prized, and will never win to yourself. If there is a particle of maternal tenderness in your breast, spare, not me, but this innocent angel. Do not destroy the most precious possession of a youthful heart,--confidence in her father. Bertha, Bertha, you will harm the daughter more than the parent! Give heed to your maternal heart, which must throb more quickly at sight of this fair flower, and spare me a blow that would annihilate her."

Frau Bertha folded her arms, and looked upon Leuthold with exceeding disdain. "Oho! now it is your turn to beg. I am no longer rude, clumsy, and coarse as a brute, as I was when you drove me off because I was too awkward to help you to steal the inheritance."

"Bertha!" cried Leuthold, pointing to Gretchen, whose imploring eyes were turning from one parent to the other in increasing distress.

"Yes, yes, she shall hear it all! She shall know what a charming papa she has, and that you are not unjustly accused in the papers. Why should you stop at such a crime as that, when you would have beggared Ernestine as a child, persuading old Hartwich to make you his heir? There is nothing that you would not do. I can tell her that,--I, your wife, who lived with you for years. And your child shall curse you, instead of adoring you as a saint. No one can tell what a fine game you might have played, if you had once got off to America with such a pretty girl."

At these words Gretchen uttered a loud shriek.

Bertha pitilessly continued, "And just because I have maternal feeling enough to try to save my child, I will prevent your evil designs. You shall not carry the poor thing away with you to such a life as yours,--not while I live!"

"Bertha," cried Leuthold, forgetting all caution, "hush, or mischief will be done here!"

"What mischief? Will you try to throttle me, as you did when Hartwich made Ernestine his heir instead of you? Only lay a finger on me! There is a police-officer outside in the passage, whom my husband placed there lest Louis should not be able to serve my fine gentleman with sufficient elegance."

"Great God!" gasped Gretchen, staggering as if mortally wounded.

"Is it really so? Could your mean desire for revenge degrade you thus?" asked Leuthold, still incredulous.

"It was not I, but my husband, who owes you a grudge because I played him false and married you. A gentleman came here this morning with the chief of police to search this house, as well as all the other hotels in the city, and left orders that if you arrived here he was to be informed of it. My husband sent for him, and, for greater security's sake, for a police-officer too,--I only wanted to speak to poor Gretel beforehand, and take her under my protection when her father was arrested." She approached the girl, who fled like some frightened animal to the farthest corner of the room.

"Go!" she cried, trembling in every limb. "Do not touch me! You can do nothing for me now but kill me, and put an end to the agony you have brought upon me."

She burst into a piteous fit of sobbing. No one observed that the door had been gently opened, and that a young man was standing upon the threshold, regarding the unfortunate girl with the deepest compassion.

"My child," said Leuthold, going timidly up to her, "my child, will you not listen to one word from your unworthy father?"

"Do not speak, father. What good can it do? I cannot believe you any more,--cannot save you,--cannot, although I would so gladly do it,--wash away your guilt, even with my heart's blood. I can only weep for you."

"Forgive one entirely unknown to you for intruding upon such grief," the stranger now said, in a voice trembling with pity. "I am compelled by cruel circumstances to appear as an enemy, when I would gladly act the part of a friend and comforter." He turned to Bertha. "May I entreat you to leave us a few minutes alone?"

She went out grumbling.

"Herr Gleissert," he continued, "my name is Hilsborn. Do not start. I am not come to avenge my dead father. His sainted spirit would disdain revenge. He forgave you freely while he lived. I come in place of my friend Moellner, who is detained by the dangerous illness of your niece, to vindicate the rights of Fraeulein Ernestine. We learned from Frau Willmers that you had sent your effects to Hamburg _poste-restante_ several days ago, and that you would of course be obliged to come hither to reclaim them. Moellner requested me to pursue you without delay, and, without one thought of personal revenge, I consented to assist my friend in reinstating your unfortunate ward in her rights. I little knew what my acceptance of this duty would cost me, for the few minutes that I lingered on that threshold taught me that my task is not alone to hand you over to justice, but to deprive a daughter of her father."

"You shame me, sir, by such kindness at a moment when a less magnanimous man would have believed himself justified in heaping me with insult. I am the more grateful to you since you, of all others, have most reason to hate me. Your humanity, under these sad circumstances, relieves me with regard to the fate of my unfortunate child, for it emboldens me to hope that you will extend your chivalrous kindness to her also."

"Rely upon it, I will do so," Hilsborn assured him.

"And let me hope, my child, that you will not reject the noble protection thus offered you. Herr Hilsborn, remember, has done your father no wrong,--he has only, in his natural desire for justice, lent his aid to the hand that is pursuing me. I presume," continued he, turning to Hilsborn, "that you have provided for my immediate arrest?"

"Yes, Herr Gleissert," said Hilsborn gently, "the superintendent of the hotel has assisted me to do so."

"Then I will place no unnecessary obstacles in your way. I shall submit to the investigation with a good conscience."

Hilsborn laid his hand lightly upon Leuthold's arm. "Herr Gleissert, do not reject advice that is well meant." He spoke in a whisper, that Gretchen, who was listening with feverish eagerness, might not hear what he said.

"Well?" asked Leuthold.

"Do not attempt denial, you will only weaken your case. The proofs of your crime are most decisive."

"How so?" asked Leuthold quietly, believing that he had destroyed every scrap of paper that could criminate him.

"On the evening of your flight, a letter was received from a former maid of Fraeulein Hartwich's, who travelled in Italy with you, demanding immediate payment of her yearly stipend, for which she had written several times in vain. She reminds you, Herr Gleissert, of what she has done for you,--how she worked sometimes all night long, trying to imitate Fraeulein von Hartwich's signature, that she might be able to counterfeit her successfully before the notary. In short, the letter proves beyond a doubt that you deceived the notary by substituting the person as well as the signature of the maid for your ward's, that the deed might be complete by which the Orphans' Court was induced to resign the estate in its charge."

Leuthold stood before the young man pale and mute. Hilsborn saw the terrible agony of his soul.

"I do not tell you this to humiliate you or to increase your pain, but only to warn you," he continued, "that you may not lose any time by a false plan of defence, and perhaps thereby deprive yourself of the sympathy sure to await a man of your culture who makes frank and remorseful confession of his guilt."

Leuthold's lips quivered at these well-meant words. "Have steps been taken to secure the person of the maid?" he inquired, in the tone in which he would have asked, "How long have I to live?"

"Professor Moellner telegraphed immediately to O----, the girl's present place of abode, and just before I left him he received intelligence that she had been placed under arrest. The notary also has been summoned. Be assured that, as your arrest has been conducted with the greatest foresight, no measures will be neglected to insure your conviction. The only course left for you is to endeavour to secure the sympathies of the jury."

"I thank you!" said Leuthold.

Gretchen had been standing leaning against the window-frame, and had understood more than Hilsborn had intended that she should. The waters of the Alster were still rolling below her, the lights were sparkling, and, in the terrible silence that now ensued, the music of the waltzes in the pavilion could be plainly heard. Was it possible that there was no change outside, while she felt as if the world were crumbling in pieces around her?

Again the door opened, and several figures appeared. Everything swam before Gretchen's eyes, her heart beat as though every throb were its last. An official entered, "Excuse me, sir," he said to Hilsborn, "I cannot wait any longer."

Leuthold looked towards the door. Two police-officers were standing outside, and Bertha with her husband. And who were those? Other figures were constantly appearing in the brilliantly lighted hall, inmates of the house, eager to witness the arrest. And was he to be led through all that gaping, staring crowd? He, who, with all his crimes, had always preserved appearances,--was he at last to be as it were held up to public contempt, dragged through the lighted passages and down the staircases by policemen, like a common thief? Of course there would be an eager crowd below, and another upon his arrival at N--. His only road now lay through long rows of curious faces, dragged from examination to examination, from disgrace to disgrace,--he, a man who had always preserved an outward respectability,--until he should end either in a convict's coat or the strait-jacket of a madman! The time for reflection was over. He turned a little, only a very little, aside, and drew a folded paper from his pocket,--it did not take a moment, no one observed the motion. And what else? it was so easy to put his hand to his lips and swallow the powder that the paper contained, far easier than to pass through that brilliant hall, through that murmuring, staring mob, to the courtroom, and thence to a jail! Only an instant,--it was done. It tasted bitter, and he drank a glass of water to destroy the taste upon his tongue. Then he stepped up to Gretchen, who was upon her knees, her face buried in her hands. "Gretchen," he said almost inaudibly, "forgive your unhappy father!"

"Father? Almighty God, I have no father!" burst from the lips of his tortured child.

Leuthold looked at her with dim eyes. "I am condemned!" was all he could say.

Then he turned to the officials. "Gentlemen, at such a moment as this, it is surely natural for a father to provide for the future of those whom he may leave behind him. I am ill, and may die at any moment. In case of my demise, therefore, I appoint, before all these witnesses, Herr Professor Hilsborn my daughter's guardian, as I hold her mother, who survives me, entirely unfit in every respect to be her guide and protector. The fact of her having forsaken her daughter at a tender age, and never troubling herself to inquire concerning her afterwards, will prove the justice of what I say. I pray you, gentlemen, to attest the validity of this my last will, when the hour for doing so arrives. Observe that I am at present in full possession of my mental faculties."

The by-standers looked at him in amazement. Bertha would have spoken, but her husband restrained her.

The officer said, coldly but politely, "Your directions shall, if necessary, receive due attention. Rely upon it."

"You have no objections to make?" Leuthold asked Hilsborn.

"Your wish shall be sacred to me," the young man assured him.

"And now, sir, I beg for one great favour," Leuthold whispered to the officer. "Grant me one half-hour's delay."

"I am sorry, but I have waited too long already."

"Only one-half hour, sir, for the love of Heaven,--a quarter of an hour!" Leuthold pleaded. The poison was beginning to work. His knees trembled, his gray eyes were glassy in their sockets, his features grew rigid.

"Not a minute longer!" the official replied impatiently, and beckoned to the police-officers.

"Have some pity!" the tortured man gasped out to Hilsborn. "I have taken poison. For humanity's sake, induce him to let me die here with my child."

"Good God!" exclaimed Hilsborn. "Let instant aid----"

Leuthold clutched his arm, and with a ghastly smile whispered, "It will be of no use, my friend!"

Hilsborn was horror-struck. "Sir," he said, "I unite my entreaties to those of Herr Gleissert. Allow him to remain here only until I have spoken with your chief."

"If the arrest is an unjust one, it will soon be at an end. I have nothing to do with that. I must obey orders."

Hilsborn whispered a few words in his ear, but he shrugged his shoulders. "Any man could say that. We will stop at a physician's as we drive past. That is not contrary to orders. We must go!" The policemen entered.

Hilsborn whispered to Leuthold, "I will bring you an antidote. I hope, for your child's sake, that you will take it. God have mercy on you!"

Leuthold would have replied, but a spasm prevented him from uttering a word.

Hilsborn saw that the poison had already infected the blood, and that all aid would come too late. Nevertheless, he would do what he could. In passing, he lightly touched Gretchen's shoulder. "Fraeulein Gleissert, your father is going. Say one word to him."

Gretchen started, as if from a swoon, looked around her, and saw Leuthold between the officers. "Father!" she shrieked, and rushed towards him. She clasped him in her arms, and pressed kiss after kiss upon his blue lips. Her cries wrung the souls of the by-standers, and Bertha hurried away, that she might not hear them.

"I take back what I said," Gretchen moaned. "How could I say I had no father? Now that I am going to lose you, I feel that I can never forsake you!"

Leuthold writhed in agony in her embrace, but he managed to speak once more. "My child," he gasped thickly, "if there is a God, may He bless you! and when you hear that your father took his own life, remember that estate, freedom, honour, were gone past recall, but that by his own act he at least avoided a public exposure."

Gretchen gazed at him speechless. She tried to reply, but her lips refused her utterance. She only knew that her father was taken from her, and that stranger hands loosened her frantic clutch of his garments. She heard footsteps retreating, a door closed, and there was silence. For a few moments she lost consciousness. But other noises roused her from the fainting-fit that had brought her repose from grief, and recalled her to herself. Were the footsteps approaching again? Yes, they came on to the door of her room. What a strange murmur mingled with them! She raised her weary head with a mixture of fear and hope.

The door was thrown open as wide as it could go. Four men entered, bearing a well-nigh senseless burden. Her father had returned to her,--but how? They laid him upon the bed. Gretchen would have thrown herself into his arms, but he thrust her from him convulsively, for her clasping arms, her loving kiss, were tortures too great to be borne. He tried to speak, but in vain. Amidst frightful spasms, alternating with utter exhaustion, he breathed his last sigh, and his spirit bore its burden of guilt to new, unknown spheres of existence.

He had avoided all "public exposure."

But the only judge that he had acknowledged upon earth,--his child,--lay crushed at his feet expiating the crimes of the condemned.