CHAPTER VII.

THE ORPHAN.

Day was again mirrored brightly in the waters of the Alster, and again the streets swarmed with life. The prattle and laughter of children on their way to school, the monotonous cries of the street-hawkers, the rattle of passing vehicles, were all borne aloft into the quiet room where Leuthold had died, and where Gretchen still knelt beside the bed, and, by her constantly recurring bursts of grief, showed that the long night had not sufficed to exhaust the fountains of her tears. Her head lay upon the edge of the bed, and her arms were stretched across the empty mattress,--for the host had insisted upon the immediate removal from his house of the body of the suicide. But Gretchen could not yet be induced to leave the desolate room, the vacant couch. Since she was not allowed to follow her father's corpse, she would at least pillow her head where he had lain. She repulsed all her mother's advances. When everything had been done that the law requires in such terrible cases, and the officials had vacated the apartment, she shot the bolt of the door behind them, and thanked God that she was alone with her misery, alone by her father's death-bed.

What human eye can pierce the depths of a young heart lacerated by such anguish? All that goes on in the soul at such moments, when the creature wrestles with its Creator, must remain a profound mystery,--a mystery known to almost every human being, but never to be revealed, no mortal language can declare God's revelations to us in our direst need. Experience alone can enlighten us, and those who have lived through such a time can only clasp the hand of a fellow-sufferer, and say, "I know what it is," and henceforth there is a bond between them that is none the less close because it can never be explained.

Thus was it with Gretchen and Hilsborn when the latter's low knock at the door aroused the girl from her grief, and she arose from her knees and admitted him. She put her hand in the one he held out to her, and looked confidingly into his serious blue eyes.

"You never went to bed, dear Fraeulein Gleissert," said he. "I can see that."

"How could I rest?" she replied. "They would not even let me watch by his body. All that I could do was to wake and pray for him here where he drew his last breath. How hard it is to have to leave what one has loved so dearly, and not to be allowed to cling to it at least until it is consigned to the earth! Suppose he were not quite dead. If he should stir, no one will be near to fan the spark of life into a flame. If he should open his eyes once more and find himself alone, and then die in helpless despair----Oh, the thought is madness!"

"I can assure you, Fraeulein Gleissert," said Hilsborn quietly, "that your father sleeps peacefully. I did what you were not permitted to do,--I spent the night by his body."

"Could you do this for the man for whom you could have had no regard?" cried Gretchen.

"I did it for you. I could imagine all you felt, and I knew it would be some comfort to you this morning to know that I had done it."

"Oh, how can I thank you, sir? I am too childish and insignificant to thank you as I ought. My heart is filled with gratitude that will not clothe itself in words! You watched by my father from pure humanity,--compelled by no duty, no obligation,--only that you might soothe the grief of a poor orphan. I cannot express what I feel. You must know----" She could go no further. Tears gushed from her eyes. She took his hand, and, before he knew what she was doing, had imprinted upon it a fervent kiss.

"Fraeulein Gleissert!" cried Hilsborn, in great embarrassment. And a deep blush overspread his cheeks.

Gretchen never dreamed that she had committed any impropriety,--how could she, at such a moment? And Hilsborn knew this, and would not shame her by hastily withdrawing his hand. She was still but a child, in spite of her blooming maidenhood, and the kiss was prompted by the purest impulse of her heart.

"You reward me far more richly than I deserve," he said softly. "Although it is long since I suffered the same sorrow, I know what it is. Grief for the death of my father never deserts me. Sorrow easily unites with sorrow, and you are more to me in your affliction than any of the gay, laughter-loving girls of my acquaintance. Let me do what I can for you,--it will be done with my whole heart,--and, for your own sake, do not give way to grief. Remember,--it is a melancholy consolation, nevertheless it is a consolation,--that it is far better for him to die before his crime brought its dreadful consequences. His home could never again have been among honourable men. What, then, would have become of you? Believe me, it is better as it is!"

"Do you think, then, my father does not deserve these tears? I know how great his offences were, and that every one is justified in condemning him,--every one but his child,--I cannot blame him. Do you think I ought not to grieve for him as I should for an honourable father? Ah, sir, is it less sad to lose a father thus, just as I was reunited to him, to find that he whom I so revered was a criminal, and to have him vanish in his sin before I could even breathe a prayer to God for mercy upon him? Whatever he may have done, I must mourn for him all the more, for he was and always will be my father. And there never was a kinder father. Let others curse his memory, I can only mourn for him. If the holy words are true, 'With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again,' I must give him nothing but love, for he never meted to me anything else. Do not despise me. I do not feel his guilt the less, although I cannot love him less."

Hilsborn looked down at her with admiration. "How can you suppose that I could despise this sacred filial affection? I respect you all the more for it. It reveals in you treasures of womanly tenderness! Most certainly he who had such a daughter, and knew how unworthy he was of her, is doubly to be pitied. I will not try to console you. You have in yourself a richer consolation than any that mortal words can give. What can such a stranger as I say to you or be to you? I can only stand ready to protect and advise you, should you need advice or protection."

"If you will be so kind as to direct my first steps in life, it lies all so untried before me, my poor father will bless you from beyond the grave."

She paused, startled, for the door opened hastily, and Bertha entered. She regarded her daughter with a satisfaction that equalled the aversion that she excited in her child. Bertha's beauty had been of a kind that endures only for a season and then gradually becomes a caricature of its former self. Her fresh colour had turned to purple. Her mouth had grown full and sensual, with a drooping under-lip. Her sparkling black eyes had receded behind her fat cheeks, and had an expression of low cunning. An immense double chin and a round, waddling figure added to the coarseness of her appearance. This was the woman who stood ready to claim affection from a daughter whose whole education had tended to create disgust at her mother's chief characteristic--coarseness. What was this woman to her? She had heard that she was her mother, but she had never felt it. She had not seen her since she was scarcely five years old. She could feel no stirring of affection for. She could hardly connect her with the image in her mind of her father's faithless wife. While she was thus regarding Bertha with aversion, the man entered the room whom she was henceforward to consider in the light of a father,--her mother's second husband.

Involuntarily Gretchen retreated a step nearer to Hilsborn, as if seeking in him a refuge from the pair.

"Well," began Bertha, "if Fraeulein Gretel is at home to young gentlemen, surely her father and mother----"

"Forgive me," said Gretchen gently but with decision, "my father is just dead, and I lost my mother when I was very young. I pray you to respect my grief and not mention names so sacred to me."

"Just hear the girl!" exclaimed Bertha. "Instead of thanking God that she still has parents to take care of her and not feel her a disgrace, she pretends to have no other father than the thief, the----"

"You must not speak thus in Fraeulein Gleissert's presence," cried Hilsborn indignantly. "Can you not see how you wring her heart?"

"Oh, sir, I thank you," said Gretchen with dignity. She turned to Bertha. "Whatever your unfortunate first husband may have been, he was my father in the truest sense of the word, and no one can have a second father. Just so a mother who has once ceased to be such can never be a mother again. Call me false and heartless if you will,--God, who sees my heart, knows how it can love."

"This is all one gets for kindness," grumbled Bertha. "Here have I been beating my brains half the night to think what I could do for the girl, how I could take care of her, and this is all the thanks I get! Well, it's no wonder. 'What's bred in the bone will never come out of the flesh.'"

"Mammy! mammy! they want you to get out some clean sheets," a bullet-headed lad called aloud at the door.

"Come here, Fritz," cried Bertha. "There, look at your sister." And she drew the boy towards her, evidently expecting the sight of him to produce a deep impression upon Gretchen. "Look, Gretel, this is your brother,--doesn't this touch you? We have three more of them. But that makes no difference, you shall be the fifth; I want some one to take care of the little ones. Only think how fine it is for you to find parents and brothers and sisters all at once. They'll take care of you." And suddenly a tear rolled down her fat cheek. "For you are my child, after all!"

And she took Gretchen's face between her hands and pressed upon it a smacking kiss. The girl patiently endured the caress, but when her mother released her she stood erect again, like a fair flower upon which dust has been cast without robbing it of its fragrance or soiling its purity. As the flower differs from the soil whence it springs, this child differed from her mother. And as surely as the flower turns from the ground to the sun, the girl's pure spirit turned from her mother to the light that her education and training had revealed to her.

"Mammy," the boy persisted, plucking Bertha by the skirts, "come, hurry!"

"You'll tear my dress, you bad boy!" cried his mother, slapping his hand.

The boy screamed. "You're so slow when any one is in a hurry, I had to call you."

"Hold your tongue!" his father now interposed. "Leave the room. What will your new sister think of you?"

"I don't mind her," said the boy insolently, as he left the room.

Gretchen and Hilsborn exchanged one long look. It was as if they were old acquaintances and could understand each other without a word. Gretchen shuddered at the thought of living in this family, and, besides, she had during the night formed a resolution that she was determined to carry out although it should cost her her life.

Her step-father broke the silence. "We shall never come to any conclusion in this way. Where's the good in talking? You must be taken care of, whether you like us or not. You might at least show some gratitude to us for taking any trouble about you." He stroked his smooth, oily head as he spoke, and his artistic fingers gave a fresh curl to the lock just above his ear. "The case is simply this: My wife thinks it her duty to support you. As you may suppose, it comes rather heavy upon us with our four children, and it stands to reason that you should do a little something for yourself. We will not ask anything unsuitable of you, for I can see plainly that you are a young lady of education. But, if we are to fulfil the duty of parents towards you, it is only fair that we should claim some filial duty from you in return."

He concluded his speech with the bow that he always made in presenting travellers with their little account.

"Oh, is that all?" said Gretchen, greatly relieved. "Then do not have any anxiety on my account. I renounce all claim to a support, and, in the presence of this witness, to any parental duties from you. I ask nothing of you, and shall never ask anything of you, but that you will allow me to depart without hindrance."

The man looked significantly at Bertha, who clasped her hands in amazement. "Do you want to go, then? Why, what will such a child as you do without money or friends?"

Here Hilsborn interposed. "You forget that your deceased husband appointed me his daughter's guardian, and I assure you solemnly, I have never valued my life as I do now that this duty is mine,--a duty that I am determined not to give up."

Gretchen looked confidingly at Hilsborn. "You see, I am not without friends. I will go with this gentleman. There is but one path for me in this world, and that leads me to Ernestine's feet. There is but one duty for me,--atonement for my father's sin. I cannot restore to Ernestine what has been taken from her,--that I learned from the papers yesterday. I can offer her nothing but two strong young arms to work for her. The Bible says, 'The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,' but I will not wait until they are visited upon me. I will blot them out, as far as I may, and make the curse powerless, that rests upon my unhappy father's grave. I will do what he had no time to do here,--make atonement for his crime." She raised her hands to Bertha in entreaty. "Oh, if you are my mother, open your heart to the first and last request of your child, and do not take from me the hope of obtaining pardon for my father by my labour and suffering!"

And she fell upon her knees before Bertha, who sobbed aloud.

"Ah, Gretel, my child, you are a dear, good girl. How could I ever forsake such a true, brave child? I see now how wrong and foolish I was. But I will do better. You shall learn to love me again. Only give up this silly idea of doing penance for your father. Why should you, innocent creature, suffer for his fault? you are not responsible for his actions."

"I am his flesh and blood, a part of him,--his honour is mine. The curse that strikes him strikes me too. Whatever burdened his conscience weighs upon mine. How could I find rest, living or dying, if I did not do all that I could to make good what he did that was wrong? If he took what was not his, ought I to keep it? Is it not my duty to restore it? And, if I cannot do this, should I not try to pay the debt, although I can do so in no other way than by constant labour?"

"But tell me what you want to do. Your cousin has nothing more. What will you both live upon?" asked Bertha.

"I do not know yet I only know that, thanks to my poor father, I have been taught everything to enable me to support myself, and even another besides. I only know that I will dedicate my whole future life to Ernestine. I long to go to her,--she has suffered most from my father's fault."

The head-waiter drew Bertha aside, and whispered to her, "Let her go, be thankful that we have not a fifth child to support."

"But, oh, I love the girl so much!" said Bertha.

"That's all very well,--but are we in a condition to take such a charge upon ourselves, just for a whim? And do you suppose that, if we force her to stay, this spoiled princess will be of the least use to us? She would cry from morning until night, instead of working. Let her go wherever she chooses. You have done without her long enough not to make such a fuss now about having her with you. I should think four children were enough for you."

"Yes, but----"

"Hush, now, or we will leave the room," her husband whispered emphatically. "I will not burden myself with Dr. Gleissert's daughter against her will. Let her go with her new champion, and let us hear no more of her!"

"As you choose, then. It is my fault, and I must bear the consequences," said Bertha, for the first time with real sorrow.

"Fraeulein Gleissert," the man said, turning to Gretchen, who had meanwhile been talking in a low tone with Hilsborn, "if you will not make any claim upon us hereafter, we are ready now, hard as it is, to relinquish our rights in favour of this gentleman, who was appointed your guardian by your father."

"I will promise never to do so, sir," replied Gretchen with a long sigh of relief. "I am ready to give you all the security I can."

"There is no need of that," replied Herr Meyer politely, with great satisfaction. "You know that the giving up of our claims depends upon your keeping your promise."

"Yes, I know that."

"Well, then, we will not trouble you further. Probably you would prefer settling the account for this room. It is not much,--you have eaten nothing."

"Come, that is too mean of you!" Bertha here interposed. "Is my own child to pay for the shelter of this roof for one night? No, I will not have it. Gretel, do not listen to him,--you shall have something to eat, too, before you go. I am not quite such an unnatural mother. And now come, Meyer, you ought to be ashamed of playing such a disgraceful part."

And half angrily, half good-naturedly, she drew her smart husband from the room.

"O God, I thank thee!" cried Gretchen from the depths of her soul. Suddenly she paused, and reflected with evident hesitation and embarrassment. Hilsborn took her hand.

"Well, my dear little ward, will you not tell me what is troubling you?"

Gretchen blushed and still hesitated. At last she conquered herself, and confided this grief also to her faithful friend.

"It has just occurred to me that I am not sure that I have money enough to pay my travelling expenses. I have something with me that I can sell, but if it should not be enough!"

Hilsborn smiled. "Is that all? Oh, never mind that, I have enough for both of us."

Gretchen looked mortified. "But I cannot take it from you, certainly not."

"What, Gretchen, will you not take it from your guardian? Why, this is a guardian's duty. And I will not give it to you, I will only lend it, and you can repay me when you are able."

"You will have to wait a long time,--I have so little that I can call my own. It will embarrass me very much to be in your debt."

"Gretchen," said the young man earnestly, "do not let us speak of such trifles. I transport you to N----, you transport me to heaven. Which owes most to the other--you or I?"

Gretchen could not reply. These new, strange words bewildered her. The sunlight streaming from them penetrated her heart, crushed by the tempest of grief that had swept over it. The blossom opened,--she was no longer a child!

She looked down in confusion. Hilsborn too was embarrassed. Neither could immediately recover from a certain constraint.

"Will you do me a great favour?" the girl asked at last

"Well?"

"Take me to where my father is lying, and let me bid him farewell once more."

"My dear Fraeulein Gleissert, I would do so with all my heart, but it would take us half an hour to reach the house where he lies, and the train starts in three-quarters of an hour. If you will remain here another day, I will do what you ask."

"No, oh, no!" cried Gretchen in alarm. "I would not for the world trespass any longer upon Herr Meyer's hospitality, or wound my mother's new-found affection any further. It is better to go as quickly as possible. If my poor father still sees and hears me, he must know that I feel the pain of parting from him thus quite as much as if I were allowed to weep beside his lifeless body."

"That is right. Better dwell in thought upon the spirit that was all affection for you, than linger beside the senseless clay that it informed----" He ceased, for Frau Bertha entered with breakfast. She had a black dress hanging upon her arm.

"There, Gretel, my dear, is something to eat. I will not let you go until you have taken something. And, if the gentleman will be kind enough to step out one minute, we will try on this dress. You must have some mourning, and where else can you get it, poor child?"

She spread the table hastily, and Hilsborn left the room.

"Now come here, and let us see how this fits. It is the very dress that I bought ten years ago, when your step-uncle Hartwich died. But it is as good as new. I have worn it but little, and, if you put the skirt on over the pointed waist, it has quite a modern air. Just look! It is not much too large. I was smaller then than I am now, and I have taken it in wherever I could. I was afraid it would be too big for you. Look at that little spot,--that is where you threw your cake into my lap when you were a little thing. I hid it so,--in a fold. Dear, dear! I had this very dress on when I left you. I never thought then that you would one day put it on and leave me, as I was leaving you!"

There was something touching in these simple words, and, for the first time, Gretchen threw herself into her mother's arms and burst into tears. "Gretel," said Bertha, crying bitterly, "you must one day feel that you are my child, just as I feel that I am your mother. I hope you will not then repent leaving me."

"Ah, mother," sobbed Gretchen, "how could you be so cruel to my poor father? How could you so wring my heart when I first saw you again that I turned away from you? I might have learned to love you. A child must try to honour its parents. I would never have reproached you for forsaking me, but the abyss into which you plunged my father lies between us, and can never be bridged over."

"But, Gretchen, Gretchen," cried Bertha, "I have done no worse than the young gentleman whom you think so much of. Why do you not blame him?"

"He only did his duty by a friend, and performed it in the kindest way possible. My father saw that, and reposed the greatest confidence in him in intrusting me to his care. But you, mother, permitted Herr Meyer to bring the stranger here who came to hand over my father to punishment, and to whom my father was only the enemy of his friend. It was not his duty to spare my father. But, mother, he had once been your husband, he was the father of your child, and yet, when, hunted and pursued, he sought the shelter of your roof, you had the heart to betray him and deliver him up to death and disgrace. I will not judge you, but ask yourself, mother, did he deserve such treatment at your hands?"

"Ah, merciful Heaven! you may be right, but it really seemed that it was to be so. I had forgotten everything but the wrong he did me. He has had his punishment, and I must have mine, for, indeed, to love you and lose you so is a heavy trial."

Hilsborn knocked at the door. "Frau Meyer, it is almost time to go."

"Yes, yes. Come in," cried Bertha. "Gretchen is dressed."

Hilsborn entered. He regarded compassionately the touching figure in the black dress,--the lovely childlike face, with those sad, large eyes, reminding him of a wounded doe's. His heart overflowed with pity, and he held out his hand, with, "Come, we must be upon our way."

"I am ready," Gretchen murmured.

"Stop," cried Bertha. "You must take something first." And she poured out a cup of chocolate, and followed Gretchen, who was collecting her various trifles for her travelling-bag, about the room, until she persuaded her to take some of it. "And you must eat some of this cake. You used to be so fond of it, and your lamented,--well, yes,--your lamented father too. Ah, I used to be well treated when I put that cake on the table! Will you not taste it? Well, then, take some with you." And she crammed as much of it as she could into the girl's travelling-bag.

One minute more, and Gretchen was ready to leave the room. "Good-by, mother," she said, throwing herself once more into the arms of her mother, whose hot tears fell upon her child's neck. "I will never forget your kindness to me to-day, and if you ever need me you will find me a daughter to you."

"My child, my good child!" sobbed Bertha. "Try to think as well of me as you can."

"Yes, yes, dear mother. God bless you and yours!"

Hilsborn hurried the girl away. She gently extricated herself from her mother's arms, and, in anguish of soul, descended the stairs that her father had on the previous day ascended for the first and last time.

"Write to me now and then," Bertha called after her.

"Indeed I will, I promise you."

When they reached the hall, they found there a crowd of curious idlers, all eager to see the suicide's daughter. Gretchen paused, overcome with dismay. She could hardly trust her limbs to bear her through the throng. A soft, warm hand clasped hers,--it was Hilsborn's. He drew the little hand under his arm, and led her through the gaping loiterers to the carriage. Gretchen was scarcely conscious, she only felt that, supported by this arm, she could raise her head once more, and she was filled with gratitude towards the man who did not shrink from thus espousing the cause of the child of a criminal.

Herr Meyer made them a formal bow as they entered the carriage, and it rolled away past the gay, sparkling waters of the Alster, now swarming with boats.

Gretchen looked out of the carriage window. Yesterday all this had been the world to her,--to-day her world was within, and all this was mere outward show.