And Faith overwhelmed her with its terrors, for only to the loving heart is Faith revealed as Love. To those who have shunned and denied it, it comes like an avenging blast. It bore her poor diseased mind away upon its wings like a withered leaf from the tree of knowledge, and tossed it down into the night of despair.

A cry, "Johannes, come! save me!" burst from Ernestine's lips, and, in a vain effort to reach the door, she fell senseless upon the ground.

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 Mollner'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 Mollner 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 s.p.a.ce 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 a.s.sertion 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 pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sured. 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 pa.s.sed between waking and sleeping. The other travellers looked compa.s.sionately, 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 a.s.sisted 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 inc.u.mbent 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 Fraulein 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 grat.i.tude for G.o.d'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 enn.o.bles. 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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.sed, 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 Inst.i.tute, 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 a.s.sure 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 Inst.i.tute, the old lady who had been his travelling companion, and who had pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 coa.r.s.e 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.