They looked into each other's eyes for what seemed like an eternity.

Daniel was apparently trying to peer into the innermost recesses of her soul. Dorothea's eyes sparkled with daring; she did not lower her lids.

Suddenly, as if moved from within, Daniel bent over and kissed her on the forehead.

"You know who I am," he said, and walked back and forth in the room.

"You know how I have lived and how I am living at present. I am a guilty man, and a lonely man. My nature craves tenderness, but is unable to give tenderness in return. My lot is a hard one, and whoever decides to share it with me must be able to bear her part of this hardness. I am frequently my own enemy and the enemy of those who mean well by me. I am not a humourist, and make a poor impression in society. I can be gruff, offensive, spiteful, irreconcilable, and revengeful. I am ugly, poor, and no longer young. Are you not afraid of your twenty-three years, Dorothea?"

Dorothea shook her head vigorously.

"Test yourself, Dorothea, examine yourself," he continued urgently, "don't be too inexact, too careless with me, nor with yourself. Study the situation from all sides, so that we may make no false calculations.

Fate, you know, is fate. Love can get control of me more than I can get control of myself, and when this takes place I will do everything in my power. But I must have confidence, unlimited confidence. If I were to lose confidence, I should be like a mortal proscribed to h.e.l.l, an outcast, an evil spirit. Examine yourself, Dorothea. You must know what you are doing; it is your affair, and it is a sacred one."

"I cannot do otherwise, Daniel!" cried Dorothea, and threw herself on his bosom.

"Then G.o.d be merciful to us," said Daniel.

XVIII

Daniel took Dorothea over to Sylvia von Erfft's at Siegmundshof. He had written to her, given her all the details, explained the entire situation, and begged her to take Dorothea in and entertain her until the day of the wedding. Sylvia had shown herself most obliging in the matter; she met his requests with unaffected cordiality.

Dorothea had spent two nights at home, during which she had succeeded in evading all explanations with her father. She did this by having him agree to give her three days to think it over. On the morning of the third day, after her father had gone to the conservatory, she packed up her belongings and left the house.

Andreas Doderlein found the following letter from her: "Dear Father: Abandon all your hopes with regard to my marrying Herr Weisskopf. I am of age and can marry whomsoever I wish. I have already made my choice.

The man who is going to lead me to the altar is called Daniel Nothafft.

He loves me perhaps even more than I deserve, and I will make him a good wife. This is my unalterable decision, and you yourself will certainly come to see that it is n.o.bler to obey the impulses of one's own heart than to allow one's self to be led on and blinded by material considerations. Your loving daughter, Dorothea."

Andreas Doderlein had a sinking spell. The letter slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. Trembling in his whole body, he walked up to the covered table, took a gla.s.s and hurled it against the wall. The gla.s.s broke into a thousand pieces. "I will choke you, you impious toad!" he panted, shook his clenched fist, went to Dorothea's room, and, seized with boundless wrath, upset the chairs and the little dressing table.

The maid, terrified, ran into the living room. She saw Dorothea's letter lying on the floor, picked it up, and read it. When she heard her mad master returning, she ran down stairs to the ground floor, rang Herr Carovius's bell, and showed him the letter. His face turned yellow as he read it. The maid uttered a shrill, piercing cry, s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter from Herr Carovius's hands, and ran out into the court, for she heard Andreas Doderlein stumbling down the steps. He wanted to call the police and have them lock up the abductor of his daughter. Catching sight of Herr Carovius in the hall, he stopped and fixed his eyes on him. In them there was a sea of anger; and yet it was obvious that Andreas Doderlein was eager to ask a question or two. It seemed indeed that just one conciliatory statement, even a single gesture on the part of the man whom he had scrupulously avoided for years, would make bye-gones be bye-gones and convert two implacable foes into friends, colleagues indeed in the business of revenge and punishment.

But Herr Carovius was done with the world. His face was distorted; grimaces of unrelieved meanness furrowed his brow; his contempt knew no bounds. He turned about and slammed the door leading into his apartment with a bang that showed his intention of shutting himself up in his own stronghold.

Andreas Doderlein got as far as the entrance to the Town Hall. There he was suddenly seized with grave doubts. He stared at the pavement for a while, sad and sinister, and then started back home. His steps were not half so impetuous as they had been on the way over; they gave evidence of weakened will and fading energy.

Hardly had he reached home when Daniel was announced. "You have the boldness, Sir," he cried out to Daniel on his entering. "You have the boldness to appear in my sight? By the G.o.ds above, you are going far!"

"I will accept any challenge you make," said Daniel, with the chilly dignity that was characteristic of him in such circ.u.mstances and that never failed to have a sobering effect on his potential antagonist. "I have nothing to fear. I should like to live in peace with the father of my wife, and for this reason I have come to you."

"Do you know what you are doing to me? You have stolen my daughter, man!" cried Doderlein with pathos. "But just wait. I will checkmate your plans. I will make you feel the full measure of my power."

Daniel smiled contemptuously. "I am certain of that," he replied. "I will feel your power as long as I live; I have always felt it. But I have never submitted to it, and up to the present I have always been able to break it. Think it over! Recall my past history! And devote a few of your meditative moments to your child. Adieu!" With that Daniel left.

Andreas Doderlein was ill at ease. The man's smile followed him wherever he went. What could the desperado be planning? A bad conscience paralyses evil determinations. For more than a week, Doderlein waged perpetual war with his pride. And then? Daniel did not allow himself to be seen; he received no news of any kind from Dorothea; and, climax of it all, Herr Weisskopf notified him that his note for one thousand marks, with interest, was due. Doderlein saw that there was nothing to be done about it all except to recognise the denouement as a fact and not as a stage scene. And one day he hobbled up the steps of the house on aegydius Place.

"I am glad to see you," said Daniel as he reached out his hand to his visitor.

Andreas Doderlein spoke of a father's bleeding heart, of the crushing of proud hopes, of the impiety of youth, and the lonesomeness of old age.

And then, rather disconnectedly, beating a tattoo with the fingers of his big hand on the top of the table, he spoke of the constraint in which he found himself with reference to the opulent owner of the mill.

He told Daniel he had gone on a man's note, had been suddenly obliged to redeem the note, and not having so much ready money at his disposal, had accepted a loan from the rich aspirant for Dorothea's hand.

Daniel was forced to admit that his troubles were humiliating and that the money would have to be raised. Doderlein said it amounted to fifteen hundred marks. He was surprised himself when he mentioned the sum which a.s.sured him a clear gain of fifty per cent. It had been a clever idea, serving as it did to put the generosity of his future son-in-law to test. At the bottom of his heart he felt that his action was dishonourable, and was consequently touched when Daniel, giving this inroad on his savings but a moment's thought, promised to send him the money the following day.

"You make me feel ashamed of myself, Daniel, really you do. Let us bury the hatchet! We are after all colleagues in Apollo. Or aren't we? Call me Father, and I will call you Son! Address me with _Du_, and I will follow your example."

Daniel gave him his hand without saying a word.

Doderlein asked about Dorothea; and when Daniel told him where she was, he seemed quite contented. "Tell her my house and my arms are open to her; tell her of the change in the constellation," he said softly. "We have both done each other injustice and have both repented."

Daniel replied quite conventionally that he thought it better to leave Dorothea with Sylvia von Auffenberg.

"As you wish, my son," said Andreas Doderlein, "I bow to the claims of your young happiness. Now we should have a bottle of Malvoisie or Moselle, so that I can drink to the health of my dear, unruly daughter.

Or don't you care to?"

Daniel went to send Philippina to the Golden Posthorn. But Philippina had gone out with Agnes. He saw one of the maids from one of the other apartments standing on the steps, and got her to run the errand. It was a long while before she returned, and when the wine was finally poured out, Doderlein had not time to drink: he was scheduled to give a lecture in the conservatory at seven. He drank about half of his gla.s.s, and then took hasty leave of Daniel, shaking his hand with unwonted fervour.

Daniel sat for a while thinking it all over. There was a knock at the door, and old Jordan came in. "May I?" he asked.

Daniel nodded. Jordan took a seat on the chair Doderlein had been sitting on. He looked into Daniel's face quizzically. "Is it true, Daniel, that you are going to get married again? That you are going to marry the Doderlein girl?"

"Yes, Father, it is true," replied Daniel. He got a fresh gla.s.s, filled it, and pushed it over to the old man. "Drink, Father!" he said.

The old man sipped the wine with an air of adoration. "It must be nine or ten years since I have had any wine," he said more or less to himself.

"You have not had a happy life," replied Daniel.

"I will not complain, Daniel. I bear it because I have to. And who knows? Perhaps there is still a measure of joy in store for me. Perhaps; who knows?"

The two men sat in silence and drank. It was so still that you could hear the fluttering of the light in the lamp.

"Where can Philippina be?" asked Daniel.

"Yes, Philippina. I had forgot to tell you," began old Jordan sorrowfully. "She came to me this afternoon, and told me she was going over to Frau Hadebusch's with Agnes and was going to stay there until after the wedding. But she spoke in such a confused way that I couldn't make out just what she planned to do. It sounded in fact as though she were thinking of leaving the house for good and all. I wonder whether the girl isn't a little off in her head? Day before yesterday I heard an awful racket in the kitchen; and when I went down, I saw at least six plates lying on the floor all smashed to pieces. And as if this was not enough, she threatened to throw the dishwater on me. She was swearing like a trooper. Now tell me: how is this? Can she go over to Frau Hadebusch's, and take Agnes with her without getting any one's consent?"

Daniel made no reply. The thought of Philippina filled him with anguish; he feared some misfortune. He felt that he would have to let her have her way.

XIX

In the night Daniel became very much excited. He left the house, and, despite the darkness and the snow storm, wandered out to the country quite unmindful of the cold and snow and the wind.

He listened to the whisperings of his soul; he took council with himself. He looked up at the great black vaulted arch of heaven as though he were beseeching the powers above to send him the light he felt he needed. The morning of the approaching day seemed bleaker, blacker to him than the night that was pa.s.sing. He was lost in anxiety: he went over to his graves.

He did not stop to think until well on his way that the gate to the cemetery would be closed; but he kept on going. He looked around for a place in the wall where he might climb over. Finally he found one, climbed up, scratched his hands painfully, leaped down into some snow-covered hedges, and then wandered around with his burden of grief over the stormy, desolate field of the dead. As he stood before Gertrude's grave he was overwhelmed with the feeling of the hour: there were voices in the storm; he felt that the horror and the memory of it all would hurl him to the ground. But when he stood by the grave of Eleanore, he felt his peace return. The clouds suddenly opened on the distant horizon, and a moonbeam danced about him.

It was almost morning when he reached home.

A week later he went over to Siegmundshof and got Dorothea.

Sylvia and Dorothea came down through a snow-covered alley to meet him.