Meanwhile Gustave Sandow had mounted to the higher story, where were situated his brother's private apartments.
"I began to think you would not condescend to come at all," was the remark, delivered in his sharpest and most unpleasant tone, with which he greeted the dilatory Gustave.
"I was talking to Miss Clifford," replied Gustave, as if fully aware that that fact would completely justify him. "It was impossible to break off our interesting conversation sooner."
The allusion did not fail of its effect. The projected marriage was too important to Sandow, and his ward's disinclination to it, too well known to him, to allow him to throw the slightest hindrance in the way of his brother's courtship. He therefore replied more graciously--
"I suppose it was one of your usual altercations; you amuse yourselves with this continual wrangling; but I do not find that you make much progress with Jessie. She is more reserved than ever towards you."
"Frank, you cannot judge of my progress,", said Gustave, with an injured air. "It is considerable I assure you."
"We will hope so," replied Sandow, significantly, "and now to business. I want to talk to you of the affair, which I, and some business friends in New York contemplate taking in hand together. Jenkins tells me he has already spoken of it to you, and yesterday I gave you the correspondence to look over, so you must now be pretty well up in the subject."
"Decidedly I am."
Gustave had all at once become serious, and the answer rang quite differently from his usual cheerful, careless tone. Sandow took no notice of the change, but continued--
"You know we possess in the West large districts which are not yet settled. The purchase was to be made under extremely advantageous circumstances; but the extent of territory was so enormous that Jenkins was not able to complete it with his own means alone. He therefore applied to me and won me over to his views. We were fortunate in obtaining the land for a very moderate sum, and what now concerns us is to have it occupied advantageously. This can only be done by colonisation, and German colonisation in particular seems most suitable. We have prepared all the necessary notices, and intend now to begin seriously."
"Only one question," said Gustave, interrupting the dry business-like narration. "Have you any personal knowledge of your possessions?"
"Why, I should not undertake such an extensive business without full information. Naturally I know all about it."
"So do I," said Gustave laconically.
Sandow started and drew back a step.
"You! How? When? Is it possible?"
"Certainly, and in the most simple manner. Mr. Jenkins, whom I looked up in New York at your express wish, explained to me when the conversation fell on this subject, that you reckoned greatly on me, or rather on my pen. I therefore held it necessary to make myself thoroughly acquainted with the whole affair. That was really the cause of my late arrival, and of my 'pleasure tour,' as you called it. Before all, I wished to know where my country people were to be sent."
Sandow knitted his brows gloomily.
"All this trouble was quite superfluous. We are not in the habit of going to work in such a circumstantial manner. But what seems to me very remarkable is, that you should have been here a whole week without giving me the slightest hint of your journey. But never mind. We certainly reckon much on you and your literary connections. Our agents will do their best, but that is not enough. People have become very suspicious about agents, and the outlay has been too great to let us run any risks. Our great wish is that one of the great influential German papers which stands above all suspicion of a puff, should open the subject in our interest. It is true that you are no longer on the staff of theK--sche Zeitung; but they regret having lost you, and would gladly receive your contributions from America. A series of articles written in your eloquent and brilliant style would secure our success, and if you use your other literary connections skilfully so as to make the thing widely known, there is no doubt that in a few years a great German emigration will take place."
Gustave had listened in silence without offering the least interruption; but now he raised his eyes and fixed them earnestly on his brother's face.
"You forget one trifle, which is that your territory is totally unfit for colonisation. The land lies as unfavourably as possible, the climate is in the highest degree unhealthy, indeed, in some seasons deadly. The soil is unproductive, and to the most gigantic efforts returns only the smallest results. All the aids of skilful cultivation are utterly wasted, and the few settlers who are scattered here and there are sunk in sickness and misery. They are exposed, utterly defenceless, to the rigour of the most cruel elements, and those who might follow them from Europe would share the same fate."
Sandow listened with ever-growing surprise, and at first words failed him, at last he exclaimed angrily--
"What absurd exaggerations! Who has put such ideas into your head, and how can an utter stranger judge of such circumstances? What can you know of it?"
"I have made the strictest inquiries on the spot. My information is authentic."
"Nonsense! And if it were what have I to do with it? Do you think that you, who have scarcely been a week in the counting-house, can give me instructions in the management of my speculations?"
"Certainly not! But when such a speculation costs the life and health of thousands we are accustomed to call it by a different name."
"By what name?" asked Sandow, threateningly, advancing close to his brother.
Gustave would not be intimidated, but replied firmly--
"Knavery!"
"Gustave!" cried Sandow furiously, "you dare"--
"Naturally that word applies only to Mr. Jenkins. The remarkable attention with which that honourable personage received me, the constant sounding of my praises, the popularity of my name, and the brilliant success of my pen, which were to work wonders here as they had done at home--all this roused my suspicions and induced me to undertake the journey. You don't know the place, Frank, or at all events have only glanced superficially at it. But now that I have opened your eyes you will seek for the proof of my assertions, and let the whole thing drop."
Sandow did not seem much disposed to profit by the means of escape which his brother offered to him.
"Who says I shall?" asked he harshly. "Do you think I can give up without an effort the hundreds of thousands already invested there, merely because you have some sentimental objections to urge. The land is as good or as bad as in many other districts, and the immigrants have to struggle with climate and soil everywhere. These difficulties will be easily overcome by perseverance. It would not be the first German colony which had flourished under most unfavourable circumstances."
"After hundreds and thousands had been ruined! That is enriching foreign soil with German blood at too great a cost."
Sandow bit his lips; he evidently controlled himself with difficulty, and his voice was hoarse and stifled as he replied.
"What business had you to go there on your own account? Such exaggerated conscientiousness is here quite misplaced, and also quite useless. And if I did not accept Jenkins' offer there are plenty of others who would; and I must acknowledge that he applied to me first."
"First to you--a German--that was certainly a sign of remarkable respect from an American."
It was singular that the same man who a quarter of an hour before, had shown himself so anxious to conceal the choice of his heart from his austere brother, since it might displease him, now boldly defied him, under circumstances in which he could not be so profoundly interested. Sandow, though ignorant of his conversation with Jessie, was astonished to the highest degree at this conduct.
"You seem to be now playing the part of moral hero," said he with bitter sarcasm; "that does not suit very well with the extremely material motives which brought you here. You should have first made things clear to yourself. If you want a share in my house you must set its interest before everything, and in that interest I require you to write this article, and take care that it appears in a suitable place. Do you hear, Gustave? Under any circumstances you will do that!"
"To bring my countrymen here to rot in that swamp of fever and misery! No."
"Consider the subject well before you give such a decided refusal," warned Sandow with an icy calm, under which lay a half-concealed threat. "It is the first demand I make on you; if you fail me now, any future accommodation is impossible. It is quite in my power to draw back from the proposed arrangement; think of that!"
"Frank, you would not force me"--
"I force you to nothing; I only explain to you that we part if you persist in your refusal. If you are prepared for the consequences, well and good. I hold to my conditions."
He bent over his writing table, and took from it some papers which he placed in his pocket-book. Gustave stood silently by, his eyes fixed on the floor, a dark cloud on his brow.
"Just at the moment when Frida is on her way here," murmured he. "Impossible. I cannot sacrifice that."
"Well?" asked Sandow, turning to him.
"Give me time for consideration. The thing has come so suddenly, so unexpectedly. I will think it over."
The elder brother was quite contented with this partial submission; he had certainly not doubted that his threat would produce its effect.
"Good! a week sooner or later does not matter. I hope you will have sense to see that one must act according to circumstances. But come now, it is high time that we were at the office. And once more, Gustave, give yourself up to my guidance for the future, and undertake no more extravagances like this journey. You see, it only gives rise to differences between us, and increases the difficulties of your position."
"Decidedly," said Gustave, half aloud, while he prepared to follow his brother. "My position is tolerably difficult, worse than I had anticipated."
It was afternoon of the same day, and Jessie awaited with some anxiety and a great deal of curiosity the arrival of the young visitor. Gustave had told her in the morning that he should try to leave business earlier than usual, in order to meet Miss Palm at the station, and bring her to the house before his brother came home. At the appointed hour, then, he entered the drawing-room, leading a young girl.
"Miss Frida Palm," said he, introducing her. "My protégée, from this momentourprotégée, since you are so good as to afford her an asylum in your house."
Jessie felt painfully impressed by this mode of introduction. So he did not even venture to introduce the girl to her as his betrothed. "Protégée," that was a word open to so many interpretations. He intended evidently to leave himself a means of retreat, should his brother show himself unyielding. Miss Clifford pitied with her whole heart the young creature who had given herself to such an egoist, and consequently her reception was warmer than she had at first intended.
"You are very welcome, Miss Palm," said she kindly; "I have heard all about you, and you may confide yourself to me without fear. I am not accustomed to neglect my protégées."
The "I" was slightly but distinctly accented, but he, at whom the remark was directed, remained, alas, totally unmoved. He seemed extremely pleased that his plan had succeeded, and the young stranger replied in a low, rather trembling voice--
"You are very kind, Miss Clifford, and I only hope that I may deserve your goodness."
Jessie placed her visitor beside her, and while the usual remarks on the weather, her journey, and arrival were made, she took the opportunity of examining her more closely. She was certainly a very young girl, almost a child, who had evidently scarcely reached her sixteenth year, but the delicate childish features bore an expression of seriousness and decision, astonishing at such an age. The large, dark eyes generally rested on the ground, but when they were raised for a moment, they gave a glance full of shyness and restraint which suited ill with the energetic features. The dark hair was simply drawn back from her face, and the deep mourning dress made the young stranger appear even paler than she naturally was.
"You are an orphan?" asked Jessie, with a glance at the dress.
"I lost my mother six months ago," was the short, touching answer.
That touched a kindred string in Jessie's bosom. She still mourned too for her beloved parents, and by the recollection came an expression of pain in her face.
"In that our fates are alike. I am an orphan too, and it is only a year since my father was torn from me. Yours is, no doubt, much longer dead."
The girl's lips trembled, and she replied almost inaudibly--
"In my childhood. I scarcely knew him."
"Poor child," said Jessie, with overflowing sympathy. "It must indeed be sad to stand so alone and desolate in the world."
"Oh! I am not desolate. I have found a protector, the noblest and best of men!"
In these words lay a truly affecting devotion, and the look which at the same moment was cast upon Gustave, betrayed an almost enthusiastic gratitude; the latter, however, received it all with enraging indifference, with the air of a sultan, as Jessie angrily considered. He appeared to look upon it as a richly deserved compliment, and replied in his usual jesting manner--
"You see, Miss Clifford, what my reputation with Frida is. I should be happy if you would come round to this opinion too, which, alas, I dare not hope."
Jessie ignored this remark. To her the manner in which he received the devotion of his future wife, and treated it as a subject for jesting was quite revolting, and she returned to Miss Palm.
"At present I must welcome you alone. You do not yet know my guardian, but in a short time you will meet him, and I hope with all my heart that you will succeed in gaining his sympathy."
Frida made no reply; she looked in the same timid manner at the speaker, and then dumbly at the ground. Jessie was rather surprised at this strange reception of her kindly meant words, but Gustave joined in the conversation, with the remark--
"At first you must have great consideration for Frida. It will be difficult for her to accustom herself to her new surroundings, and the part which she is forced to play in the house oppresses and terrifies her."
"Forced at your desire!" Jessie could not refrain from adding.
"Yes, that cannot now be altered. At all events she knows the conditions, and also that there is no other way of reaching our end. Frida, you confide entirely in me, don't you?"
Instead of answering, Frida stretched her hand towards him, with an expression which would have excused any lover for pressing the little hand to his lips. But this one calmly held it in his own, nodded protectingly, and said--
"I was sure of it."
"I will do all in my power to relieve what is painful in your position," said Jessie, reassuringly. "And now may I keep you with me?"
"We had better wait till to-morrow," said Gustave. "It would very much surprise my brother to find a complete stranger, of whose arrival he had not even been warned, established as a member of his household. That might at once arouse his suspicions. It would be better for Frida to return to the hotel where I stopped with her and left her things. In the course of the evening some opportunity of speaking of her is sure to arise, and then the removal can be effected without any trouble."
Jessie was annoyed at the suggestion, in proportion as she recognized its justice.
"You are incredibly prudent, Mr. Sandow! I really admire all these precautions, and this clever calculation of all possible emergencies."
Gustave bowed as if he had really received a compliment.
"Yes, yes, Frida," said he, in reply to the look of surprise with which the girl listened to this perpetual bickering. "Miss Clifford and I have an excessive mutual admiration. You see already, what great respect we show each other. But now it is time to start, or my brother will surprise us here."
Frida rose obediently. Jessie felt a deep sympathy with the poor girl who resigned herself so completely to the selfish plans of her lover, and bade her a hearty farewell.
Gustave accompanied Miss Palm to the carriage, which waited to take her back to the hotel; but just as they were descending the steps a second carriage drove up, and Sandow, whose office hours were now over, stepped out.
"My brother," said Gustave in a low voice.
Miss Palm must have stood greatly in awe of this terrible brother, for she suddenly turned deadly pale, and made an involuntary movement as if to fly, while the arm which rested in her companion's trembled violently.
"Frida!" said the latter, in an earnest, reproachful tone.
Frida struggled for composure, but her timidity this time was not the cause of her agitation. It was not the look of a startled dove which met the new arrival, but one in which lay gloomy, almost wild resistance, and the energetic side of her nature was shown so distinctly in her features that it seemed as if she were rather beginning a struggle with a dreaded enemy than trying to conciliate him.
Sandow had meanwhile entered, and met the pair face to face in the vestibule. He bowed slightly, but seemed surprised to see his brother accompanied by a perfect stranger.
Frida returned the greeting, but instead of stopping hastened anxiously forwards, and thus prevented the possibility of an introduction.
Gustave saw that it would be useless to try to effect it, so placed her in the carriage, closed the door, and directed the coachman to the hotel.
"Who is that girl?" asked Sandow, who had waited for his brother.
"A certain Miss Palm," said he lightly, "an acquaintance of Miss Clifford's."
"And to whom you act as cavalier."
"Not at all; my service is paid to Miss Clifford. At her wish, I fetched the young lady, in whom she is much interested, from the station, and brought her here. You know I left the office earlier than usual."
"Ah, indeed! Are you already on such good terms with Jessie that she entrusts you with such commissions?" said Sandow, much gratified to find his brother had made such decided progress, while they re-ascended the stairs and walked along the corridor together.
As they entered the drawing-room, Gustave took the thing promptly in hand.
"My brother has already seen your protégée, Miss Clifford," he began. "We met him in the hall."
"Who is this new acquaintance, Jessie?" asked Sandow, with an interest not usual to him. "I have heard nothing about her."
Jessie felt now, when the moment for the first equivocation had arrived, the whole weight of the responsibility she had undertaken; however, she had gone too far to be able to draw back. She returned hesitatingly,
"She is a young German, who has been strongly recommended to me from New York. She has come here to look for a situation as companion, and I thought--I wished"--
"Yes, you have gone pretty far," interrupted Gustave. "This Miss Palm seems to have taken your sympathies by storm; just think, Frank, Miss Clifford has offered her her own house, and seriously intends to give her to us for a companion."
Jessie cast an indignant glance at him, but was obliged to accept the proffered help.
"I have certainly invited Miss Palm for a few weeks," she said. "At least, if you have no objection, Uncle Sandow."
"I," said the latter absently, while his eyes already sought the evening papers, which lay on the table on the garden terrace. "You know, I never interfere in your domestic concerns. No doubt you would like a companion for a time, and if this young girl has been well recommended, pray arrange the affair as you like."
With this he stepped on to the terrace and seized the newspaper.
"I saw that I must come to your help, Miss Clifford," said Gustave aside to Jessie. "You are evidently very inexperienced in deception."
"You seem to think it a reproach," said Jessie, in a voice equally low, but trembling with anger. "Certainly I have not yet brought the art to such perfection as you have."
"Oh! that will come in time," said Gustave encouragingly. "When you are in difficulties that way, only turn to me. I am quite at home there."
"Gustave, have you read the evening papers yet?" came from Sandow on the terrace. "The German Exchange is very lively; prices are rising considerably. Here is your own journal; you will find a notice of it."
"Ah! prices are rising? really?" asked Gustave, stepping on to the terrace and taking the German paper which his brother offered him.
Sandow immediately buried himself in another sheet, and so did not see the air of sovereign contempt with which Gustave turned over the page containing the money article, and bestowed his whole attention upon the leading article, which was upon the political situation.
Jessie followed him with her eyes, and, as she beheld him bending so eagerly over what she supposed to be the money article, she curled her lip contemptuously, and thought--
"That poor, poor child! What will be her lot at the side of such an egoist?"
Gustave's scheme, which was imagined and carried out with equal skill, had now been realized. The entrance of the young stranger into the family took place the next day, but so easily and naturally was it managed, that Sandow had not the faintest suspicion of anything unusual. But Frida was, and remained, a stranger in the strange house, however hard and determined the struggle to appear at ease, and to show her gratitude for the protection afforded her. Perhaps the unaccustomed splendour of her surroundings oppressed her, for unquestionably they stood out in sharpest contrast to her former life. She remained silent and self-contained, and all the kindness with which Jessie received her did not succeed in thawing her shy reserve.
Miss Clifford tried in vain to learn more of the family circumstances and former life of the girl; Frida seemed purposely to avoid any such conversations, and even the warm and freely displayed sympathy of the other failed to draw from her one word of confidence. That naturally tended to estrange Jessie, especially as she soon discovered that the stranger by no means belonged to those gentle natures which tremble away from all that is strange or painful. On the contrary, Frida often unconsciously betrayed a very energetic will, a repressed but profound passion. And yet this slavish subjection and obedience to another's will; it was incomprehensible.
Gustave played his part far more successfully. He showed himself in his brother's presence polite, but with the politeness of a perfect stranger. Not a word, not the slightest sign, betrayed any mental understanding, or even suggested a closer acquaintance than appeared; never for one moment did he lose his self-control. He seemed still more agreeable and high-spirited than ever, and all Jessie's attempts to make him feel her contempt met with such a ready sarcasm that she invariably quitted the field.
Sandow himself took little notice of Frida. Generally he showed little attention or interest in household matters. The greater part of the day was passed in town at the office, and the morning and evening hours, which were spent in the villa, instead of being dedicated to relaxation or amusement, were devoted to business occupations in his own rooms.
He saw Frida only at table, and treated her with careless civility, and on her side there was no approach to a closer acquaintance, though she was there precisely with that object. But either she possessed no skill in that direction, or her obedience failed just where it was needed to fulfil her task. At all events, she and the man in whose house she was living were as strange to each other at the end of a week as they had been on her first arrival.
The two gentlemen had just returned from town, and the whole party were seated at table. Gustave, who as usual bore the chief weight of the conversation, was amusing the ladies by describing in the most enjoyable manner, a scene which had taken place in the office during the afternoon. Sandow, who could not endure anything which concerned business to be turned into ridicule, put in a few contradictory remarks, but his brother continued to entertain his listeners with an account of the certainly comical misunderstanding.
"I assure you it was incomparable, the excitement of this zealous agent of Jenkins and Co., who had come at full speed from New York, and persisted in taking me for a would-be settler, thirsting for a farm. He would have dragged mo by force to the other end of the world, that I might be made the happy possessor of a piece of land, and looked the picture of despair when my brother entered and put an end to the misunderstanding."
"You brought it on yourself," said Sandow angrily. "You drove the man so into a corner with your endless questions that it was only natural that he should fall into the mistake."
"Do I look like an intending farmer?" cried Gustave. "It is the first time in my life that any one has discovered in me an enthusiasm for spade and hoe. It would be, at all events, a fresh field of activity which I might attempt. I am only afraid that I should be worth still less there than at the office."
"That would be difficult," said Sandow drily, but his brother only laughed at the implication, and observed to Miss Clifford that it was really incomprehensible how little recognition his valuable services at the desk received from any quarter.
Frida had become attentive during the last dialogue. Usually she never joined uninvited in the conversation, but this time she listened with breathless interest, and then turned to Gustave with the question--
"Jenkins and Co., the great firm in New York which is now sending out advertisements and agents for the German emigration?"
"Quite right, Miss Palm," said Gustave. "Is the firm known to you?"
"Not to me; I was only a few weeks in New York, but it was often spoken of in the German family where I lived. People spoke of it with much doubt, and considered it a misfortune that Jenkins should have drawn this also within the circle of his speculations."
"Why? Does he not bear a good reputation?" asked Gustave, with apparent indifference.
"That must be the case. They say he is the most unprincipled speculator, and has become rich through all kinds of dishonourable means, and would not for a moment hesitate to sacrifice to his avarice the welfare of all who confide in him."
Jessie sat in painful confusion while listening to this unsuspecting remark. However ignorant she might be of the business affairs, she was aware, from many allusions, that her guardian had commercial intercourse with this firm.
Sandow bit his lip, and was about to turn the conversation, when his brother said emphatically--
"You must have been misinformed, Miss Palm. Jenkins and Co. belong to our business circle; indeed, we have done business with them for years."
Frida turned pale. It was not embarrassment, but perfect horror that her features expressed, as if she could not, would not, believe what she had just heard.
Now Sandow took up the conversation, and said in his sharpest tone--
"You see, Miss Palm, how painful it may be when one believes such evil reports, and repeats them too. My brother is quite right. Mr. Jenkins is, and has long been, a business friend of mine."
"Then I beg pardon; I had no idea of it," said Frida softly, but her pallor became more deadly, and suddenly she opened wide and full her dark eyes on the man before whom she had always shyly sunk them.
There was something singular in these great dark eyes, something like a fearful doubt, an anxious question, and Sandow seemed to feel it, the proud, stiff-necked merchant, who bore no opposition, and had crushed to the ground all the efforts of his brother; he could not support this look. He turned hastily away, seized his glass, and emptied it at a draught.
A painful silence, which lasted some moments, followed. Jessie tried at last to start another subject, and Gustave supported her to the best of his ability, but the attempt flagged.
Sandow appeared unable to master his vexation. Frida sat speechless, and looked at her plate. It was a relief to all when the meal was over. The ladies left the room, and Gustave was just following them when his brother called him back.
"What do you really think of this Miss Palm?"
"That is hard to say. I have not spoken much with her; she seems very shy and reserved."
"To judge by her appearance certainly, but I do not believe in it. In her eyes lies something far removed from shyness. Singular eyes! I have seen them distinctly to-day for the first time, and try in vain to remember where I have met them before. The girl has only just come to America?"
"About a month ago, I heard from Miss Clifford."
"I remember Jessie told me so. And yet there is something familiar in those features, though I cannot recall what it is."
Gustave examined closely the expression of his brother's face, while with apparent carelessness he replied--
"Perhaps it is a passing likeness which you observe."
"Likeness--with whom?" asked Sandow earnestly, while he supported his head on his hand, and lost in deepest meditation looked before him.
All at once he arose, and, as if angry with himself at such involuntary interest, said--
"Her remark at dinner was singularly wanting in tact."
"She was certainly quite innocent of any ill intention. She could have had no suspicion of your connection with Jenkins, or she would have been silent. She just repeated what she had heard. You see what a reputation your 'friend' bears."
Sandow shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
"With whom? With a few sentimental Germans, who have brought their narrow, provincial ideas from Europe with them, and are determined not to see that our commerce rests on quite other grounds. Whoever will be successful here must dare; and quite differently from in Europe, where people are still swayed by trivial circumstances. Clifford was one of the anxious and timid ones. I have had hard work enough to drive him forwards. Hence, up to the time of my arrival, he lived in very moderate circumstances; it was only when the guidance of the business fell into my hands that he became a rich man, and the firm entered the ranks of the best in the town. But while we are speaking of Jenkins, you have now had ample time to consider my request, and I await your final answer."
"Then you are still determined to undertake the thing in conjunction with Jenkins?"
"Certainly! Do you suppose that my opinion varies from day to day, or that childish chatter such as we have just heard could make me change?"
"No, I do not suppose so, but that is just why it seemed strange to me that such 'childish gossip' should oblige you to cast down your eyes."
"Gustave, take care!" cried Sandow, his growing passion hardly repressed. "I bear more from you than from anyone else, but this affair will positively separate us. I saw at a glance that you caused the misunderstanding with the agent on purpose to learn how far his instructions went, and I know, too, to whom the remark was directed with which you reproved Miss Palm. But you will gain nothing of me by such means. What I have once decided to do, that I will do, cost what it may, and for the last time I give you the choice; but, if you refuse me your assistance"--
"You are mistaken," interrupted Gustave. "Some days ago I wrote to theK--che Zeitungand asked for room for a long article on the subject; naturally they will be glad to have one from my pen. Most likely it will appear next month."
Sandow was speechless. This quite unexpected submission astonished him greatly, and with a certain amount of suspicion he asked--
"You will let me see the article before you send it?"
"Certainly; you shall read it word for word."
The clouds began to disappear from Sandow's brow.
"I am glad, very glad. It would have been very painful to me if a refusal on your part had led to a breach between us."
"On my account, or on that of the Clifford's money?" asked Gustave, with overflowing bitterness.
"Jessie's fortune is not endangered by this speculation," said Sandow, shortly and emphatically. "It is principally placed in very good securities, and Clifford stated expressly in his will that his daughter's inheritance should not be risked in any speculation before she came of age or married. If it will soothe your tender conscience, I can assure you that your future wife has not the slightest interest in this affair. I have gone into it at my own risk, and stand to win or lose alone."
He rose to go. Gustave rose too.
"One more question, Frank. You have gone very heavily into this speculation?"
"With half of all I possess! You see its success is most important to me; therefore I am very glad that we are at last agreed. I repeat, that sort of petty morality won't answer at the present day; sooner or later you will see that for yourself."
"With the half of all he possesses!" murmured Gustave, following the speaker. "That is bad, very bad! Here we must go to work with the greatest caution!"
When the brothers entered the drawing-room they found it deserted, but Frida stood outside on the terrace. She could not have heard them approach, for as Sandow passed out at the French window she turned hastily round, and the traces of tears were clearly seen. She rapidly passed her handkerchief over her face, but it was impossible to conceal her emotion. It was not usual with the merchant to display much consideration for the feelings of others, but here he could easily connect the girl's distress with the painful conversation at the dinner-table, and in a sudden accession of sympathy he tried to help her through her trouble.
"You need not be so anxious to hide your tears, Miss Palm," said he. "Here in a strange country you feel home-sick, I am sure."
He seemed to have touched the right chord, for in the trembling tone with which Frida replied lay the plainest proof of its truth.
"Yes, an inexpressible home-sickness!"
"Naturally, you have been such a short time here," said Sandow, carelessly. "All Germans feel that at first, but it soon passes away. If one is lucky in the New World one is glad to forget old times, and in the end rejoices at having turned one's back on them. Do not look so shocked, as if I had said something monstrous. I speak from my own experience."
Frida certainly had looked shocked. Her eyes, yet moist with tears, shot forth a glance of scorn and dislike as she hastily cried--
"You cannot be serious, Mr. Sandow. I shall forget, give up my country, even the recollection of it? Never, never!"
Sandow looked rather surprised at this passionate protest from the quiet girl; round his lips played a half contemptuous, half pitiful smile as he replied--
"I reckon you well disposed to learn that. The misfortune of most Germans here is that they hold so fast to the past, that the present and future are allowed to glide away unnoticed. Home-sickness is one of those sickly, affected sentiments which are sometimes considered as poetic and interesting, while in real life they are only hindrances. Whoever will get on here must keep his head clear and his eyes open, in order to seize and profit by every chance. You are compelled by circumstances to seek for a living here, and this weak longing and dreaming will not help you in that."
Hard and heartless though these words might sound, they were spoken with perfect sincerity. The unfortunate remark about his business friend, which might have been expected to irritate and embitter the merchant, seemed, on the contrary, to have awakened an interest in the girl, whom till then he had scarcely observed.
Frida gave no spoken contradiction to the lesson he condescended to give her, and which chilled her inmost heart. But her questioning, reproachful look said enough, and these serious, dark eyes seemed to produce an extraordinary effect on the usually unimpressionable man. This time he did not avoid the look, but bore it unflinchingly. Suddenly his voice took involuntarily a milder tone, and he said--
"You are still young, Miss Palm, very young, far too young to wander about the world alone. Was there, then, no one in your native land who could offer you a shelter?"
"No, no one!" came almost inaudibly from the lips of the girl.
"Of course--you are an orphan. I heard that from my niece. And the relation who invited you to New York died while you were on your way there?"
The slight inclination of the head which Frida made might be interpreted in the affirmative, but a burning blush overspread her face, and her eyes sought the ground.
"That is really very sad. How was it possible to find a proper refuge in New York, where you were quite a stranger?"
The flush on the girl's cheeks became still deeper.
"My fellow-travellers took charge of me," she answered hesitatingly. "They took me to a countryman, the pastor of a German church, where I was most kindly received."
"And this gentleman recommended you to my niece. I know her mother had numerous connections in New York, with some of whom Jessie keeps up a correspondence. She feels such warm sympathy for you, that you need have no anxiety for the future. With the recommendation of Miss Clifford, it will not be difficult to find a suitable place."
Frida appeared as unpractised in falsehood as Jessie. With the latter she had not been obliged to use the deception which was necessary in speaking to the master of the house. Jessie had from the first been acquainted with circumstances which must be carefully concealed from Sandow, even now when he began to display some interest in her. But the manner of the girl showed how hard her part was. Sandow knew her shy and taciturn, but this obstinate silence appeared to annoy him.
As he received no reply, he turned abruptly away, and went into the garden. Frida drew a long breath, as if released from some burden, and returned to the drawing-room. Here she was met by Gustave, who, though remaining in the background, and apparently quite indifferent to the conversation, had, in reality, not lost a word of it.
"Listen to me, Frida, I am not at all satisfied with you," he began in a tone of reproof. "What was the object of your coming here? What do you mean by avoiding my brother at every opportunity, actually running away from him? You make no attempt at a nearer acquaintance; the rare moments when he is approachable are allowed to pass unused by, and you maintain complete silence when he speaks to you. I have smoothed the way for you, and now you must try to walk in it alone."
Frida had listened to this lecture in silence; but now she drew herself up and said hastily--
"I cannot!"
"What can you not do?"
"Keep the promise which I made to you. You know you half forced it from me. Against my will am I here, against my will have I undertaken to play the part to which you have condemned me. But I cannot carry it through, it is beyond my strength. Let me go home again, here I can do no good."
"Indeed?" cried Gustave angrily. "That is a brilliant idea. For this have I crossed the sea with you, and made deadly enemies of my publisher and the editor, who were determined not to let me go. For this I sit patiently at the office desk under the weight of Miss Clifford's supreme contempt, and all that Miss Frida may declare, once for all, 'I will stay no longer.' But it won't do. Surely you are not going to cast away your arms after the struggle of one week. On the contrary, I must request that you will stay and carry out what we have begun."
The girl's dark eyes rested sadly and earnestly on the speaker, as if reproving his careless tone.
"Do not call me ungrateful! I know what I owe you, what you have done for me; but the task is harder than I had thought. I can feel no affection for this cold, hard man, and he will never feel any for me, of that I have the strongest conviction. Had I once seen a kindly glance in his eyes, once heard a cordial word from his lips, I might have drawn nearer to him; but this frigid character, that nothing can warm, nothing can break through, drives me ever farther and farther away."
Instead of replying, Gustave took her hand, and drew her beside him on the sofa.
"Have I ever said that the task would be easy?" he asked. "It is hard enough, harder than I could have believed, but not impossible. With this shy avoidance of him, you will certainly attain nothing. You must grapple with the foe; he is so strongly mailed that he can only be taken by storm."
"I cannot!" cried Frida passionately. "I tell you that no voice within me speaks for him, and if I can neither give nor receive love, what shall I do here? Steal my way into a home and fortune. You cannot wish that, and if you did, I would refuse both, were they offered to me with the heartless indifference with which he permitted me a refuge in his house."
With the last words she sprang from her seat. Gustave quietly drew her down again.
"Now you are getting beyond all bounds, and the end will be an obstinate refusal. If I did not know from whom you take that wilful obstinacy, that passionate temper which lies under all your outward reserve, I would give you another sort of lecture. But these faults are hereditary, it is no use fighting against them."
The girl seized his hand and held it in both her own, as she entreated--
"Let me away, let me go home again, I beg, I beg! What does it matter if I am poor. I can work. I am young, and you will not desert me. Thousands are in the same position, and must struggle with life themselves. I will rather a thousand times do that than beg for a recognition which is withheld from me. I only followed your wishes, when you brought me to your brother; I need neither him nor his riches."
"But he needs you," said Gustave impressively. "And he needs your love more than you believe."
The girl's lips trembled with a bitter smile.
"There you are certainly wrong! I know little of the world or of men; but I know very well that Mr. Sandow neither needs nor wishes for love. He loves nothing in the world, not Jessie, who has grown up under his eyes almost like a daughter of his own; not you, his own brother. I have seen only too plainly how far he is from you both. He knows nothing but the desire for wealth, for gain, and yet he is rich enough. Is it true, really true, that he is connected with this Jenkins, that such a man belongs to his friends?"
"Child, you understand nothing about that," said Gustave, evasively. "Whoever, like my brother, has seen all the hopes of his life shattered, whose every blessing has become a curse, every pleasure a disappointment, either sinks utterly under such a catastrophe, or he leaves his former self entirely behind, and goes on his way another man. I know what he was twelve years ago, and what was then living in him cannot be quite dead. You shall awaken it, you shall at all events try, and that is why I have brought you here."
The deep earnestness with which these words were spoken, did not fail of their effect on Frida; but she said, with a shake of the head--
"I am, and must remain a stranger to him. You have yourself forbidden me to let him suspect anything of our circumstances."
"Certainly I have, for if he now discovered the truth he would most likely repulse you with the utmost harshness; your obstinacy is equal to his, and thus all would be lost. But at least you must approach him. As yet you have scarcely spoken together. No voice rises in your heart, you say. But it must rise in you, in him, and it will rise when you have learnt to stand face to face together."
"I will try!" said Frida, with a deep sigh. "But if I fail, if I only meet with harshness and suspicion"--
"You must remember that he is a man much sinned against," interrupted Gustave, "so much, that he has a right to look with mistrust and suspicion on all, and to draw back where another would lovingly open wide his arms. You are innocent, you suffer for the faults of others; but all the weight, poor child, falls on you."
The girl made no reply, but two hot tears rolled down her cheeks, while she rested her head on the speaker's shoulder. He stroked her forehead softly and soothingly.
"Poor child! Yes, it is hard, at your age, when all should be joy and sunshine, to be already so deeply plunged in hatred and disunion, in the whole misery of human life. It has been hard enough to me to reveal all this to you; but it entered with such force into your life that it was imperative for you to know it. And my Frida does not belong to the weak and vacillating, she has something of the energy, and, alas, something of the hardness of a certain other nature. So bravely forwards, we must conquer in the end!"
Frida dried her tears and forced a smile.
"You are right! I am so ungrateful and stubborn towards you, who have done so much for me! You are"--
"The best and noblest of men"--interrupted Gustave, "naturally I am, and it is very extraordinary that Miss Clifford will not recognise my perfections, though you have so touchingly assured her of them. But now go out in the air for a few minutes. You look flushed and tearful, and you must do away with these signs of excitement. Meanwhile, I will wait here for Jessie. We have not had one dispute to-day, and a wrangle has become one of the necessities of life to me, which I cannot do without."
Frida obeyed. She left the drawing-room, crossed the terrace, and descended into the garden. Slowly she walked through the beautiful park-like grounds, which stretched down to the shore, and on which the whole skill of the landscape gardener had been spent; but the spot she sought, lay in the most distant part of the garden. It was a simple bench, shaded by two mighty trees; it afforded an unlimited view over the sea, and from the first day, had become the favourite retreat of the young stranger. The fresh sea wind cooled Frida's heated cheeks, and swept the traces of tears from her face, but the shade on her brow defied all its efforts. This shade grew only darker and deeper, while she, lost in distant dreams, watched the play of the waves which broke upon the beach.
The garden was not so deserted as it seemed, for at no great distance voices might be heard. Just by the iron railing which enclosed the domain of the villa, stood Sandow with the gardener, and inspected the addition, which in the last few days, had been made to the grounds.
The gardener directed, with ill-concealed pride, his attention to the work, which was really planned and carried out with great taste and skill, but the master of the house did not display much interest in it. He cast a careless glance over it, with a few cool words expressed his satisfaction, and went again on his way towards the house. Thus he passed the bench where Frida sat.
"Is that you, Miss Palm? You have chosen the most retired spot in the whole garden for your retreat."
"But also the most beautiful! The view of the sea is so magnificent?"
"That is a matter of taste," said Sandow. "For me that eternal rolling up and down has a deadly monotony. I could not long endure it."
He said this in passing, and was on the point of leaving her. She would probably have left his remark unanswered, and the conversation would have ended there, but Gustave's warning bore fruit. She did not preserve that shy silence as usual, but replied in a tone of which the deep emotion forced a recognition.
"I love the sea so dearly--and--even if you ridicule me, Mr. Sandow,--I cannot forget that my home lies there, beyond those waves."
Sandow did not appear disposed for ridicule. He stood still, his eyes followed involuntarily the direction she pointed out, and then rested earnestly and musingly on Frida's face, as if he sought something there.
It was a misty and rather gloomy afternoon. The clouds hung heavy with rain over the scene, and the usually unbounded view over the sunny blue waves, was to-day, confined and veiled. One could scarcely see a hundred steps away; farther out lay thick fog on the sea, and the restlessly moving flood enlightened by no ray of sunshine, showed a dark grey tint, which gave it an almost oppressive air of gloom.
Restlessly rolled on the waves, and burst with a hiss into white foam on the sand of the shore. Far out in the fog sounded the roaring of the distant ocean, and two gulls took their slow flight over the waves and vanished in the mist. Frida's eyes followed them dreamily, and she started violently when Sandow, who till now had preserved silence, suddenly asked--
"What was the name of the clergyman with whom you lived in New York?"
"Pastor Hagen."
"And there you heard those remarks about Jenkins and Co.?"
"Yes, Mr. Sandow."
Frida seemed about to add something, but the abruptness with which the last question was uttered closed her lips.
"I might have supposed so. These clerical gentlemen with their extravagant views of morality, are always ready with a sentence of damnation, when a thing does not exactly fit their measure. From the pulpit it is much easier to look down on a sinful world, than it is to us who must live and struggle in the midst of it. These gentlemen should for a moment try what it is, they would soon lose some of their virtuous calm and Christian spotlessness, but they would learn to judge better of other things of which now they understand absolutely nothing."
The bitter sarcasm of these last words would perhaps have terrified another, but Frida's spirit rose energetically against it.
"Pastor Hagen is mildness and consideration itself," with a blaze of indignation. "Certainly he will never condemn anyone unjustly. It was the first and only time that I heard a harsh judgment from his lips, and I know that only care for the dangerous position of his countrymen drew it from him."
"Does that perhaps mean that he is right?" asked Sandow sharply, while almost threateningly he advanced a step nearer.
"I do not know. I am quite strange and unknown to all. But you, Mr. Sandow, are acquainted with this man, you must know"--
She dared not complete the sentence, for she felt that every additional word might be an insult, and so indeed Sandow seemed to take it. The milder tone in which he had begun the conversation, disappeared in the wonted cold severity as he returned--
"At all events, I am much surprised to hear how the name and reputation of a great firm can be slandered in certain circles. You are still almost a child, Miss Palm, and it is easy to imagine, but understand nothing of, such things. You cannot know how influential the name of Jenkins and Co. is in the commercial world. But those who allow themselves such freedom in their slander should consider that and beware."
This refutation sounded dry enough, but not convincing. Of the power and influence of the man no one had doubted, only that his influence was injurious. Frida of course had no idea of the nature of the connection between the two houses, but even the mention of the two names together had deeply shocked her.
"You are angry with me for my imprudent expressions about your friend," she said. "I repeated unsuspectingly what I had heard, and Pastor Hagen's remarks only referred to the danger with which such undertakings threaten our emigrants. He has daily in New York before his eyes the proof of how deeply such things affect the weal or woe of thousands. You cannot know that the interests of your banking-house lie certainly far removed from such speculations."
"Now how is it that you are so sure of it?" asked Sandow jestingly, but the jest seemed somewhat forced. The dialogue began to disturb him, yet he made no effort to break it off; there was something in it which charmed and enchained him against his will.
Frida emerged more and more from her reserve. The subject interested her in the highest degree, and her voice trembled with deep emotion as she replied--
"I have once, only once, seen such a picture of misery, but it has made an indelible impression on me. While I was in New York, a number of emigrants came to us, Germans, who some years ago had gone to the Far West, and were now returning. They had, doubtless, listened too readily to the representations of the unscrupulous agents, and had lost everything in those pathless woods. There they had left, sacrificed to the climate, many of their nearest and dearest; there they had left their means, their hopes, their courage--all! The German pastor who had warned them before and whom they had not credited, must now advise them and procure them the means of returning to their native land. It was terrible to see these, once so courageous and strong, now so utterly broken down and despairing, and to hear their lamentations. I shall never forget it!"
As if overpowered by the recollection, she laid her hand upon her eyes. Sandow replied not one word. He had turned away and looked grave and motionless out into the mist. Immovable, as if chained to the spot, he listened to every word which came with ever-increasing passion and excitement from the youthful lips.
"I saw myself, on board the steamer which brought also hundreds of emigrants here, how much anxiety and care such a ship carries, how many hopes and fears. Happiness is seldom the cause which forces them to leave their home. With so many it is the last hope, the last attempt to create a new home for themselves out here. And then to think that all their hopes fail, all their toil and labour is lost, that they must be ruined because one man will enrich himself, because there are men who, on purpose, with the fullest knowledge send their brothers into misery, to make a gain out of their destruction. I should never have believed it possible had I not myself seen it and heard it from those who returned!"
She stopped, started at the deadly pallor which overspread the face of the man who still stood motionless before her. His features remained firm and inflexible as ever, no feeling betrayed itself there, but every drop of blood seemed to have forsaken those features, whose fixed expression had something unearthly in it. He did not see the anxious questioning look of the girl, her sudden silence seemed first to restore him to consciousness. With an abrupt movement he drew himself up, and passed his hand over his brow.
"One must acknowledge that you stand bravely by your countrymen," said he. His voice sounded dull and heavy, as if every word were produced by a strong effort.
"So would you if you had an opportunity for doing so," returned Frida, with perfect assurance. "You would cast the whole weight of your name and position into the scale against such undertakings, and certainly you could do far more than an unknown clergyman, whose own duties leave him so little time, and who has already so much distress and misery to alleviate in his own parish. Mr. Sandow," with suddenly awakening confidence, she drew a step nearer to him, "really I did not mean to affront you by those heedless words. It is quite possible that report has wronged the man, or that Pastor Hagen has been deceived. You do not believe it, I can see from your emotion, and you must know him best?"
He was certainly agitated, this man whose hand so convulsively grasped the back of the bench, as if he would crush the carved wood with his fingers, so agitated that some moments passed before he regained full control over his voice.
"We have fallen upon a very disagreeable topic," said he at last turning away. "I should never have believed that the timid, quiet child, who during the week spent in my house, scarcely dared to raise her eyes or open her lips, would blaze out so passionately when strangers' interests were concerned. Why have you never shown this side before?"
"I dared not. I feared so much"--
Frida said no more, but her eyes which were raised half confidently, half timidly to his, expressed what the lips could not, and she was understood.
"Whom did you fear? Was it me?"
"Yes," she replied with a deep breath. "I feared you dreadfully till this moment."
"But you should not fear me, child!" In Sandow's voice was a tone silent for many years and grown quite strange, but which spoke of rising warmth and softness. "No doubt I seem cold and stern to you, and so I am in the business world, but towards the young guest who has sought shelter in my house I would not be so. Do not for the future avoid me as you have done. You must not be afraid of me?"
He stretched his hand out to her, but Frida hesitated to take it. She became alternately red and pale, some stormy, hardly repressed feeling seemed bursting from her control. Suddenly Jessie's voice was heard from the terrace. Growing anxious at the long absence of the young visitor she called her name. Frida sprang up.
"Miss Clifford calls me, I must go to her. Thank you, Mr. Sandow, I will not be afraid of you again?"
And hastily, before he could prevent her, she pressed her lips to the offered hand, and fled away through the shrubbery.
With great astonishment Sandow looked after her. A singular girl! What did it mean, this strange mixture of shyness and confidence, of blazing passion and such power of self-repression? It was a riddle to him, but just with this unexpected, contradictory character, Frida succeeded in what the cleverest calculations could not have done--in awaking a deep and abiding interest in the heart of a man generally so cold and indifferent.
He had indeed every reason to be irritated and annoyed "with the fanciful girl, with her exaggerated ideas," but through his irritation another feeling forced its way, the same which he experienced when he first looked into these dark childish eyes, and of which he could scarcely say whether it caused him pain or pleasure.
He forgot, perhaps, for the first time in his life, that his study, and his writing table laden with important letters awaited him. Slowly he sank on to the bench and gazed at the restless rolling sea.
"A deadly monotony" he had said, of this eternal motion. The taste for the beauties of nature had long ago died out in him, like so many other tastes, but the words of the just concluded conversation still rang in his ears. Truly; on the other side of this heaving ocean lay his native land, his home. Sandow had not thought of it for years. What was home to him? He had been long estranged from it, he clung with all the roots of his present life to the land he could thank for what he was. The past lay as far distant from him as the unseen coast of home, yonder in the mist.
The proud rich merchant, whose name was known in every quarter of the globe, who was accustomed to reckon with hundreds of thousands, certainly looked back with contemptuous pity on the past, on the narrow life of a subordinate official in a provincial German town. How close and confined was then the horizon of his life, how wearily must he then struggle to make both ends of his paltry salary meet, till at last, after long hoping and waiting, he reached a position which allowed him to establish his modest household. And yet how that poor narrow life had been beautified and ennobled by the sunshine of love and happiness which was shed around it.
A young and beautiful wife, a blooming child, the present full of sunshine, the future full of joyful hopes and dreams, he needed nothing more, his whole life was overflowing with happiness, but what a fearful end to all that joy!
An old friend of Sandow's, who had grown up with him, who had shared his boyish amusements, and later had accompanied him to the university, returned, after a long absence, to his native town. He was well-off and independent, and his life was dimmed by no cares for the morrow, unlike his friend; who, however, received him with open arms and led him to his home. And then began one of those domestic tragedies which are often concealed for years, till at last some catastrophe brings them to light.
The blinded man suspected not that his wife's heart was estranged from him, that treachery spun its webs around him under his own roof. His love, his confidence, firm as if founded on a rock, helped to blind him, and when his eyes were at last opened, it was too late, he saw his happiness and honour lying in ruin before him. Almost driven mad by despair, he lost self-control and struck the destroyer of his happiness to the ground.
Fate had at least preserved him from that last misery, blood-guiltiness. Although severely injured, the traitor recovered slowly, but Sandow had to pay the penalty of his deed by an imprisonment of many a weary year. Though Right was unquestionably on his side, the letter of the law sentenced him, and that sentence destroyed his whole existence.
His situation was naturally lost, his official career closed. She, who had once been his wife, had after the necessary separation had taken place, given her hand to the man for whose sake she had betrayed her husband, and whose name she now bore. And the one thing left to him, the one thing the law allowed to the desolate man, that he himself put from him. He had learnt to doubt all, all that he had once considered pure and true, he now looked on as lying deception; thus he believed no more in his paternal rights, and refused to recognise the little being which had once been the joy of his heart.
He left it to the mother without even seeing it again. Under these circumstances it was impossible to contemplate returning to his native town.
Only America was open to him, that refuge of so many shattered existences. Despairing of himself and of the world, poor and with the prison stain upon his brow, he went there, but it was the turning point in his life. There he rose from deepest misery to riches and splendour.
From that time success had remained true to Frank Sandow. Whatever he ventured brought the richest returns, and soon he found only too much pleasure in these ventures. He dragged the quiet and timorous Clifford with him into the boldest and fool-hardiest speculations, and, as since his death, the reins had been entirely in his own hands, he could now brook no control.
There was something almost terrible in this restless, unceasing, hunt for gain in a man, who heaped up riches, but had no one for whom to gather them. But man must have something to cling to, something to give an aim and object to his life, and when the nobler good is lost, it is often the demon of gold which makes itself lord of the empty shrine.
Thus Sandow had fallen a victim. This demon spurred him ever forwards to new gains, drove him from one wild speculation to another, and led him to place his all on a single card. But it made him also insensible of every joy of life, to peace or happiness.
The chief of the great American banking house had indeed won for himself an imposing position, but his countenance showed only furrows of care, only the traces of feverish excitement; of peace and happiness there was no sign there.
The mist over the sea had grown thicker and spread farther and farther. Like dusky visions it floated to the land, and out of it rolled and burst the gloomy billows. The wind which now arose in its full might, drove them more strongly and violently on the strand. They came no more with a light splash, but roared and foamed on the beach. Threateningly they rushed to the feet of the lonely man, who darkly, and as if lost in thought, looked down on them. It was as if every wave repeated the words he had just heard, and that out of the fog arose the pictures they had called up before him.
Singular! What Gustave's energetic representations could not produce, this childish chatter had succeeded in doing. The earnest warnings of his brother had brought no effect on the merchant, he cast them off contemptuously as "sentimental notions," as the "ideas of a novice," and finally silenced him with a threat.