Part 70 (2/2)

”Oh, yes. No one must know! Foolish weaknesses! Tell him I sincerely ask his pardon; he must forgive me. Prejudiced, old--! I am very sorry.

Can't you send for him?”

”Oh, papa, I would gladly bring him, but it is too late--he has gone away!”

”Ah! then I shall not see him again. I am near my end.”

The countess could not speak, but pressed her lips to her father's cold hand.

”Don't grieve; you will lose nothing in me; be happy. I spent a great deal of money for you--women, gaming, dinners, what value are they all?” He made a gesture of loathing: ”What are they now?”

A chill ran through his veins, and his breath grew short and labored.

”I'm curious to see how it looks up there!” He pondered for a time. ”If you knew of any sensible pastor, you might send for him; such men often _do_ know something.”

”Certainly, father!”

The countess hurried into the next room and ordered a priest to be sent for to give extreme unction.

”You wish to confess and take the communion too, do you not, papa?”

”Why yes; one doesn't wish to take the old rubbish when starting on the great journey. We don't carry our soiled linen with us when we travel.

I have much on my conscience, Magdalena--my child--most of all, sins committed against you! Don't bear your foolish old father ill-will for it.”

”No, father, I swear it by the memory of this hour!”

”And your husband”--he shook his head--”he is not here; it's a pity!”

Then he said no more but lay quietly, absorbed in his own thoughts, till the priest came.

Madeleine withdrew during the confession. What was pa.s.sing in her mind during that hour she herself could not understand. She only knew that her father's inquiry in his dying hour for his despised, disowned son-in-law was the keenest reproach which had been addressed to her.

The sacred ceremony was over, and the priest had left the house.

The sick man lay with a calm, pleasant expression on his face, which had never rested there before. Madeleine sat down by the bed and took his hand; he gratefully returned her gentle pressure.

”How do you feel, dear father?” she asked gently.

”Very comfortable, dear child.”

”Have you made your peace with G.o.d?”

”I hope so, my child! So far as He will be gracious to an old sinner like me.” He raised his eyes with an earnest, trustful look, then a long--agonizing death struggle came on. But he held his daughter's hand firmly in his own, and she spent the whole night at his bedside without stirring, resolute and faithful--the first fulfillment of duty in her whole life.

The struggle continued until the next noon ere the daughter could close her father's eyes. A number of pressing business matters were now to be arranged, which detained her in the house of mourning until the evening, and made her sorely miss her thoughtful friend, the duke. At last, at nine o'clock, she returned to her palace, wearied almost unto death.

The footman handed her a card: ”The gentleman has been here twice to-day and wished to see Your Highness on very urgent business. He was going to leave by the last train, but decided to stay in order to see you. He will try again after nine o'clock--”

The countess carried the card to the gas jet and read: ”Ludwig Gross, drawing-teacher.” Her hand trembled so violently that she almost dropped it. ”When the gentleman comes, admit him!” She was obliged to cling to the bal.u.s.trade as she went upstairs, she was so giddy.

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