Part 14 (1/2)
Gustave, on his side, made no attempt to detain his niece. He stood quietly there with folded arms and watched his brother. At last he asked--
”Do you believe it now?”
Sandow raised himself; he tried to reply, but the words failed him, and no sound came from his lips.
”I thought this encounter must have convinced you,” continued Gustave.
”The likeness is really startling. You are reflected in your child as in a mirror. Frank, if you do not believe this testimony I have indeed lost all hope.”
Sandow pa.s.sed his hand over his brow, bedewed with cold sweat, and looked towards the house, where Frida had long since vanished.
”Call her back!” said he, hoa.r.s.ely.
”That would be labour in vain, she would not listen to me. Would you return if you had been so driven away? Frida is her father's daughter, she will not approach you again--you must fetch her yourself.”
Again silence, but this only lasted for a minute, then Sandow rose, slowly and hesitatingly, but he rose. Gustave laid his hand upon his arm.
”One word, Frank, before you go. Frida knows of the past only what she was compelled to know, not one syllable more. She does not dream _why_ you have driven her away, nor what fearful suspicion has kept her all these years from her father's heart. I could not bring myself to reveal that to the child. She believes that you hated her mother because she was unhappy in her marriage with you, left you and married another man, and that this hatred has descended upon her. This reason satisfied her, she asked for no other, so let it remain. I think you will understand that I could not let your daughter look into the depth of your domestic misery, and concealed the worst from her. If you do not mention it she need never learn it.”
”I--thank you!”
The elder brother seized the hand of the younger, the latter returned the pressure heartily and firmly. Then Sandow turned and went rapidly away.
”He is going to her,” said Gustave, with a sigh of relief. ”G.o.d be thanked; now they can arrange the rest together.”
CHAPTER IX.
Frida had fled to her own room in the upper floor of the villa. Another might have given way to tears, or have poured out her heart to the sympathizing Jessie; this girl did neither; but with restless haste made the preparations for her journey.
The harsh repulse of her father, which burnt like fire into her soul, left her only one thought. Away out of this house from which he wished to drive her, away as quick as possible.
Frida had drawn out her travelling trunk, which still stood in the corner of the apartment, and collected her things together. She did it silently, tearlessly, but with a stormy haste, as if she would escape some misfortune. She knelt before the open box and was in the act of laying her dresses in it, when a step sounded outside. It must be her uncle who was looking for her, she knew that he would come to her, and would beg him to take her to an hotel. There they could arrange about her return home. She would be docile, obedient in everything, only he must not attempt to keep her longer here. The steps came nearer, the door opened, and on the threshold stood--her father!
Frida trembled violently, the shawl which she held in her hand fell to the ground, and she stood as if rooted to the spot.
Sandow entered and shut the door; he looked at the open box and the things scattered around.
”You are going?”
”Yes.”
Question and answer were alike short and abrupt. It seemed as if the gulf between father and daughter would again open wide. Sandow was silent for a few moments, he visibly struggled with himself; at last he said--
”Come to me, Frida!”
She rose slowly, stood a moment as if undecided, and then approached slowly, till she stood close before her father. He put his arm round her, and with the other hand raised her head. Bending over her he examined line by line, feature by feature, and his eyes seemed literally to pierce into her countenance. The old suspicion arose once more, and for the last time, but it vanished by degrees, as the father saw his own features reproduced in his child.