Part 50 (1/2)

”Faithfully and honorably,” said he, with feeling.

”Faithfully and honorably!” cried Elise, deeply moved. ”Oh those are words as strong as rocks, and like the s.h.i.+pwrecked sailor, I will cling to them to save myself from sinking. Oh, Bertram, how good you are! You love my father, and desire to be his son, only for the sake of helping him.”

”And if need be, to work for him, to give up my life for him!”

With her bright eyes she looked deeply into his, and held out her hand to him. ”Give me your hand, Bertram,” said she, softly. ”You were a better son to my father than I have been a daughter. I will learn from you. Will you be my teacher?”

Bertram gazed at her astonished and inquiringly. She replied to this look with a sweet smile, and like lightning it shot through his heart, and a happy antic.i.p.ation pervaded his entire soul. ”My G.o.d! my G.o.d!

is it possible?” murmured he, ”is the day of suffering, indeed, past?

Will--”

He felt Elise suddenly shudder, and pressing his hand significantly, she whispered, ”Silence, Bertram, look there!”

Bertram followed the direction of her eyes, and saw Gotzkowsky, who had opened the door of his study, and was entering the room, his features pale and distorted, and his gaze fixed. ”He does not see us,”

whispered Elise. ”He is talking to himself. Do not disturb him.”

In silence she pointed to the curtains just behind them, concealing a recess, in the middle of which stood a costly vase. ”Let us conceal ourselves,” said she, and, unnoticed by Gotzkowsky, they glided behind the curtains.

CHAPTER XV.

THE RESCUE.

Gotzkowsky had closed with life and earthly affairs. He had signed the doc.u.ment declaring him a bankrupt, and he had delivered over all his property to his creditors. The die had been cast. He had been powerful and great through money, but his power and greatness had now gone from him, for he was poor. The same men who yesterday had bowed down to the ground before him, had to-day pa.s.sed him by in pride and scorn; and those who had vowed him eternal grat.i.tude, had turned him from their door like a beggar. Why should he continue to bear the burdens of a life which had no longer any allurements, and whose most precious jewel, his honor, he had lost?

De Neufville had done right, and only a coward would still cling to life after all that was worth living for had disappeared. They should not point scornfully at him as he went along the streets. He would not be condemned to hear whispered after him, ”Look! there goes Gotzkowsky the bankrupt.” No, this fearful word should never wound his ears or pierce his heart.

Once more only would he pa.s.s through those streets, which had so often seen him in his glory--once more, not poor, nor as the laughing-stock of children, but so that those who now derided him should bow down before him, and honor him as the mourning emblem of departed honor: only his body should pa.s.s by these men who had broken his heart. He had determined to quit this miserable existence, to leave a world which had proved itself to him only a gulf of wickedness and malice, and his freed spirit would wing its way to regions of light and knowledge.

With such thoughts he entered the room which was to be the scene of his last hours. But he would not go down to the grave without bearing witness to the wickedness and malice of the world. His death should be a monument of its disgrace and ingrat.i.tude.

For this purpose he had sought this room, for in it was the costly _etagere_ on which stood the silver pitcher presented to him by the Council of Leipsic as a token of their grat.i.tude, and from it he would drink his fatal draught. He took it and emptied into it a small white powder, that looked so innocent and light, and yet was strong enough to drag him down with leaden weight into the grave. He then took the water-goblet and poured water on it. The draught was ready; all that was necessary was for him to put it to his lips to imbibe eternal rest, eternal oblivion.

Elise saw it all--understood it all. She folded her hands and prayed; her teeth chattered together, and all that she could feel and know was, that she must save him, or follow him to the grave. ”When he raises the pitcher to his lips, I will rush out,” she whispered to Bertram, softly, and opened the curtains a little in order to watch him.

Gotzkowsky had returned to the _etagere_. He took the silver-oaken wreath, the civic crown presented to him by the city of Berlin, and looked at it with a bitter, scornful smile. ”I earned this,” he said, half aloud--”I will take it with me to the grave. They shall find my corpse crowned with this wreath, and when they turn away in shame, the broken bankrupt, John Gotzkowsky, will enjoy his last triumph over a degenerate world.” And as if in a dream, in the feverish delirium of grief, he placed the wreath on his brow, then for a moment stood with his head bent in deep thought.

It was a strange picture to see his proud, tall figure, his pale, nervous face, crowned with the silver wreath, and opposite to him, looking through the curtains, his daughter, whose glowing eyes were eagerly watching her father.

And now Gotzkowsky seized the silver pitcher, raised it on high--it had already touched his lips--but suddenly he staggered back. A dearly-loved voice had called his name. Ah, it was the voice of his daughter, whom he had forgotten in the bitterness of his grief. He had believed his heart dead to all feeling, but love still lived in him, and love called him back to life. Like an electric shock it flew through his whole frame.

He put the pitcher down, and covering his face with his hands, cried, ”Oh, unnatural father! I forgot my child!”

Behind him stood Elise, praying to G.o.d eagerly and fervently. She wished to appear quite composed, quite unsuspicious, that her father might not have even an inkling of her knowledge of his dark design.

Her voice dare not tremble, her eye must remain clear and calm, and a smile play about her lips, which yet quivered with the anxious prayers she had just offered to G.o.d. ”My father!” she said, in a low but quiet voice--”my father, I come to beg your blessing. And here is the myrtle wreath with which you were to adorn me.”