Only a Girl Part 6

"Ah, you give me no hope," moaned Hartwich. "Ernestine, wake up! only look once at your father, your cruel, wicked father! Ah, Herr Geheimrath, I disliked the child because she was so weak and ugly. If she had only been a fine, healthy girl, I might perhaps have been reconciled to having no son; but I was ashamed of her, and silenced the voice of my heart. Oh, these hands, poor little hands, and these pale, thin cheeks!--how could I ever strike them! G.o.d be merciful to me, miserable sinner that I am!" And he beat his breast fiercely.

The Geheimrath looked at him and shook his head. "Do not excite yourself so. It does your daughter no good, and only injures yourself."

"My daughter! my daughter!" repeated Hartwich. "Oh, I have never treated her as such. She seemed to me a changeling, left in her cradle by some spiteful witch in place of the boy I so coveted. Now, when I am in danger of losing her, I feel that she is my child indeed."

"The truth is as old as the world, that nature avenges the transgression of the least of her laws," replied the physician. "You have sinned grievously against the mighty law of paternal affection, and now it demands its rights with resistless authority. Let me entreat you to testify your repentance by the tenderest care of the sick child, and permit me to call some one to put her to bed,--it should have been done long ago."

"Ah, must she be separated from me?" moaned Hartwich. "I long to beg her forgiveness when she comes to herself."

"You will hardly be able to do that very soon," said the Geheimrath, ringing the bell.

Frau Gedike made her appearance, as gentle and submissive as she had previously been harsh and overbearing to Ernestine.

"a.s.sist me in carrying this child to her bed," said Heim, carefully placing his arm beneath the rigid little body to raise it up.

"Oh, I beg of you, Herr Geheimrath, do not trouble yourself," cried Frau Gedike, evidently greatly humbled. "I can carry the poor child without help."

Heim glanced at her keenly, and then quietly directed her to show him the way.

Frau Gedike ran as quickly as she could across the hall to the door of a back room. "Permit me," she said, and tried to slip past the Geheimrath into the apartment. "Excuse me for one moment, that I may put things a little to rights. Everything is in disorder, I rose so early this morning."

But Heim said authoritatively, "Follow me!" and stepped past her into the chamber, carrying his silent burden. Here he stood still in astonishment. It was a kind of wash-room,--at least there was a huge pile of soiled linen in one corner. Broken furniture and household utensils were scattered about; there were no curtains to the windows; hundreds of flies were buzzing about the dirty panes; the air of the close room was stifling. In one corner stood a child's crib, which must have dated from Ernestine's fifth or sixth year. It contained an old straw bed, a dirty pillow, and a heavy, tawdry coverlet. Frau Gedike bustled about, endeavouring to conceal us well as she could the miserable condition of the room from the penetrating eye of the Geheimrath, but in vain.

"Am I to lay the wounded child in this bed? Is she to be nursed in this hole?" he asked in a tone which boded no good to the housekeeper.

"Gracious me!--we have no other room and no other bed. I have often pitied the dear child, but Herr Hartwich is so saving--he never buys anything new," she declared.

The Geheimrath went towards a half-open door leading into another and larger apartment. Here the air was pure, the furniture decent, and there was a comfortable bed in the corner.

"Is this your room?" asked the Geheimrath sharply.

"It is, Herr Geheimrath. It is just as my predecessor left it."

"Make up the bed instantly with clean linen."

Frau Gedike stared in surprise.

"Instantly!" repeated the Geheimrath, in a way that admitted of no remonstrance, and seated himself, that he might more conveniently hold his poor little charge. Frau Gedike brought clean sheets and made up the bed.

"Where shall I sleep?" she asked with suppressed rage: "there is no other sleeping-room in the whole house!"

"You can try Ernestine's bed, and see what it is to lie cramped up upon a rack!" replied the old gentleman dryly. Then he wrinkled his bushy brows sternly, and continued: "I doubt whether you will need a bed here, for I will do my best to have you leave this house before night."

"Oh, Lord, have mercy on me! Herr Geheimrath, what have I done? What fault can you find with me?" whined Frau Gedike as she smoothed the pillows.

Heim arose, and, as he laid the lifeless little body carefully upon the bed, said quietly, "Look at the room which you have allowed this frail child to occupy, the bed in which you have cramped her poor little limbs, and then say whether anybody of the least humanity could fail to condemn you!" He then left her, and called the barber-surgeon that he might take the necessary steps for providing careful attendance for the child.

Frau Gedike ran out crying, and the Geheimrath continued to provide for his patient's comfort with the quiet decision of an experienced physician and the gentleness of a tender-hearted man.

After half an hour, Ernestine began to show signs of life; but she did not return to consciousness. She cast a vague, wandering glance around, then closed her eyes and muttered broken, unintelligible words. At last she sank anew into a state of stupor resembling slumber. The Geheimrath left the surgeon with her and went to Hartwich, who, in the mean while, had been visited by Leuthold. Leuthold had been wakened at last by the unwonted bustle in the house, and had stolen from his bed to see if his brother were perhaps dying,--a piece of news which would have been a grateful morning greeting to his wife. He was disappointed. The only comfort was that all this excitement would inevitably accelerate Hartwich's death; Ernestine's fate was a matter of perfect indifference to him, but he was greatly disturbed by the intelligence that Heim had been called in. He could not bear the man, whose presence brought out clear and distinct, as with some chemical preparation, the stains upon his name that had apparently faded away. He therefore determined to leave home for a few days, in order to avoid a meeting with the witness of his disgrace; but he would leave his wife on guard in the lower story, under the pretence of helping to nurse Ernestine. Her presence would naturally hinder the physician from saying anything to Hartwich to his, Leuthold's, detriment. He slipped up-stairs to bid his wife arise quickly; but the indolent woman was too long about it for his wishes or his plans.

Scarcely had he left Hartwich when Heim entered the room. "What news do you bring me?" Hartwich cried out.

"Nothing hopeful as yet. She showed signs of life when we applied ice-bandages; but the lethargy into which she fell immediately is alarming. I cannot give you any hope before the end of three days."

Hartwich struck his damp forehead in despair. "It will kill me! it will kill me!"

The Geheimrath seated himself by his bedside, took a pinch of snuff from a golden box adorned with a miniature of the king, and calmly regarded the unhappy man. "Now tell me, Herr von Hartwich, how it all occurred. I should like to know. Besides the wound on the head, the child has bruises on her shoulders and arms that are by no means fresh.

She seems to have been most cruelly treated!"

The invalid was silent for awhile, and then said, "Yes,--ah, yes, we have all abused her; but G.o.d knows I never intended this last! I was sound asleep yesterday evening when Ernestine came home and crept in to me here and waked me with her sobs."

"Poor child! she had cause to weep," the Geheimrath interrupted him.

"Yes, yes,--but I did not understand that yesterday. When I awoke, I was thirsty, and sent her up to my brother to bring me a little--a little--a few drops----"

"To bring you liquor," the Geheimrath completed the sentence.

"Yes, I confess it," Hartwich continued; "but in her uncle's room there was a telescope, and she looked through it and forgot her father's errand. I waited and waited, with my throat on fire, but she did not come. I grew more and more impatient; and when, at the end of a full half-hour, she came down without what I had sent her for, I seized hold of her to beat her; she clung to my lame arm so that the pain made me wild,--and in my senseless rage I flung her off and hurled her away with my healthy arm;--may it be crippled forever! She fell backward, and struck the back of her head first against the marble top of my wash-stand,--you can see the blood there still,--and then upon the floor, where she lay like one dead. Everything grew black before my eyes, as it did when I had the stroke. I rang for my people; no one came. I could not move,--could not leave my bed to go to the child. I saw her blood flow, I heard her gasp as if in the death-agony, and I lay here a miserable cripple, thinking that I had killed my child. Oh, Herr Geheimrath, at such a time our inmost selves are revealed to as; in such agony one learns to pray. At last, after repeated ringing and calling, my good-for-nothing servants made their appearance. Herr Geheimrath, I cannot tell you how I felt when they laid the child upon my bed,--my poor, beaten child. As the little bleeding head lay on my arm, it seemed as if my heart opened wide with the gaping wound, and, for the first time, real, warm, paternal affection gushed from it.

Before, when I chastised the child, she was all defiance and stubbornness; then I did not care if I hurt her; but now, as she lay mute and crushed before me, she spoke to me in a language that recalled me to myself. And, Herr Geheimrath, I have not been myself,--I have drunk myself down to the level of a brute; and the poor victim of my fury has recalled me from my degradation."

The Geheimrath listened to the speaker with growing sympathy. When he had finished, he took his hand. "You are right, Herr von Hartwich, to be frank with me. Men who are not evil by nature can best excuse their evil deeds by frankness, for their intentions are seldom as bad as their actions. Compose yourself,--your condition is indeed worthy of compa.s.sion. If the physician might be allowed to usurp in a measure the confessor's chair at such a time as the present, I would say for your consolation, in the event of the worst termination to the child's illness, that your irresponsible condition, which rendered you incapable of appreciating the consequences of your act, and which would excuse you before an earthly tribunal, should have some weight with your inward judge. Besides, you have certainly acted paternally towards the child in one respect," he added with significance. "You have acc.u.mulated a fine property for her. That will enable her to occupy such a position in the world as will make her life, if it is spared, a happy one."

Hartwich seized Heim's hand and whispered quickly and anxiously "Ah, my dear sir, I have not done this; it now lies heavy on my soul that I have not been a father to the child in any way!"

"What do you mean?" cried Heim with apparent surprise. "You have not set Ernestine aside in favour of another?"

Hartwich looked anxiously towards the door. The Geheimrath understood his look, and opened it,--no listener was near. Hartwich then confessed all to the Geheimrath that the latter already knew. Heim shook his head. "It is incredible that a father should do so by his own child; but, now that your sense of duty is aroused, you will of course atone for your injustice?"

"Ah, Herr Geheimrath, if I only could, how gladly would I do so! If my poor Ernestine recovers, I would gladly make over to her the whole estate during my lifetime. Tell me, how shall I begin to make amends?

how shall I begin to atone to the child for all the misery I have caused her? I will do anything, everything, if I only can. a.s.sist me, advise me!"

"I think," began the Geheimrath with quiet decision, "that the case is very simple. You can make a new will and declare the other void. If Ernestine recovers, it is very doubtful whether she will be anything more than a poor, sickly invalid during her entire lifetime. Such an unfortunate being needs money,--a great deal of money; for sickness is an expensive affair. The child was naturally healthy. She has been weakened by neglect and harsh treatment. You left her to a worthless housekeeper, who denied her everything that a child should have in order to be strong, and in her weakened condition you have dealt her a death-blow from which she can hardly recover. You must be conscious that, since you have almost destroyed Ernestine's life, you ought at least to provide her with the means of making her invalid existence as endurable as possible, and indemnify her for a neglected childhood by every enjoyment that wealth can procure."

Again Hartwich broke out into loud lamentations. "Yes, yes, you are right,--you are a man of honour, Herr Geheimrath. But how can I set aside my will without encountering Leuthold's bitterest hate? Ah, you do not know what a dangerous enemy he is."

"I know, I know," Heim interrupted him, nodding his head; "he is a bad fellow; but tell me, Herr von Hartwich, what do you fear from him? Will not the curse of your unfortunate child, if she lives, be harder to bear than the hate of such a miserable wretch as your step-brother?"

Hartwich writhed and turned in his bed. "If I had only sold the factory! If he should learn that I had disinherited him, he is quite capable of preventing the sale out of sheer revenge, ruining the whole business for me, and then the poor child would be deprived of half of her property!"

The Geheimrath held his snuff-box in one hand, clasped the other over it, and looked at Hartwich with a smile.

"If that is why you hesitate, there is no cause for fear. The factory is as good as sold; for Herr Neuenstein, the brother of the Staatsrathin Mollner, is most anxious to purchase it for his son, who is a chemist;--he knows your brother, and would easily see through his wiles. Besides, Gleissert need know nothing about it for the present.

Make the will secretly. I will give you pen and ink when I have written a prescription for Ernestine. Send your housekeeper off immediately, that we may have no spies about; for I believe her to be capable of any treachery, and Ernestine must not be left in her charge. This afternoon I shall come again, and you can put the doc.u.ment into my hands, where it will be safe. Well--how does the plan please you?"

"Yes, yes," cried Hartwich pa.s.sionately. "That is right. That I can do.

Ah, it is all that is left for me to do for my child, and it shall be done. Send Gedike away;--get me pen, ink, and paper,--it must not be delayed an hour longer than is necessary. I feel I may die at any moment. Remove this burden from my soul, and I shall die more peacefully!"