Partners Part 15

"I knew long ago, when you laid such stress upon the word _protegee_, that you were leaving a way of escape open. If Frida and fortune could both be won, well and good; if only fortune, Frida must go. There would still remain the heiress, who in the first place was intended for you, and this heiress you would secure while the forsaken, deceived girl was still under our roof. I have already experienced bitter disappointment with respect to your character, but such disgraceful disregard of truth and good faith I had not expected, even from you!"

A flood of tears choked her voice. Gustave tried prayers, entreaties, explanations; all were in vain. She hurried into the adjoining room, and when he tried to follow her she drew the bolt inside. Directly after he heard her leave that room also by another door, so that his words could no longer reach her. Left thus in the lurch, Gustave began to give vent to his anger.

"This is really too bad! This is what I have gained by sacrificing myself to the interests of others! My brother bursts upon me raging and storming because I give a caress to my own niece, and now I am treated like a criminal because I am too indifferent to her. Really, I ought to have taken Jessie into our confidence. This comes of too great a supply of high spirits. The thing amused me, and she--now she cries like one in the depths of despair. Now perhaps I may wait till tomorrow without her reappearing, and the misunderstanding should be brought to an end at once."

Despairingly he stamped with his foot, when suddenly a voice behind him said--

"I beg pardon--but I was directed here."

Gustave started and looked round. At the princ.i.p.al entrance of the drawing-room stood a stranger, a little man with a round face, who, bowing politely, said--

"Have I the honour of addressing the head of the house of Clifford?" He looked rather nervous, for Gustave's violent pantomime had not escaped him. "I have been to the office, and was there told that Mr. Sandow had already left. As my business is very urgent, I have been obliged to follow him out here."

"My brother is not visible," said Gustave irritably, for this interruption was in the highest degree unwelcome at such a moment. "He has important business in hand, and cannot be disturbed."

At the word "brother" the little gentleman bowed still more profoundly, and approaching with a confidential air, said--

"Mr. Gustave Sandow! the great German journalist! I am deeply rejoiced that fortune has permitted me to make the acquaintance of such a celebrity, a celebrity whose value is thoroughly appreciated by our firm."

"What do you want?" asked Gustave, with a look which clearly expressed a burning desire to show the admirer of his greatness to the door.

"I am an agent of Jenkins and Co.," explained the stranger, with an air of great self-satisfaction. "I arrived here today with a number of emigrants, and found myself obliged to call upon our honoured correspondent here. Since Mr. Sandow cannot be disturbed, perhaps I may make my statement to you."

Now Gustave's sorely tried patience was at an end. At a moment of such anxiety to receive an agent of Jenkins and Co. was beyond his power. He turned with great want of politeness to the bearer of the hated name--

"I can receive no communications intended for my brother. Bring your news to-morrow to the counting-house. I would"--here he suddenly dropped the English in which he had spoken to the American, and relieved his mind with a few strong German curses. "I wish the devil would take Jenkins and Co. with all their agents to their accursed place in the West, that the consequences of their philanthropical speculation might fall on their own heads."

With this he quitted the room by another door, leaving the astonished agent dumb with horror. For a few minutes he looked at the door by which Gustave had vanished with a bewildered mien. He had not understood the words of the German objurgations, but so much was clear to him that the "great German journalist" had not expressed very benevolent wishes with regard to himself and his Company. What should he do? The elder Mr. Sandow invisible, and the younger--

The little gentleman shook his head thoughtfully, and said to himself--

"Remarkable people, these German journalists! They are so nervous, so excited, one might almost say raving mad. When one pays them a compliment they answer by insult. Our gentlemen of the press are much more polite when people talk of their fame."

CHAPTER XI.

Jessie had locked herself in her own room, and there gave full course to her tears. Never in her life had she felt so profoundly unhappy, so despairing, as at this hour. Now she felt how her whole heart clung to this man, whom cost what it might she would drive from her.

Long ago, while he still lived in Germany, she had treasured a secret interest in her guardian's brother. She did not know him, but his pen wove an invisible bond between them. With what glowing eagerness had she read his articles; with what enthusiasm had she followed the flights of his idealism. She felt a community of ideas between them on all points of thought and sentiment, and by degrees he became a sort of ideal to her. And now the idealist had come--to falsify his whole past by yielding himself to his brother's sordid speculations. Then he concealed the best feelings of his heart from a cowardly fear of losing that brother's wealth; he heaped intrigue on intrigue to secure the coveted riches, then denied his bride rather than risk the fortune, and again courted the heiress. The most miserable selfishness, the most paltry calculations, were the mainsprings of his actions. Jessie hated and despised him with all her soul, but that she was forced to do so, that it was precisely this man whom she must despise, tore her very heart.

She had thrown herself on her couch, and buried her face in the cushions, smothering there her sobs, when suddenly she heard her name called, and springing up, she was startled to see Gustave Sandow standing in the middle of the room. She pa.s.sionately cried--

"Mr. Sandow, how do you come here? I thought"--

"Yes, you bolted the drawing-room door," interrupted Gustave, "and you ordered your maid to admit no one, but in spite of bolts and lady's maid I am here. I must speak to you; it is necessary for your sake as well as mine."

"But I will not listen!" cried Jessie, with a vain attempt at self-control.

"But I will be heard!" replied Gustave. "At first I thought of sending Frida as a mediator, but soon gave up the idea. It would have taken too long. She is still with her father."

"With whom?"

"With her father--my brother!" Jessie stood as if petrified. The revelation was so sudden that she could not at first realize it, till Gustave said--

"May I now justify myself?"

Then through her soul flashed hope and happiness. She allowed him to take her hand and to lead her to the sofa, and even to place himself beside her.

"I have a confession to make to you, Miss Clifford," he began, "and to make all clear to you I must go far back into my brother's past life.

By-and-bye, I may do it at greater length, but now I will only tell you enough to justify myself."

He detained her hand in his, and Jessie left it unresistingly there.

She began to believe in the possibility of justification.

"My brother's domestic life was one of bitter experience. An apparently happy wedded life ended in a terrible discovery. He found himself betrayed by his wife and his dearest friend, and the circ.u.mstances of the discovery were such that with his domestic happiness fell also his outward prosperity. He neither would nor could remain longer at home, and went to America, where your parents received him. But in Germany he had left his daughter, his only child, who at that time was almost an infant. In his hatred, his bitterness against all, he would not acknowledge the child; it remained with the mother, who after the necessary divorce had married that man."

He paused a moment. Jessie listened in breathless antic.i.p.ation; over her pale, tear-stained face crept a slight flush, as Gustave continued--

"I was then at the university, and had no means of supporting Frida, and all my representations in her behalf were fruitless. But I have never forsaken my little niece. The poor child had a comfortless youth in that family where her very presence was a rock of offence. Endured against his will by her step-father, treated by her own mother with indifference, nay, almost with aversion, she stood a stranger among her step-brothers and sisters, and with every year more keenly felt her loneliness. As soon as my means permitted, I a.s.sumed the rights of an uncle, which were certainly readily granted me, and extricated my niece from these surroundings. I placed her at school, where she remained till her mother's death. That death broke the bond which caused constant bitterness to my brother, and now I determined to come to America and fight for her rights, cost what it might."

"And that was your reason for coming to America?" said Jessie, timidly.

"That alone! I had already made an attempt by letter, but was most harshly repulsed by Frank. He threatened to break off all correspondence with me if I ever touched on the subject again. So then I placed all my hopes on the effect of Frida's own presence, but it at first seemed impossible to carry out this plan. I could not allow a young girl like that to cross the sea alone, and if she had appeared in my company my brother would have instantly had his suspicions roused.

Then the death of your father, Miss Clifford, obliged him to think of a new partner, and his thoughts turned to me. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances the invitation to cast overboard my fatherland, my calling, and my independence, yes, the very heart and soul of my former life, for the sake of material interests, would have met with the most decided refusal; now it seemed like a sign from heaven itself. I apparently yielded, and started with Frida. She remained in New York while I viewed the field of action, and then introduced her under an a.s.sumed name into her father's house. You know what followed. The discovery has cost a last but severe struggle. There was a scene, which threatened to destroy all, but at last the father's heart awoke in my brother's bosom, and now he is reconciled with his child!"

Jessie sat with eyes cast down and glowing cheeks while she listened to this recital, which took one thorn after another from her breast. It seemed to her as if she herself were released from a gloomy oppression, now that the veil which so long had covered the "egoist" had fallen.

"Yes, Miss Clifford, now it is all up with the inheritance," said Gustave mischievously. "It was indeed offered to me, and I have had a hard fight for it, but only in the interest of the rightful heiress.

Unfortunately, I must also resign the honour of becoming a partner in the house of Clifford. The editor and staff of the _K--sche Zeitung_ have bound me by a solemn oath as soon as my leave of absence is at an end; and in the long run indeed 'keeping accounts' does not appeal very strongly to me. I shall take up my old colours again, which, by-the-bye, I have not so shamefully deserted as you supposed. Do you still find my presence at the office desk so contemptible an action?"

Jessie looked at him, ashamed, confused, yet with a feeling of intense happiness--

"I have wronged you, Mr. Sandow; it was certainly your own fault, but--I beg your pardon?"

She could not offer him her hand, for he had never released it, but he pressed a kiss upon it which this time was quite patiently endured.

"I have for weeks past rejoiced at the thought of this explanation,"

said he, laughing. "Do you think I would have endured my brother's arbitrary manner and your contempt even for an hour, had I not been certain of your pet.i.tion at the end?"

"And Frida is really only your adopted child?" asked Jessie, with a throbbing heart, which could not be controlled. "You do not love her?"

"Frida is my dear niece, and I am her venerated uncle, with that our mutual relation is exhausted. Now that she has found her father, I am become superfluous as an object of respect. But now that we are on the subject of love, Jessie, I have one question to put to you."

The question seemed to be guessed, for Jessie's face was bathed in blushes. She dared not look up, but that was also unnecessary, for Gustave was already at her feet, so she was compelled to look down at him, as he, with warmest devotion, whispered--

"My dearest, my beloved Jessie, it is now my turn to beg your pardon. I have intrigued, I have lied even to you, that cannot be denied, but I have also suffered for it, for you have compelled me to hear some bitter strictures. But one thing has remained real and true in me since our first meeting--the feeling which awoke in me when I first saw those blue eyes! So you must be gracious to me!"