CHAPTER XXV.
Wave after wave broke over the head of the drowning man.
The factory had now been in operation for some months. The beet-root crop on the estate itself had been deficient, and the cultivation of it in the country round had proved unsuccessful. Many of the small farmers had failed to fulfill their contracts, and others had brought in inferior produce. There was a scarcity of beet-root as well as a scarcity of capital; the works stopped, the workmen dispersed.
Ehrenthal was gone off to the Polish property, and the baron was consumed by the fever of suspense. At last came the dark day when Ehrenthal appeared before him, a letter from Commissary Walter in his hand. The baron's capital had only been saved by his buying the estate.
The owners of the first mortgage of a hundred thousand dollars had raised the property, by bidding, up to a hundred and four thousand; they had then left off, and no other purchaser had come forward.
"The estate is now yours, baron," said Ehrenthal. "In order that you may be able to maintain it, I have negotiated with the owners of the first mortgage, and they will leave the hundred thousand upon the estate. I have advanced for you four thousand dollars and the legal expenses."
The baron said not a word; his head fell heavily on his writing-table. As Ehrenthal left the room, he muttered, "It is all over with him. And the next quarter he will lose his old estate, and he has not energy to undertake the new. I shall have to buy the Polish property too, in the end."
And now term-time drew near, and the baron had the interest of all his borrowed money to pay. Once more he looked round for help. In vain! Last of all he came to his neighbor, George Werner, who had for some years paid homage to Lenore, and then prudently drawn back, the baron's embarrassments being no longer a secret. The young man showed all the sympathy conventional in such a case. He was very sorry, indeed, to hear that there was so large a mortgage upon the recently-purchased property. "Whom did you send to the auction?" asked he.
"Hirsch Ehrenthal," was the reply.
George Werner waxed eloquent. "I fear," cried he, "that that fellow has played you false. I know the usurer well: years ago we lost a large sum by his villainy. My father had cut down a wood in the next province, and sold it to a timber-merchant. Ehrenthal made a cheating bargain with this man, got the timber from him at a nominal price, while the other fellow ran off to America. The two rogues shared my father's money."
The baron's face grew livid; he rose, said not another word about his concerns, and slunk out of his neighbor's house like a felon.
From that day he brooded darkly in his arm-chair, was harsh to his wife, unapproachable by his daughter. The two poor women suffered inexpressibly.
One ray of hope still remained to him—Bernhard's influence with his father. But he would not take the hand unselfishly offered him. He did not send for Anton, but for another, of whom the idea was repulsive to him, yet whose grotesque presence seemed to cheer him whenever they met. Once more, at the last hour, a gracious destiny left his choice free. But alas! he was himself free no longer. It was the curse of an evil deed that now confused his judgment.
Again Itzig stood before him, and the baron, looking askance at the bent figure, said, "Young Ehrenthal has offered to make up my difference with his father."
Veitel leaped up suddenly as if he had been shot. "Bernhard!" said he.
"That is his name, I dare say; he is an invalid."
"He will die," replied Veitel.
"When?" asked the baron, occupied with his own thoughts; but, recovering himself, he added, "What is the matter with him?"
"It is here," said Itzig, laying his hand on his chest; "it labors like a pair of bellows: when a hole is once torn, the breath ceases."
The baron put on an expression of sympathy, but, in reality, his only thought was that he had no time to lose. "The invalid," said he, "has sufficient influence over his father to give me hopes of Ehrenthal's consent to my wishes."
"What does Bernhard know of business? He is a fool," cried Veitel, unable to conceal his annoyance. "If you were to put an old parchment covered with manuscript before him, he would give you any mortgage you liked for it; he is half-witted."
"I see that you do not approve this plan," said the baron, again drifting hopelessly.
Before Itzig replied, he stood for a long time reflecting, and restlessly looking away from the baron into every corner of the room. At last he said, in a more self-possessed tone, "The baron is right. It will be best, after all, that you and Ehrenthal should go together to Bernhard's sick-bed, and there finally settle your affairs." Again he was silent, and his face grew red with stormy thoughts. "Will the baron be graciously pleased to leave me to fix the day and the hour when he can best speak to Bernhard Ehrenthal? As soon as you enter the office, I will go up and tell him that you are there. Meanwhile you will have the goodness to wait in the office, even if I should be half an hour away. You will wait, whatever Ehrenthal may say. And when I take you up stairs, all will be right, for Bernhard can do what he likes with his father."
"I shall wait till I hear from you," decided the baron, distressed at the thought of the painful day.
Itzig then took his leave, and rushed in frantic excitement to his lair in the house of Pinkus. Arrived there, he ran wildly up and down, clenching his fist at the thought of Bernhard. He opened his old desk, and took out of a secret drawer two keys, which he laid on the table, and stood looking at them steadfastly and long. At length he pushed them into his pocket, and ran down to the caravanserai. There, cowering in a corner of the gallery, he found his sagacious friend Mr. Hippus, whose aspect had certainly not improved during the last few days. He was now sitting squeezed into a corner where the sunlight fell, and was reading a dirty romance. When Veitel hurriedly entered, he only buried his head deeper in his book, for which he appeared to care far more than for the young man of business before him.
"Shut up your book, and listen to me," cried Itzig, impatiently. "Rothsattel will get his notes of hand back from Ehrenthal; he will give in the mortgage, and I shall have to pay him the remaining eight thousand dollars."
"Only think—only think," replied the old man, wagging his ugly head, "what things one lives to see! If Ehrenthal gives his money away to a vagabond who has broken his word, it will be time for us all to mend our ways and turn honest. Before, however, we speak further, you may just bring me up something to eat and drink. I am thirsty, and have not another word to say at present."
Veitel hurried down stairs, and the old man, looking after him, muttered, "Now for it! now for it!"
When Veitel had placed his meal before him, Hippus briefly inquired, "How much?"
"Three hundred," said the old man; "and even then I must have time to consider. It is not in my line, most worthy Itzig. I am willing to labor in my vocation for less, as you have experienced ere now, but for a noble exploit in the style of Cartouche and others of your friends, I require better compensation. I am only a volunteer, and I can't say that my preferences lie in this direction."
"Do mine?" cried Itzig. "If there be any other means to take, tell me them. If you know how the baron and Ehrenthal can be kept asunder, say so. Ehrenthal's only son will make peace between them; he will stand between them like the winged cupid on a valentine between two lovers, and we shall be done."
"We?" chuckled the old man. "You will be done, you jackdaw. What are your affairs to me?"
"Two hundred," cried Veitel, drawing nearer.
"Three," replied the old man, tossing off his glass; "but even then I will not do it alone; you must be there."
"If I am to be there," said Veitel, "I can do it alone, and shall not require your help. Listen to me. I will contrive that the office shall be empty; that Ehrenthal and the baron shall leave the house at the same moment. I will give you a sign, to say whether the papers are on the table or in the press. It will be dark. You will have about half an hour's time. I will fasten the house door, and unbolt the back door, which is generally closed. It will all be so safe that a child of two years might do it easily."
"Safe enough for you," said the old man, dryly, "but not for me."
"We have tried what could be done with the law, and it has not answered," cried Veitel; "now we must defy it." He struck the balustrade with his clenched fist, and ground his teeth fiercely. "And if you don't choose to do it, still it shall be done, though I know that all the suspicion will fall upon me, unless I am in Bernhard's room at the time."
"Very fine indeed, gallant Itzig," said the man, adjusting his spectacles, so as to observe more closely the expression of the other's countenance. "Since you are so brave, I will not leave you in the lurch. But three hundred."
The bargaining then began. The pair squeezed themselves into the farthest corner of the gallery, and whispered together till dark.
A few days later, at twilight, Anton entered his friend's sick-room. "I am come to pay you a flying visit, just to see how you are."
"Weak," replied Bernhard; "still very weak, and breathing becomes very difficult. If I could only get out, only once out of this gloomy room."
"Does your doctor allow you to drive out? If the sun be bright and warm, I will bring a carriage to-morrow and take you a drive."
"Yes," cried Bernhard, "you shall come. I shall have something to tell you then." He looked cautiously around. "I have this day received by the townpost a note without a signature." He drew it out from under his pillow, and gave it with a mysterious look to his friend. "Take it: perhaps you know the hand."
Anton went to the window and read, "The Baron Rothsattel wishes to speak to you this evening. Contrive, therefore, to be alone with your father."
When Anton gave back the note, Bernhard received it reverentially, and replaced it under his pillow. "Do you know the hand?" said he.
"No," replied Anton; "the hand seems a feigned one; it is not the young lady's."
"Whoever the writer may be," continued Bernhard, dejectedly, "I hope for a good result from this evening's interview. Wohlfart, this dispute lies like a hundred weight on my breast; it takes my breath away. This evening I shall be better; I shall be free."
Speaking had tired him. "Farewell, then, till morning," said Anton. As he rose he heard the rustle of ladies' dresses, and Bernhard's mother and sister approached the bed and greeted the visitor. "How are you, Bernhard?" asked his mother; "you will be all alone with your father this evening. There is a great musical meeting, and Rosalie is to play. We have moved the piano into the back room, Mr. Wohlfart, that Bernhard may not be disturbed by Rosalie's practicing."
"Sit down for a moment beside me, mother," said Bernhard; "it is long since I have seen you handsomely dressed. You look beautiful to-day; you had just such a gown as this when I, as a boy, took scarlet fever. When I dream of you I always see you in a scarlet dress. Give me your hand, mother; and while you listen to the music this evening, think, too, of your Bernhard, who will be making silent melody here."
His mother sat down beside him. "He is feverish again," said she to Anton, who silently assented.
"To-morrow I shall go out into the sunshine," cried Bernhard, in an excited tone; "that will be my enjoyment."
"The carriage waits," said Rosalie, remindingly; "and we have to go out the back way, which is dirty. Itzig has persuaded my father that the carriage must not drive round to the front for fear of disturbing Bernhard."
"Good-night, Bernhard," said his mother, once more reaching out her plump hand. The ladies hurried away. Anton followed them.
"What do you think of Bernhard?" asked the mother, as they went down stairs.
"I consider him very ill," Anton replied.
"I have already told my husband that, when summer comes, and I go with Rosalie to the Baths, we will take Bernhard with us."
Anton went home with a heavy heart.
The house grew silent; nothing was to be heard in the sick-room but the labored breathing of the sufferer. But there was a stir on the floor below him—doubtless a mouse gnawing the wainscot. Bernhard listened uneasily. "How long will it go on gnawing? till it makes a hole at last, and comes into the room." A shudder came over him—he tossed about on his bed—the darkness seemed to press him in—the air grew thick. He rang till the maid came and set down the lamp. Then he gazed languidly round. The room looked old and prison-like to-day; it appeared unfamiliar to him, like some room in a strange house, where he was only a visitor. He looked with indifference at his library, and the drawer where lay his beloved manuscripts. That spot upon the floor—that chink through which the light from the next room shone in every evening, to-morrow he would leave them all to drive with Anton. He wondered whether they would take the road the young lady took when going to and fro between town and her father's estate. Perhaps they might meet her. His eye beamed; he confidently believed that they should meet her. She would sit queen-like in her carriage, her veil flying round her blooming face; she would raise her white hand and wave it to him—nay, she would recognize him; she would know that he had rendered her father a service; she would stop and inquire how he was. He should speak to her—should hear the noble tones of her voice; she would bow once more; then the carriages would separate, one here, the other there. And whither would he go? "Into the sunshine," whispered he. And again he listened anxiously to the gnawing of the mouse.
A hurried step came through the room beyond. Bernhard sat up—the blood mounted to his face. It was the father of Lenore who was coming to him. The door opened softly; an ugly face peeped in, and glanced stealthily around the room. Bernhard cried in dismay, "What do you want here?"
Itzig went up to the bed in haste, and breathing hard, said, in a voice that sounded as choked as that of the invalid, "The baron has just gone into the office. He has told me to come to you, and to persuade you to support the proposal that he is about to make to your father."
"He has said that to you?" cried Bernhard. "How can the baron give a message to a man like you?"
"Hold your peace," rejoined Veitel, rudely; "there is no time for your speeches. Listen to what I have to say. The baron promised your father, on his word of honor, security for twenty thousand dollars, and now he can not give him that security, because he has sold the deed to another. He has broken his word, and now demands that your father should renounce his security. If you can advise your father to lose twenty thousand dollars, why, do so."
Bernhard trembled all over. "You are a liar!" cried he. "Every word that proceeds from your mouth is hypocrisy, double-dealing, and deceit."
"Hold your peace," replied Veitel, in feverish anxiety. "You are not to persuade your father to his harm. There is no helping this baron; he is a fly who has burned his wings in the candle; he can only crawl. And even if Ehrenthal be fool enough to follow your evil counsel, he can not maintain for the baron possession of his estate. If he does not eject him, another will. I have no interest in saying this to you," continued he, uneasily listening to a sound in front of the house; "I do so merely out of attachment to your family."
Bernhard struggled for breath. "Get out of my sight!" said he, at length; "there is nothing but deceit and falsehood on earth."
"I will bring up the baron and your father," said Veitel, and rushed out of the room.
Meanwhile Ehrenthal's angry voice sounded loudly on the ground floor. "I will go to the lawyer; I will expose you and your intrigues."
Veitel burst open the door. The baron sat on the stool, and hid his face with his hands. Ehrenthal stood before him trembling with rage. On the desk stood the baron's casket, containing the fatal notes of hand and the mortgage. Veitel cried out, "Have done, Ehrenthal; your Bernhard is very ill; he is all alone up stairs, and calls for you and for the baron; he wants you both beside him."
"What means this?" screamed Ehrenthal. "Are you intriguing with my son too, behind my back?"
"Have you shown him the new mortgage that you have had drawn up for him?" asked Veitel, hurriedly.
"He will not even look at it," returned the baron, gloomily.
"Give it to me," said Veitel; and he laid a new deed before Ehrenthal.
"You want me to take a bit of paper instead of my good money—mere trash, that is not worth my burning."
"Will you not give over?" cried Veitel, in greatest distress. "No one is up stairs with Bernhard, and he is calling out for you and the baron; he will do himself a mischief. Do go up stairs; he has groaned out that I am to bring you both to him immediately."
"Just God!" cried Ehrenthal, "what is to be done! I can not come to my son; I am in terror about my money."
"He will cry himself to death," said Veitel; "you can speak about the money long enough afterward. Do make haste."
The baron and Ehrenthal both left the office. Itzig followed. Ehrenthal locked the door, laid the iron bar across it, and fastened the bolts. As they went up stairs a piece of money rang upon the step. Ehrenthal looked round. "It dropped out of my pocket," said Veitel.
The baron and Ehrenthal entered the sick-chamber, and Itzig pushed himself in after them, creeping along the wall to the window behind Bernhard, so that the latter should not see him. The baron sat down at the head of the bed, the father at the foot, and the lamp threw a pale light on the parties who came to wrangle about capital and security in the presence of the dying. The nobleman began by a courteous speech, referring to Bernhard's visit to his estate, hoping soon to welcome him there again; but his eyes rested with terror on the sunken face, and an inner voice told him the last hour was near. Bernhard sat up in his bed, his head resting on his breast, and, raising his hand, he interrupted the baron, saying, "I pray you, baron, to tell me what you require from my father, and, while doing so, to recollect that I am no man of business."
The baron proceeded to state his case. Ehrenthal was often about to interrupt him, but each time Bernhard waved his hand, and then the old man stopped, and contented himself with vehemently shaking his head and mumbling to himself.
When the baron's statement was over, Bernhard beckoned to his father. "Come nearer me, and listen quietly to my words."
The father stooped down with his ear close to his son's mouth. "What I am about to say," continued Bernhard, in a low voice, "is my firm resolve, and it is not one taken this day. If you have made money, it was with the hope that I should outlive you and be your heir. Was it not so?"
Ehrenthal vehemently nodded assent. "If, then, you behold your heir in me, listen to my words. If you love me, act in accordance with them. I renounce my inheritance so long as we both live. What you have laid up for me has been laid up in vain. I require nothing for my future. If it be appointed me to recover, I will learn to support myself by my own labor. Beside your love and your blessing, father, I want nothing. Think upon this."
Ehrenthal raised his arms and cried, "What words are these, my Bernhard, my poor son! Thou art ill; thou art very ill."
"Hear me further," besought Bernhard. "Whatever your claims may be on this gentleman's estate, they must be given up. You have been connected with him in business for long years; you must not be the means of making his family unhappy. I do not ask you to give away the large sum in question. That would pain you too much, and would be humiliating to him; all I require is, that you should accept the security he offers you. If he ever promised you any other, forget it; if you have papers in your possession which compromise him, give them back."
"He is ill," groaned his father; "he is very ill."
"I know that this will pain you, my father. Ever since you left your grandfather's house, a poor barefooted Jew-boy, with one dollar in your pocket, you have thought of nothing but money-making. No one ever taught you any thing else, and your creed excluded you from the society of those who better understood what gave value to life. I know it goes to your heart to risk a large sum, but yet, father, you will do it—you will do it because you love me."
Ehrenthal wrung his hands, and said, with floods of tears, "You know not what you ask, my son. You plead for a robbery—a robbery from your father."
The son took his father's hand. "You have always loved me. You have wished that I should be different from yourself. You have always given heed to my words, and before I could express a wish you have fulfilled it. But this is the first great request that I have ever made. And this request I will whisper in your ear as long as I live; it is the first, father, and it will be my last."
"Thou art a foolish child," cried the father, beside himself; "thou askest my life—my whole substance."
"Fetch the papers," replied Bernhard. "I must, with my own eyes, see you give back to the baron what he wishes to retract, and receive from him what he can still give."
Ehrenthal took out his handkerchief and wept aloud: "He is ill. I shall lose him, and I shall lose my money too." Meanwhile the baron sat silent and looked down. As for Itzig, he was clenching his fist convulsively, and unconsciously tearing the curtain down from the pole.
Bernhard looked at his father's emotion unmoved, and repeated with an effort, "I will have it so; bring the papers, father," Then he sank back on his pillow. His father bent over him, but with a silent gesture of aversion Bernhard waved him off, saying, "Enough! you hurt me."
Then Ehrenthal rose, took up his office-candle, and tottered out of the room.
The baron sat still as before, but in the midst of his suspense he was conscious of flashes that resembled joy. He saw a spot of blue in his clouded sky. His promise given back to him, eight thousand dollars to receive from the man in the window, he might look up once more. He took Bernhard's hand, and, pressing it, said, "I thank you, sir—oh how I thank you! You are my deliverer; you save my family from despair, and me from disgrace."
Bernhard held the baron's hand firmly in his, and a blissful smile passed over his face. Meanwhile the one in the window was grinding his teeth in his phrensy of anxiety, and pressing himself against the wall to control the fever-fit which shook him.
Thus they remained a long while. No one spoke. Ehrenthal did not return. Suddenly the room door was burst open, and a man rushed in furious, with distorted face and streaming hair. It was Ehrenthal, holding in his hand the flaring candle, but nothing else.
"Gone!" said he, clasping his hands, and letting the candle fall; "all gone! all is stolen!" He fell on his son's bed, and stretched out his arms, as if to implore help from him.
The baron sprang up, not less horrified than Ehrenthal. "What is stolen?" cried he.
"Every thing!" groaned Ehrenthal, looking only at his son. "The notes of hand, are gone, the mortgages are gone. I am robbed!" screamed he, springing up. "Robbery! burglary! Send for the police!" And again he rushed out, the baron following him.
Half fainting and bewildered, Bernhard looked after them. Itzig now stepped out from the window and came to the bed. The sufferer threw his head on one side, and gazed at him as the bird does at the snake. It was the face of a devil into which he gazed; the red hair stood up bristling; hellish dread and hate were in every ugly feature. Bernhard closed his eyes, and covered them with his hand. But the face came nearer still, and a hoarse voice whispered in his ear.
Meanwhile two men stood in the office below, and looked at each other in stupid amazement. The casket and its contents were gone. The deeds that the baron had laid on the desk were gone too. Ehrenthal had unlocked the door as usual. There was nothing wrong with the bolts. Every thing stood in its right place. If any money had been taken out of the drawer, it could be but very little. There was not a sign of the well-secured shutters having been touched; it was inexplicable how the documents could have been taken away.
Then they searched the whole ground floor: nothing to be seen—even the house door was locked. They recollected that the cautious book-keeper had done that as they went up stairs. Again they went back to the office and searched every corner, but more rapidly and more hopelessly than before. Then they sat over against each other, watching for some token of treachery; and again they sprang up, and mutually poured out such reproaches as only despair can invent.
The papers had vanished from Ehrenthal's office just as he had unwillingly yielded to his son's entreaties for a reconciliation with the baron. He had not, indeed, made up his mind to it—he had only gone to fetch the papers. Would any one believe that those papers were stolen? Would his own son believe him?
And as for the baron, his loss was greater still. He had just had a hope of rescue, now he fell again into an abyss beyond his fathoming. His notes of hand were in some stranger's possession. If the thief understood how to make use of them—nay, if the thief were only apprehended, he was lost; and if they were never found again, still he was equally lost. He was not in a condition to make any arrangement with Ehrenthal; he was not in a condition to pay any of his creditors; he was lost beyond possibility of deliverance. Before him lay poverty, failure, disgrace. Again there recurred to his mind that court of honor, his fellow-officers, and the unfortunate young man who had destroyed himself. He had been obliged to view the body; he knew how one looks who has died thus; he knew too, now, how a man comes to die. Once he had shuddered at the image of the corpse, now he shuddered at it no longer. His lips moved, and as in a dream he said to himself, "That is the last resource." The door was now torn open, a hideous head appeared, and a wild cry was heard, "Come up, Hirsch Ehrenthal; your son is dying." Then the apparition vanished, Ehrenthal rushed off with a shriek, and the baron tottered out of the house.
When the father fell down beside his son's bed, a white hand was lifted up once more, then a corpse fell back. Bernhard was gone out into the sunshine.
The evening was warm. A light mist hid the stars, but there was still a pleasant twilight. The balmy breath of the flowering shrubs in the public gardens was wafted into the streets. The passers-by returned slowly home, sorry to leave the sweet south breeze, and shut themselves up in-doors. The beggar stretched himself comfortably out on the threshold of the stately house; every young fellow who had a sweetheart led her out with him through the streets. He who was weary forgot his past day's work; he who was sad felt his sadness less on such an evening as this; he who was alone the whole year felt impelled to seek companionship to-day. Groups stood laughing and chattering at the doors; children were playing; the caged nightingale sang her sweetest song—sang of the early summer—that happy time when life is sweet and fond hopes blossom.
Through these swarms of people a tall man walked slowly; his head had sunk on his breast. He did not hear the nightingale's note, and passed through the circle of dancing children without one sound of their happy voices falling upon his ear. He passed into the suburbs, slowly ascended a flower-crowned hill, and sat down on a bench. Beneath him the dark river rolled onward to the sea, and opposite him rose the mighty mass of the old cathedral. The river was covered with timber-rafts brought down from the mountains. On these rafts stood the little huts of their rowers, with small fires in them, at which the men were now preparing their suppers. He too had had to do with timber-rafts like these, and the money he had thus won had been spoken of as a theft. He got up hastily and hurried down the hill.
His way lay through an alley of tall sycamores, and again he stopped, and wearily leaned against the trunk of a tree. Before him rose the chimneys of the manufacturing part of the town. He too knew what it was to build a tall pile like that. He had laid all he had at its base—his strength, his money, his honor. He had paid for it with sleepless nights and whitened hair; it was the tomb-stone of his race which he had raised on his estate, and what he now saw before him in the uncertain light was a monster church-yard, full of shadowy monuments, beneath which lay coffined the peace of mind of many wretched men; and nodding, he said, and started to hear his own words, "It is the last." He rose and went to his house.
On his way thither he felt how comforting it was to think of that which would free him from such hideous pictures. He went in and smiled when the lamp shone on his face. As he stood in the hall he could hear voices in his wife's room. Lenore was reading aloud. He listened and heard that she was reading a novel. He would not frighten those poor women; but there was a back room apart from all the rest—he would go there. While he was still standing in the hall, the room door opened, and the baroness looked out. She gave an involuntary start when she saw him. He smiled and cheerfully entered the room, gave his hand to his wife, stroked Lenore's head, and bent down to see what she was reading. The baroness regretted that she had had her tea without him, and he joked her about her impatience for her favorite beverage. He went to the cage in which two foreign birds were sitting on the same perch, their small heads resting against each other, and putting his fingers to the wires as if to stroke them, he said absently, "They are gone to rest." Then taking the waxlight from the servant's hand, he moved toward his own room. As he took hold of the door-handle, he remarked that his wife's eyes followed him anxiously, and, turning toward her, he nodded cheerfully. Then he closed the door, took a polished case out of his writing-table, and carried it and the candle to the small back room. Here he was sure he should disturb no one.
Slowly he loaded. In loading he looked at the inlaid work on the barrels. It had been the toilsome task of some poor devil of a gunmaker—it had often been admired by his acquaintance. The pistols themselves had been a wedding-present from the general, who had on one occasion acted the part of father to his orphan bride. He hurriedly rammed down the charge, then looked behind him. When he fell it should not be on the floor; he would not make on those who should come in the same painful impression that his outstretched comrade had made on him.
He placed the barrel to his temple. At that moment a woman's shriek was heard, his wife rushed in, his arm was seized with the strength of despair; he started, and his finger touched the trigger—a flash, a report, and he sank back on the sofa, and groaning, raised both his hands to his eyes.
In the merchant's house the bereaved father came, candle in hand, out of the room of the dead to the office below. He looked anxiously about on the desk, in the cupboard, in every corner of the room; then sat down, shook his head, and marveled. Then he locked up the office, went up stairs again, and fell groaning and crying on the bed. So he spent the whole night, seeking and wailing, wailing and seeking—a distracted, desolate, broken-down man.