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 passed 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, hoarsely.
"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. "God be thanked; now they can arrange the rest together."