Andreas Döderlein got as far as the entrance to the Town Hall. There he was suddenly seized with grave doubts. He stared at the pavement for a while, sad and sinister, and then started back home. His steps were not half so impetuous as they had been on the way over; they gave evidence of weakened will and fading energy.
Hardly had he reached home when Daniel was announced. “You have the boldness, Sir,” he cried out to Daniel on his entering. “You have the boldness to appear in my sight? By the gods above, you are going far!”
“I will accept any challenge you make,” said Daniel, with the chilly dignity that was characteristic of him in such circumstances and that never failed to have a sobering effect on his potential antagonist. “I have nothing to fear. I should like to live in peace with the father of my wife, and for this reason I have come to you.”
“Do you know what you are doing to me? You have stolen my daughter, man!” cried Döderlein with pathos. “But just wait. I will checkmate your plans. I will make you feel the full measure of my power.”
Daniel smiled contemptuously. “I am certain of that,” he replied. “I will feel your power as long as I live; I have always felt it. But I have never submitted to it, and up to the present I have always been able to break it. Think it over! Recall my past history! And devote a few of your meditative moments to your child. Adieu!” With that Daniel left.
Andreas Döderlein was ill at ease. The man’s smile followed him wherever he went. What could the desperado be planning? A bad conscience paralyses evil determinations. For more than a week, Döderlein waged perpetual war with his pride. And then? Daniel did not allow himself to be seen; he received no news of any kind from Dorothea; and, climax of it all, Herr Weisskopf notified him that his note for one thousand marks, with interest, was due. Döderlein saw that there was nothing to be done about it all except to recognise the dénouement as a fact and not as a stage scene. And one day he hobbled up the steps of the house on Ægydius Place.
“I am glad to see you,” said Daniel as he reached out his hand to his visitor.
Andreas Döderlein spoke of a father’s bleeding heart, of the crushing of proud hopes, of the impiety of youth, and the lonesomeness of old age. And then, rather disconnectedly, beating a tattoo with the fingers of his big hand on the top of the table, he spoke of the constraint in which he found himself with reference to the opulent owner of the mill. He told Daniel he had gone on a man’s note, had been suddenly obliged to redeem the note, and not having so much ready money at his disposal, had accepted a loan from the rich aspirant for Dorothea’s hand.
Daniel was forced to admit that his troubles were humiliating and that the money would have to be raised. Döderlein said it amounted to fifteen hundred marks. He was surprised himself when he mentioned the sum which assured him a clear gain of fifty per cent. It had been a clever idea, serving as it did to put the generosity of his future son-in-law to test. At the bottom of his heart he felt that his action was dishonourable, and was consequently touched when Daniel, giving this inroad on his savings but a moment’s thought, promised to send him the money the following day.
“You make me feel ashamed of myself, Daniel, really you do. Let us bury the hatchet! We are after all colleagues in Apollo. Or aren’t we? Call me Father, and I will call you Son! Address me with Du, and I will follow your example.”