"She shuns me. This is my reception after so many toilsome days of absence," thought Gotzkowsky, and his heart was full of sadness and sorrow.
"He will not look at me, his eye avoids me, he has not yet forgiven me," thought Elise, as she regarded her father's pale, care-worn countenance. "No, he does not wish to see me. For the last time, therefore, I will show him obedience, and leave the room." Sadly and softly, with her looks cast on the ground, she took her way to the door on the opposite side.
Gotzkowsky followed her with his eyes. If she had only ventured to raise her looks once more to him, she would have perceived all his love, all the forgiving affection of a father, in his face. But she did not, and Gotzkowsky said to himself, in the bitterness of his heart, "Why should I speak to her?—she would only misunderstand me. I will lie down and sleep, to forget my cares and my sorrows. I will not speak to her, for I am exhausted, and tired to death. I must have rest and composure, to be able to come to an understanding with her."
And yet he regarded her with longing looks as she directed her sad steps toward the door. Now she stands on the threshold; now her trembling hand clasps the bright handle of the lock, but still she hesitates to open it; she still hopes for a word, if even an angry one, from her father.
And now she hears it. Like an angel's voice does it sound in her ear. He calls her name, he reaches his hand out to her, and says with infinite, touching gentleness, "Give me your hand, Elise. Come here to me, my child—it is so long since I have seen you!"
She turned to him, and yet she dared not look upon him. Seizing his offered hand, she pressed it to her lips. "And do you remember that you have been so long absent? You have not then forgotten me?"
"Forgot you!" cried her father tenderly; and then immediately, as if ashamed of this outburst of fatherly love, he added calmly and almost sternly—"I have much to talk with you, Elise. You have accused me."
Elise interrupted him with anxious haste: "I was beside myself," said she, confused and bashfully. "Forgive me, my father; passion made me unjust."
"No, it only developed what lay hidden in your heart," said Gotzkowsky; and the recollection of that unhappy hour roughened his voice, and filled his heart with sadness. "For the first time, you were candid with me. I may have been guilty of it all, but still it hurts!" For a moment he was silent, and sank his head on his breast, completely overpowered by painful reminiscences.
Elise answered nothing, but the sight of his pale and visibly exhausted countenance moved her to tears.