"Certainly I have, for if he now discovered the truth he would most likely repulse you with the utmost harshness; your obstinacy is equal to his, and thus all would be lost. But at least you must approach him.
As yet you have scarcely spoken together. No voice rises in your heart, you say. But it must rise in you, in him, and it will rise when you have learnt to stand face to face together."
"I will try!" said Frida, with a deep sigh. "But if I fail, if I only meet with harshness and suspicion"--
"You must remember that he is a man much sinned against," interrupted Gustave, "so much, that he has a right to look with mistrust and suspicion on all, and to draw back where another would lovingly open wide his arms. You are innocent, you suffer for the faults of others; but all the weight, poor child, falls on you."
The girl made no reply, but two hot tears rolled down her cheeks, while she rested her head on the speaker"s shoulder. He stroked her forehead softly and soothingly.
"Poor child! Yes, it is hard, at your age, when all should be joy and sunshine, to be already so deeply plunged in hatred and disunion, in the whole misery of human life. It has been hard enough to me to reveal all this to you; but it entered with such force into your life that it was imperative for you to know it. And my Frida does not belong to the weak and vacillating, she has something of the energy, and, alas, something of the hardness of a certain other nature. So bravely forwards, we must conquer in the end!"
Frida dried her tears and forced a smile.
"You are right! I am so ungrateful and stubborn towards you, who have done so much for me! You are"--
"The best and n.o.blest of men"--interrupted Gustave, "naturally I am, and it is very extraordinary that Miss Clifford will not recognise my perfections, though you have so touchingly a.s.sured her of them. But now go out in the air for a few minutes. You look flushed and tearful, and you must do away with these signs of excitement. Meanwhile, I will wait here for Jessie. We have not had one dispute to-day, and a wrangle has become one of the necessities of life to me, which I cannot do without."
Frida obeyed. She left the drawing-room, crossed the terrace, and descended into the garden. Slowly she walked through the beautiful park-like grounds, which stretched down to the sh.o.r.e, and on which the whole skill of the landscape gardener had been spent; but the spot she sought, lay in the most distant part of the garden. It was a simple bench, shaded by two mighty trees; it afforded an unlimited view over the sea, and from the first day, had become the favourite retreat of the young stranger. The fresh sea wind cooled Frida"s heated cheeks, and swept the traces of tears from her face, but the shade on her brow defied all its efforts. This shade grew only darker and deeper, while she, lost in distant dreams, watched the play of the waves which broke upon the beach.
The garden was not so deserted as it seemed, for at no great distance voices might be heard. Just by the iron railing which enclosed the domain of the villa, stood Sandow with the gardener, and inspected the addition, which in the last few days, had been made to the grounds.
The gardener directed, with ill-concealed pride, his attention to the work, which was really planned and carried out with great taste and skill, but the master of the house did not display much interest in it.
He cast a careless glance over it, with a few cool words expressed his satisfaction, and went again on his way towards the house. Thus he pa.s.sed the bench where Frida sat.
"Is that you, Miss Palm? You have chosen the most retired spot in the whole garden for your retreat."
"But also the most beautiful! The view of the sea is so magnificent?"
"That is a matter of taste," said Sandow. "For me that eternal rolling up and down has a deadly monotony. I could not long endure it."
He said this in pa.s.sing, and was on the point of leaving her. She would probably have left his remark unanswered, and the conversation would have ended there, but Gustave"s warning bore fruit. She did not preserve that shy silence as usual, but replied in a tone of which the deep emotion forced a recognition.
"I love the sea so dearly--and--even if you ridicule me, Mr. Sandow,--I cannot forget that my home lies there, beyond those waves."
Sandow did not appear disposed for ridicule. He stood still, his eyes followed involuntarily the direction she pointed out, and then rested earnestly and musingly on Frida"s face, as if he sought something there.
It was a misty and rather gloomy afternoon. The clouds hung heavy with rain over the scene, and the usually unbounded view over the sunny blue waves, was to-day, confined and veiled. One could scarcely see a hundred steps away; farther out lay thick fog on the sea, and the restlessly moving flood enlightened by no ray of sunshine, showed a dark grey tint, which gave it an almost oppressive air of gloom.
Restlessly rolled on the waves, and burst with a hiss into white foam on the sand of the sh.o.r.e. Far out in the fog sounded the roaring of the distant ocean, and two gulls took their slow flight over the waves and vanished in the mist. Frida"s eyes followed them dreamily, and she started violently when Sandow, who till now had preserved silence, suddenly asked--
"What was the name of the clergyman with whom you lived in New York?"
"Pastor Hagen."
"And there you heard those remarks about Jenkins and Co.?"
"Yes, Mr. Sandow."
Frida seemed about to add something, but the abruptness with which the last question was uttered closed her lips.
"I might have supposed so. These clerical gentlemen with their extravagant views of morality, are always ready with a sentence of d.a.m.nation, when a thing does not exactly fit their measure. From the pulpit it is much easier to look down on a sinful world, than it is to us who must live and struggle in the midst of it. These gentlemen should for a moment try what it is, they would soon lose some of their virtuous calm and Christian spotlessness, but they would learn to judge better of other things of which now they understand absolutely nothing."
The bitter sarcasm of these last words would perhaps have terrified another, but Frida"s spirit rose energetically against it.
"Pastor Hagen is mildness and consideration itself," with a blaze of indignation. "Certainly he will never condemn anyone unjustly. It was the first and only time that I heard a harsh judgment from his lips, and I know that only care for the dangerous position of his countrymen drew it from him."
"Does that perhaps mean that he is right?" asked Sandow sharply, while almost threateningly he advanced a step nearer.
"I do not know. I am quite strange and unknown to all. But you, Mr.
Sandow, are acquainted with this man, you must know"--
She dared not complete the sentence, for she felt that every additional word might be an insult, and so indeed Sandow seemed to take it. The milder tone in which he had begun the conversation, disappeared in the wonted cold severity as he returned--
"At all events, I am much surprised to hear how the name and reputation of a great firm can be slandered in certain circles. You are still almost a child, Miss Palm, and it is easy to imagine, but understand nothing of, such things. You cannot know how influential the name of Jenkins and Co. is in the commercial world. But those who allow themselves such freedom in their slander should consider that and beware."
This refutation sounded dry enough, but not convincing. Of the power and influence of the man no one had doubted, only that his influence was injurious. Frida of course had no idea of the nature of the connection between the two houses, but even the mention of the two names together had deeply shocked her.
"You are angry with me for my imprudent expressions about your friend,"
she said. "I repeated unsuspectingly what I had heard, and Pastor Hagen"s remarks only referred to the danger with which such undertakings threaten our emigrants. He has daily in New York before his eyes the proof of how deeply such things affect the weal or woe of thousands. You cannot know that the interests of your banking-house lie certainly far removed from such speculations."
"Now how is it that you are so sure of it?" asked Sandow jestingly, but the jest seemed somewhat forced. The dialogue began to disturb him, yet he made no effort to break it off; there was something in it which charmed and enchained him against his will.
Frida emerged more and more from her reserve. The subject interested her in the highest degree, and her voice trembled with deep emotion as she replied--
"I have once, only once, seen such a picture of misery, but it has made an indelible impression on me. While I was in New York, a number of emigrants came to us, Germans, who some years ago had gone to the Far West, and were now returning. They had, doubtless, listened too readily to the representations of the unscrupulous agents, and had lost everything in those pathless woods. There they had left, sacrificed to the climate, many of their nearest and dearest; there they had left their means, their hopes, their courage--all! The German pastor who had warned them before and whom they had not credited, must now advise them and procure them the means of returning to their native land. It was terrible to see these, once so courageous and strong, now so utterly broken down and despairing, and to hear their lamentations. I shall never forget it!"
As if overpowered by the recollection, she laid her hand upon her eyes.
Sandow replied not one word. He had turned away and looked grave and motionless out into the mist. Immovable, as if chained to the spot, he listened to every word which came with ever-increasing pa.s.sion and excitement from the youthful lips.
"I saw myself, on board the steamer which brought also hundreds of emigrants here, how much anxiety and care such a ship carries, how many hopes and fears. Happiness is seldom the cause which forces them to leave their home. With so many it is the last hope, the last attempt to create a new home for themselves out here. And then to think that all their hopes fail, all their toil and labour is lost, that they must be ruined because one man will enrich himself, because there are men who, on purpose, with the fullest knowledge send their brothers into misery, to make a gain out of their destruction. I should never have believed it possible had I not myself seen it and heard it from those who returned!"
She stopped, started at the deadly pallor which overspread the face of the man who still stood motionless before her. His features remained firm and inflexible as ever, no feeling betrayed itself there, but every drop of blood seemed to have forsaken those features, whose fixed expression had something unearthly in it. He did not see the anxious questioning look of the girl, her sudden silence seemed first to restore him to consciousness. With an abrupt movement he drew himself up, and pa.s.sed his hand over his brow.
"One must acknowledge that you stand bravely by your countrymen," said he. His voice sounded dull and heavy, as if every word were produced by a strong effort.
"So would you if you had an opportunity for doing so," returned Frida, with perfect a.s.surance. "You would cast the whole weight of your name and position into the scale against such undertakings, and certainly you could do far more than an unknown clergyman, whose own duties leave him so little time, and who has already so much distress and misery to alleviate in his own parish. Mr. Sandow," with suddenly awakening confidence, she drew a step nearer to him, "really I did not mean to affront you by those heedless words. It is quite possible that report has wronged the man, or that Pastor Hagen has been deceived. You do not believe it, I can see from your emotion, and you must know him best?"
He was certainly agitated, this man whose hand so convulsively grasped the back of the bench, as if he would crush the carved wood with his fingers, so agitated that some moments pa.s.sed before he regained full control over his voice.
"We have fallen upon a very disagreeable topic," said he at last turning away. "I should never have believed that the timid, quiet child, who during the week spent in my house, scarcely dared to raise her eyes or open her lips, would blaze out so pa.s.sionately when strangers" interests were concerned. Why have you never shown this side before?"
"I dared not. I feared so much"--
Frida said no more, but her eyes which were raised half confidently, half timidly to his, expressed what the lips could not, and she was understood.
"Whom did you fear? Was it me?"
"Yes," she replied with a deep breath. "I feared you dreadfully till this moment."
"But you should not fear me, child!" In Sandow"s voice was a tone silent for many years and grown quite strange, but which spoke of rising warmth and softness. "No doubt I seem cold and stern to you, and so I am in the business world, but towards the young guest who has sought shelter in my house I would not be so. Do not for the future avoid me as you have done. You must not be afraid of me?"