Читать книгу Only a Girl: or, A Physician for the Soul - Wilhelmine von Hillern - Страница 9

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The day began slowly to dawn, for a dim, cloudy sky usurped the throne of departing night. Drops of rain fell here and there,--it was a cheerless morning. Not a cock crowed--not a bird was stirring. The dog remained hidden in his kennel.

Now and then an early labourer, with his spade upon his shoulder, would pass along the fence encircling Hartwich's estate, and would look over it with surprise at the strange bustle prevailing in house and court-yard. Doors were opened and shut; servant-maids, with eyes heavy with sleep, were running hither and thither; water was brought from the well; no questions or answers were exchanged. It was as if every one avoided speaking of what had occurred. A groom brought a saddled horse from the stable, mounted, and galloped furiously in the direction of the estate of the Staatsräthin. "Is there a fire anywhere?" a couple of peasants shouted after him, but he made no reply. Without a word, he galloped across field and moor, never drawing rein until he reached the garden of the Staatsräthin. He tugged violently at the bell until a sleepy servant came to the door and asked him angrily what he wanted.

"Wake up the Geheimrath Heim, he is here on a visit. The village doctor sent me,--a human life is at stake!"

The servant opened his eyes wide, and stared inquiringly at the groom.

"Yes, yes; quick, be quick! Hartwich has beaten his child so, we think she is dying. The barber says perhaps the Geheimrath can save her."

"Good gracious, that is terrible!" cried the horrified servant, and ran to call the old gentleman.

The Geheimrath was up in a moment; without losing time by a single word, he dressed himself, mounted the groom's horse, and rushed off to the scene of the disaster.

Before the door of the house, awaiting his arrival, stood the village barber-surgeon, who received him with the deepest reverence. "Herr Geheimrath, I pray you to excuse me,--but, as I knew you were in the neighbourhood, I conceived it my duty to entreat your assistance before sending for the physician, who lives three leagues off. The case seems to me a serious one."

"Never excuse yourself," said Heim, taking off his hat and coat in the hall; "it is my duty to aid wherever I can. But, in Heaven's name, how did it happen? Where is the child injured?"

"She has a wound in her head, and I fear the skull is fractured," replied the barber, opening the door of the room leading to Hartwich's apartment. The Geheimrath heard a loud sobbing as soon as the door was opened. He entered, and before him lay the invalid, weeping and wailing like a maniac, with the child stretched out stiff and corpse-like upon the bed; her eyes were closed and deep-sunk in their large sockets; her pale lips were slightly parted,--it was a sorry sight. Hartwich supported her bandaged head upon his arm, and, weeping loudly, pressed kiss after kiss upon her white brow.

"Ah, Herr Geheimrath!" he shrieked, "come here! I am a wicked, miserable father. I have killed my child! I am a man given over to the worst of all vices,--drunkenness; it is my only excuse. Accuse me; have me sent, crippled as I am, to jail,--I care not; but bring my child to life, or the sting of conscience will drive me mad!"

The Geheimrath took the passive hand of the child and felt the pulse. "It is greatly to be regretted that your conscience was not as active before the deed as it appears to be now that it is committed," he said coldly and sternly, as he removed the bandage from the child's head.

"Oh, oh," wailed Hartwich, shutting his eyes, "do not do that here! I cannot see the blood; I cannot see the wound; it will kill me!"

"What! you could make the wound and cannot look at it!" said the Geheimrath inexorably, beginning to probe the wound. "It is a most serious case," he said. "Has the child moved at all?"

"Yes, yes; oh, heavens, yes; until she grew so rigid!" gasped Hartwich, seizing Ernestine's hand to kiss it. Then he looked up at the physician in mortal terror. "How is it? must she--oh, Christ! must she die?" And again he broke out into the loud childish weeping peculiar to persons unnerved by sickness or drink.

"Control yourself," ordered the Geheimrath. "I cannot come to any decision yet. The injury to the skull is not fatal; what the effect of the concussion will be, I cannot tell. But, with the child's delicate constitution----" He shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, you give me no hope," moaned Hartwich. "Ernestine, wake up! only look once at your father, your cruel, wicked father! Ah, Herr Geheimrath, I disliked the child because she was so weak and ugly. If she had only been a fine, healthy girl, I might perhaps have been reconciled to having no son; but I was ashamed of her, and silenced the voice of my heart. Oh, these hands, poor little hands, and these pale, thin cheeks!--how could I ever strike them! God be merciful to me, miserable sinner that I am!" And he beat his breast fiercely.

The Geheimrath looked at him and shook his head. "Do not excite yourself so. It does your daughter no good, and only injures yourself."

"My daughter! my daughter!" repeated Hartwich. "Oh, I have never treated her as such. She seemed to me a changeling, left in her cradle by some spiteful witch in place of the boy I so coveted. Now, when I am in danger of losing her, I feel that she is my child indeed."

"The truth is as old as the world, that nature avenges the transgression of the least of her laws," replied the physician. "You have sinned grievously against the mighty law of paternal affection, and now it demands its rights with resistless authority. Let me entreat you to testify your repentance by the tenderest care of the sick child, and permit me to call some one to put her to bed,--it should have been done long ago."

"Ah, must she be separated from me?" moaned Hartwich. "I long to beg her forgiveness when she comes to herself."

"You will hardly be able to do that very soon," said the Geheimrath, ringing the bell.

Frau Gedike made her appearance, as gentle and submissive as she had previously been harsh and overbearing to Ernestine.

"Assist me in carrying this child to her bed," said Heim, carefully placing his arm beneath the rigid little body to raise it up.

"Oh, I beg of you, Herr Geheimrath, do not trouble yourself," cried Frau Gedike, evidently greatly humbled. "I can carry the poor child without help."

Heim glanced at her keenly, and then quietly directed her to show him the way.

Frau Gedike ran as quickly as she could across the hall to the door of a back room. "Permit me," she said, and tried to slip past the Geheimrath into the apartment. "Excuse me for one moment, that I may put things a little to rights. Everything is in disorder, I rose so early this morning."

But Heim said authoritatively, "Follow me!" and stepped past her into the chamber, carrying his silent burden. Here he stood still in astonishment. It was a kind of wash-room,--at least there was a huge pile of soiled linen in one corner. Broken furniture and household utensils were scattered about; there were no curtains to the windows; hundreds of flies were buzzing about the dirty panes; the air of the close room was stifling. In one corner stood a child's crib, which must have dated from Ernestine's fifth or sixth year. It contained an old straw bed, a dirty pillow, and a heavy, tawdry coverlet. Frau Gedike bustled about, endeavouring to conceal us well as she could the miserable condition of the room from the penetrating eye of the Geheimrath, but in vain.

"Am I to lay the wounded child in this bed? Is she to be nursed in this hole?" he asked in a tone which boded no good to the housekeeper.

"Gracious me!--we have no other room and no other bed. I have often pitied the dear child, but Herr Hartwich is so saving--he never buys anything new," she declared.

The Geheimrath went towards a half-open door leading into another and larger apartment. Here the air was pure, the furniture decent, and there was a comfortable bed in the corner.

"Is this your room?" asked the Geheimrath sharply.

"It is, Herr Geheimrath. It is just as my predecessor left it."

"Make up the bed instantly with clean linen."

Frau Gedike stared in surprise.

"Instantly!" repeated the Geheimrath, in a way that admitted of no remonstrance, and seated himself, that he might more conveniently hold his poor little charge. Frau Gedike brought clean sheets and made up the bed.

"Where shall I sleep?" she asked with suppressed rage: "there is no other sleeping-room in the whole house!"

"You can try Ernestine's bed, and see what it is to lie cramped up upon a rack!" replied the old gentleman dryly. Then he wrinkled his bushy brows sternly, and continued: "I doubt whether you will need a bed here, for I will do my best to have you leave this house before night."

"Oh, Lord, have mercy on me! Herr Geheimrath, what have I done? What fault can you find with me?" whined Frau Gedike as she smoothed the pillows.

Heim arose, and, as he laid the lifeless little body carefully upon the bed, said quietly, "Look at the room which you have allowed this frail child to occupy, the bed in which you have cramped her poor little limbs, and then say whether anybody of the least humanity could fail to condemn you!" He then left her, and called the barber-surgeon that he might take the necessary steps for providing careful attendance for the child.

Frau Gedike ran out crying, and the Geheimrath continued to provide for his patient's comfort with the quiet decision of an experienced physician and the gentleness of a tender-hearted man.

After half an hour, Ernestine began to show signs of life; but she did not return to consciousness. She cast a vague, wandering glance around, then closed her eyes and muttered broken, unintelligible words. At last she sank anew into a state of stupor resembling slumber. The Geheimrath left the surgeon with her and went to Hartwich, who, in the mean while, had been visited by Leuthold. Leuthold had been wakened at last by the unwonted bustle in the house, and had stolen from his bed to see if his brother were perhaps dying,--a piece of news which would have been a grateful morning greeting to his wife. He was disappointed. The only comfort was that all this excitement would inevitably accelerate Hartwich's death; Ernestine's fate was a matter of perfect indifference to him, but he was greatly disturbed by the intelligence that Heim had been called in. He could not bear the man, whose presence brought out clear and distinct, as with some chemical preparation, the stains upon his name that had apparently faded away. He therefore determined to leave home for a few days, in order to avoid a meeting with the witness of his disgrace; but he would leave his wife on guard in the lower story, under the pretence of helping to nurse Ernestine. Her presence would naturally hinder the physician from saying anything to Hartwich to his, Leuthold's, detriment. He slipped up-stairs to bid his wife arise quickly; but the indolent woman was too long about it for his wishes or his plans.

Scarcely had he left Hartwich when Heim entered the room. "What news do you bring me?" Hartwich cried out.

"Nothing hopeful as yet. She showed signs of life when we applied ice-bandages; but the lethargy into which she fell immediately is alarming. I cannot give you any hope before the end of three days."

Hartwich struck his damp forehead in despair. "It will kill me! it will kill me!"

The Geheimrath seated himself by his bedside, took a pinch of snuff from a golden box adorned with a miniature of the king, and calmly regarded the unhappy man. "Now tell me, Herr von Hartwich, how it all occurred. I should like to know. Besides the wound on the head, the child has bruises on her shoulders and arms that are by no means fresh. She seems to have been most cruelly treated!"

The invalid was silent for awhile, and then said, "Yes,--ah, yes, we have all abused her; but God knows I never intended this last! I was sound asleep yesterday evening when Ernestine came home and crept in to me here and waked me with her sobs."

"Poor child! she had cause to weep," the Geheimrath interrupted him.

"Yes, yes,--but I did not understand that yesterday. When I awoke, I was thirsty, and sent her up to my brother to bring me a little--a little--a few drops----"

"To bring you liquor," the Geheimrath completed the sentence.

"Yes, I confess it," Hartwich continued; "but in her uncle's room there was a telescope, and she looked through it and forgot her father's errand. I waited and waited, with my throat on fire, but she did not come. I grew more and more impatient; and when, at the end of a full half-hour, she came down without what I had sent her for, I seized hold of her to beat her; she clung to my lame arm so that the pain made me wild,--and in my senseless rage I flung her off and hurled her away with my healthy arm;--may it be crippled forever! She fell backward, and struck the back of her head first against the marble top of my wash-stand,--you can see the blood there still,--and then upon the floor, where she lay like one dead. Everything grew black before my eyes, as it did when I had the stroke. I rang for my people; no one came. I could not move,--could not leave my bed to go to the child. I saw her blood flow, I heard her gasp as if in the death-agony, and I lay here a miserable cripple, thinking that I had killed my child. Oh, Herr Geheimrath, at such a time our inmost selves are revealed to as; in such agony one learns to pray. At last, after repeated ringing and calling, my good-for-nothing servants made their appearance. Herr Geheimrath, I cannot tell you how I felt when they laid the child upon my bed,--my poor, beaten child. As the little bleeding head lay on my arm, it seemed as if my heart opened wide with the gaping wound, and, for the first time, real, warm, paternal affection gushed from it. Before, when I chastised the child, she was all defiance and stubbornness; then I did not care if I hurt her; but now, as she lay mute and crushed before me, she spoke to me in a language that recalled me to myself. And, Herr Geheimrath, I have not been myself,--I have drunk myself down to the level of a brute; and the poor victim of my fury has recalled me from my degradation."

The Geheimrath listened to the speaker with growing sympathy. When he had finished, he took his hand. "You are right, Herr von Hartwich, to be frank with me. Men who are not evil by nature can best excuse their evil deeds by frankness, for their intentions are seldom as bad as their actions. Compose yourself,--your condition is indeed worthy of compassion. If the physician might be allowed to usurp in a measure the confessor's chair at such a time as the present, I would say for your consolation, in the event of the worst termination to the child's illness, that your irresponsible condition, which rendered you incapable of appreciating the consequences of your act, and which would excuse you before an earthly tribunal, should have some weight with your inward judge. Besides, you have certainly acted paternally towards the child in one respect," he added with significance. "You have accumulated a fine property for her. That will enable her to occupy such a position in the world as will make her life, if it is spared, a happy one."

Hartwich seized Heim's hand and whispered quickly and anxiously "Ah, my dear sir, I have not done this; it now lies heavy on my soul that I have not been a father to the child in any way!"

"What do you mean?" cried Heim with apparent surprise. "You have not set Ernestine aside in favour of another?"

Hartwich looked anxiously towards the door. The Geheimrath understood his look, and opened it,--no listener was near. Hartwich then confessed all to the Geheimrath that the latter already knew. Heim shook his head. "It is incredible that a father should do so by his own child; but, now that your sense of duty is aroused, you will of course atone for your injustice?"

"Ah, Herr Geheimrath, if I only could, how gladly would I do so! If my poor Ernestine recovers, I would gladly make over to her the whole estate during my lifetime. Tell me, how shall I begin to make amends? how shall I begin to atone to the child for all the misery I have caused her? I will do anything, everything, if I only can. Assist me, advise me!"

"I think," began the Geheimrath with quiet decision, "that the case is very simple. You can make a new will and declare the other void. If Ernestine recovers, it is very doubtful whether she will be anything more than a poor, sickly invalid during her entire lifetime. Such an unfortunate being needs money,--a great deal of money; for sickness is an expensive affair. The child was naturally healthy. She has been weakened by neglect and harsh treatment. You left her to a worthless housekeeper, who denied her everything that a child should have in order to be strong, and in her weakened condition you have dealt her a death-blow from which she can hardly recover. You must be conscious that, since you have almost destroyed Ernestine's life, you ought at least to provide her with the means of making her invalid existence as endurable as possible, and indemnify her for a neglected childhood by every enjoyment that wealth can procure."

Again Hartwich broke out into loud lamentations. "Yes, yes, you are right,--you are a man of honour, Herr Geheimrath. But how can I set aside my will without encountering Leuthold's bitterest hate? Ah, you do not know what a dangerous enemy he is."

"I know, I know," Heim interrupted him, nodding his head; "he is a bad fellow; but tell me, Herr von Hartwich, what do you fear from him? Will not the curse of your unfortunate child, if she lives, be harder to bear than the hate of such a miserable wretch as your step-brother?"

Hartwich writhed and turned in his bed. "If I had only sold the factory! If he should learn that I had disinherited him, he is quite capable of preventing the sale out of sheer revenge, ruining the whole business for me, and then the poor child would be deprived of half of her property!"

The Geheimrath held his snuff-box in one hand, clasped the other over it, and looked at Hartwich with a smile.

"If that is why you hesitate, there is no cause for fear. The factory is as good as sold; for Herr Neuenstein, the brother of the Staatsräthin Möllner, is most anxious to purchase it for his son, who is a chemist;--he knows your brother, and would easily see through his wiles. Besides, Gleissert need know nothing about it for the present. Make the will secretly. I will give you pen and ink when I have written a prescription for Ernestine. Send your housekeeper off immediately, that we may have no spies about; for I believe her to be capable of any treachery, and Ernestine must not be left in her charge. This afternoon I shall come again, and you can put the document into my hands, where it will be safe. Well--how does the plan please you?"

"Yes, yes," cried Hartwich passionately. "That is right. That I can do. Ah, it is all that is left for me to do for my child, and it shall be done. Send Gedike away;--get me pen, ink, and paper,--it must not be delayed an hour longer than is necessary. I feel I may die at any moment. Remove this burden from my soul, and I shall die more peacefully!"

Heim went instantly to procure writing-materials, for he knew better than the invalid himself that there must be no delay in the matter. The servants brought him what he wanted, and he looked in upon Ernestine for a moment, while the surgeon went for more ice for the bandages. She was lying there moaning and groaning restlessly. He looked at her lovingly, and said to himself, "Poor child! There are better days in store for you." Then he repaired to Frau Gedike, whom he informed of her dismissal, and appointed Rieka, the elder of the maid-servants,--a girl whose face pleased him,--Ernestine's attendant.

When he returned to Hartwich, he found him in a state of great excitement. His face was purple, the veins greatly swollen.

"Where have you been so long?" he cried out as the Geheimrath entered. "I was in agony for fear I should have another stroke. I felt just as I did before! There, give me the writing-materials--it would be terrible if I were to die now, before I had atoned for my crime. Pray help me up, Herr Geheimrath,--but do not touch my lame arm,--oh, this pain! There, there,--thank you. Now the pen. I have thought it all over while you were away. I will arrange it so that he cannot say I broke my word to him, and he cannot harm Ernestine if I should die shortly. Ah, air!--Herr Geheimrath,--open a window! After I have written--I shall be easier. Then my mind will be relieved."

He spoke in breathless haste, while the perspiration stood in beads upon his forehead.

"Be calm, be calm!" said the Geheimrath soothingly. "You are not going to die now, but you will make yourself ill with this excitement."

"Ah, you are kind,--you wish to console me;--but I feel that last night will be my death--there is no time to lose!"

He dipped the pen in the ink, and looked towards the door. "If only Leuthold does not come,--all is lost if he does. Bolt it, I pray, that he may not surprise us. Tell me, will it not be best to make him Ernestine's heir? Then I shall not be quite false to my promise,--it is, alas, alas, more likely that the poor little lamb will die than that she will recover; then all will be as it was, and the property will be his,--and, if she lives, he must have a good legacy."

"Yes, yes," said the Geheimrath good-humouredly, "give the fellow what you think you owe him. But remember that he inherits from Ernestine only in case of her dying unmarried; for if it be God's will that she lives, marries, and has children, you must not deprive those children of the property. That might make her very unhappy."

"Yes, you are right,--I will insert that clause. But the guardianship,--what do you think? I must make Leuthold her guardian, or he will be terribly angry!"

The Geheimrath shook his head. "I would not do that!"

"Oh, yes, Herr Geheimrath. It would look too ugly, and the child will be in no kind of danger. He always liked Ernestine, and stood up for her; and he will be afraid, too, not to fill his post of guardian conscientiously, for he will be under the supervision of the orphans' court."

"Then make her minority as short as possible. For my satisfaction, have it expressly stated that she shall be of age at eighteen. Such precaution is necessary with men of Gleissert's stamp. According to our laws, a father can declare his child of age at eighteen. Her property can remain in the orphans' court until then, when it can be placed at her own disposal."

"Yes, yes, I agree to all that,--then it is all settled! God be thanked!" Hartwich drew a long sigh of relief, and dipped the pen in the ink. But scarcely had he attempted the first stroke when he dropped the pen in despair and cried out, "Merciful Heaven! I cannot form a letter!"

The startled Geheimrath looked at the paper. The letters were entirely illegible.

For one moment the old gentleman lost all hope,--while Hartwich sobbed and groaned like a child. Was he to fail thus, just when the goal was reached? The Geheimrath regarded the invalid thoughtfully, pondering how long a delay his condition would permit. Then he made up his mind, and said with composure, "I will arrange it all; do not be at all anxious. I will drive to the nearest town and procure the services of a couple of lawyers, and you shall dictate your will. I will be back again in two hours. Tell me when Leuthold is used to be away from home, that he may know nothing of our plans."

"At the time of your return he will be at the factory. If you go on foot as far as the corner of the wood, he will not see you. Herr Geheimrath, you are a true man,--my child's benefactor and mine. How shall I ever thank you?"

"There is no need of thanks,--no need at all! I am only doing my duty as a man and a Christian." And the prudent old physician concealed the writing-materials and hurried out.

Hartwich cast his blood-shot eyes upward and prayed, "Let me live until it is complete, O God,--only until then!" These words he repeated again and again, while his heart beat more wildly and irregularly, and his veins grew blue and swollen. It was the mortal agony of a doomed wretch who feels that a short time will bring him to the bar of an inexorable judge, and who longs to throw off at least a part of his burden of guilt. Of course such anguish would hasten his death.

Frau Bertha came down soon after the Geheimrath's departure, and would have stayed in Hartwich's room, but his state terrified her. She saw that the end was near, and she had not the courage to look on at the death-agony. In her heart she felt herself a murderess, because she had so ardently desired his death. Indeed, fate often makes us by our silent desires accomplices in its severity, and we are stricken with vain remorse when our secret hostility to another suddenly takes form and shape in events. Who has not at some time in his life secretly nourished a selfish desire, and, after it has been crushed down, fervently thanked Heaven for not cursing him with a granted prayer? Or, if the evil has been permitted, who has not in his remorse half believed that his secret desire helped to work the mischief that has been done? Frau Bertha's perceptions were not very delicate. She wished for Hartwich's death that she might enjoy his wealth, and thanked Heaven that it would shortly be hers; but she was too much of a woman not to shudder at the moment of the fulfilment of her evil desires and see an avenging demon in Hartwich's dying form. She resolved, therefore, to disobey her lord and master, and avoid the death-bed. The cogent reasons that Leuthold had for enjoining constant watchfulness she could not comprehend; and therefore, as soon as Leuthold left for the factory, she betook herself to her apartments again.

Hartwich was now left upon his burning couch, devoured by anxiety. The minutes crept slowly on; every quarter of an hour, news of Ernestine was brought him; there was no change for an hour, and then Rieka came in suddenly and cried, "Ah, sir, Ernestine is awake and wants some book; we cannot understand what one, or what she means, she speaks so indistinctly, and whatever we get her is wrong. What is to be done?"

"Send a servant into town to buy every child's-book that is to be had,--let her want for nothing,--do you hear? for nothing! Has she not mentioned me?"

"Oh, no," replied the servant; "she is not herself,--she is continually moaning for her book!"

"Then get her what she wants, as quickly as possible,--only be quick!"

The servant left the room, and the sick man was left to his brooding thoughts again. It worried and tormented him that Ernestine would have to wait several hours for what she wanted. In a few moments he rang again for the maid, who reiterated that the child was still asking for her book. The invalid grew still more restless, and at last sent for the surgeon, who was still with Ernestine.

"Lederer," he called out upon his entrance, "bleed me! Don't you remember how much good it did me?"

"Not for worlds, sir!" said Lederer. "I could not do it without a physician's orders. There seems no reason at all at present for such an extreme remedy!"

"What do you know about it?" cried Hartwich angrily. "I tell you I know I need it. There is a perfect hammering going on inside my head. You must bleed me, or I shall have another stroke!"

"Ah, sir, believe me, you are needlessly alarmed," said the barber. "Have some compassion upon a poor man like myself, who cannot take upon himself such a responsibility with a patient of your importance. I would gladly do it if I could! Have patience, I pray you, until the Geheimrath comes back!"

"You are a miserable coward!" screamed Hartwich, foaming with rage.

"For Heaven's sake compose yourself, sir," the terrified surgeon interrupted him; "I will obey you, but I must first go home and fetch my bandages. Perhaps by the time I get back the Geheimrath will be here!"

"Then go," muttered Hartwich, who already repented his violence, which he feared might prove an injury to him. "But first lift me up a little. Ah! if I could only put my feet out of bed I should certainly feel easier. Try if you cannot lift them out; take out the lame leg first--so--that's right--oh, it's hard. 'Tis better to have wooden legs--they can be unstrapped and taken off--but to have to drag about everywhere a dead, useless limb is horrible! 'tis a dog's life, and I care not how soon it is over, but not just yet--I must do my duty first. Now go, Lederer, and come back soon."

The barber had helped him so that he was sitting upright in bed, with his lame foot upon a cushion. He looked around the room, and noticed Ernestine's book upon the table. "What is that?" he asked. Lederer handed it to him. He turned over the leaves, and his face suddenly brightened. "That must be the book that Ernestine is asking for--some one must have given it to her yesterday at the party. Good heavens! now I understand why the poor little thing crept in here so late last night; she wanted to read by my lamp! Ah, how dearly she paid for her innocent pleasure! Go, my good Lederer, and take the book to the child. Tell Rieka to come and let me know what she says to it, and then you will get the bandages--will you not?"

"Most certainly, sir, as soon as possible!" said Lederer, and hurried away with the book.

A clock struck nine. Hartwich sighed profoundly. "Only nine. Heim cannot come for an hour yet. The lawyers will need time for preparation. O God--Thou wilt not punish that poor, innocent child so severely as to let me die before her rights are secured--Thou wilt not!" He tried in vain to fold his hands, and at last dropped them wearily upon his crippled knees.

Suddenly he imagined that his right hand also was stiffening. His incapacity to write could not have resulted merely from want of habit. He moved his arm up and down to try it--whether in imagination or reality, it certainly felt heavier. It was not the effect of gout, as was the case with his left hand; this could only proceed from an effusion of blood upon the brain. Cold drops of moisture stood upon his forehead; he tried to wipe them away with his right hand; in vain, he could not lift it so high. Thus he sat helpless and alone, every limb crippled. He thought of his child's thin, white hands; how blest he should be if they could now supply the place of his own to him, wipe his damp brow and hand him refreshing drink! He thought how forsaken and alone he sat there awaiting death, and that it was all his own fault; and again he sobbed convulsively. Then Rieka entered.

"Well, was that the right one?" asked Hartwich.

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Thank Heaven! Did she not mention me?"

"No, sir; she said nothing. She only took the book and kissed it, then folded it in her arms and went to sleep again."

"If the child does not forgive me before I die, I shall have no rest in my grave!" moaned Hartwich. "Rieka, I am losing the use of my right arm too. Look at me. Am I not altered?"

"Oh, no, you always look just as purple!" said Rieka consolingly.

"Give me a mirror and let me see myself!"

Rieka handed him a mirror, and he looked at himself long and anxiously. "I look fearfully. Can you not hear how indistinct my speech is?"

Rieka put away the mirror. "Oh, your tongue is always heavy when you have been drinking. Don't be worried about that."

"I have not drank a drop to-day, you insolent girl!" stammered Hartwich irritated. "Go back instantly, and take good care of the child, or----"

"Yes, sir, I shall do my duty without threats, but I can't mend the mischief that you have done!" And she slammed the door behind her.

"And I must bear this from an ignorant peasant!" wailed Hartwich. "How they will abuse me to my child, if she recovers! Oh, oh, I deserve it all; 'tis wretched,--wretched! But I must be calm. I must not be excited." Thus he murmured, with trembling lips, exerting all his energy to repress his excitement, and to force the breath regularly from his laboring breast.

Again the clock struck--ten this time.

"They must soon be here now!" thought Hartwich. "If I can only keep my head clear!"

The wretched man in his anguish now exercised his mental faculties in every way that he could devise, repeating the formula which he had composed for his will a hundred times, that it might be so stamped upon his mind as to be forthcoming even in his last moments.

At last steps were heard in the hall.

"It is Lederer with the bandages," he thought, suddenly remembering his desire to be bled. But there were several people there. It must be the lawyers. The door opened. "Ah, thank God! thank God!" Hartwich stammered, and fainted.

"I thought so!" cried the Geheimrath. "If you had only bled him, or at least remained with him!" he continued to the terrified barber, who entered at the same time. "Be quick now; give me that case; bring me some ice from the child's room," he ordered; and, while he spoke the lancet had done its work, and the dark blood was flowing from the arm.

"Pray be ready, gentlemen," he said as he was bandaging the arm; "I believe the sick man will come to himself in a few moments. You will find writing-materials there in the corner."

The gentlemen took their seats, and arranged a table for writing from the sick man's dictation. The surgeon brought the ice; it was laid upon Hartwich's head, and, as the Geheimrath had prophesied, he soon came to himself. He looked around him with astonishment "Am I still living?" he feebly asked.