That same afternoon the Reverend Otto paid a pastoral visit to Dorothea Weglein, the lamb who was about to give herself over to the jaws of an infidel and socialistic wolf. His own fate was sealed, as he knew very well; the stalwart Lottie already comported herself with the dignity of a Frau Pastorin; but a certain latent chivalry in the heart of the little man had been developed by his love for Dora, certainly the purest and most unselfish feeling he had ever known; and he would have perilled his dearest possession, his children or his vanity, to avert the fate that was coming upon her.
His way lay from the German quarter of the city, through its business centre, to the region where dwelt the privileged few, where clustered the stately homes of the wealthy manufacturers, for whose sake Micklegard and the world are permitted to exist by an all-wise Providence. Nevertheless, this German quarter deserves more than a passing mention.
It had been originally a distinct settlement, and had only lately been incorporated in the city. There were, as we already know, old people living there who were as ignorant of English as on the day they first trod the shore of America. Indeed they had no especial use for English, since around them were German shopkeepers of all descriptions, as well as German doctors and apothecaries. Over the shop doors stood German signs, German tones resounded on all sides; even the houses, though the ear-marks of America were upon them, had evidently been erected by Germans, and were, for the most part, surrounded by tiny gardens, whose overwhelming luxuriance betokened German thrift upon American soil.
The residence of Mrs. Randolph, Dora’s employer, was at quite the opposite end of the town; the North End, where are the seats of the gods and the horn of plenty. It was a large, square mansion, built of brownstone, and surrounded by a spacious lawn, that sloped down to the river, blackly and barely enough at this Christmas season, but no more uselessly than in summer, when its closely mown turf, too precious to be walked on, might, perhaps, have soothed a tired eye, but otherwise benefited neither man nor beast.
The pastor rang at the side door, and was admitted into a small square hall, luxuriously furnished. A divan ran along two sides, gorgeous tiger-skins lay upon the tiled floor; here and there stood ottomans and lounging-chairs; the walls were decorated with Japanese pottery, pipes of all nations, and swords of not a few; opposite the door a wood fire burned under an elaborately carved mantel-shelf, upon which leaned negligently a tall, finely proportioned man of about thirty, his fair, composed, and slightly sarcastic face distinctly reflected in the mirror above, as he gazed down into the fire.
As he saw the pastor standing, somewhat aimlessly, where he had been left by the servant, this young man took his elbow off the mantel, and advanced a step.
“I have really no right to ask you to sit down in this house,” he said, with a smile that he could not make unkindly, “but if you will do so, I do not suppose any one will object.”
“Perhaps,” said the pastor, slightly bewildered by this mode of address, and not quite sure that he had fully understood his interlocutor. He sank vaguely into the nearest chair, and gazed around him so helplessly that his companion, partly from pity and partly from a certain nervousness which he would by no means have acknowledged, was impelled to continue the conversation.
“You are a German, and a minister, nicht wahr?” he said, in the other’s native language.
“Ja, gewiss!” said the pastor delightedly. “I am the Pastor of St. Peter’s Lutheran Church.”
“So? And you find the sheep of your pasture obey your words? or is the crook sometimes needful to coerce them into the right way?”
“They are as good as other people,” returned the pastor, relapsing into bewilderment. His questioner shrugged slightly his shapely shoulders, as he turned away to his old position. “You are happy if they are no worse,” he said.
At the same moment, he started into sudden vigor and alertness, with a gleam in his eye that told of eagerness for the fray. A heavy silk curtain that hung beside the fireplace was suddenly swept aside, with an angry rattle of rings upon a brass rod, and in the opening appeared a handsome, stately, well-dressed woman, of something more than his own age.
“Dr. Richards, I will speak with you in a moment; I wish I could say that I am glad to see you. Herr Schaefer, you wish to see Fräulein Dora?” Her tone was sharply military rather than rude; but contrasted a little absurdly with the meek obsequiousness of the pastor’s reply.
“If you permit me, gracious lady,” he said, executing his fifth bow.
“I shall be delighted if you can make her see the error of her present course,” said Mrs. Randolph. “You have heard of her betrothal, I suppose? Betrothal, indeed! Upon my word, I think all the girls have gone crazy together!”
The corners of Dr. Richards’s mouth twitched amusedly.
“So?” he said, under his breath; but perhaps the lady caught the sound, or saw the movement of his lips in the mirror, for she grew suddenly very red as she motioned the pastor towards the doorway.
“You will find a servant just beyond, who will direct you,” she said, “and I hope you will succeed in convincing Fräulein Dora that marriage to one of Karl Metzerott’s opinions can bring her nothing but misery. And now, Dr. Richards”—
“If you will pardon the interruption,” said that young man easily, “I wish to say that, although quite unacquainted with the peculiar tenets of the person referred to, I am entirely at one with you in believing marriage to one of any opinions so exceedingly likely to lead to misery that an opposite result can only be considered a happy accident.”
Mrs. Randolph stared into his calm face with angry amazement.
“And you ask my sister to expose herself to such a future?” she said. “I am at a loss to understand you, sir.”
“My dear madam, misery is, unfortunately, peculiar to no state of life. I love your sister, and she is good enough to love me. Such being the case, if she prefer misery with me to misery without me, I can only say that I share her taste, and will do my best to make her as little miserable as fate may permit.”
“If your efforts prove as weak as your arguments, Dr. Richards, that ‘best’ will be a very poor one. ‘Misery without you!’ Why, I will give Alice one year, just one, in America, or six months in Paris, to forget you, and be as happy as a queen.”
“I have always heard,” said Dr. Richards, coolly, “that good Americans go to Paris when they die, so perhaps you may be right.”
“You mean she will never forget you while she lives?” asked the lady scornfully.
“I mean that if you can make her forget me, you are quite welcome to try.”
“Ah! this is coming to the point, indeed. I am glad to find you so sensible. So you will not oppose her going abroad with us?”
“I shall not oppose anything that Miss Randolph wishes.”
The lady frowned, knowing well in what direction those wishes tended; but, before she could answer, the silken curtain was gently moved by the hand of a young girl, whose appearance filled Frederick Richards’s blue eyes with the light of anything but misery.
She was about eighteen, of medium height, and slender, with the unconscious grace of a gazelle. Gazelle-like, too, were the large, brown, trustful eyes, her only really beautiful feature, though the brown abundance of her hair, the delicately roseate cheeks and scarlet lips, made her very charming, at least in one pair of eyes. But to us who are present in the spirit, dear reader, at this interview, the most noticeable thing about Alice Randolph is that, despite the shy grace of every movement, and the childlike innocence of the face, we read at once that she will not quail before any pain the future may hold in store for her. Suffer she will; blench or falter, she will not.
She did not speak as she entered the room, but went quietly to Dr. Richards’s side, looked for one instant into his face, and laid her hand in his.
Certainly they seemed well matched, for he also was silent as he held fast the hand she had given him. Then his firm lips curved into a triumphant smile. “Well, Mrs. Randolph?” he said.
The lady’s face flushed again, rather unbecomingly.
“There is only this to be said,” she cried angrily, “Alice, by her father’s will, cannot marry without my husband’s consent, or she forfeits every penny she has in the world. If you marry a beggar”—
“You forget, my dear madam; at twenty-five she becomes her own mistress.”
“Ah? you have read the will? That accounts for your prophecies of misery.”
“Wrong, Mrs. Randolph. I have not read your father-in-law’s will, though I shall make it a point to do so as soon as possible. I know only what Alice has told me, and hence am well aware that she will lose her fortune in the event of becoming my wife.”
“Yet you urge her to do so!”
“You mistake. I leave her to decide for herself.”
“Harry would not refuse his consent if it were not for you,” interposed Alice. “It is really you who oppose us, Jennie.”
“And have I not good cause?” cried Mrs. Randolph. “Would your father himself have consented to your marriage with an infidel, an atheist?”
Alice Randolph grew pale, then flushed deeply as she hesitated to reply, while her sister looked on, in her turn triumphantly.
A sparkle came into the blue eyes of her lover as they searched hers. “That,” he said, “is a strong argument, Alice. Weigh it well, and dispose of it once for all. If you marry me, I don’t want that to contend with. I am an atheist, for I cannot believe in a God who leaves nine-tenths of his creatures to hopeless suffering.”
She gave the other hand to his clasp, and looked up trustfully into his face.
“It is a great mystery,” she said, “but I don’t think my giving you up would help you to solve it.”
“If it can be solved,” he answered.
“I have never tried,” she said; “my life has been so sheltered, I know almost nothing of the pain that is in the world. But you will tell me, and perhaps we may solve the mystery together.”
For all answer he stooped and kissed her.
Mrs. Randolph was furious,—and slightly undignified.
“Very well,” she cried, “go to perdition your own way, Alice Randolph. I have tried to be a mother to you, and this is my reward. You will lose not only your money but your soul, by marrying that man.”
“Be consoled, my dear madam,” returned the young man, sarcastically, “the first will be very useful to you and your children; the second can be of no benefit to any one but the owner. For my part, though I should find it hard to justify myself in holding property under the present régime, I am not exactly a beggar. My practice is a good one, and I can maintain my wife in comfort, if not in luxury.”
“And if your health should fail, or you should die?” sneered Mrs. Randolph.
“And if Mr. Randolph’s calculations should fail, his workmen strike, and his mill burn down?” he answered coolly. “In the present state of things, Mrs. Randolph, a shade more or less of uncertainty as to the future is of very little moment. It is settled, then, Alice?”
“Yes,” she said softly; then her eyes suddenly flashed, her cheeks grew crimson; she turned upon her sister with the air of a lioness defending her young.
“Do you suppose I have not seen,” she cried, “how you wish me to marry him while pretending to oppose it? I am ashamed for you, Jennie, ashamed to put your motive into words, because you are my brother’s wife. But don’t delude yourself with the idea that it is your work; I would have given up the money in any case rather than force him to act against what he believes to be right; and I love him so dearly that I had rather endure misery, cold, and hunger with him than to be a queen without him.”
Here, woman-like, her vehemence resolved itself into a burst of tears, and, turning, she threw herself into the arms that were open to receive her.