Czytaj książkę: «Under a Charm. Vol. III», strona 5

CHAPTER XIV

Spring had come round again for the second time since the beginning of the rebellion, which had blazed up so hotly at first, but which now lay quelled and crushed. Those wintry March days of the preceding year had not only brought woe on the Wilicza household, but had been pregnant with disaster to the whole insurrection. By the defeat of the Morynski corps, one of its chief supports had been lost to it. When overtaken by that sudden attack, which found him and his so totally unprepared–relying, as they did, upon the shelter afforded them by Prince Baratowski and his troops–Count Morynski had defended himself with all the energy of desperation; and even when, surrounded and outnumbered, he saw that all was lost, he yet fought on to the last, determined to sell his life and liberty as dearly as possible. So long as he remained at their head, his example inspired his wavering forces, and kept them together; but when the leader lay bleeding and unconscious on the ground, all resistance was at an end. Those who could not fly were hewn down, or taken prisoners by the victorious party. It was more than a defeat, it was an annihilation; and if that day's work did not decide the fate of the revolution, it yet marked a turning-point in its career. From that time forth, the fortunes of the insurgents declined, steadily and surely. The loss of Morynski, who had been by far the most redoubtable and energetic of the rebel leaders; the death of Leo Baratowski, on whom, in spite of his youth, the eyes of his countrymen were turned; in whom, by virtue of his name and family traditions their hopes and expectations centred–these were heavy blows for a party which had long been split into factions, and divided against itself, and which now fell still further asunder. Occasionally, it is true, the waning star would gleam out brightly for a moment. There were other conflicts, other battles glorious with heroic acts and deeds of desperate valour; but the fact stood out ever more and more plainly, that the cause for which they fought was a lost cause. The insurrection, which at first had spread over the whole land, was forced back into narrower and narrower limits. Post after post fell into the hands of the enemy; one troop after another was dispersed, or melted away, and the year, which at its opening had seen the horizon lurid with revolutionary flames, before its close saw the fire quenched, the last spark extinguished. Nothing but ashes and ruins remained to testify of the death-struggle of a people over whom the fiat of history has long since gone forth.

A weary interval elapsed before Count Morynski's fate was decided. He first awoke to consciousness in a dungeon, and for a time his serious, nay, as it was at first believed, mortal wounds rendered all proceedings against him objectless. For months he lingered in the most precarious state, and when at length he recovered, it was to find himself on the threshold of life, confronted with his death-warrant. For a leader of the revolution, taken armed and in actual fight, no other fate could be reserved. Sentence of death had been passed on him, and would most assuredly have been carried out in this, as in numberless other cases, but for his long and dangerous illness. His conquerors had not thought fit to inflict capital punishment on a man supposed to be dying, and when, later on, it became practicable to apply the law in all its rigour, the rising had been altogether suppressed, all danger to the land averted. The victors' obdurate severity relaxed in its turn. Count Morynski was reprieved, his sentence commuted to exile for life; exile in its bitterest form, indeed, for he was condemned to deportation to one of the most distant parts of Siberia–a terrible favour to be granted a man whose whole life had been one long dream of freedom, and who, even during the years of his former banishment in France, had never known any restriction on his personal liberty.

He had not seen those dear to him since the evening on which he had taken leave of them at Wilicza. Neither his sister, nor even his daughter, could obtain permission to see him. All their attempts to reach him were foiled by the strict watch kept on the prisoner, by the careful measures taken to shut him off from all possible intercourse with the outer world. For this strict watch they had, indeed, themselves to blame. More than once had they sought to rescue him from his captivity. So soon as the Count was on the road to recovery, every resource the Princess and Wanda had at their command was employed to facilitate his flight; but all their plans for his deliverance failed, the last experiment costing Pawlick, the faithful old servant of the Baratowski house, his life. He had volunteered for the perilous service, and had even so far succeeded as to put himself in communication with Morynski. The prisoner had been apprised of what was doing, the plan for his escape had been agreed upon, but Pawlick was surprised while engaged in the preparations for it, and, flying from the spot in the first impulse of his alarm, was shot down by the sentinels. The discovery of this scheme resulted in a still closer guard of the unhappy captive, and a keen and vigilant observation of his friends at large. They could take no further step without arousing suspicion, and increasing the hardships to which their brother and father was subjected. They were fain to yield at last to the hopeless impossibility of the case.

Immediately after the death of her younger son, the Princess had quitted Wilicza, and taken up her residence at Rakowicz. People thought it very natural she should not leave her orphaned niece alone. Waldemar knew better what drove his mother away. He had silently concurred when she told him of her resolve, making not the slightest attempt to combat it. He knew that she could no longer bear to live on at the Castle, that the constant sight of himself was intolerable to her; for had he not been the cause of the catastrophe by which Leo had lost his life and destruction had overtaken the troops committed to Leo's charge? Perhaps it was a relief to Nordeck that the Princess should go, now that he was obliged daily and hourly to wound her by the manner of his rule at Wilicza. Having with iron determination once taken the reins in hand, he held them in a like grasp of iron, stern and steady guidance being indeed urgently called for. He had been right in saying that chaos reigned on his estates: no other word would so aptly have described the disorder which the twenty years of mismanagement during his late guardian's lifetime and the four years of Baratowski régime had bequeathed to him; but now, with incredible energy, he set himself to the work of bringing order out of chaos. At first Waldemar had enough to do with all his might to stem the tide of rebellion which, raging beyond the frontier, threatened to overflow his land; but when once he felt he had free play and liberty of action, when the insurrection with the thousand secret links binding it to Wilicza showed signs of dying out, a process of transformation began, quite unparalleled in its completeness. Such of the officials as failed to render implicit obedience were dismissed, and those who remained were subjected to severest control. The whole service of the woods and forests was placed in other hands; new foresters and rangers were appointed; the leased-out farms were–in some cases at a great money sacrifice–redeemed from the tenants in possession, and incorporated into the main estate, of which the young proprietor himself was sole administrator. It was a gigantic undertaking for one man single-handed to regulate and govern so vast a concern, especially now, when old things were overturned and the new not yet established, when there was no cohesion, nothing worked in joint; but Waldemar showed himself equal to the task. He had finally won the day in his contest with his subordinates. The population about Wilicza still remained hostile; its hatred of the German in him was abiding and consistent; but even the outsiders had learned to feel the master's hand, and to bend to its guiding impulse. By the Princess's departure the malcontents lost their firmest support, and the collapse of the movement in the neighbouring province quenched the spirit of resistance on this side the border. There could, indeed, be no question as yet of that peaceful, well-ordered calm to be found on similar estates in other provinces. Neither the times nor circumstances could admit of such a state of things; but a beginning was made, the path cleared, and the rest must be left for the future to work out.

Herr Frank, the steward, was still at Wilicza. He had put off his removal for a year, yielding to the express wish of his employer, who was most desirous of keeping this clever, experienced ally at his side for a while. Now only, when the most urgent measures for the re-establishment of order had been successfully taken, did Frank definitely resign his office, with a view to carrying out that long-cherished project of his, of settling down on his own land. The pretty and not unimportant estate which he had bought, lay in another province, in a pleasant situation and in full enjoyment of peace and order, strongly contrasting in this last respect with the old Polish neighbourhood where mischief was ever brewing, where the very air was full of plots, against which the steward had battled for twenty years, but which his soul abhorred. Two months would elapse before the purchaser could take possession of his new home; in the mean time he stayed on at Wilicza in his old position.

As to Gretchen, the fact that she was her father's darling had been amply demonstrated on the occasion of her marriage; her dowry exceeded all the calculations which Assessor Hubert had so minutely entered into for the benefit of another. The wedding had taken place in the preceding autumn, and the newly married pair had gone to live in J–, where Professor Fabian now actually filled the post which had been offered to him, and where 'we meet with the most extraordinary success,' said his wife, writing to her father. Fabian overcame his timid dread of a public life more easily and quickly than he could have believed possible, and justified all the expectations entertained with regard to the author of the 'History of Teutonism,' who had so suddenly sprung into fame. His amiable, modest manners, which stood out in strong contrast to his predecessor's uncourteous and overbearing ways, won for him the general good-will; and his young and blooming wife contributed not a little to the advancement of his social position, so gracefully did she preside over the charming home which her father's generous kindness had fitted up with every elegance and comfort. The young couple were now about to pay their first visit to the paternal roof, and were expected to arrive at Wilicza in the course of a few days.

Things had not gone so well with Assessor Hubert, though a quite unexpected and rather considerable accession of fortune had lately come to him. Unfortunately, the event which procured him the legacy, deprived the family of its man of mark. Professor Schwarz had died some months before; and, that celebrated scholar being unmarried, his fortune went to his nearest of kin. Hubert's pecuniary position was greatly improved thereby, but what did it profit him? The bride on whom he had so surely counted had given herself to another, and as yet he did not hold his Counsellorship. There seemed, indeed, for the present, small prospect of his promotion, although he outdid himself in official zeal, although he kept the police department of L– in a twitter of perpetual alarm with his so-called discoveries, and would have counted no exertions too great, could he, in that year of revolution, but have laid hands on a traitor or two, conspiring against his own State. In this hope he was, however, still destined to be disappointed. And this same State behaved in a manner altogether disgraceful towards its most faithful servant; it seemed to have no fitting sense of his self-sacrifice and general devotedness, but rather to incline to the view taken by Frank, who declared, in his outspoken way, that the Assessor was doing one stupid thing after another, and would get himself turned out of the service before long. Indeed, at every fresh promotion, Hubert was passed over in so pointed a fashion that his colleagues began to laugh at and to taunt him with his nonsuccess. Then a dark resolve shaped itself in the mind of this deeply injured man. Schwarz's legacy had made him quite independent; why should he longer endure to be so overlooked and neglected? why continue to serve this ungrateful State, which persistently refused to recognise his brilliant abilities, while insignificant men like Dr. Fabian were called to fill important posts and had distinctions heaped on them?

Hubert spoke of tendering his resignation. He even mentioned the subject in the presence of the President; but great was his mortification when that magnate, with crushing affability, encouraged him in the idea. His Excellency was of opinion that the Assessor, with his private means, was in no need of an official position, and would do well to withdraw from its fatigues. Besides, he was of rather an 'excitable' temperament, and such duties as his required, above everything, calmness and reflection. Hubert felt something of his celebrated relative's misanthropy arise within him, as he went home after this conversation, and, on the spur of the moment, drew up his letter of resignation. This letter was sent off and actually accepted! As yet, neither the State nor the police department of L– had been thrown out of their accustomed grooves by the circumstance, but some disturbance might be looked for in the ensuing month, when his threatened retirement would assume the proportions of an accomplished fact. The nephew had in him too much of that uncle, whose unfortunate strategy he had lately imitated, not to live in expectation of some impending catastrophe.

In the courtyard at Rakowicz stood the horse of the young lord of Wilicza. It happened but rarely that Nordeck rode over to this house, and when he came, his visits were of short duration. The breach between him and his nearest relations was still unhealed; late events seemed, indeed, rather to have widened it, to have sundered them still more completely.

Countess Morynska and Waldemar were alone together in the lady's private sitting-room. Wanda was much changed. She had always been pale, but with a paleness which had nothing in common with the deathly hue now overspreading her face. Visible tokens were there of all that she had suffered of late–suffered, in knowing the father she so passionately loved in prison, sick nigh unto death without the power of going to him and allaying his pain even for a moment, in witnessing the final wreck and failure of those bright dreams of liberty, for which he had so enthusiastically staked his life, and which were not without a powerful hold on his daughter's soul. Mortal anxiety as to the decision of this twofold destiny, constant vacillation between hope and fear, the agitating suspense of each fresh attempt at rescue–these all had left most evident traces. Wanda's was one of those natures which will face the heaviest misfortunes with desperate energy so long as a glimmer of hope is left, but which, when once this glimmer is extinguished, break down utterly. She seemed nearly to have reached this despairing point. At the present moment a sort of feverish excitement upheld her. She had evidently rallied what was but too surely her last remaining strength.

Waldemar stood before her, unchanged, haughty and unbending as ever. In his manner there was but little of that forbearance to which the young Countess's appearance made so urgent an appeal. His attitude was almost menacing, and mingled anger and pain were in his voice as he spoke to her.

"For the last time I entreat you to give up the thought. You would only incur death yourself, without being of any help to your father. It would be one torment more for him to see you dying before his eyes. You are bent on following him into that fearful desert, that murderous climate, to which the strongest succumb; you, who from your earliest youth have been delicately nursed, and surrounded by all life's comforts, purpose now to expose yourself to the most cruel privations. The tried and tempered steel of the Count's endurance may possibly hold out under them, but you would fall a victim before many months were over. Ask the doctor, ask your own face; they will tell you that you would not live a year in that terrible land."

"Do you think my father will live longer?" replied Wanda, with a trembling voice. "We have nothing more to hope or expect from life, but we will at least die together."

"And I?" asked Waldemar, with bitter reproach.

She turned away without answering him.

"And I?" he repeated, more vehemently. "What shall I do? What is to become of me?"

"You at least are free. You have life before you. Bear it–I have worse to bear!"

An angry remonstrance was on Waldemar's lips; but he glanced at that pale, troubled face, and that glance made him pause. He forced himself to be calm.

"Wanda, when, a year ago, we came at last to understand each other, the promise you had given my brother stood between us. I would have fought my battle, have won you from him at any cost; but it never came to that. His death has torn down the barrier, and no matter what may threaten us from without, it is down, and we are free. By Leo's newly opened grave, while the sword was still impending over your father's head, I did not dare speak to you of love, of our union. I forced myself to wait, to see you but seldom, and only for a few minutes at a time. When I came over to Rakowicz, you and my mother let me feel that you still looked on me as an enemy; but I hoped for better days, for a happier future, and now you meet me with such a determination as this! Can you not understand that I will combat it as long as breath is left in me? 'We will die together!'–easily said and easily done when bullets are flying thick and fast, when, like Leo, one may be shot to the heart in a moment. But have you reflected what death in exile really may be? A slow wasting away; a long protracted struggle against privations which break the spirit before they destroy the body; far from one's country, cut off from the world and its interests, from all that intellectual life which to you is as necessary as the air you breathe; to be weighed down and gradually stifled by the load of misery! And you require of me that I shall endure to see it, that I shall stand by, and suffer you voluntarily to dedicate yourself to such a fate?"

A slight shudder passed through the young Countess's frame. The truth of his description may have gone home to her; but she persisted in her silence.

"And your father accepts this incredible sacrifice," went on Waldemar, more and more excitedly, "and my mother gives her approval to the plan. Their object is simply this, to drag you from my arms, to achieve which they will even subject you to a living death. Had I fallen instead of Leo, and the present cruel fate overtaken the Count, he would have commanded you to stay, my mother would energetically have defended her son's rights, and would have compelled you to give up so ill-judged a scheme; but now, they themselves have suggested these ideas of martyrdom, although they know that it will be your death. It does away with all prospect of our union, even in the far distant future, and that is enough for them!"

"Do not speak so bitterly," Wanda interrupted him. "You do my family injustice. I give you my word that, in taking this resolution, I have been guided by none. My father is advancing towards old age. His wounds, his long imprisonment, more than all else, the defeat of our cause, have broken him down morally and physically. I am all that is left to him, the one tie which still binds him to life. I am his altogether. The lot, which you so forcibly described just now, will be his lot. Do you think I could have one hour's peace at your side, knowing him to be journeying towards such a fate alone, abandoned to his doom, feeling that I myself was bringing on him the crudest grief of his life, by marrying you, whom he still looks on as one of our enemies? The one mitigation of his terrible sentence I could obtain–and that with the utmost difficulty–was a permission for me to accompany my father. I knew that I should have a hard fight with you–how hard it would be I am only learning now. Spare me, Waldemar, I have not much strength left."

"No, not for me," said Waldemar, bitterly. "All the strength and love in you are given to your father. What shall become of me, how I am to endure the misery of separation, you do not stay to enquire. I was a fool when I believed in that impulse which threw you into my arms in a moment of danger. You were 'Wanda' to me but for an instant. When I saw you next day, you spoke to me as Countess Morynska, and are so speaking to me to-day. My mother is right. Your national prejudices are your very heart's blood, the food on which you have been nourished since your infancy; you cannot renounce them without renouncing life itself–to them we are both to be offered up–to them your father is ready to sacrifice his only child. He would never, never have consented that you should accompany him, if the man, who loved you, had been a Pole. I being that man, he will agree to any plan which may part you from me. What matter, if only he can preserve you from the German, if he stand faithfully by the national creed? Can you Poles feel nothing but hate–hate which stretches even beyond the grave?"

"If my father were free, I might perhaps find courage to set him and all that you call prejudice at defiance," said Wanda, in a low voice. "As it is, I cannot, and"–here all her old energy gleamed forth anew–"I will not, for it would be betraying my duty as his child. I will go with him, even though it costs me my life. I will not leave him alone in his distress."

She spoke these words with a steady decision which showed her resolution to be unalterable. Waldemar seemed to feel it. He gave up his resistance.

"When do you set out?" he asked, after a pause.

"Next month. I am not to see my father again until we meet at O–. There my aunt will also be allowed one interview with him. She will go with me so far. You see we need not say good-bye to-day; we have some weeks before us. But promise me not to come to Rakowicz in the mean time, not again to assail me with reproaches and arguments, as you have this morning. I need all my courage for the hour of parting, and you rob me of it with your despair. We shall see each other yet once again–until then, farewell!"

"Farewell," he said, shortly, almost roughly, without looking at her, or taking the hand she held out to him.

"Waldemar!" There was heart-stirring sorrow and reproach in her tone, but it was powerless to lay his fierce irritation. Anger and misery at losing his love overcame for the moment all the young man's sense of justice.

"You may be right," he said, in his harshest tone, "but I cannot bring myself all at once to appreciate this exalted spirit of self-sacrifice–still less to share it. My whole nature rises up in protest against it. As, however, you insist on carrying your plan into execution, as you have irrevocably decreed our parting, I must see how I can get through existence alone. I shall make no further moan, that you know. My bitterness only offends you, it will be best that I should be silent. Farewell, Wanda."

A conflict was going on in Wanda's mind. She knew that it only needed one word from her to change all his harshness and austerity into soft tenderness; but to speak that word now would be to renew the contest, to endanger the victory so hardly won. She was silent, paused for a second, then bowed her head slightly, and left the room.

Waldemar let her go. He stood with his face turned to the window. Many bitter emotions were written on that face, but no trace was there of the resignation which the woman he loved had required of him. Leaning his brow against the panes, he remained long motionless, lost in thought, and only looked up at last on hearing his name spoken.

It was the Princess who had come in unnoticed. How the last year with all its cruel blows had told upon this woman! When, in the old days, her son had met her in C– after a separation of years, she had just suffered a heavy loss; then as now she had been draped in deepest mourning. But her husband's death had not bent her proud energetic spirit; she had clearly recognised the duties devolving on her as a widow and a mother, had designed, and steadily carried out, the new plan of life which for a time had made her ruler and mistress of Wilicza. She had overcome her grief, because self-control was necessary, because there were other tasks before Baratowski's widow than that merely of deploring his loss, and Princess Hedwiga had ever possessed the enviable faculty of subordinating her dearest feelings to the outward calls of necessity.

Now, however, it was otherwise. The mourner still bore herself erect, and, at a first cursory glance, no very striking alteration might have been remarked in her; but he who looked closer would have seen the change which Leo Baratowski's death had wrought in his mother. There was a rigid look on her features; not the quiescence of still resignation, but the dead calm of one who has nothing more to hope or to lose, for whom life and its interests have no further concern. Those eyes, once so imperious, were dull now and shaded; the proud brow, which but a year before had been smooth as marble, was furrowed with deep lines, telling of anguish, and there were patches of grey in the dark hair. The blow, which had fallen on this mother, wounding her mortally in her pride as in her affections, had evidently attacked the very well-springs of her being, and the defeat of her people, the fate of the brother, whom, after Leo, she loved more than all on earth, had done the rest–the once inflexible, indomitable spirit was broken.

"Have you really been plying Wanda with argument and remonstrances again?" said she, and her voice too was changed; it had a dull, weary sound. "You must know that it is all in vain."

Waldemar turned round. His face had not cleared; it was dark and wrathful still, as he answered–

"Yes, it was all in vain."

"I told you so beforehand. Wanda is not one of those women who say No to-day and to-morrow throw themselves into your arms. Her resolution, once taken, was irrevocable. You ought to recognise this, instead of distressing her by re-opening a useless strife. It is you, and you alone, who show her no mercy."

"I?" exclaimed Waldemar fiercely. "Who was it, then, that suggested this resolution to her?"

The Princess's eyes met his without flinching. "No one," she replied. "I, as you know, have long since ceased to interfere between you. I have learned by too bitter experience how powerless I am to oppose your passion ever again to attempt to check it, but I neither can nor will prevent Wanda from going. She is all my brother has in the world. She will only do her duty in following him."

"To her death," added Waldemar.

The Princess was sitting now, wearily resting her head on her hand.

"Death has come near us too often of late for any one of us to fear it. When the strokes of Fate fall thick and fast, as they have fallen upon us, one grows familiar with the worst; and this is the case with Wanda. We have nothing more to lose, therefore nothing to fear. This unhappy year has blighted other hopes than yours; so many have gone to their graves mid blood and tears! You will have to bear it, if, to all the other ruins, the wreck of your happiness is added."

"You would hardly forgive me were I to rescue my happiness from the ruin of your hopes," said Waldemar, bitterly. "Well, you need not be uneasy. I have seen plainly to-day that Wanda is not to be moved."

"And you?"

"Well, I submit."

The Princess scanned his face for some seconds.

"What are you thinking of doing?" she asked suddenly.

"Nothing; you hear–I give up hope and submit to the inevitable."

His mother's eye still rested scrutinisingly upon him.

"You do _not_ submit, or I am much mistaken in my son. Is that resignation which is written on your brow? You have some plan, some mad, perilous project. Beware! Wanda's own will stands opposed to you. She will yield to no compulsion, not even from you."

"We shall see that," replied the young man, coldly–he gave up denial, finding the mask was seen through. "In any case, you may set your mind perfectly at ease. My plan may be a mad one, but if it presents any danger, that danger will be mine only–at most, my life will be at stake."

"At most, your life?" repeated the Princess. "And you can say that to reassure your mother!"

"Pardon me, but I think there has been small question with you of a mother's feelings since the day you lost your Leo."

The Princess gazed fixedly on the ground.

"From that hour you have let me feel that I am childless," she said in a low tone.

"I?" exclaimed Waldemar. "Was it for me to put obstacles in the way of your leaving Wilicza. I knew right well that you were hurrying away to escape from me, that the sight of me was intolerable to you. Mother"–he drew nearer her involuntarily, and, harsh and unsparing as were his words, they yet told of a secret rankling pain–"when all your self-control gave way, and you sank down weeping on my brother's corpse, I dared not say one comforting word–I dare not even now. I have always been a stranger, an alien from your heart; I never held a place in it. If, from time to time, I have come over here to Rakowicz, it was because I could not live without seeing Wanda. I have never thought of seeking you, any more than you have sought me in this time of mourning; but truly the blame of our estrangement does not lie at my door. Do not impute it to me as a crime that I left you alone in the bitterest hour of your life."