"Gretchen, my dear Gretchen, don't cry, I beseech you. You know that I have no secrets from you in anything concerning myself; but there are others implicated in this, and I have given my word to speak of it to no one, not even to you."
"How can a married man give his word not to tell his wife!" cried Gretchen, still sobbing. "It does not count for anything; no one has a right to ask it of him."
"Well, but I have given it," said Fabian in despair, "so calm yourself. I cannot bear to see you in tears. I …"
"Well, this is a pretty specimen of petticoat government," exclaimed Frank, who had come in meanwhile unnoticed, and had been a witness of the little scene. "When she talks of oppression and slavery it seems to me my young lady makes a mistake in the person. And you can put up with that, Emile? Don't be offended–you may be a most remarkable scholar, but, as a husband, I must say you play a sorry part."
He could not have come to his son-in-law's aid more effectually than by these last words. Gretchen had no sooner heard them than she went over to her husband's side.
"Emile is an excellent husband," she declared, indignantly, the source of her tears suddenly drying up. "You need not reproach him, papa; it is right and proper that a husband should have some feeling for his wife."
Frank laughed. "Don't be so hasty, child, I meant no harm. Well, you have put yourself out quite needlessly. As you have guessed so near the truth, we must take you into the plot now, we can't help ourselves. News has just arrived …"
"From Waldemar?" inquired the Professor, interrupting him with eager anxiety.
His father-in-law shook his head.
"No, from Rakowicz. We cannot hear from Herr Nordeck. He will either come or … or we must make up our minds to the worst. But the Princess and her niece are to arrive in the course of the afternoon, and as soon as they are there, you must go up to the Castle. It may look strange that the two ladies, who have not been near Wilicza for a year, should come over just now so unexpectedly, and should remain there alone in the absence of the master. Your presence will give a more harmless colour to the business; it will seem quite a natural coincidence. You must pay a visit to the mother of your former pupil, and present Gretchen as your wife. That will satisfy the servant-folk. The ladies know the exact state of the case. I shall ride over to the border-station, and wait there with the horses, as has been agreed. And now, child, your husband must tell you all the rest, I have no time to lose."
He went, and Gretchen sat down on the sofa again to receive her husband's communications, well-pleased that she was now to be placed on a par with Polish women, and admitted to take part in a conspiracy.
Evening had come, or rather night. All was quiet and asleep at the manor-farm, and up at the Castle the servants had been despatched to bed as early as possible. Some windows on the first story were still lighted up, those of the green salon and the two adjoining rooms. In one of the latter stood the tea-table, which had been prepared as usual–any change might have excited surprise below stairs–but the meal was naturally a mere form. Neither the Princess nor Wanda was to be induced to take any refreshment, and even Professor Fabian turned rebellious, and refused to have any tea. He declared he could not swallow a drop, when his wife urged on him the necessity of taking some support. She had brought him to the table almost by force, and was administering a low-toned but most impressive lecture.
"Don't be so anxious, Emile. I shall have you ill with the agitation, and the two ladies in there as well. Countess Wanda looks as pale as a corpse, and the Princess's face is enough to frighten one. Neither of them utters a word. I can't bear this state of mute suspense any longer, and it will be a relief to them to be alone. We will leave them together for half an hour."
Fabian assented, but pushed away the tea-cup she had forced upon him.
"I can't think why you are all in such despair. If Herr Nordeck has declared that he will be here with the Count before midnight, he will be here, even if a whole regiment is posted on the border ready to take him. That man can manage anything. There must be something in the superstition of his Wilicza people who one and all hold him to be bullet-proof. He has just gone through dangers, only to hear of which makes one's hair stand on end, and gone through them unharmed. He will get safely across the frontier, you'll see."
"God grant it!" sighed Fabian. "If only that fellow Hubert were not over at W–, precisely to-day of all days. He would recognise Waldemar and the Count in any disguise. Suppose he should meet them!"
"Hubert has been doing stupid things all his life, he won't be likely to do a clever one now in the last week of his official career. It is not in him," said Gretchen contemptuously. "But he is right in one thing. One no sooner sets foot in this Wilicza than one finds one's self in the midst of a conspiracy. It must be in the air, I think, for I don't understand else how we Germans allow ourselves to be brought into it, how it is we are made to conspire in favour of these Poles, Herr Nordeck, papa, even you and I. Well, I hope this is the last plot Wilicza will ever see!"
The Princess and Wanda had remained in the adjoining room. Nothing had been changed, either here, or in any of the other apartments, since she had left them a year before; yet there was a desolate, uninhabited look about the house, which seemed to say that the mistress had been long absent. The lamp, which stood on a side-table, only lighted up a part of the dark and lofty chamber; the rest of it lay altogether in shadow.
In this deep shadow sat the Princess, motionless, her eyes fixed on vacancy. It was the very place in which she had sat on the morning of Leo's fatal visit, of that visit which had resulted in so terrible a catastrophe. The mother struggled hard against the recollections which assailed her on all sides at the return to a place so associated with her most cruel griefs. What had become of those proud, far-reaching plans, of those hopes and projects which had all found their centre here. They lay in ruins. Bronislaus' rescue was the one concession wrung from Fate, and even this rescue was but half achieved. Perhaps at this instant he and Waldemar were paying with their lives for their attempt to consummate it.
Wanda stood in the recess of the centre window, looking out with a fixed, strained gaze, as though her eyes could pierce through the darkness reigning without. She had opened the window, but she did not feel how sharply the night air smote her, did not know that she shivered beneath its breath. For the Countess Morynska this hour contained no remembrance of the past, with all its shattered plans and hopes; all her thoughts were concentrated on the coming event, as she waited in an anguish of expectation and deadly suspense. She no longer trembled for her father alone, but for Waldemar also–_chiefly_ for Waldemar, indeed, her heart maintaining its rights, spite of everything.
It was a cool and rather stormy night; there was no moonlight, and the stars, which here and there twinkled forth in the overcast sky, soon disappeared again behind the clouds. All around the Castle there was peace, deep peace; the park lay silent and dark, and, in the pauses between the gusts of wind, each falling leaf might be heard.
Suddenly Wanda started, and a half-suppressed exclamation escaped her lips. In an instant the Princess stood by her side.
"What is it? Did you see anything?"
"No; but I thought I heard the sound of horses' hoofs in the distance."
"Mere fancy! You have so often thought you heard it. It was nothing."
Yet the Princess followed her niece's example, and leaned far out of the window. The two women waited, listening breathlessly. Yes, a sound was borne over to them certainly; but it was distant and indistinct, and now again the wind rose, and wafted it from them altogether. Full ten minutes passed in torturing suspense–then, at last, steps were heard in one of the side avenues of the park, where there was an outlet into the forest–careful steps, warily approaching, and their eyes, strained to the uttermost, could discern through the darkness two figures issuing from among the trees.
Fabian rushed into the room. He had been watching too.
"They are there," he whispered, hardly able to restrain his emotion. "They are coming up the side steps. The little door leading to the park is open. I went to see not half an hour ago."
Wanda would have flown to meet the new-comers, but Gretchen, who had followed her husband, held her back.
"Stay here, Countess Morynska," she entreated. "We are not alone in the Castle. There is no safety but in your own rooms."
The Princess said not a word, but grasped her niece's hand to check the imprudent impulse. They were not long kept on the rack now. Only a few minutes–then the door flew open, and Count Morynski stood on the threshold, Waldemar's tall figure appearing in the background. Almost in the same instant Wanda lay in her father's arms.
Fabian and Gretchen had tact enough to withdraw, feeling that, after all, they were but strangers, and that the family should be left alone. But Waldemar, too, seemed to reckon himself among the strangers, for, instead of going in, he closed the door behind the Count, and stayed himself in the outer room. Turning to his old friend and tutor, he held out his hand to him with hearty warmth.
"Well, we have got here in safety," said he, drawing a deep breath. "The principal danger, at least, is over. We stand on German soil."
Fabian clasped the offered hand in both his own. "Oh, Waldemar, what a venture for you to plunge into! Suppose you had been discovered!"
Waldemar smiled. "It does not do to suppose anything in such an undertaking. A man, who wants to cross an abyss, must not think of turning giddy, or he is lost. I only took such possibilities into account so far as to provide against them. I kept my aim steadily in view, and looked neither to the right nor to the left. You see my plan has answered."
He threw off his cloak, drew a revolver from his breast-pocket, and laid it on the table. Gretchen, who was standing by, retreated a step.
"Don't be alarmed, my dear young lady," said Nordeck, reassuringly. "The weapon has not been used. No blood has been spilled in this business, though at first it did not seem likely we should get through it without. We found unexpected succour in time of need from our friend the Assessor Hubert."
"From the new Counsellor?" exclaimed Gretchen, in astonishment.
"Yes,–is he made Counsellor? Well, he can air his new dignity over in Poland. We came across the frontier with his carriage and papers."
The Professor and his wife uttered a simultaneous expression of surprise.
"He certainly did not render us the service voluntarily," went on Nordeck. "On the contrary, he will not fail to call us highway robbers; but necessity knows no law. Life and liberty were at stake, and we did not stay long to consider. Yesterday at noon, we arrived at an inn in a Polish village, not much more than a couple of leagues from the frontier. We knew that they were on our track, and we were anxious to get over on to German territory at any price; but the host warned us not to continue our flight before dusk. He said it was impossible, the whole country was up after us. The man was a Pole; his two sons had served under Count Morynski during the insurrection; the whole family would have given their lives for their former chief. The warning was not to be disregarded, so we stayed. Towards evening, when our horses were standing ready saddled for us in the stables, the Assessor Hubert suddenly made his appearance in the village on his way back from W–. His carriage had met with some slight accident, which was to be repaired as speedily as possible. He had left it at the village smithy, and had come on to the inn with the main intention of finding out whether any traces of us had been found. As he was unacquainted with the language, his Polish coachman had to act as interpreter–he had brought the man on with him for this purpose, instead of leaving him with the carriage. The landlord, of course, declared he knew nothing. We were hidden in the upper story, and could distinctly hear the Assessor declaiming in his favourite way about traitors and criminals fleeing from justice, adding that the pursuers were already on their track. In this way he was kind enough to disclose to us the fact that we really were pursued, and that it was known which way we had taken. He had even heard there were two of us, and that we were mounted. Now we had no choice left but to get away as quickly as possible. The imminence of the danger inspired me with a happy thought. I transmitted the necessary instructions to the landlord through his wife, and he understood them at once. The Assessor was informed that it would take a full hour to mend his carriage. He was very wrath at first, but after a time came to the conclusion that he had better stay at the inn and have some supper, as was suggested to him. Meanwhile we were out of the back door, and off to the smithy. The landlord's son had taken care that the carriage should be ready for us. I got in, my uncle"–this was the first time Waldemar had so designated the Count–"my uncle, who had passed for my servant throughout the journey, took the reins, and we drove out of the village on the other side.
"In the carriage I made an invaluable discovery. The Assessor's overcoat lay on the back seat with his pocket-book and all his papers which this prudent official had either confidingly left in it, or forgotten–a fresh proof of his eminent qualifications for the service of the State. Unfortunately, with my gigantic stature, I could make no use of his passport, but among the other papers I found many that were likely to be of use to us. For instance, a warrant from the L– police for Count Morynski's arrest, even upon German soil, a letter empowering the Assessor to consult with the authorities at W– as to the best means of attaining this object, together with several notices from these authorities as to the probable direction we had taken, and the measures already adopted for our capture. We were unscrupulous enough to turn these documents, destined for our confusion, to our own advantage. The Assessor had said at the inn that he had come through A– that morning. There the carriage would no doubt be recognised, and the change in its occupants remarked, so we made a _détour_ round by the next military post, and drove up quite openly as Assessor Hubert and his coachman. I showed the necessary papers, and demanded to be let through as speedily as possible, alleging that I was on the track of the fugitives, and that there was pressing need for haste. That plea was irresistible. Nobody asked for our passports. We were considered as sufficiently identified, and so got safely across the frontier. A mile or two from it on this side we left the carriage on the high road in the neighbourhood of a village where it is sure to be found, and reached the Wilicza woods on foot. At the border-station we found the steward waiting with horses, according to previous agreement. We mounted, rode off at full speed, and here we are."
Gretchen, who had been listening with eager interest, was highly delighted at the trick played on her former suitor, but Fabian's good nature would not allow of his feeling any such mischievous pleasure. On the contrary, he asked in quite an anxious tone–
"And poor Hubert?"
"He is over yonder in Poland without his carriage or papers of identification," said Waldemar, drily. "He may think himself lucky if he is not taken for a traitor himself this time. It is quite on the cards. If our pursuers really do reach the inn to-night, they will find two strangers with their horses ready saddled, and the landlord will take care not to clear up any possible mistake which might favour our flight. The coachman, whose every feature betrays the Pole, and who, moreover, is rather an imposing-looking person, might at need pass for a nobleman in disguise, and the Assessor for his accomplice and liberator. The latter cannot prove his identity, he does not speak the language, and our neighbours are not in the habit of using much ceremony in the matter of arrests, or of adhering very strictly to prescribed forms. Perhaps the eminent Counsellor is now enjoying the little treat he wished to give us on our arrival at Wilicza, that of being taken up as a 'suspicious character' and transported handcuffed to the nearest town."
"That would indeed be an incomparable close to his official career," laughed Gretchen, disregarding her husband's grave look.
"But enough now of this Hubert," broke off Waldemar. "I shall see you again when I come back? I am here at the Castle _incognito_ to-night. It will be some days before I officially return from Altenhof, where I am supposed to be all the time. Now I must go and see my mother and my cousin. The first agitation of the meeting will be over now."
He opened the door, and went into the next room where his family was assembled. Count Morynski was seated in an easy-chair, still holding his daughter in his arms, as she kneeled before him, resting her head on his shoulder. The Count had aged considerably. The thirteen months of his imprisonment seemed to have been so many years to him. His hair and beard had grown quite white, and his face showed indelible traces of the sufferings he had undergone through captivity and sickness, and, above all, through the knowledge of his people's fate. He had been a robust and energetic man when, little more than a year ago, he had taken leave of his sister and daughter at Wilicza; he came back now old and broken, his appearance telling plainly of health irremediably shattered.
The Princess, who was standing by the Count's side, was the first to notice her son's entrance. She went forward to meet him.
"So you have come at last, Waldemar," she said, reproachfully. "We thought you were going to abandon us altogether."
"I did not wish to disturb your first meeting," said Waldemar.
"Do you still insist on being as a stranger to us? You have been so long enough. My son"–and the Princess, deeply moved, held out her arms to him–"my son, I thank you."
Waldemar was folded to his mother's heart for the first time since his childhood, and in that long and ardent embrace the bitter estrangement of years gave way; all that had once been the cause of coldness and hostility between them sank out of sight. Here, too, a barrier was torn down, an invisible barrier, but one productive of much evil, which had too long stood between two human beings bound to each other by the most sacred ties of blood. At length the son had entered into his birthright, had won for himself his mother's love.
The Count now rose in his turn, and held out his hand to his deliverer. "You do well to thank him, Hedwiga," said he; "as yet you do not know all that he has risked in my behalf."
"The venture was not so great as it seemed," Waldemar replied, lightly. "I had smoothed the way beforehand. Wherever there are prisons, bribery is possible. Without that golden key I should never have made my way into the fortress, still less should we have forced a passage out."
Wanda stood by her father, still clinging to his arm as though she feared he might be torn from her again. She alone had spoken no word of thanks, but her eyes had sought Waldemar's as she turned to him on his entrance, and their glance must have been more eloquent than words. He seemed satisfied, and made no attempt to approach her more directly.
"The danger is not quite over yet," he said, turning to the Count again. "We have it unfortunately in black and white that even here you are threatened with imprisonment and extradition. At the present moment you are safe at Wilicza. Frank has promised to keep watch for us, and you have urgent need of a few hours' rest, but to-morrow morning must see us on the road to S–.
"You will not take the direct route to France or England then?" said the Princess.
"No, time is too precious, and that is precisely the route they will expect us to choose. We must make for the sea. S– is the nearest port–we can be there by to-morrow evening. I have arranged everything. An English ship has been lying in harbour for the last month, of which I have secured to myself the sole disposal. She is ready to put to sea at any moment, and will take you straight to England, uncle. From thence, France, Switzerland, Italy may easily be reached. You can take up your abode where you will. Once out on the open sea, and you are safe."
"And you, my dear Waldemar?" His uncle now addressed him in the affectionate tone he had so long reserved for his younger brother. "Will you pay no penalty for your boldness? Who can tell whether the secret of my escape will be strictly kept? There are so many in it."
Waldemar smiled. "I certainly have been forced to give the lie to my nature on this occasion, and to make confidences right and left. Nothing could be done without it. Happily, all my confidants have become my accessories; they cannot betray me without exposing themselves. The rescue will be laid to my mother's charge, and if, at some future time, reports of the truth get wind, well, we live here on German territory. Count Morynski was neither accused nor sentenced in this country, his rescue cannot therefore be here accounted as a crime. It will seem natural enough that, in spite of our political differences, I should stretch out my hand to save my uncle–particularly when it is known that to that relationship another has been added–that he has become my father also."
A quiver passed over Morynski's face at this reminder. He tried to repress it, but in vain–it told of a pain he was unable to master. He had long known of this love, which to him, as to his sister, had appeared as a misfortune, almost as a crime. He, too, had fought against it with all the means in his power, and, quite lately, had endeavoured to withdraw Wanda from its influence. He had acquiesced when she resolved on going with him to almost certain destruction; he had accepted her offer with the one view of preventing this marriage. It was a heavy sacrifice–it cost him a great struggle with those national prejudices, that national hatred, which had been the ruling principle of his life–but he looked at the man whose hand had led him forth out of prison, who had risked life and freedom in order to win back both for him–then he bent down to his daughter.
"Wanda," he said in a low voice.
Wanda looked up at him. Her father's face had never appeared to her so weary, so sorrowful, as at this moment. She had been prepared to find him altered, but she had not expected so terrible a change, and, as she read in his eyes all that it cost him to give his consent, her own personal wishes receded into the background, and the daughter's passionate love burned up brightly within her.
"Not now, Waldemar," she implored, with a trembling voice. "You see what my father has suffered, what he is still suffering. You cannot ask me to leave him now when we have but just met. Let me stay with him for a time, only for one year! You have preserved him from the worst of all; but he has to go out among strangers, into banishment. Shall I, can I let him go alone?"
Waldemar was silent. He had not courage to recall to Wanda the words she had spoken at their last meeting. The sight of the Count's bowed frame forbade any touch of anger, and pleaded powerfully in favour of the daughter's prayer, but all the egotism of love rose up in revolt against it. The young man had braved so much to earn for himself the hand of the woman he loved, he could not bear that the reward should longer be denied him. With contracted brow and lips tightly pressed together, he stood, looking to the ground, when all at once the Princess interfered.
"I will take any anxiety on your father's account from you, Wanda," said she. "I shall go with him."
Her listeners started in extreme surprise.
"What, Hedwiga?" asked the Count. "You think of going with me?"
"Into exile," concluded the Princess, with a steady voice. "It will be no new thing to either of us, Bronislaus. We have tasted it before, during long years. We will take the old fate on us again."
"Never," cried Waldemar, with kindling eyes. "I will never consent to your leaving me, mother. Your place, in future, is here at Wilicza, with your son."
"Who is busy imprinting on his land the mark of the German?"–the Princess Baratowska's tone was almost severe in its earnestness. "No, Waldemar, you underrate the Pole in me, if you think I could stay on in Wilicza, in the Wilicza which is growing up under your rule. I have given you a mother's love tardily but completely, and it will ever be yours, though we part, though I go to a distance, and we only see each other from time to time–but to stay here at your side, to look on day by day while you overturn all that I have laboured to build up, to give the lie to my whole past life by associating with your German friends–on each occasion when our opposite opinions come into collision to bow to your word of authority, that, my son, I cannot do, that would be more than, strive as I might, I could accomplish. It would rend asunder the newly formed ties between us, would call up the old strife, the old bitterness again. So let me go, it will be best for us all."
"I did not think any of the old bitterness would intrude upon this hour," said Waldemar, with some reproach in his tone.
The Princess smiled sadly. "There is none in my heart against you, but not a little, perhaps, against the Fate which has ordained our ruin. Over the Morynski and Baratowski families the decree has gone forth. With Leo one noble Polish house died out, which for centuries had shone with lustre in the annals of our country. My brother is the last scion of another. His name will soon be extinct, for Wanda is the last to inherit it, and she will merge it in yours. Wanda is young, she loves you–perhaps she may learn to forget, which to us would be impossible. Life is before you, the future belongs to you–we have only the past."
"Hedwiga is right," spoke Count Morynski. "I cannot remain, and she will not. The marriage with your father brought nothing but evil to her, Waldemar, and it seems to me, as though no union between a Nordeck and a Morynska could be productive of happiness. The disastrous cause of discord, which proved so fatal to your parents, exists in your case also. Wanda, too, is a child of our people. She cannot renounce her race any more than you can yours. You are entering upon a hazardous experiment in this marriage, but you have willed it, both of you–I make no further opposition."
This was no very happy betrothal for the young pair. The mother's suddenly announced departure, the father's resignation and ominous warnings, cast a deep shade over the hour which generally fills two youthful hearts with brightest sunshine. It really seemed as though this passion, which had fought so hard a fight, had triumphed over so many obstacles, were destined to know no joy.
"Come, Bronislaus," said the Princess, taking her brother's arm. "You are wearied to death with the hasty ride and the agitation of the last few days. You must rest till morning, if you are to find strength to continue your journey. We will leave these two alone. They have hardly spoken to each other yet, and they have so much to say!"
She left the room with the Count. Hardly had the door closed upon them when the shadow vanished. With quick, impetuous tenderness Waldemar threw his arms round his betrothed, and clasped her to his breast. He had won her at last!
Fabian and his wife were still in the next room. Gretchen seemed much put out, and cast many melancholy glances at the tea-table.
"How can people give way to their romantic feelings so as to forget all the decent, orderly routine of life?" she observed. "The anxiety and excitement are over now, and the joy of their first meeting too; they might quietly sit down to table, but such an idea never occurs to one of them. I could not persuade the Princess or Count Morynski to touch a thing, but Countess Wanda must and shall have a cup of tea. I have just made some fresh–she shall have it, whether she likes it or not. I will just see whether she and Herr Nordeck are still in there in the salon. You stay here, Emile."
Emile remained obediently in his place near the tea-urn, but the time seemed rather long to him, for ten minutes, at least, elapsed, and his wife did not return. The Professor began to feel uncomfortable; he felt his presence to be quite superfluous, and yet he would so gladly have made himself useful, like Gretchen, whose practical nature was never at a loss; in order to be doing something, he took the ready filled cup of tea, and carried it into the adjoining drawing-room. To his surprise, he found it untenanted, except by his wife, who was standing before, and very near to, the closed door of the Princess's study.
"Dear Gretchen," said Fabian, balancing the cup in his hand with as much anxious care, as if it had contained the most precious life-elixir. "Dear Gretchen, I have brought the tea. I was afraid it might be getting cold, if this went on much longer."
The young lady had narrowly escaped being caught in a most suspicious attitude, namely, that of bending down with her eye to the keyhole. Luckily, she had had time to raise herself quickly as her husband came in. She took hold of him, cup and all, and led him back into the outer room.
"Never mind, Emile. The Countess won't want any tea, and it will go on ever so much longer. But you need not make yourself unhappy about your beloved Waldemar any more. Things are going very well with him in there, very well indeed. I'll own I did him a wrong–he has a heart after all. That cold, stiff Nordeck is really capable of going down on his knees and uttering the most ardent words of love. I never could have believed it!"