Kitabı oku: «Under a Charm. Vol. II», sayfa 7

"But, child, nobody wants to force you," said her father, soothingly. "You know that you are quite free to do as you like; but the matter must be spoken of and settled at last, one way or the other. If you persist in saying no, you must not encourage Hubert any further."

"I do not encourage him!" cried Gretchen, almost crying with vexation. "On the contrary, I treat him abominably; but it is all of no use. Ever since that unlucky time when I nursed him for his cold, he has been firmly persuaded that I return his affection. If I were to refuse him to-day, he would smile and reply, 'You are mistaken, Fräulein; you do love me,' and he would be at me again tomorrow."

Frank took his daughter's hand, and drew her nearer to him. "Gretchen, be a good girl, and tell me what it is you object to in the Assessor. He is young, tolerably good-looking, not without means, and he can offer you a social position which has considerable advantages. I admit that he has some absurd little eccentricities; but a sensible wife would soon make something of him. The main point is that he is head over ears in love with you, and you did not look on him with such unfavourable eyes at first. What has set you so against him just of late?"

Gretchen made no answer to this question, it seemed to embarrass her a little; but she soon recovered herself.

"I don't love him," she declared with great decision. "I don't want him, and I won't have him."

In face of this categorical refusal, her father had no resource but to shrug his shoulders and turn away–which he did.

"Well, as you like," he said, a little annoyed. "Then I will tell the Assessor the plain truth before he leaves us. I will wait until he is going away; perhaps you will think better of it by that time."

The young lady looked most disdainful at such inconsistency being ascribed to her. The thought that she had just destroyed all the Assessor's chances of earthly happiness did not appear to disturb her equanimity in the least; she sat down calmly to her work-table, took up a book, and began to read.

The steward paced up and down the room, still with a shade of annoyance on his face; at last he stopped before his daughter.

"What is that great thick volume which I see now constantly in your hands? A grammar, I suppose. Are you studying French so zealously?"

"No, papa," replied Gretchen. "Grammars are a great deal too tiresome for me to take one in hand so often. I am studying"–she laid her hand solemnly on the book–"I am at present studying the 'History of Teutonism.'"

"The history of what?" asked the steward, who could not believe his ears.

"'The History of Teutonism,'" repeated his daughter, with infinite self-complacency. "A book of rare merit, of the most profound erudition. Would you like to read it? Here is the first volume."

"Don't bother me with your Teutonism," cried Frank. "I have enough to do with Slavs and Slavism; but how did you get hold of this learned stuff? Through Dr. Fabian, no doubt. This is all quite against the agreement. He promised to give you some practice in French; instead of that he brings you old rubbish out of his library, of which you don't understand a single word."

"I understand it all," said the girl, much offended, "and it is no old rubbish, but quite a new book which Dr. Fabian has written himself. It has made a wonderful sensation in the literary world, and two of our greatest scientific men, Professor Weber and Professor Schwarz, are at daggers drawn about it and about the new celebrity just rising into fame, that is, the Doctor; but you'll see, papa, he will be greater than both of them put together."

"Schwarz?" said the steward, reflectively. "That is our Assessor's famous uncle at the University of J–. Well, Dr. Fabian may think himself lucky if such an authority condescends to take notice of his book."

"Professor Schwarz knows nothing about it," declared Gretchen, to her father's amazement, delivering her verdict with the assurance of an academical judge. "He will get himself into a scrape with his criticism of Dr. Fabian's book, just as the Assessor did with his attempt to arrest Herr Nordeck. Naturally enough–they are uncle and nephew–it is the way of the family!"

The steward began to take a more serious view of the matter in question. He looked at his daughter attentively.

"You are as well versed as any student in these university stories. You appear to enjoy Dr. Fabian's unlimited confidence."

"So I do," assented Gretchen; "but you have no idea what a deal of trouble it cost me to bring him to it. He is so shy and reserved, although he is such a remarkably clever man. I have had to worm it all out of him, word by word. He would not hear of giving me his book at first; but I grew angry, and I should like to see him refuse me anything when I look cross at him!"

"I tell you what, child, the Assessor did a very stupid thing when he brought about these French lessons," broke out Frank. "This quiet, pale Doctor, with his soft voice and timid ways, has fairly bewitched you, and he is the sole cause of the ill-treatment you bestow on poor Hubert. You are not going to be foolish, I hope. The Doctor is nothing but an ex-tutor who lives on with his former pupil, and receives a pension from him. If he writes learned works the while, it may be an amusement for him; but such an occupation brings in no money to speak of, certainly not an assured income. Fortunately, he is too shy, and too sensible, I trust, to build any hopes on your fancy for him; but I consider it better that the French studies should be put a stop to at once. I will try and manage it without giving offence. If you, who have hardly patience to read through a novel, are now studying the 'History of Teutonism,' and growing enthusiastic over it merely because Dr. Fabian is the author, the matter looks to me serious."

His daughter tossed her head impatiently at this paternal reprimand, and was about to put forward an emphatic protest, when the inspector came in with a message. Frank left the room with him, and Fräulein Margaret remained behind in a very ill-humour. Assessor Hubert could have chosen no worse time to make his appearance; but, as usual, his unlucky star brought him in now at the wrong moment. He was, as ever, attention and affability itself; but the object of his wishes proved to be in so ungracious a frame of mind that he could not refrain from noticing it.

"You seem out of humour, Fräulein Margaret," he began after several vain attempts to engage her in conversation. "May one know the reason?"

"It makes me wild to think that it is just the cleverest men who are shy and have no self-confidence," exclaimed Gretchen, whose thoughts were far away.

The Assessor's face brightened at these words. "Cleverest men–shy–no self-confidence." True, he had paused that day when about to fall on his knees before her, and up to the present time had not succeeded in making the declaration which was expected from him. No doubt, the young lady herself was chiefly to blame for the delay; yet she was evidently vexed that he should show so little self-confidence. This must be repaired without loss of time. No hint could have been plainer.

Gretchen had hardly spoken when she saw what she had done with her imprudent words, which Hubert naturally applied to himself. She put her 'History of Teutonism' speedily away in safety from him, for the Doctor had made her promise not to betray him to the nephew of his literary foe, and resolved on repairing her hasty error by behaving as rudely as possible.

"You need not keep looking at me with the eye of a detective, Herr Assessor," said she. "I am not a conspirator, and conspiracies are the only things in the world which interest you."

"Fräulein," replied the Assessor, with dignity, and also with a touch of wounded feeling, for he was conscious that his glance had not been keen as that of a detective, but languishing rather as a lover's, "you reproach me with my zeal in the discharge of my duties, while I myself am inclined to make a merit of that very quality. On us officials rests the whole responsibility for the order and security of the State. To us thousands owe it that they can lay down their heads in peace; without us …"

"Oh, if our safety depended upon you, we should all have been murdered long ago here at Wilicza," interrupted the girl. "It is lucky we have Herr Nordeck to look after us. He is better able to keep order than the whole police department of L–."

"Herr Nordeck appears to enjoy an extraordinary amount of admiration everywhere now," remarked Hubert, in a tone of pique. "You share in it too?"

"Oh, certainly, I share in it," assented Gretchen. "I am extremely sorry to tell you that my admiration is given to Herr Nordeck, and to no other."

She cast a look of most pointed meaning at the Assessor, but he only smiled.

"Ah, that other would never lay claim to so cold and distant a sentiment as admiration," he protested. "He hopes to awaken far different emotions in a kindred soul."

Gretchen saw that rudeness availed her nothing. Hubert was steering steadily, perseveringly, straight ahead towards a declaration. The girl, however, had no wish to listen to him; it was disagreeable to her to have to say No, so she struck in with the first question which came into her mind.

"You have not told me anything of your famous uncle in J– for a long time. What is he about now?"

The Assessor, who saw in this question a proof of her interest in his family affairs, entered promptly into the subject.

"My poor uncle has had much vexation and worry of late," he replied. "There exists at the University a party of opposition–what truly great man has not his enemies?–at the head of which stands Professor Weber. This gentleman lays himself out to gain popularity, and the students entertain a blind predilection for him. Every one vaunts his amiable character, and my uncle, who disdains such artifices and cares nothing for public opinion, meets with enmity and ill-will on every side. Just now the opposition party, for no other purpose than to spite him, are crying up some obscure person who has just published his first work; they have even the audacity to declare that this novice's book is superior to Schwarz's writings on Teutonism."

"Impossible!" said Gretchen. "Superior to my uncle's writings," repeated the Assessor, with generous indignation. "I do not know the author's name, nor the circumstances of the case–my uncle is not fond of going into details in his letters–but the matter has vexed him to such a degree, and his dispute with Professor Weber has assumed such proportions, that he has thought fit to tender his resignation. It is, of course, nothing but a menace; they would never let him go–the University would suffer far too great a loss by his withdrawal–but he considers it necessary to put some pressure on the personages in question."

"I wish it Would take effect," said Gretchen, with such a wrathful expression that Hubert drew back a step in his surprise, only to advance two the next minute, however.

"It makes me very happy to see you take such an interest in my uncle's welfare. He, too, is already most kindly disposed towards you. I have often mentioned in my letters the family at whose house I find so hospitable a welcome, and he would be delighted to hear that I was to be connected …"

He had got so far on the road again, when the girl jumped up in desperation, ran to the open piano, and began to play; but she undervalued her suitor's persistency. Next moment he was at her side, listening to her.

"Ah, the 'Longings of the Heart' waltzes, my favourite piece. Yes, music is the language which best renders the feelings of the soul; is it not so, Fräulein Margaret?"

Fräulein Margaret thought that to-day everything had conspired together against her. This was, as it happened, the only piece she knew by heart, and she dared not get up and run to fetch her notes, for the Assessor's looks plainly said that he was only waiting for a pause in her performance to give vent to the feelings of his soul in words. So the 'Longings of the Heart' waltzes raged over the piano to the time of a galop. The noise was fearful, and a string broke; but no matter, such a din must drown any love declaration.

"Ought this to be fortissimo, do you think?" Hubert ventured to remark. "I always fancied the piece should be played in a soft, melting piano."

"I play it fortissimo," declared Gretchen, and banged on the notes so violently that the second string broke.

The Assessor was growing rather nervous. "You will spoil this beautiful instrument," said he, making himself heard with difficulty.

"What are pianos in the world for?" cried Gretchen; and, seeing that the musical uproar was disagreeable to the Assessor, she raised it to an almost incredible pitch, and deliberately sacrificed a third string. At last her strategy succeeded. Hubert saw that he would not be allowed to speak to-day, and beat a retreat, a little annoyed, but with unshaken confidence. The young lady had nursed him with such touching care when he was ill with his cold, and to-day she had spoken of him as a remarkably clever man, and had reproached him with lacking self-confidence. True, her waywardness defied all calculation; but she loved him nevertheless.

When he had gone, Gretchen stood up and shut the piano. "Three strings broken!" said she, dolefully, but yet with a certain satisfaction; "never mind, I have managed once more to keep him from making his offer. Now papa may settle the rest." With that she sat down at her work-table once more, brought out her book, and plunged anew into the 'History of Teutonism!'

CHAPTER IX

Some hours after the incidents recorded in the last chapter Waldemar Nordeck was returning from L–, to which place he had ridden over in the morning. He had now often occasion to go there, a much closer intercourse being kept up in these days between the town and the Castle. The fact that the border-forests were included in the Wilicza territory, and that the population of those districts was strongly distrusted, necessitated frequent conferences and consultations as to the measures to be adopted, and the President knew too well what an energetic supporter he had in the young proprietor not to receive him at all times with the greatest favour. Waldemar had called on him to-day, and had met at his house some of the higher officials and officers of the L– garrison. These gentlemen had one and all found themselves confirmed in their opinion that young Nordeck was the coldest, the most imperious of men. Any one else would have been galled, oppressed by the hostile attitude in which he stood to his own mother and brother; but he did not appear in the least affected by it. He was as ever, grave, reserved; but determined and ready to abide to the uttermost by the position he had once chosen.

Waldemar had, indeed, every reason to show this calm front to strangers. He knew that his situation with regard to his mother, and the terms they were on together, formed the staple of daily talk in L–, and that the most marvellous reports were current on the subject. He was resolved at all events not to furnish fresh food for gossip. But now that he was alone and unobserved, a troubled look had settled on his face, and his brow was as darkly clouded as it had been serene before. Absorbed in his thoughts, he was advancing at a foot-pace, when, at a meeting of cross-roads, he half mechanically drew rein to let pass a sledge which was approaching at full gallop, and which next instant shot rapidly by quite close to him. Norman suddenly reared high in the air. His rider had jerked the bridle so violently that the animal, taking fright, sprang with a hasty bound to one side, alighting with its hind feet in a ditch covered with loose snow which ran parallel to the high-road. It stumbled and nearly fell with its master.

Waldemar soon brought the horse out of the ditch, and on to the main road again; but this slight mischance seemed to have robbed him, the bold, intrepid rider, of his composure. His usual self-possession quite failed him as he neared the sledge, which had drawn up on a call from the lady occupying it.

"I ask pardon if I have startled you, Countess Morynska. My horse shied at the sudden approach of yours."

Wanda was generally not very susceptible to fear, and possibly it was less alarm than surprise at the unexpected meeting–the first for three months–which drove the colour from her cheeks. Her face was very white as she asked in reply–

"You are not hurt, I hope?"

"No, I am not hurt; but my Norman …"

He did not finish his sentence, but sprang quickly to the ground. The horse had evidently injured one of his hind feet. He held it up as though in pain, and refused to advance. Waldemar hastily examined the part affected, and then turned to the young Countess again.

"It is nothing serious," he said, in the same cold, constrained tone he had used hitherto. "I beg of you not to interrupt your journey on my account." He bowed and stepped aside to let the sledge pass.

"Will you not mount again?" asked Wanda, seeing that he threw the bridle over his arm, as though preparing to walk.

"No. Norman has sprained his foot, and limps very much. It will be painful enough for him to get on at all, he could not possibly carry a rider."

"But Wilicza is two good leagues from here," objected Wanda. "You cannot go all that way on foot, and at a slow pace."

"There will be nothing else for me," replied Waldemar, quietly. "I must at any rate get my horse on to the nearest village, where I can have it sent for."

"But it will be dark before you reach the Castle."

"That does not matter; I know the way."

The young Countess glanced at the Wilicza road which, at a little distance from the spot where they had met, disappeared into the forest. She knew that it ran through the heart of the woods, emerging only in the immediate vicinity of the Castle.

"Would it not be better to make use of my sledge?" said she in a low voice, without looking up. "My coachman can take charge of your horse, and lead him to the nearest village."

Waldemar looked at her in amazement. The proposal seemed to surprise him strangely.

"Thank you; but you are, no doubt, on your way to Rakowicz."

"Rakowicz does not lie far out of your road," Wanda interrupted him, hastily, "and from thence you can have the conveyance to yourself." The words were spoken hurriedly, almost anxiously. Waldemar slowly let the bridle drop. Some seconds passed before he answered.

"I should do better to go straight on to Wilicza."

"I beg of you, though, not to go on; but to come with me."

This time the anxiety in Wanda's voice was so unmistakable that the refusal was not renewed. Waldemar gave over his horse to the coachman, who had dismounted at a sign from his mistress, and instructed him to lead it with all possible care to a certain village, and there to leave word that it should be sent for. He then mounted the sledge, swinging himself up into the driver's seat behind, and grasping the reins. The place by the young Countess's side remained empty.

They drove on in silence. The offer had been so simple, so natural, a decided rejection of it would have appeared singular, nay, uncourteous, between such near relatives; but easy intercourse had long since grown impossible to these two, and the unexpected meeting made their embarrassment more marked and painful. Waldemar devoted his attention exclusively to the reins, and Wanda wrapped herself more closely in her furs, never once turning her head.

They were already in the beginning of March; but it seemed this year as if winter never would give way. Before taking its departure, the cruel season once more let loose all its terrors on the poor earth, lying happily expectant of spring's first breath. A heavy snowstorm, lasting through an entire day, had clothed it anew in the white shroud of which it had so slowly and painfully divested itself. Again the country lay rigid under its pall of snow and ice, and stormy wind and freezing cold strove together for the mastery.

The storm with its thick drifting snow had subsided on that morning; but it was as gloomy and cold a winter afternoon as though the month had been December. The horses stepped out merrily, and the sledge seemed to fly over the smooth earth; but its two occupants sat silent and motionless, paralysed, as it were, by the icy breath of that chill March day. It was the first time they had been alone together since that hour by the forest lake. Dreary and melancholy as had been that autumn evening, with its falling leaves and surging mist-visions, some last lingering throbs of life had then quickened Nature's pulse; but now even these were stilled. The silence of death lay on the broad fields, stretching away on all sides, so white and endless. Nothing but snow all around, far as the eye could reach! The distant horizon lay wrapped in fog, and the sky was heavy with dense snow-laden clouds which drifted slowly, lazily along–else all was numb and dead in these wintry desert solitudes.

The road now left the open lands and turned into the woods which it had hitherto skirted. Here in the sheltered forest path, the snow lay so thick that the horses could only advance at a foot-pace. The driver loosed the reins which up to this time he had held so tightly, and their giddy, rapid flight was changed into a gentle, gliding onward movement. The dark fir-trees on either side bowed under their load of snow. One of the low-hanging branches brushed against Waldemar's head, and a perfect cloud of white flakes was showered down on him and his companion. She half-turned now for the first time and said, pointing to the trees–

"The road to Wilicza lies all the way through a forest as thick as this."

Waldemar smiled slightly.

"That is nothing new to me. I pass along it often enough."

"But not on foot and at dusk! Do you not know, or will you not own to yourself, that there is danger for you in these journeys?"

The smile vanished from Nordeck's face, giving way to its accustomed gravity. "If I had had any doubt of that, I should have been enlightened by the bullet which, not long ago, as I was coming home from the border-station, sped so close by my head that it ruffled my hair. The marksman did not show himself. He was probably ashamed of his–unskilfulness."

"Well, after such an experience, it is really challenging danger to ride out so constantly quite alone," cried Wanda, who could not altogether conceal her alarm at this news.

"I never go unarmed," replied Waldemar, "and no companion could protect me against a shot fired in ambush. In the present state of affairs at Wilicza, my personal ascendancy is the one influence which still avails. If I show fear and take all sorts of precautionary measures, there will be an end to my authority. If I continue to face all their attacks alone, they will desist from them."

"But suppose that bullet had not missed," said Wanda, with a little quiver in her voice. "You see how near the danger was."

The young man bent half over her seat.

"Was it a desire to avert from me some such peril as this which made you insist on my coming with you?"

"Yes," was the hardly audible reply.

An earnest rejoinder was on his lips; but some sudden remembrance flashing through his mind, he suddenly drew himself erect and, grasping the reins more firmly, said with a rush of the old bitterness–

"You will find it hard to justify such a desire in the eyes of your party, Countess Morynska."

She turned completely round to him now, and her eye met his.

"It may be so, for you have openly avowed yourself our enemy. It lay with you to make peace; instead of that you have declared war upon us."

"I did what necessity compelled me to do. You forget that my father was a German."

"And your mother is a Pole."

"Ah, you need not remind me of it in that reproachful tone," said Waldemar. "The unhappy division of interests has cost me too much for me ever to lose sight of it for an instant. It was the cause of my parents' separation. It poisoned my childhood, embittered my youth, and robbed me of my mother. She would perhaps have loved me as she loves her Leo if I had been a Baratowski. That I was my father's son has been my gravest offence in her eyes. If now we stand politically opposed to each other, that is only a consequence of past events."

"Which you logically, inexorably, carry out to its extreme limits," cried Wanda, flashing into anger. "Any other man would have sought for some means of reconciliation, some compromise, which must have been possible between mother and son."

"Perhaps between any other mother and son, but not between the Princess Baratowska and me. She gave me the choice of surrendering Wilicza and myself, bound hand and foot, into her hands to serve her interests, or to declare myself at war with her. I chose the latter alternative, and she takes good care that there shall be no truce, not even for a day. Were it not that the contest for dominion is still going on, she would long since have left me. She certainly does not stay on my account."

Wanda made no reply. She knew he was right, and the conviction was now forcing itself on her mind that this man, held on all sides to be cold and unfeeling, was in reality most keenly and bitterly sensitive to all that was painful in his position towards his mother. In the rare moments when he disclosed his secret feelings, this subject always came uppermost. The thought of his mother's indifference to himself and of her boundless love for her younger son had stung the boy's soul years ago; it rankled yet in the heart of the man.

They soon emerged from the forest, and the horses quickly resuming their former swift pace, Rakowicz shortly afterwards appeared in the distance. Waldemar would have turned into the main road which led thither, but Wanda pointed in another direction.

"Please let me get out at the entrance to the village. I shall like the little walk home, and you can go straight on to Wilicza."

Nordeck looked at her a moment in silence. "That means, you do not venture to appear at Rakowicz in my company. I was forgetting that the people about would never forgive you for it. To be sure–we are enemies."

"We are so through your fault alone," declared Wanda. "No one compelled you to act as our foe. Our struggle is not with your country or countrymen, it will be fought out yonder on foreign soil."

"And supposing your party to be victorious on that soil," asked Waldemar, slowly and pointedly, "whose turn will it be next?"

The young Countess was silent.

"Well, we will not discuss that," said Nordeck, resignedly. "It may have been some secret necessity of Nature which drove your father and Leo into the fight; but the same necessity urges me to resistance. My brother's task is indeed easier than mine. One way has been marked out for him, both by birth and family tradition, and he has gone that way without the pain of making a choice, or of causing dissension. Neither of these troubles has been spared me. It is not in my nature to vacillate between two contending parties without giving in my adhesion to one or to the other. I must declare myself friend or foe to a cause. What the choice has cost me, none need know. No matter, I have chosen; and where I have once taken my stand, I will remain. Leo throws himself into the struggle full of glowing enthusiasm; his highest ideal is before him; he is supported by the love and admiration of his friends. I stand alone at my post, where possibly death by assassination, where surely hatred awaits me, a hatred in which all Wilicza, my mother and brother–and you, too, unite, Wanda. The lots have been unevenly divided; but I have never been spoiled by over much love and affection. I shall be able to bear it. So go on hating me, Wanda. It is perhaps best for us both."

While speaking, he had driven forward in the prescribed direction, and now drew up just at the entrance to the village, which lay before them still and, as it were, lifeless. Swinging himself from his seat, he would have helped the young Countess to alight; but she waved his hand away, and got out of the sledge without assistance. No single word of leave-taking passed her tightly closed lips. She merely bowed her head in mute farewell.

Waldemar had drawn back. Once again the deep lines of pain showed plainly on his face, and the hand which grasped the reins was clenched convulsively. Her repulse evidently wounded him to the quick.

"I will send the sledge back to-morrow," said he in a cold and distant tone–"with my thanks, if you will not decline them, as you decline my slightest service."

Wanda appeared to be struggling with herself. She half turned as though to go; but lingered yet an instant.

"Herr Nordeck."

"What is your pleasure, Countess Morynska?"

"I … You must promise me not again wilfully to challenge danger as you would have done to-day. You are right, the hatred of all Wilicza is directed against you at the present time. Do not give your enemies so good a chance–do not, I entreat of you."

A deep flush overspread Waldemar's face at these words. He cast one look at her, one single look; but at that glance all the bitterness went out from him.

"I will be more prudent," he answered, in a low voice.

"Good-bye, then."

She turned from him and took the path leading to the village. Nordeck gazed after her until she disappeared behind one of the nearest farm-buildings, then he swung himself into the sledge again, and drove off swiftly in the direction of Wilicza, the road soon taking him back into the forest. He had drawn his pistol from his breast-pocket and laid it within easy reach; and, whilst he handled the reins with unaccustomed caution, his eye kept a vigilant watch between the trees. This defiant, inflexible man, who knew no fear, had suddenly grown careful and prudent; he had promised to be so, and he had now learned that there was one being who trembled for his life also, who longed to avert danger from him.