The voyage had been a swift and pleasant one, and after a short stay in
Trieste the train conveyed the regiment to its native mountains and
former garrison, the capital of southern Tyrol.
The city was all astir, for every one had hurried to welcome the
returning soldiers who had endured so many a hard fight on the farthest
frontier of the empire, and now, after dangers and privations of every
kind, were coming home in peace.
At the railway station and immediately around it a joyous throng waited
for the train; the country people especially had flocked there in
crowds. There was scarcely a peasant family in the neighborhood that
did not have son, brother or some other relative in the Imperial
Chasseurs to whom they now wished to give the first welcome home.
At last the thunder of cannon far and near among the mountains
announced the approach of the train, which, amid loud cheers and waving
banners, ran into the station. The cars were opened and the whole
regiment poured out upon the platform, to which only the magistrates
and a few of the most distinguished citizens had been admitted.
After the first flood of official and friendly greetings was over,
Gerald von Steinach, who had his young wife leaning on his arm,
attempted to make his way through the throng, he too had seen many a
familiar face, pressed many a hand, and received numerous
congratulations, for through his comrades' letters his marriage was
already known in the garrison; but they were only the greetings of
strangers.
The arms which at his departure had clasped him with such anxious love
were not outstretched to him on his return; no mother waited to welcome
him home, and yet his whole heart was devoted to his mother and
hitherto he had been her all.
In this hour of universal joyous meeting the young officer felt, with
infinite grief, what he had lost. The parental home, which now opened
to every one, was closed to him and his young wife, and perhaps would
remain so forever. Much as he strove to conceal his depression he could
not entirely banish the cloud that rested on his brow, and Danira
guessed what he was missing; she best knew what his choice of a wife
had cost him. She instantly assented when he proposed withdrawing from
the crowd as soon as possible and driving to his lodgings in the city,
where the young couple intended to remain until the arrangements for
the future home had been made.
Behind them walked Jovica, who had travelled in the same compartment,
and George, who, though obliged to ride with his comrades, had shot
through the crowd like a rocket as soon as he arrived, to take the
place he considered his rightful property.
The young Slav now wore the Tyrolese peasant costume, which had been
obtained for her on the way, and in which she looked extremely pretty.
Her shining black hair was carefully arranged in braids, and her large
black eyes gazed curiously and joyously at the throng. But her
appearance was still extremely childish and entirely foreign; one could
see at the first glance that she belonged to a different race.
George walked with great importance by her side. He had not entrusted
his love affair to his lieutenant in vain, the latter's advocacy proved
very effective. Gerald and Danira had warmly espoused his cause, and,
during the journey, even won over Father Leonhard.
The priest, it is true, had no objection to Jovica personally; he had
himself become fond of his gentle, modest, docile pupil; but he still
shook his head doubtfully at the idea of seeing the "little pagan" the
mistress of the Moosbach Farm, and declared it to be impossible to
obtain the consent of George's parents, though he had promised his
mediation.
For the present the priest's attention was claimed by some
ecclesiastical brothers who had also been present at the reception of
the regiment in the station.
Gerald had just escaped from the throng, and was walking with Danira
toward the door, when both stopped as though rooted to the floor at the
sight of the young lady who was waiting there to meet them. The dainty,
graceful figure in the elegant travelling dress, the fair hair whose
curls escaped from beneath the little hat, the sparkling blue eyes--the
whole vision was so familiar and so dear. Gerald dropped the arm of his
wife, who stood pale and speechless. He intended to face the painful
meeting alone, but the young girl had already rushed to Danira and
flung both arms round her neck.
"Danira, you naughty runaway! So I am to find you again in the Tyrol."
"Edith, how came you here?" cried the young wife, in half-joyous,
half-startled tones. "Is it an accident?"
"Oh! no. I came especially to receive you. I wanted to bring you the
first greeting," replied Edith. She hesitated a few seconds, then
hastily turned and held out her hand to her former lover. "How do you
do, Gerald? Welcome home with your wife!"
Gerald bowed silently over the little hand that lay in his. He did not
feel its slight quiver when his lips pressed it. He only saw Edith's
blooming face, her smile, and a deep sigh of relief escaped him. Thank
God! Here at least he had caused no suffering as he had feared; here at
least forgiveness was proffered.
"Did you really come on our account?" cried Danira, with eager joy.
"Oh, you do not suspect what this welcome from your lips is to me--to
us both."
The young lady drew back a step, with a comic assumption of formality.
"Don't be so impetuous, madame! I have another important mission to
discharge, and must maintain my dignity as official ambassador. Castle
Steinach sends a greeting to its young master and mistress, and is
ready to receive them. They will find open hearts and arms there. Here
is a letter from your mother, Gerald; only a few lines, in which she
calls her son and daughter to her."
"Edith--this is impossible--is it your work?" cried Gerald, still
doubting as he took the note which bore his mother's handwriting.
"My first essay in diplomacy! I think it hasn't resulted so badly, and
it wasn't very easy either; for both aunt and papa were united against
me. But now you must let me have Danira to myself for half an hour,
Gerald. We must part again immediately, and I want to have her alone at
least once more."
"Part! Why, surely you will go with us?"
"No, I shall take the next express train and join my father in G. But
your mother expects you at Steinach this very day, and you ought not to
keep her waiting; great preparations have been made for your
reception."
Meanwhile Gerald had hastily torn open and glanced through the letter,
which he now handed to his wife. It really contained only a few lines,
but they confirmed Edith's words. It was the greeting of a mother
calling her children to her.
"How do you do, Fraeulein? I'm here again, too!" said George, taking
advantage of the momentary pause to introduce himself, and he saw with
satisfaction that he was not forgotten.
The old mischievous smile hovered round the young lady's lips as she
turned toward him.
"George Moosbach! Have you got safe back from Krivoscia? After all it
isn't quite so bad as you represented it, for I see you wear the medal
for courage. Listen, George, you make a great impression upon me as a
returning conqueror! What of the offer with which you once honored me?
I am now free again, and should not be wholly disinclined to become the
mistress of the Moosbach Farm."
"I thank you very kindly," stammered George, intensely confused. "I'm
very sorry, but--I'm already engaged."
With these words he pulled Jovica forward and presented her; but Edith
now burst into a merry laugh.
"Another Krivoscian? For Heaven's sake, did all the Imperial Chasseurs
get betrothed and married there? There will be a rebellion among the
Tyrolese girls. I think you are very inconsistent, George. You
protested that day, by everything you held dear, that you would marry
nobody but a Tyrolese, and made the sign of the cross as if you saw
Satan himself when I suggested the daughters of that country, whom you
preferred to dub 'savages.'"
"Fraeulein," replied George, solemnly, "there is nothing, not even in
this world, so bad that it has not one good thing. The only good thing
Krivoscia had was Jovica--and that I brought away with me."
"Well, I wish you and your Jovica every possible happiness. But now
come, Danira, that we may have at least half an hour's chat. Gerald
must give you up for that time. Come, we shall not be interrupted in
the waiting-room to-day."
She drew Danira away, while Gerald, who saw Father Leonhard coming
hastily went to him to tell him his unexpected and joyful news.
The little waiting-room was, in truth, perfectly empty; every one was
pressing toward the door of the station.
The two young ladies sat close together. Edith had put her arm around
her adopted sister in the old familiar way, and was laughing and
chatting continuously; but Danira could not be so easily deceived in
this respect as Gerald.
She herself loved, and knew that a love which had once taken root in
the heart cannot be so speedily forgotten. She said little, but her
eyes rested steadily on Edith's features.
The pretty face still seemed unchanged in bloom and brightness, but it
was only seeming. Around the little mouth was an expression all its
smiles were powerless to banish; an expression that told of secret
sorrow; and any one gazing deep into the blue eyes could see the shadow
in them. The vivacious gaiety still remained, but it was no longer the
mirth of a glad careless child who had known no grief. In the midst of
all the jesting there sometimes echoed a tone which sounded as if the
speaker were striving to repress tears.
At such a moment Danira suddenly clasped both the young girl's hands
and said softly:
"Cease jesting, Edith. I have caused you pain. I could not help doing
so; but, believe me, I have myself suffered most. I felt so deeply
wounded when you sent me no answer.
"Are you angry about it? I could not----"
"No, you could not answer then--I ought to have understood."
A burning blush suddenly crimsoned Edith's face, and she tried to avoid
the gaze whose secret scrutiny she felt.
"At first papa would not allow it," she said hastily. "He wanted to
forbid my writing to you at all and I yielded; but before we left
Cattaro I was firmly resolved to bring you the answer in this form.
True, my courage fell when we accepted Baroness von Steinach's pressing
invitation to spend a few days with her, for matters looked very badly
at the castle. Gerald was under a ban, and you, too. No one was
permitted to mention your names, and papa fanned the fire. So long as
he remained I could do nothing, but I managed to have him go to his
garrison alone and leave me behind."
"And then you interceded for us?"
"Fairly intrigued, according to the very best rules of diplomacy. I was
myself amazed at the talent I suddenly developed. The baroness tried to
console me for my lost lover, but I turned the tables by energetically
taking her to task for her hard-heartedness. I tried to put the affair
in the right light by making her consider that you are really a
Krivoscian princess."
"Oh, Edith!"
"Well, isn't it true? Your father was chief of his tribe, your brother
is its head now. Chief, prince, king--it all comes to the same thing in
the end. I made this clear to the baroness, and would have traced your
lineage back to Mahomet--oh dear, no, that wouldn't do, you are a
Christian--or to Saint George himself. I told her so much about your
father's heroic deeds that she became filled with reverence, and then I
gave her your letter to me and made her admire your own courage and
Gerald's rescue at the Vila spring. That shook the fortress, and when I
stormed it with an appeal to her maternal love and Gerald's letters
were produced again, it yielded. You see I am not a degenerate daughter
of my father; my first campaign ended with victory along the whole
line."
The young wife sat silently with down-cast eyes. She felt the
generosity of this conduct and at the same time realized how greatly
she had formerly undervalued Edith.
"And I must not even thank you!" she said with passionate fervor. "You
want to escape our gratitude and leave us this very hour. Must it be?"
"I must go to papa, who expects me. Don't prevent me, Danira, I--cannot
stay."
She tried to smile again, but this time she did not succeed, her lips
only quivered and she was obliged to turn away to force back the rising
tears. Then she felt Danira's arms clasp her, and her lips pressed to
hers.
"Edith, don't try to deceive me like the others. I know what your brave
championship of our happiness has cost you, and how you have suffered.
You may surely confess it to me."
Edith did not contradict her. She only hid her face on Danira's
shoulder, but how the tears streamed from her eyes!
"It was nothing," she sobbed. "A child's foolish dream--nothing more.
Don't tell Gerald I have been crying--promise to say nothing to him--he
ought not, must not know."
"Be calm, he shall learn nothing. It is enough for me to endure the
grief of having robbed you of your happiness."
"No!" Edith's tears suddenly ceased as she started up. "No, Danira, I
should not have been happy with him. I felt from the first moment that
he did not love me, and knew it the instant he flamed into such
passionate defence of you. He never had that look and tone for me; you
first taught them to him. Is it not true that he can love ardently and
make his wife infinitely happy?"
"Yes," replied Danira, softly, but the one word told enough.
Edith turned hastily away toward the window.
"There is the signal for the train! We have only a few minutes; let us
bid each other farewell! Don't look so mournful, Danira, and don't
grieve about me. I have no intention of going into a convent or
sorrowing all my life. It must be delightful to devote yourself heart
and soul to the man of your choice, but that destiny isn't allotted to
everybody. It can't be done, as George says."
Just at that moment Gerald entered to tell them that the train was
coming. He saw a bright face and heard only gay, cordial parting words.
A few minutes after, Edith was seated in the car, nodding one more
farewell through the window; then the train rolled on again and
instantly disappeared from the gaze of those left behind.
George had quitted the station with Jovica to take her to his
lieutenant's lodgings, where she was to wait for Danira.
There was an immense throng in the great open square outside. All the
country people had flocked thither, each one trying to find his or her
relatives among the returning soldiers. Everywhere were joyous
meetings, shouts of delight, clasping of hands, and embracing, and
whoever got into the midst of the residents of his native village, who
usually went in troops, was almost stifled with tokens of friendship.
George had hitherto escaped this fate, but now a portly farmer and his
equally corpulent wife, worked their way through the throng straight
toward him, shouting his name while still a long distance off.
"By all the saints! there are my parents!" cried the young Tyrolese,
joyously. "Did you really take the long journey here? Yes, here I am,
alive and kicking, and have brought my whole head back with me! That's
saying something, when a fellow returns from Krivoscia."
The farmer and his wife instantly seized upon their son and wanted him
to walk between them, but Jovica, who, during the exchange of
greetings, had remained behind him, now suddenly appeared. She had been
frightened by the noise and crowd that surrounded her on all sides, and
when she saw that her George was to be taken away she clung to his arm,
beseeching him in the Slavonic tongue not to leave her.
The parents looked greatly surprised at the sudden appearance of the
young girl who clung so confidingly to their son. Luckily Jovica's
extremely childish figure prevented them from suspecting the real
relation between the pair.
Yet the farmer frowned, and his wife said slowly: "What does this
mean?"
"This means--this is what I've brought back from my journey," replied
George, who saw a storm rising which he wished for the present to
avoid. Yet he did not release "what he had brought," but held her
firmly by the hand.
"What does this mean? How came you by the child?" cried the farmer
angrily, and his wife sharply added:
"The girl looks like a gipsy! Where did you pick her up! Out with the
whole story."
Jovica, who during the journey had greatly enlarged her knowledge of
the language, understood that the people before her were George's
parents, but she also perceived their unkind reception. Tears filled
her dark eyes, and she timidly repeated the words of greeting she had
been taught "How do you do?" But the foreign accent completely enraged
the mother.
"She can't even speak German," she cried furiously. "That's a pretty
thing! Do you mean to bring her to us at the Moosbach Farm?"
"I won't have it!" said the farmer emphatically. "We want no foreign
gipsies in the house. Let the girl go, and come with us; we're going
home."
But George was not the man to leave his Jovica in the lurch. He only
drew her closer to his side and answered with resolute defiance:
"Where the girl stays I shall stay, and if she cannot come to the farm
I'll never return home. You must not scold me about Jovica, my dear
parents, for, to tell the truth, I have chosen her for my wife."
His parents stood as if they had been struck by a thunderbolt, staring
at their son as though they thought people might lose not only their
heads but their wits in Krivoscia. Then a storm burst forth on both
sides; it was fortunate that, in the general rejoicing, each person was
absorbed in his own friends, and everybody was shouting and talking as
loud in delight as Farmer Moosbach and his wife in their wrath, or
there would have been a great excitement.
At last George, by dint of his powerful lungs, succeeded in obtaining a
hearing.
"Give me a chance to speak for once!" he cried. "You don't know Jovica
at all; she's a splendid girl, and even if she is still a pagan--"
He went no further. The thoughtless fellow had used the worst possible
expedient. His mother fairly shrieked aloud in horror at the fatal
word, and the farmer crossed himself in the face of his future
daughter-in-law.
"A pagan! Heaven help us! He wants to bring a pagan into the house.
George, you are possessed by the devil!"
Jovica was trembling from head to foot. She saw only too plainly that
she was the object of this aversion and began to weep bitterly, which
destroyed the last remnant of George's patience.
"My dear parents," he shouted, with a furious gesture, as if he longed
to knock the "dear parents" down, "I've always been an obedient son,
but if you receive my future wife so, may a million--"
"George!" cried Jovica, anxiously seizing his uplifted arm with both
hands. "George!"
"Yes, indeed--with all filial respect of course," growled George,
instantly controlling himself when he heard her voice; but his parents
were not soothed, and the quarrel was just kindling anew when Father
Leonhard appeared, the crowd reverently making way for him. He
hurriedly answered the joyous greetings proffered to him on all sides,
and walked hastily up to the disputing family; for he saw that his
presence was most needed there.
"God be with you. Farmer Moosbach," he said. "You and your wife are
doubtless rejoicing to have your son back again. He has done well and
fought bravely in the campaign, as you see by the medal on his breast."
"Help us, your reverence!" said the mother piteously. "Our boy is
bewitched. He has brought home a pagan, a Turk, a witch, and wants to
marry her."
"Look at the brown-skinned creature yonder, your reverence," the farmer
chimed in with a wrathful laugh. "That's the future mistress of the
Moosbach Farm. Say yourself whether George hasn't lost his senses. That
is--"
"My pupil, to whom I taught the Christian religion, and who in a short
time will receive the holy rite of baptism," said Father Leonhard with
marked emphasis, laying his hand kindly with a protecting gesture, on
the head of the weeping girl. "You need not reproach your son so
harshly; it is principally due to him that this young soul has been won
over to Christianity."
George's mother listened intently to the last words. She was a pious
woman and perceived that, if George had such praiseworthy designs, he
certainly could not be possessed by the devil. The farmer too was
somewhat softened, and muttered:
"That's a different matter! But the girl doesn't come into my house."
"Then I'll take Jovica and go straight back with her to Krivoscia among
the savages!" cried George with desperate energy. "I'd rather keep
goats with her all my life than live at Moosbach Farm without her.
True, they'll cut off my nose up there and both ears to boot, that's
the custom among these barbarians when a new member is admitted, but no
matter--I'll bear it for Jovica's sake."
The threat made some impression, especially on the mother, who now
heard of this terrible custom for the first time. She clasped her hands
in horror and looked at her George's nose, which suited his face so
well, but the father angrily exclaimed:
"You'll do no such thing! You'll stay here in Tyrol among Christian
people."
"Silence, George!" said Father Leonhard to the young soldier, who was
about to make a defiant answer. "Do you want at the first moment of
meeting to irritate your parents against you? Let me talk with them.
Come, Farmer Moosbach, and you, too, dame, we will discuss the matter
quietly; you have been speaking so loud that everybody is listening."
The attention of the bystanders had indeed been attracted, and George's
last words were heard by a large circle of listeners, in whose minds
they inspired positive terror. Father Leonhard now drew the parents
aside with him and thus the dispute ended, but the report ran like
wildfire from lip to lip that George Moosbach had brought home a
Turkish girl, whom he wanted to marry, and he intended to have his nose
and ears cut off directly after, because that was the custom at pagan
weddings.
George did not trouble himself about all this, for Jovica was still
weeping, and he at present was trying to comfort her.
"You and no one else will be the mistress of Moosbach Farm," he
protested. "Don't cry, Jovica; you see Father Leonhard has taken the
matter in hand, so it is half accomplished. A priest can manage
everything in our country."
And the priest did not disappoint the confidence reposed in him. True,
Father Leonhard had a hard struggle with the angry parents, and it
required all their respect for his office to induce them to permit his
mediation at all, but he knew how to strike the right chord at once. He
explained to them that the object here was to save a soul for heaven,
that it was really very meritorious in George to desire to transform
the poor pagan girl whom he had found into a Christian wife, and that a
share in this blessed work was allotted to them, the parents.
This produced an effect first on the mother, who was really in mortal
terror lest her son might fall into paganism if he returned to the
wilderness.
Farmer Moosbach and his wife were pious Tyrolese, and the priest's
interposition in behalf of the young lovers had great weight with them.
To have their heir woo a young foreign orphan, a poor girl, seemed to
them something unprecedented, impossible. But since he desired at the
same time to convert a pagan to Christianity and save a soul for
heaven, the whole affair assumed a different shape. That would be
talked of far and wide, and surround the Moosbach Farm with an actual
halo of sanctity.
When, in conclusion, Father Leonhard spoke of Gerald's marriage
and his mother's consent--wisely maintaining silence about her
previous opposition--both his hearers became very thoughtful. If
the proud Baroness von Steinach made no objection to a Krivoscian
daughter-in-law, plain peasant-folk might surely agree to it.
After repeated and eager discussions they finally sent for their
refractory son and heir, who speedily appeared before the tribunal.
"George, you will now go home with your parents and behave like an
obedient son," said Father Leonhard, gravely. "When you have taken off
your uniform you must prove yourself to be a capable farmer. Meanwhile
Jovica will stay with young Frau von Steinach in order to learn German
and become familiar with the customs of our country. Next month I
intend to confer upon her the holy rite of baptism--your parents have
promised to act as god-father and god-mother."
"Yes, your reverence, but you must make it a very grand affair, so that
it will be talked of throughout the country," said farmer Moosbach, and
his wife added:
"And all the priests in the neighborhood must be present,"
George expressed his joy in a jump that was sadly opposed to dignity
and respect; then he eagerly kissed the priest's hand.
"Your reverence, I'll never forget this as long as I live! I said that
a priest could set everything straight. Hurrah for the young mistress
of Moosbach Farm!"
Half an hour later Gerald and his wife set out on their journey to
Castle Steinach.
Jovica sat beside the coachman. Her tears were dried, and she looked
extremely happy, for George had of course found time, before his
departure, to come to her and tell the successful result of the dispute
and the no less delightful fact that Moosbach Farm was only fifteen
minutes' walk from Castle Steinach.
The carriage drove swiftly through the sunny valley of the Adige, which
to-day seemed to have decked itself in the full radiance of its beauty
to greet the returning son and his young wife. The wide landscape was
steeped in golden sunlight, one vast vineyard, which was surrounded by
a chain of villages like a garland, stretching upward even to the
castles everywhere visible on the heights. The river, sparkling and
glittering, also rippled a welcome, mountains towered aloft, the
distant peaks veiled in blue mist, the nearer ones clothed with dark
forests, while from the highest summits the gleam of snow was seen from
the valley, to which the warm, soft south wind lent all the splendor of
a southern clime.
"Is not my native land beautiful?" asked Gerald, with sparkling eyes.
"Shall you miss your home here?"
"I shall miss nothing--with you," said the young wife, looking up at
him with a smile.
"It shall be my care to make the new home dear to you. Yet I sometimes
feel a secret dread that the old conflict may be renewed. You made me
realize so long and so painfully, my Danira, that your people were
hostile to mine."
"They have now concluded a treaty of peace, like ourselves. No, Gerald,
you need not fear. All that I had to conquer and subdue was vanquished
on that night of storm when I went from the Vila spring to the fort.
The hardest choice was placed before me, a choice far more difficult
than the decision between life and death. I chose your rescue--was not
that enough?"
"Yet, even after that rescue, you intended to sacrifice your life and
our happiness to an illusion. You would have been lost had that
confession escaped your lips--and you were going to speak."
"It was no illusion, it would have been only an atonement," said
Danira, with deep emotion. "I knew that Marco would resist any attack,
and if a battle had ensued, if the blood of my people had been shed by
you--I had summoned the enemy, the guilt would have been mine. That
blood would have separated us forever. I could not have lived with such
a memory. Then a higher power uttered Marco's doom and my pardon. No
battle was fought; even the fierce sons of our mountains saw in that
sign what I recognized--a judgment of God."