A WOMAN'S REVENGE.
"Aranka, my dear girl, if you are looking for your father, you will
look in vain; he won't come back. My husband has just received a
letter from Pest. He says your dear father's affair is going badly.
The consistory forbids his appearing in the pulpit, and he has been
summoned to Vienna. He will be sentenced to ten years, at least, and
sent to Kufstein. Yes, my dear, there's no help for it. But you
mustn't weep so. There is a good Father in heaven, and he will care
for the forsaken. God be with you, my dear!"
With this cheerful morning greeting the wife of Michael SzalmAis, the
notary, saluted the pastor's daughter, as the latter came to the door
of the little parsonage for the hundredth time and looked up the
street along which she had seen her father drive away two weeks
before.
The young girl went back into the house, sat down at her work-table,
and resumed her sewing. She had hardly done so, however, when a
carriage drove up and stopped in front of the parsonage. She sprang
to her feet and hastened joyfully to the door. Was it really her
father come back to her? Upon opening the door she started back in
surprise. Not her father, but the widowed Baroness Baradlay, dressed
in deep mourning, which accentuated her pallor, stood before Aranka.
The girl bowed and kissed with deep respect the offered hand of the
high-born lady.
"Good morning, my child," said the visitor. "I have come to have a
talk with you on certain matters that must be settled between us."
Aranka offered the lady a seat on the sofa. The widow motioned to the
girl to be seated opposite her.
"First," she began, "I must inform you, to my great regret, that your
father has got into trouble on account of his prayer at my husband's
funeral. I am sorry, but it can't be helped. He will probably lose his
pastorate, and that is not the worst of it."
"Then the rumours that we hear are true," sighed the girl.
"Even his personal liberty is in danger," continued the lady. "He may
be imprisoned, and if so, you will not see him for a long time."
Aranka bowed in silence.
"What will you do when you are left alone and thrown upon your own
resources?"
"I am prepared for the worst," was the calm reply.
"Pray look upon me as your well-wisher and would-be benefactress,"
said the widow. "My bereavement is the indirect cause of your
misfortune, which I should like to make as light for you as possible.
Speak to me unreservedly, my child. Whither will you go, and what do
you intend to do? I will help you all I can."
"I shall stay here, madam," returned the other, straightening herself
with dignity and calmly meeting her visitor's look.
"But you cannot remain here, my dear, for the parsonage will be handed
over to another."
"My father owns a small house in the village; I will move into it."
"And how will you support yourself?"
"I will work and earn money."
"But your work will command only a mere pittance."
"I shall be content with little."
"And when your father is held in confinement in a strange city, shall
you not wish to be near him? You may count on my aid; I will provide
for your support."
"I thank you, madam, but if I must be alone I can endure my loneliness
better here than in a strange place; and if I am to be separated from
my father, it is all one whether a wall three feet thick parts us, or
a distance of thirty miles."
"But I wish to make amends, as far as possible, for the misfortune
which my bereavement has indirectly brought upon you. I will make such
provision for you as to render you independent. Being a
fellow-sufferer in my loss, you shall also share a portion of my
wealth. Put your trust in me."
The girl only shook her head, without speaking.
"But pray remember," pursued the baroness, "that good friends forsake
us in misfortune, and all are but too prone to censure the
unfortunate, if only as an excuse for withholding their aid. You are
young and beautiful now, but sorrow ages a person very rapidly. In a
new environment you would meet with new people, while here every word
and look is sure to injure and distress you. Accept my proffered
assistance, and you shall at all times find a friend and protectress
in me."
At this the girl rose to her feet. "I thank you, madam," said she,
"for your kindness; but I shall remain here, even if I have to go into
service in some peasant's family in order to earn my bread. You know
the history of this ring,"--showing the ring which she wore on the
little finger of her left hand. "This ring holds me here, immovable.
He who placed it on my finger said to me, as he did so: 'I am going
out now into the world as a wandering pilgrim; I am driven forth; but
whithersoever fate may lead me, I shall circle around this spot as a
planet about its sun. Do you, however, stay here. I shall come back to
you some day. Therefore, madam, you will understand that I cannot go
away; that no promises, no threats can move me. I will suffer want, if
I must, but I will remain here."
Baroness Baradlay now rose from her seat also, and took in her own the
girl's hand on which was the ring. "Do you, then, love my son?" she
asked; "and don't you believe that I love him too? One of us must give
him up. Which shall it be?"
Aranka, in despair, sought to free her hand; but the other held it
fast. "Oh, dear madam," she cried, "why do you ask me that question?
Whichever one of us dies first will give him up. Do you wish to make
me take my own life?"
The widow released Aranka's hand and stood looking into her eyes with
a kindly smile. "No," she replied, "I wish him to belong to both of
us. He shall be yours, and you shall be mine. You shall be my
daughter. Come home with me and keep me company until my son returns;
then you shall love each other, while I will content myself with what
crumbs of love you may have to spare."
The young girl could not believe her ears; she thought she must be
dreaming. "Oh, madam," she cried, "what you say is too beautiful to
be true. I cannot understand it."
The baroness sighed. "Is my face then so cold," she asked, "and my
voice so chill, that you cannot think me capable of wishing your
happiness? But I will convince you." So saying, she drew the girl to
her side on the sofa and took a letter from her bosom. "Look here,"
said she, "I have just received a letter from Russia, from my son,
whom I have called home from St. Petersburg. I restrained my desire to
open this letter, and brought it to you, that you might open it and
read it to me. Are you aware what that means in a mother?"
Aranka bowed her head and touched the other's hand with her lips.
"There, take the letter," said the baroness, "and read it aloud. You
know the writing?"
Aranka received the letter, but had no sooner looked at the address
than the glad smile vanished from her face. She shook her head and
turned her large eyes with surprised inquiry upon the baroness.
"What is the matter?" asked the latter.
"That is not his writing," stammered the girl.
"What do you say?" demanded the other. "Let me look again; I ought to
know my son's handwriting. That is his _B_; that strong downward
stroke, the manly firmness in every letter--"
"Are very cleverly imitated," interrupted Aranka, completing the
sentence.
"But look again," urged the baroness; "the very words of the
address--_A ma trA"s-adorable mA"re_--can only have been written by my
son. Open the letter and you will be convinced."
A look of joy lighted up the young girl's face when the beginning of
the letter met her eyes. "That is really his writing,--'My dear
mother.'"
"There, didn't I tell, you so!" declared the other in triumph.
But, as when a cloud suddenly passes over the sun, Aranka's bright
face lost its radiance the next moment.
"What is it this time?" asked the baroness.
"Only those first three words are in his hand; the rest is written by
some one else, and in French."
"By some one else? Oh, read quickly!"
The letter trembled in the girl's hands. "'Dear madam,'" she read;
"'forgive the well-meant deception committed by me on the cover of
this letter. To spare you unnecessary alarm, I have imitated my
friend's handwriting--for which I must go to the galleys if you betray
me. A-dAśn wished to write himself, but after the first three words the
pen fell from his hand. He is still very weak. Don't be alarmed,
however. He was in great danger, but is now happily on the road to
recovery. In two weeks more he will be able to resume his journey.'"
"He was in great danger!" exclaimed the anxious mother. "Oh, read on,
read on!" Despite her own agitation, she did not fail to note how
deeply the girl was affected. Aranka was forced to use the utmost
self-command in order to go on with the letter.
"'I will write you everything without reserve, just as it occurred.
When A-dAśn received your letter calling him home, he dropped everything
and hastened to set out. I resolved to accompany him as far as the
border, but would that I had not! Then he would have stopped over at
Smolensk, and would not have been overtaken by a snow-storm; we should
not have been chased by wolves and compelled to save our lives by
skating for two hours down the Dnieper.
"'Your son A-dAśn, my dear madam, is a son to be proud of. When one of
my skates came off in the course of our headlong flight, and I was
left helpless by the accident, he turned, single-handed, against our
pursuers, and, with dagger and pistols, warded them off while I
buckled on my skate again. He killed four of the pack, and I owe it to
him that I am now alive.'"
This praise of her son brought a flush of pride to the mother's cheek;
but she saw that the maiden's colour left her face entirely as she
read on, and that her agitation nearly made her drop the letter. The
girl's love was not that of the Spartan mother, and the heroic deed of
daring dismayed her while it delighted the other.
"'Then we resumed our flight, and it was a race for life, with a pack
of two hundred wolves at our heels.'"
"Heavens!" exclaimed the mother, herself now greatly alarmed. Aranka
read on with halting accents.
"'We were nearing a place of refuge,--a military guard-house,--when we
came to a dangerous spot, where some fishermen had cut a hole in the
ice. Not noticing the place, as it was frozen over with a thin sheet
of ice, we broke through and sank.'"
"Merciful God!" cried the baroness, losing her self-control. Aranka
sank back in a faint and was with difficulty restored to consciousness
by the ministrations of her companion. At length the two, holding the
letter before them both, read on in silence.
"My amulet saved my life. It was a parting gift from my mother, and I
had tried to induce my friend to wear it, but he would not. 'My stars
are my protection,' said he, and confessed that his stars were loving
women's eyes. When we had been rescued from our cold bath by the
fishermen, I remained constantly by A-dAśn's side until he was able to
answer my question, 'Do your stars still shine upon you?' 'All four of
them,' said he."
At this each of the readers felt the electric thrill that ran through
the other.
"A-dAśn was taken with a fever as a result of this
mishap, but he is now happily over the worst of it. I
am at his side night and day. This morning he was
determined to write a letter, but it was too much for
him, as you see. I was obliged to take the pen and
write for him. He is entirely out of danger, and in two
weeks we shall resume our journey. Until then I beg
A-dAśn's stars not to weep on his account; for under
Russian skies star-tears turn to snow, and of snow we
have already more than enough.
"LEONIN RAMIROFF."
The two pairs of stars looked at each other and beamed with heavenly
joy. Baroness Baradlay drew Aranka to her and kissed her on the
forehead, whispering tenderly: "My daughter!"