THE SUITOR.
Richard entered the Plankenhorst house with the ease and freedom of a
man visiting old friends. He did not note the expression of amazement
and terror--as if at sight of a ghost--with which the mother and
daughter stared at him. He had eyes only for Edith, who, beside
herself with joy, sprang to embrace him, stammering as she lay on his
bosom: "Richard, is it really you?"
The baroness was the first to regain her composure. "Edith," said she
severely, turning to her niece, "I cannot understand your immodest
behaviour toward this gentleman. What do you wish, sir?" she asked
coldly of Richard.
The young man advanced to Alfonsine and addressed her in words of
sincere gratitude and friendliness. "First of all," he began, "it was
to pay a debt of heartfelt gratitude that I hastened hither this
morning. At daybreak I was to have been executed as a condemned
criminal, but at the last moment I was pardoned. The governor, in
remitting my sentence and setting me free, enjoined upon me as my
first duty to pay you, my dear young lady, my sincere thanks for my
freedom. Without your intervention I should have been sentenced to at
least fifteen years' imprisonment. Accept, I beg you, my warmest
thanks for your kind act."
Every one of his words was a crushing blow on the viper's head. Did he
thank her, Alfonsine Plankenhorst, for his liberation, he whose
destruction had been the end and aim of all her strivings for weeks
and months past, and the sweet vision of her nightly dreams?
Her mother, whose self-control was greater than her own, was forced to
come to her aid.
"My dear sir," said she to Richard, "there must be some mistake here.
The service which you ascribe to my daughter cannot have been rendered
by any member of my family, for the simple reason that we have not
concerned ourselves with your affairs in the slightest degree. We live
in strict retirement, meet no one, never meddle in politics, and our
drawing-rooms are closed to society. This last I beg leave to
emphasise for your benefit."
"I understand you perfectly, madam, and I can assure you that this is
the last time I shall intrude upon you. A few words more and I have
done. You will remember that a year and a half ago I became engaged to
your niece--"
"An engagement which, of course, must now be considered as broken
off," interrupted the baroness. "When you asked for my niece's hand
you were an officer in the army, a man of property, and a nobleman.
Now, however, you are neither."
"But I am still Richard Baradlay," returned the young man, with
dignity.
"And free as a bird!" added the other, scornfully. "But it so happens
that the other party to the engagement is not equally free. Miss Edith
Liedenwall is bound to comply with the wishes of her relatives on whom
she is dependent, and they consider it their duty to discountenance
her engagement to Mr. Richard Baradlay. She feels, too, that she has a
perfect right to break the engagement and choose again more wisely."
"I beg to ask Miss Liedenwall whether that is so?"
Edith shook her head, but did not venture to speak.
Her aunt was bent on settling the matter once for all. "Edith will do
as we think best for her," said she. "We are not only entitled, but in
duty bound, to make wise provision for her future. You, sir, are now
too late with your wooing. We provided for her while you were still in
prison and little likely ever to see your freedom. My niece is
promised to another."
Edith started from her chair. "Your niece will give her hand only to
the man she loves," she declared, firmly.
"Edith," commanded her aunt, without losing her composure, "let us not
have a scene, if you please. You are my foster-daughter and I have a
lawful right to demand obedience of you."
"I will not be your foster-daughter any longer," cried the young lady,
asserting herself resolutely; "I will go into service, for which I
have been trained in your house. As chambermaid or kitchen girl I can
give my hand to whom I choose."
"You will not be allowed to execute your threat, my dear," returned
the baroness calmly. "You are under very good care here, and things
will take their orderly and proper course until you are called upon to
kneel at the altar; and should you choose to weep while pledging your
vows there, your tears would be merely regarded as a fitting
accompaniment to the solemn ceremonial."
"But I should not weep," cried the girl, excitedly; "I should do
something very different. If you really found a man who consented to
marry me to please you and against my will, I should say to him,
before he led me to the altar, that I once ran away from a
convent,--ran away in the night and made my way to the camp where my
lover was, in whose room I passed half the night. Some of his
comrades, as well as the market-woman in Singer Street, saw me there,
and all the nuns in the St. Bridget Convent know about it. Sister
Remigia knows that I ran away and where I was. The marks of the
punishment I received the next day are still visible. And now, madam,
do you wish another than the man for whom I bear those scars to see
them?"
Passionate scorn and maidenly indignation spoke in the girl's every
look and gesture. Richard was struck dumb with admiration. The
baroness fairly choked with amazement and impotent wrath. Of what she
had just heard she had entertained not the slightest suspicion. She
felt her self-control and will-power slipping away from her in the
determined girl's presence; yet she made one last attempt to carry her
point.
"You wretched girl!" she cried, clasping her hands and turning her
eyes heavenward; "alas, that you should have so far forgotten
yourself! Do you know that you have fallen a victim to an unprincipled
seducer? This man here whom you claim to be your betrothed is already
married to another woman, who, of course, has rights that take
precedence of yours, and who will drive you from his side with
reviling and insult."
"I--married already?" gasped Richard, in amazement.
"Yes, you!" retorted the baroness. "Or do you choose to deny that you
have a son in Pest over whom you watch with tender care, whose
education you pay for, and whom you sent to the hospital when he was
ill? Deny that, sir, if you can!"
"So you drag a poor innocent child into our unfortunate quarrel," said
Richard.
"The child is innocent, but not its father," returned the accuser,
pointing her finger at Richard.
"Very well, madam, I will tell you the story of this child. It
happened not long ago that I mortally wounded a brave opponent in
battle. This man summoned me to him in his dying hour and told me he
had, somewhere in the world, a son whom he had long sought in vain,
but traces of whom he had recently discovered. The mother had
abandoned the child. He begged me to promise that I would find the
boy, and I did so, assuring him that I would care for the poor waif as
tenderly as if he were my own brother's child. Accordingly, I
prosecuted the search and was at last successful. I have in my
possession certain letters and other papers which establish the
child's identity and parentage."
Baroness Plankenhorst and her daughter were trembling in every limb
and seemed powerless to utter a word. Meanwhile the speaker went on,
standing proudly erect as he proceeded:
"But I promised my dying adversary never to betray the mother's name
to any one, and you may rest assured I never shall."
Edith approached her lover and said, with great gentleness: "Whoever
the mother may be of the child to which you have promised to be a
father, I will be its mother." And she leaned fondly on his breast and
rested her head on his shoulder.
Her aunt, vanquished and prostrate, raised her hand as if in
malediction and muttered hoarsely:
"Take her then and begone, in the devil's name!"