Agenor was still under the excitement of this interview when he went to
the appointment with Judith. "The reptile!" he muttered, as he
descended the steps into the park, clenching his fists until the nails
penetrated the flesh. "I must shake off this toad, who is defiling both
Judith and myself."
But as he walked hurriedly through the rustling leaves towards the pine
_allee_, the only one that could afford a shelter at this season of the
year, his anger gradually evaporated, until he felt but one sensation,
that of longing for Judith's sweet presence.
"I will tell her everything," he thought, "and she must choose for
herself;" and the thought found expression in words even, but he felt
he only uttered them to keep to his resolution. After he had waited a
half-hour, there was only one word which he continually and hoarsely
repeated, as if in a delirium--"Come! Come!"
At last he heard her swift step among the leaves, and caught sight of
her dress glinting among the trees. She came hastily, with a glowing
face. The lace mantilla she had wrapped about her head had become
partly undone, and fluttered over her auburn hair.
"At last!" he murmured, rushing to meet her. She stood still, and when
she saw his passionate face a trembling seized her limbs, and she
stretched out her hands imploringly.
He scarcely observed it. "At last!" he repeated, catching the
half-resisting girl in his arms, while his lips sought hers till he
found them.
But only for a moment, for then she released herself. "Please do not
make it harder for me than it is, for now it is bitter enough; but--"
"Why, what is the matter? You were not like this yesterday, you--"
"Then it is all right?" she asked, wiping her wet eyes and struggling
to smile. "You have kissed me and we belong to each other for life."
This was said with such trust and earnestness that Agenor was touched
to the quick. His arm dropped which was about to embrace her again.
"You dear love," he said, falteringly, "certainly we belong to each
other. Nothing can part us again, Judith--nothing. And I shall do all
that lies in my power to keep you from ever repenting it." He could
safely promise that, for it was his firm resolve. "I love you as I
never loved before."
A happy smile lit up her face, yet her eyes were filled with tears. "I
believe you. Would I be here if I had one moment's doubt of your honor?
Would I have come yesterday? No, I should be sitting in my own room,
weeping my eyes out for my misfortune in loving a man who had no love
for me--who would not make me his wife. And perhaps," she continued
shrilly, "I could not endure life with such shame and misery at my
heart."
"Judith," he said, startled, "what thoughts are these?"
"Silly ones, I know. But see how much has happened these past few days.
I am quite changed. I do not think it ever occurred to any girl before.
I have no control over my own heart; it commands me, and I must come to
you and be caressed, and caress you in turn. It is the same with my
thoughts. They roam about in wild confusion. I am only quiet when I
think of you. For I know you--"
"And yet," he said, looking at her tenderly, "you must have wept much
since yesterday!"
"Are you surprised?" She asked this with a sorrowful smile. "Remember,
my father and brother love me, and I love them. How startled they will
be when you ask for my hand, and how it will distress them for me to
become a Christian! Perhaps I may lose their hearts forever. They may
never wish to have any more to do with me. You do not know what it
means with us to change our faith. In our parish there is a poor old
widow, Miriam Gold, who earns her living as a nurse. Her husband was a
village publican, and her only daughter fell in love with a peasant,
became a Christian, and married him. The father died of grief at the
disgrace and from the sneers of our co-religionists, and the mother
leads a wretched life. Had my father not interfered in her behalf, she
would have perished. She, too, has cast off her daughter, and scarcely
ever mentions her. She herself told me to-day that she had not spoken
of her for years."
The count listened, his mind filled with contending emotions. "What,
to-day?" he asked, in surprise.
"Just now. The reason I was so late was that she begged me to allow her
to tell her story. Perhaps," drawing a deep breath--"perhaps it was no
coincidence. She knows my position, and wishes to warn me. If so, my
father may hear of it, and that would be a bad thing. Honesty demands
he should hear it from us first, not from others. If you preferred, I
could tell him myself."
"I must have time for consideration," replied the count. "I should like
to spare you needless strife."
"Be upright," whispered his conscience. "You are a scoundrel if you are
silent now." But how could he do it, and how would she receive it? Only
just now she had said: "Perhaps I could not endure to go on living."
"Needless quarrels simply embitter the life," he resumed, mechanically.
"See, Judith, how I love you."
"I know it, and because I know it I will be still, and leave it to you
as to how and when you will speak with my father. Of course, if he asks
me, I must tell him the truth. You must surely realize it is hard for
me; and since you love me, you must not expect to meet me in secret. If
you only knew how I felt yesterday and to-day before I came. I knew it
was not right, and I felt the shame burning my cheeks, and the bright
daylight hurt me. Still, I came--I had to. I was drawn as if with
chains; for I love you, I love you!"
As she stood before him, her glowing, face drooping over her heaving
bosom, he lost what little self-possession he had, and his conscience
was deadened by the rushing of blood in his ears. He pressed her to
him, covering head, face, and clothes with kisses, till after a few
minutes she tore herself away.
"I have tolerated it," she said, breathlessly, "because it is the last
time before your formal proposal. Farewell!"
"May I not accompany you?" he begged, endeavoring to pass his arm about
her shoulders.
She shook her head in silence, and hurried away. Once again she looked
back. He stood as she had left him, gazing after her with ravening
eyes. She waved her handkerchief, and hastened on. As she passed into
the street which led through the town to her home, she hesitated. It
seemed impossible to go along under everybody's eyes; it seemed as if
every one must see the kisses that still burned on her cheeks. She
slipped into a foot-path that led along in the rear of the houses, sat
down on a bench, and gave full vent to the tears that rained down her
face. This soothed her, and she went on her way, entering the house by
the back door.
Her father's carriage was standing in the court-yard, so he had
probably returned. The old servant, who had carried her in her arms,
met her in the hall. Poor old Sarah was very white, and trembled in
every limb. "There you are at last!" she almost screamed, wringing her
hands. "O God! merciful God! why did you let me live to see this come
to pass?"
Judith, too, grew white as the wall, against which she leaned. But the
weakness passed away in a moment, and she asked: "Where is my father?"
"In the reception-room. But you cannot see him yet. The burgomaster is
there, and is telling him the whole story. I have just heard it from
the magistrate's cook. Oh! child, what--"
"You will let me know when he is alone," interrupted Judith; and she
went to her room.
She had to wait a long time; in her present state of mind it was an
intolerably long time. For the burgomaster was a good old simpleton, so
he thought it expedient to tell Nathaniel what all the town knew; and
he was also a gifted orator. Therefore, he began with a discourse on
friendship, followed by another on the corrupt morals of recent times,
until finally the poor old father discovered the drift of the whole. It
was ghastly to see him sitting in his arm-chair, pale as death, and
motionless, except when he occasionally passed his hand over his
silvery beard.
"Thanks," he said, when the speaker had at last ended. His voice was
hoarse, but otherwise he spoke slowly and deliberately as usual. "You
have intended for the best. But now for the chief point. Did your wife
herself see that kiss in the garden?"
"No, Frau von Wroblewski."
"And you only tell me that now?" cried Trachtenberg, almost gayly. He
really succeeded in forcing a laugh. "A reliable witness! That quiets
me. I was never in much doubt, for I know my child. I can willingly
believe she went for a walk in the park; that she met the count, who
accosted her politely, and received a polite answer. The rest is a lie.
I, as her father, am sure of that."
"Well, if you, Pani Trachtenberg--"
"Yes; I, her father! Please repeat this to everyone who cares to hear
it."
He accompanied his astounded guest to the door, and then returned to
his arm-chair. There he sank down and buried his face in his hands,
where he lay motionless, not hearing, in his wild grief, the gentle,
hesitating step which came into the room. It was only when Judith dared
to touch his hand that he was aroused.
"Father," she said, with faltering voice. "Do not be angry with me. I
know it was another happiness you had planned for me, but I did not
choose this myself. It came upon me unawares."
"Silence!" he yelled, flinging her hand from off his. His wrath at her
daring to speak to him almost robbed him of consciousness. "Happiness!"
he repeated. "What rubbish are you talking?"
"My happiness," she answered, gently but firmly. "For I love him, and
he will make me his wife."
The old man jumped up suddenly. His eyes became rigid and seemed
standing out of their sockets; his lips quivered, and he held out his
hands as if to defend himself. "A--ah!" he groaned. The next instant he
had caught her by both hands, and dragged her to the window into the
full light. His eyes sought hers and held them fast, his gaze sinking
deeper and deeper into hers. He breathed with difficulty; there was a
gurgling in his throat, but no words came in this anguish of soul. The
question to which he demanded an answer lay in his glazed and terrified
eyes.
She bore the stare, the color mounting higher and higher in her pale
face, until neck and brow were suffused with a vivid purple; but her
eyelids never drooped. She understood the silent question conveyed by
the horror in his eyes, and she answered it in the same silent manner.
He drew a deep, deep breath, and let her hands fall. "Tell me," he
commanded, abruptly.
She hesitated.
"Have I not the right?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, perhaps, but I am not sure. Father, I do not know myself how it
has come about. I did not wish it, but I was forced into it, and
perhaps it was the same with him. But his intentions are honorable."
"We will hear of that later. Go on."
She told, at first in confused, indistinct words, how she had met his
eyes at the entrance into the town, and what a tumult of emotions his
conduct had awakened in her the evening of the ball. But as she passed
on to the conversation after Wiliszenski's reading, she overcame her
fears, and she told everything as she knew it--the whole truth.
He stood with his forehead pressed against the window, and listened
quietly, interrupting her but once. As she was telling him of other
meetings at Wroblewski's house, he asked suddenly: "And you did not
observe you were always alone?"
"No, I supposed it was a--"
"A coincidence!" he said, mockingly, shaking his clenched fist at the
ceiling. "But go on."
He sank down in his arm-chair again, while she sat by him, and finished
her story, not even suppressing the conversation of that day.
"Father," she concluded, piteously, "I have never forgotten, and never
can forget, how much I grieve you and Raphael. Therefore I can never be
fully happy. But you are clever and good, and must see that I cannot
help it." She knelt at his feet and clasped his knees. "Father, don't
be angry with me!"
He sat still for a long time without moving. Then he felt gently for
her hands, and loosed them from his knees, rose, and, going to the
window, looked into the street over which the twilight of a late autumn
day was sinking. Now and then he muttered to himself: "And I, fool that
I am, often bewailed your early death! It was good for you!" Then he
said aloud: "Your mother--" Then he stopped again.
He stood in that attitude, and it grew darker and darker in the room.
Finally he pulled himself together, lit the candles on the table, and
went to his child, who was still on her knees, her head resting against
the chair.
"Stand up!" he ordered, going up close to her.
She obeyed. She attempted to look him in the eye, but could not, she
was so shocked to see how suddenly old his face had grown. But his
voice no longer quavered.
"It is a heavy misfortune," he said. "I thank God with all my heart
that he has not utterly undone us; but what he has sent is fearful
enough. I am not blaming you. You ought not to have had any secrets
from me; but you are so young, and he is handsome and a count. If I
accuse you, I ought also to accuse myself. I ought to have considered
the character of the people I was sending you among, and how their
influence would affect you. I ought to have been more clever, as clever
as my poor boy, whose heart would break if he knew of this. But he
shall never know it--never!"
She made a motion as if to speak.
"Never!" he repeated. "Listen, Judith! I know that madness blinds your
eyes to-day, and deafens your ears. You will not understand what I am
going to tell you. The wall here would comprehend it better. But you
ought to feel that it is your father who thinks so, who loves you more
than his own life, and who will not change his opinion. You are never
to see or speak to the people up-stairs or to the count. You are to
remain in your own room, and not to leave it without my orders. It
would be best for me to have the horses harnessed and take you to the
house from which I just came--my sister Recha's, in Tarnopol. She is a
clever woman, your aunt Recha, and understands the management of sick
people. But that will not be possible before the close of the week.
Otherwise, this story would spread the more."
"Father," she implored, "do not ruin me!"
"Others wished to do that, and were in the best way to accomplish their
purpose; but I, your father, will save you. Whether the count is a
scoundrel, who is calculating on it in cold blood, and has hired that
other scoundrel up-stairs to help him, or whether he is only a weak
man, who, in the turmoil of passion, has tolerated the assistance of
the wretch, I do not know; but it is all the same, as in either case
your fate would have been a fearful one."
"Do not insult him!" she cried. "He is good and true! Ask him, if you
doubt it, or listen to him when he comes to ask for my hand."
"I can safely promise that," he replied, bitterly; "for he will not
come. And I shall certainly not ask him, because I already know the
answer, and will not have it said of me: 'The old man lost his senses
in despair, and actually implored the count to make the lost girl his
wife.'"
"But if he should come?"
"Then I should say, 'No! no! no!' as long as there was breath in my
body, in order to save you from unhappiness. For fire and water will
not mix quietly, and a woman who is a curse to her husband is the most
wretched creature on earth. If Count Agenor Baranowski was really
insane enough to marry my daughter, he would be morally dead. There
would be a three months' delirium, and then a life of misery, and you
deserve a better fate. Not another word," he continued, imperiously, as
she was about to speak. "You have had to hear my will to-day, though as
yet you cannot understand me."
She stepped forward and raised her hands imploringly. He silently shook
his head. Her arms fell, and she staggered from the room, her entire
body quivering with emotion. He looked after her sadly, and even after
the door closed his eyes were fixed in that direction.
So the old servant found him. She brought the letters that had
accumulated during his absence, and asked if he wanted his supper. He
declined it, and tried to read the letters. It was impossible. Only one
interested him. It was from Bergheimer's old pupil, Berthold
Wertheimer, in Breslau, who informed him, in well-measured sentences,
that he was passing through Galicia on business, and would give himself
the pleasure of calling upon him.
"That is done for, too," sighed the old man, painfully. "I shall
consider myself happy if the poor child is cured in a year or two."
Brooding over these troubles, he failed to hear a knock at the door,
and only looked up when the visitor stood before him. It was Herr von
Wroblewski. With a sorrowful air, he reached out his hand. "Pani
Nathaniel," he said, softly, "I have heard you are in trouble and
sorrow. The faithful friend should not be missing."
The old man's face worked, but he controlled himself. He did not accept
the proffered hand, but his voice was quiet as he asked, "And what has
the faithful friend to tell me?"
"_Mon Dieu!_ how you look at me! as if I were to blame. You do me
injustice, 'pon my honor! Not one compromising word passed between the
young people in my house, and I was dumb with surprise when I heard of
the affair."
"Indeed!" said the Jew, still coldly and deliberately. "But you surely
do not expect me to believe this? Why this comedy? What is it you wish
from me?"
"Pani Nathaniel, you hurt me! It was only our old friendship, 'pon my
honor! Then, too, I am compromised, in a way. You may treat me as you
like, but I will do my duty. As a man of honor and as your friend, I
will go to-morrow, or to-day, if you wish, and will say to the count:
'You were introduced to this young girl in my house, and I have the
right to remind you that you are about to commit an outrage against an
honorable family. I beg of you to discontinue the attempt.' Yes, I will
do it."
"Very well, do what you cannot avoid doing."
"But, are you not willing? It is the only way to influence the count.
And you could not find a better go-between."
"Certainly not more honest. But I require no go-between in this affair.
I have forbidden my daughter ever to speak, even one syllable, to the
count, you, or your ladies. As she is a good child and a Jewess,
brought up to obey her father, she will do as I say, though it may be
hard for her."
Herr von Wroblewski smiled. "But is not that as the old proverb says,
'emptying out the spoons with the slops'? Perhaps the count will say,
'I am serious in this, and wish to marry the girl.' It is possible."
"That would not make the least difference. I should say 'no,' and
Judith knows it. Not because I have any feeling against Christians, but
because it would be certain misery for both." He arose.
"That is surely not your final word? You will not refuse the hand of an
old friend?"
"Yes," said the Jew, abruptly. "I do not think the less of you for
coming," he continued, in a tone of the utmost contempt, "for every one
must act according to his principles. Your principles, both private and
public, allow you to be convinced by both sides. You have been
convinced by the count; now you wish to be by me also. But I decline."
Wroblewski changed color. His face was distorted by rage and hate. With
difficulty he restrained himself. "But, Pani Nathaniel, some one must
have libelled me to you. The burgomaster perhaps-- Oh! if you only knew
how his wife-- It really grieves me to part with you in such a state of
mind."
"Yet you will be obliged to do it," said Trachtenberg, quietly,
pointing to the door, "otherwise I shall have to call my coachman."
When the magistrate was again in the dark passage, he was forced to
hold to the door-posts, he was so overcome with rage.
"You shall pay for that," he groaned, "yes, pay for it," and he
reiterated it at least ten times. He then went into the street, where
he walked up and down meditating. At last he had made up his mind.
"That would be the very best plan, but it must be carried out to-day."
He looked at the clock. "Nine; a very convenient hour!" and he then
turned his steps in the direction of the castle.
Half an hour later he stood before the count. The young man had just
arisen from dinner.
"You have come to ask about the letter?" he inquired. "It has been
attended to."
"Of that I had no doubts. I have come to show my gratitude in a
practical way." He hastily told what had transpired, in the most
glaring colors, of course. "It must have been a frightful scene. The
girl swore she would not leave you, and her father that he regarded
your proposal as an insult. So he has locked her in her room, and is
going to drag her off to some Ghetto to-morrow early--who knows where.
The girl will be lost to you forever if you do not act with
promptitude."
The count paced the floor in great excitement. "But what can I do?" he
asked.
"It would be bad if you required me to tell you!"
"An abduction! But that would be an act of violence."
"Has it never happened before? At any rate, you need not bother
yourself. There will be no obstacles. I know the girl's room."
"But if she refuses?"
"Has she refused to come to the park, and is it likely she will refuse
to go with you, now her father has been foolish and fanatical enough to
tell her he would not even agree to a marriage with you?"
"But she will demand an oath from me!"
"Well, then, swear. You know the proverb about lovers' oaths. As it is,
you seem to have developed considerable skill in this critical
situation. If you have gone so far without oaths, you can manage the
rest."
"It is impossible; my conscience will not allow it." And yet, as he
said this, he saw in his mind's eye a carriage stopping before a
hunting-lodge belonging to him, five hours distant, and himself
stepping out, with Judith in his arms.
"Your conscience," said the magistrate. "Well, of course you can
best judge of that yourself. Only consider the matter. You have a few
hours still. If you dare venture, let your carriage wait in the street
behind the house, about one o'clock, a few hundred feet away from the
court-yard gate. I shall be enjoying the fresh air at an open window at
that time. If I see you below, I will open the gate to you at the
stroke of the clock. Good-night, or _au revoir!_"
He started to go, but a motion of the count detained him. "Only one
question. Trachtenberg told his daughter he would reject even a formal
proposal from me--is that true?"
"Do I ever lie?" asked Herr von Wroblewski, angrily and yet smiling at
the same time. "Do you think I am so stupid as to tell a lie which
could be disproven by your asking his daughter one question? You do not
know me yet, my dear count!"
"Does his fanaticism carry him so far?"
"You are surely not surprised at that. Those people barely consider us
human beings, and if your conscience cannot accommodate itself-- But
that is your own business."
He bowed and left.