It was the first day of spring, according to the calendar, but the
moors of Podolia were as melancholy and dreary as if sunshine and blue
skies were thousands of miles away.
Count Baranowski shivered as he drove along the half-frozen roads,
through wind and rain, from Borky to the county town, to keep an
appointment with his lawyer. But it was not altogether the fault of the
weather, for after nearly an hour spent in the well-warmed room of his
legal adviser, he was forced to pace up and down and rub his hands, to
dispel the chill and heaviness that seemed to paralyze his limbs.
"Almost three months," he groaned, "and what has been accomplished?"
"If that is intended as a reproach to me," said the lawyer, "I decline
to accept it. What I could do, that I have done. I have straightened
out your finances, and as economically as possible. Herr Stiegle is
reengaged, and I cannot aid you in shaking off Wroblewski. Generosity
is of no avail there. If you offered him twenty thousand gulden this
year as hush-money, he would take it thankfully, and next year would
demand twenty thousand more. If you refused to give them, things would
drop back into their old conditions. You can never intimidate the man.
His letters show his rascality. But your letters prove you have
committed sacrilege, and that you have tried to induce him to bribe the
judges. Dare you defy him? I advised you to do so once, but, since I
know the man, I withdraw that advice. He is a thorough type of an
easy-going scoundrel, extortioner, and spendthrift. All he receives
from you is owing to the usurers. Your fear of him is his only
resource. If that source of income is shut up, he will be worse off
than a beggar, and his words, 'Then I will look to the jail to support
me, where I will amuse myself with my fellow-convict, Baranowski,' are
pretty true. Ought you to fear his confession? Yes. The deception
practised on the girl would not count, but the breaking of the law,
especially the act of sacrilege, would lead to the most serious
results. I sum them up as they actually stand; morally, perhaps, they
should be reversed."
"I think so, indeed," said the count, gloomily. "When I think of the
poor creature, it pains me to the heart."
"Then, possibly, you have thought of what I was about to advise?"
"Do you mean that I should confess all and have a real baptism and
marriage? I have frequently thought of that, but I fear my repentance
comes too late. Once, when she had doubts, I lied to her basely--it was
the dirtiest trick of my life--and I am afraid that if she found this
out she would die rather than live with me."
"Count on the love she bears her child. At any rate, you ought to try
it. I am confident you will succeed. I give you this advice as a
lawyer. Then you can leave Wroblewski to his fate, and turn him out of
the home you like best, yet must avoid because of his presence in it.
Very likely he will bring a suit against you, but the judgment will be
trifling, and you will no longer rank as a dishonored man. The bishop
will not interfere, as you will have been the means of bringing a soul
into the church, and your temporal judge, Herr Groze, Wroblewski's
successor, is a man of the most delicate sense of justice. I am quite
sure he would say, 'The count has sinned, but he has also suffered, and
will now expiate his guilt.' However, I give this advice not only as
lawyer, but also as friend. You are not happy now?"
"God knows I am not."
"No one could be with such a burden on his conscience. Free yourself
from this burden. Regard for your position in society can no longer
hinder you."
"No," said Agenor, bitterly. "Truly not. My position could not be
worse. I am ostracized."
"You paint things too black. But bad stories are in circulation. I have
many times been surprised that the story of a sham marriage, coming
from the words of your valet in Florence, should have found so much
credence. I suppose it is because, unhappily, the truth is, in this
case, the most slanderous. If a worse construction could have been put
upon it, the real truth would have remained unknown. Now every one has
an opportunity to prove his orthodoxy by lifting his eyes in horror at
the sacrilegious acts performed in the chapel at Borky, and his
chivalry by damning your conduct towards the girl as unworthy a
nobleman. It has actually gone so far, they are pitying the Jewess. I
should not have believed this if I had not heard it with my own ears.
This is known generally, but it is supposed to be a secret. Herr Groze
must not hear of it, for that would be denunciation. How public opinion
would go if you brought the Jewess here for a few months as your
legitimate wife I am unable to guarantee; but it would be no worse for
you, I think. The good and noble-minded, though in verity they are
scarce, would think of you differently."
"You are right," said Agenor, as he arose. "And what is to be, shall be
soon. I will drive to town today, arrange with Stiegle for my absence,
and start for Riva to-morrow. Will you procure the necessary papers,
and send them after me?"
"No commission could be more agreeable to me," rejoined the lawyer,
shaking Agenor's hand cordially. "_Bon voyage_."
When the count drove back over the moor, the weather changed for the
worse. Rain and snow fell together, freezing as soon as they touched
the ground; and the coachman drove along the slippery road at snail's
pace. But the count was no longer cold. His cheeks were ruddy and his
eyes bright, and it had been long since he had felt so well. He had
marked out a straight, narrow path in which to tread; but he felt it
would make him at peace with himself, and perhaps eventually lead to
happiness.
The rain fell heavier than ever, accompanied by a cutting north wind.
Twilight was approaching, and honest Fedko was obliged to stop
occasionally to make sure he had found the right road. "The weather is
not fit for a dog. My lord," he said, apologetically, "I know the moor
and its tricks, but I never knew it to be so bad as this, except once,
that day when--"
Suddenly he remembered that the allusion to the day when the Jewess
threw herself into the water might not be pleasing to his master. In
his confusion, he lashed the horses so that they broke into a furious
gallop. In the dimness, Fedko overlooked a small cart with a linen
covering, which was creeping along ahead. He drove so close to it that
the wheels became interlocked. He dismounted, cursing, to free the
wheels; and the other coachman, evidently a Jew, cursed too. "You are
driving as if you had the emperor," he cried.
"I have not the emperor," Fedko answered, with pride; "but his
lordship, Count Baranowski, would like to get on a bit faster."
"I," said the Jew, "am only driving a poor sick Jewish woman and her
child, but they are human."
"Well, well," said good-natured Fedko, gently, "this little delay will
do them no hurt," and, lashing his fiery steeds, he soon lost sight of
the other vehicle.
Fedko had reached the castle long before the cab came in sight of the
lights of Roskowska. The Jew turned. "Woman," he called, "here we are
in Roskowska. You can get milk for the child in the inn."
"Praise be to God!" answered a feeble voice. "Please stop. I am afraid
the child has taken more cold, he is so restless."
"But you have put all your wraps on the little one, and are cold
yourself. You are sinning against your own health. However, I should be
a fool to quarrel with a mother."
A baby's voice sounded from the cart. "Only two minutes longer. Where
shall I drive?"
There was no answer. "Woman, don't you hear? Where shall I stop?"
"In the street. I will get out in the street," answered a gentle,
trembling voice.
"Because you are so warmly clad?" growled the man. "But just as you
like. Here is the inn."
He aided her to alight, but when he saw how she tottered he attempted
to take the child from her. She resisted, and so he took her into
the tap-room. The large, dismal place was crowded with peasants and
cattle-drivers. The air was foul and heavy with the smell of oil, bad
tobacco, and steam generated by the stove-heat acting on the dripping
garments.
"This won't do for you," said the hostess, compassionately, as the
coachman ushered in the new guest, opening the door into an adjoining
room, at once her bed and dwelling room. She brought the milk
immediately, protesting better could not be found in the wide world,
and then watched the stranger filling the feeding-bottle and giving it
to the child.
"Don't you nurse the baby yourself?" she inquired. "Poor thing! I
suppose you are too weak."
The stranger had pulled the cloth which covered her head well down in
front, so that her face could not be seen distinctly, but the hostess
felt convinced it was pale and emaciated. "What a bonny boy! It is a
boy, is it not? How merrily he uses his little legs! I suppose you have
not travelled far, he is so wide awake. Have you come from Tluste?"
"No," answered the stranger, "we have been travelling for weeks. But I
have done the best I could for him, and compassionate people are to be
found everywhere."
"For weeks!" exclaimed the woman. "In winter! Then you have come from
the neighborhood of Cracow, perhaps!"
"Still farther away."
"Still farther? Then from Aschkanas or Prague? There is a large
congregation there. But, from your accent, I should have judged you
belonged to this neighborhood. Will you spend the night with me?"
The stranger declined. "I must go on into the town."
"Because you fancy the inns there will be better," said the woman,
somewhat hurt. However, she resumed, in a pitying tone, "How you are
trembling! Have you a fever? Just wait; I'll bring you some soup, and
if you are poor you need not trouble about the pay." And before an
answer could be given she was away into the kitchen.
But the stranger was not to be left alone long. First came the
coachman. "Rest yourself, madam. I have plenty of time."
Then a bearded man poked his head into the room. "God's welcome! I am
the landlord. The soup will be here directly." Finally an old woman
entered, at the sight of whom the stranger started, pulling her
head-cloth still closer over her face. But the poor little woman with
her shrivelled-up face, with its prominent hooked nose, did not bother
her. She only said "Good-morning," and then sat down at the other end
of the table and gazed into vacancy with her bleared eyes.
The landlady came, bearing a steaming bowl. "Welcome, Aunt Miriam," she
said to the old woman. "It is nice of you to come here instead of
sitting over there alone in your little room."
She placed the bowl before the stranger. "Help yourself. I have put
some chicken in it; not much, but as much as I could." She then turned
again to the old body. "It is not right, Aunt Miriam, for you to weep
so much."
"Ah!" sobbed Miriam Gold, "I cannot help it. It is as if my soul were
bleeding. She was my child, my flesh, my blood!"
"Well, I said little against it at first. But now she has been dead
four months, and you are weeping yourself blind. Must we not all die?
Did I not have to bury my Radel--and my Rachel--but I will not hurt
you."
"I know what you were going to say: that your Rachel was a good child
and my Lea was not. But even if she did join the church and marry a
Christian, have you it in written testimony, Aunt Malke, that God in
heaven--praised be his name!--looks upon her as you do?"
"Yes, Aunt Miriam," said the landlady, solemnly, "we have that
testimony. There it is," and she pointed to a copy of a Hebrew Bible
which lay in the window. "God does not wish a Leah to become a
Barbara."
"We won't discuss it," answered the old woman, wiping her eyes with her
apron. "Leave me that one comfort--that God will prove a merciful judge
to my poor child. When she was dying she remembered she had been called
Leah, and sent and begged me to go to her. But I was cowardly, and let
myself be persuaded to offer this last insult to my poor child. She is
at rest now; but I am devoured by remorse, and therefore I weep, Aunt
Malke, and shall continue to weep till--"
"You know I advised neither for nor against going. I told you to ask
the rabbi and other pious men. It was not a woman's business."
"It was a woman's business. Who has a right to step between a mother
and her child? They intimidated me. God did not wish it; and when I
went to Raphael, he told me my allowance should not be withdrawn if I
went, though he could not advise it. 'Your daughter is not dying,' he
said. 'She has been long dead. I would not go in your place. You are
happier than I, for your Lea did not become a harlot, like my sister.
But,' he said--"
A cry of pain, sharp and shrill, rang through the room, so that both
women jumped. "What ails you?" they cried, running to the stranger. She
had covered her face with her hands, her cloth had slipped from her
head, so as to reveal her auburn hair streaked with gray.
The hostess gazed at the flowing hair with disgust, as if a nestful of
adders had crawled to meet her.
"What's that?" she exclaimed. "Are you not an honest Jewess, who wears
her own hair?"
Miriam stood as if paralyzed. "Merciful God!" she murmured; "this hair!
the unfortunate creature!"
"Answer!" cried the hostess to the stranger. "This is a Jewish house.
One wishes to know who one is receiving."
Miriam went to her. "Be quiet. Don't you know her? It is Judith!"
"Judith!" shrieked the landlady. "Away with her!"
Judith dropped her hands. "I am going; I am going."
The landlady gazed with wide-open eyes at the pale face which, so it
seemed, she had seen but yesterday beautiful and comely, and at the
bent form, shaken with fever. "God hath shown her his hand," she
muttered.
Miriam had rushed up to Judith. Tears coursed down her cheeks in
streams as she embraced the slender form with passionate affection, and
stroked the thin face with her withered hands. "My poor darling! God
has sent you to me."
The hostess looked at her in surprise. Fierce as was her anger towards
this renegade, yet her eyelids smarted at the sight. She turned to the
door. "Make it short, Aunt Miriam, for I must tell my husband, and he
won't stand it." But her thought was, "How sympathetic Miriam is! I
would be, too, if I did not fear God."
Miriam's pity thawed even the unspeakable misery of Judith. "I know,
Miriam--I know how you have always loved me."
"I do love you. You were so beautiful and good. Ay, so good! When I
heard you had been seen in the count's garden a sudden pain pierced my
heart, almost as great as the day my husband said to me, 'Wife, it
would have been better had you never given birth to a child. Our Lea is
courting with Wassilj.' In my anxiety I ran and told you my child's
story to warn you. It was hard, but I did it out of love. Alas, alas!
it was in vain. How I have lamented for you! I dared not pray, for they
say it is a sin to pray for a renegade. You are a Christian, are you
not?"
Judith shook her head.
"Oh," said the old woman, joyfully, "then much can be made good yet.
You refused baptism, and so were thrown off by the count?"
"No, I am a Jewess, and yet I am a renegade. I am a miserable creature,
doomed in this world and the world to come."
"Not in the world to come, Judith," said Miriam, gravely. "One as old
as I, who has experienced so much of evil in her dealings with human
beings, must feel that God is more merciful than man. How you have
suffered! I do not need to ask. It is written on your face."
A loud noise was heard outside. "She must go!" said a man's voice. "She
found no mercy with her own father." It was the landlord. Between his
scoldings could be heard his wife's voice in gentle expostulation.
"Come," urged Miriam, "my room is warm, and I live but a few doors from
here. You can spend the night with me."
Judith carefully wrapped up the child. "Thank you," she said, "but you
shall not get into trouble on my account. You have to depend on the
charity of your neighbors, and they would be angry with you."
"Let them be," cried the old woman. And she stood erect, her withered
features glowing with enthusiasm. "Though I die of hunger, I shall
bless the day when your foot crosses my threshold. For God sent you to
me. He has heard the daily and hourly prayer that I have made since my
poor child died. Then I wrung my hands and cried, 'Oh, that I could
atone for my cowardice and cruelty! Of what use are lamentations for
those already dead? Of what avail is repentance, merciful God, who
wills that men also should be merciful?' But he knew, and I can now
repay to the living what I owe the dead. Come, come with me!"
"I cannot; I must go to Raphael."
"No, no; spare yourself that pain. You heard what was said."
"I must." She attempted to rise, but her strength failed. "I must," she
repeated, and this time she succeeded. But she swayed to and fro, she
was so shaken by fear; and when Miriam took the child from her arms she
did not resist.
The door was thrown open, and the landlord entered. "Leave, or--" He
stopped as he saw she was prepared to go. The sight of her misery
seemed to render him speechless.
"Twelve kreuzer," he murmured, as she asked her indebtedness. He took
the coppers, however, with unwillingness.
"Consider it," pleaded Miriam, as they walked towards the cart. "If you
wish to look Raphael up, do it to-morrow, after you have rested.
"It must be to-day," Judith answered. "My fever is growing worse and
worse. The physician in Tluste said I would be seriously ill. To-morrow
I may be unconscious, and may die. Drive to the large house opposite
the monastery," she said to the man, who stood sulkily beside his
horses.
"I know," said the man, in a surly voice. "Since I have been paid, I
must do it. But if I had known in Tarnopol who you were--"
He did not finish the sentence, but lashed the horses till they
galloped into the road. Once more in the mud, they fell into a walk.
Judith sat still, pressing her baby close to her bosom, her teeth
chattering with the chill. Miriam again entreated her to wait till
tomorrow. "You are already half dead."
"It must be. But my thoughts are growing confused, and I must tell it
to one soul at least, while I am able to speak. The guilty must not
escape punishment. Listen, Miriam, to the manner in which the count
treated me."
She told her story in short, confused sentences. Miriam could not quite
understand it, only this was clear, that the poor creature had been
frightfully cheated. "Poor child," she sobbed, putting her arms around
the trembling girl. When the cart halted before the house she begged to
be allowed to prepare Raphael for the meeting.
But Judith would not hear of it. As she alighted, and stood once more
before the house where she had passed the happy, sunny, well-guarded
days of her life, the house she had longed for since she had been
abroad, her strength nearly failed her. She tottered, and would have
fallen in spite of Miriam's assistance had not a stronger arm come to
her relief. It was the coachman of another carriage which was standing
before the door. "Are you made of stone?" he shouted, angrily, after
Judith's driver, who never left his seat, but drove away without caring
for the two women.
The Jew turned. "You can earn God's thanks with her," he cried,
sneeringly. "I don't grudge it to you," and then was swallowed up in
the fog.
Judith pulled her strength together, and, with her child on her arm,
followed by Miriam, she went into the passage, and, without knocking,
entered her father's study. The room was dimly lighted, and Raphael
sat, writing a letter. When he heard the door opening, he looked
around. A half-suppressed cry escaped his lips as he stared, with
horror and disgust, at the unfortunate girl, who stood like a ghost
before him.
"Away! away!" he shouted, pointing to the door with shaking hand.
"Raphael!" she sobbed, falling on her knees. Miriam stepped forward,
and, taking hold of him by his _talar_, cried, despairingly, "Have
mercy! She has come home to die."
He freed himself, and drew back towards the door into the adjacent
room. It was hideous to behold him as he stood there, his pale lips
half open, his waxy face distorted, his right hand seeking the
door-handle and his left buried in his tangled black hair, a picture of
such insane fury and horror that the old woman shuddered. Some seconds
passed; neither he nor Judith moved. It was only when the child in her
arms began to cry that his consciousness seemed to return.
"Take her away!" he cried to Miriam. The voice was hoarse, the words
almost indistinguishable. "The burgomaster has her share of the
inheritance. There is nothing for her here."
"Have pity!" pleaded Miriam. "You were carried at the same bosom.
Remember her grave has been prepared for her between that of your
father and of your mother."
"Yes, more's the pity!" he shouted, madly. "A parricide does not
deserve it."
Judith groaned and fell prostrate. The child slipped from her arm and
screamed. Miriam seized the baby and held it up. "Raphael," she cried,
"have mercy upon the innocent child!" But he did not even hear her. He
had left the room, and Miriam was alone with the unconscious girl.
"Help!" cried the poor old woman. "Father in heaven, have mercy!"
Her cry was answered. The door opened, and an old gentleman, with a
rugged bronze face and white hair and moustache, entered.
It was Dr. Reiser. "Be quiet!" he ordered, for Miriam, at sight of him,
had begun to cry much louder with joy than she had just done with
despair. He looked at Judith, and turned away deeply moved. He had no
need to ask who she was or what had happened. He rushed to the door,
called to his coachman, who was waiting (for the doctor had been making
a call on the magistrate on the floor above), for his case of
medicines. He then bent his energies to bringing his patient out of her
swoon. His only assistants were Miriam and the coachman; for old Sarah,
who once looked through the open door, ran away timidly when Miriam
called her.
At last Judith opened her eyes, but the doctor saw immediately that
her mind was wandering. "My grave!" she shouted wildly, trying to free
herself from the hands of her custodians. "I want my grave!"
Not until this paroxysm was over could the doctor carry her to his
carriage. "Take her to me," begged Miriam. "I have a good bed and a
warm room."
Dr. Reiser knew of no other refuge, for she would have been refused
admittance both in Christian and Jewish hospitals; the nearness of
Miriam's home to his own was an advantage. So he ordered the coachman
to drive to Roskowska by the most direct route, which was past the
castle.
"Curse him!" cried the old woman, as they passed the brilliantly
lighted windows of the castle. "There he is, rioting with his friends.
What does he care for his victim and her child?"
The doctor made no answer, but probably thought much the same. But they
were mistaken. If any punishment could have been great enough to atone
for his sin, surely he was suffering it now. He paced his study,
tortured by all the furies of fear and remorse, and read a letter which
had just arrived from Riva.
Hamia told of the occurrences of the past few days, and the
disappearance of her mistress. How they had engaged neighbors to search
the lake, when a driver from Mori brought them her farewell greetings,
and the assurance to Jan that his loan should be repaid. "It is not for
this, but because we are so anxious about our gracious mistress and the
dear little boy, that we beg Monsieur le Comte to give us permission to
go home."
Too late! the avalanche was already descending. Nothing could now be
made good--nothing hid. She was coming home as his mortal enemy, to
deliver him up to disgrace. Unable to control his emotions, he paced
the room till his feet failed him, while his pale lips murmured
ceaselessly, now aloud, now under his breath--"Too late! too late!"