Vineta, the Phantom City

"Will you desist from this mockery?" she said, fixing her large, defiant eyes full upon his face. "I know that it is directed solely against me. You at last force me to allude to a subject which I recall very much against my will. I once wronged, perhaps insulted you, and you have never forgotten it. I was entirely to blame–I confess it–will you forgive me?"

The apology was made in a tone which expressed all the pride of a woman who realizes that it is no humiliation to ask forgiveness of the man with whom she has trifled. Its effect was entirely different from what she had expected.

Waldemar approached a step nearer, and his eyes rested with a penetrating glance upon her face. "Indeed," he said, slowly, and strongly emphasizing every word,–"indeed, I was not aware that Villica was of so much consequence to your party."

"Do you believe–" Wanda began.

"I believe that one day I shall have to pay dear for being master of these estates," interrupted he. "Four years ago the main point was to induce me to open Villica to my mother and her interests; now the main point is to retain it in her interests at any price; but they forget that I am no longer an inexperienced boy. You yourself have opened my eyes, countess, and I shall keep them open even at the risk of incurring your resentment."

Wanda turned deathly pale; her right hand clenched involuntarily the folds of her velvet riding-dress.

"Enough!" she said, making a powerful effort to regain her self-control, "I see that you spurn all reconciliation, and try to offend me so as to render an understanding impossible. Well and good! I accept the proffered enmity."

"You mistake!" rejoined Waldemar, calmly. "I do not proffer you enmity: that would be very ungallant toward–"

"Toward whom?" exclaimed Wanda, with flashing eyes, as he hesitated.

"Toward my brother's affianced bride."

Wanda's whole frame was convulsed. Strange as it may appear, that word stabbed her to the heart. Her eyes involuntarily sought the ground.

"I have hitherto neglected to offer you my congratulations," continued Waldemar; "will you accept them to-day?"

She bowed her thanks in silence. She herself did not know what sealed her lips, but she could not answer at this moment. For the first time the betrothal had been alluded to between them, and the mere mention of it seemed sufficient, for even Waldemar did not add a syllable to his congratulations.

The golden lustre of the western sky had long since faded into a pale, sombre gray; the light evening wind rustled the underbrush and swayed gently the tree-tops now half dismantled of their foliage, which hung in mottled shreds from the branches, or had fallen, leaf by leaf, strewing the forest-floor and the unruffled surface of the lake. Other withered, dying leaves, swayed to and fro by the breeze, seemed sighing a low wail for all that life and beauty which had known its brief hour of bloom and brightness, and was now passing to its grave. Ever deepening shadows wrapt the forest; vapory clouds from the damp meadows, growing denser as they rose, ere long hung in threatening masses above the water. Now, floating in mid-air, appeared a ghostly apparition, stretching out its humid, nebulous arms to these two beings standing on the edge of the lake, as if it would draw them to itself,–anon it dissolved into thousands of phantom forms and pictures, each succeeding the other in endless variation.

No sound was heard save the low, sad, monotone of the winds and the gentle dropping of the leaves; but through the ever-changing mists above the water appeared a sort of fata morgana, the picture of a forest knoll with primeval beeches, and of a heaving sea stretching out to the horizon's verge, the whole illuminated by the golden light of a summer sunset. The sun sank slowly beneath the waters, and amid a flood of radiance rose again the old wonder-city of tradition,–that city which has been the theme of so many a story, the inspiration of so many a song. Fairy-land again opened to mortal gaze, and from the depths was heard a musical chime, the chime of the bells of Vineta, the sunken city beneath the wave.

The fairy vision had not kept its word to these two who had seen it that day upon the beech-holm. They had parted in estrangement and hostility, they met again upon the same footing. The youth had become a man who was passing through life unloving and solitary; the young girl had become a woman blessed with beauty, love, and fortune: but they had never again found what that one hour at the beech-holm had brought them, never until this autumnal evening, when the old vision reappeared before their eyes. And now, as they stood there together, the intervening years vanished, hatred, strife and bitterness were at an end, and nothing remained in their hearts save a deep, inexpressible yearning for a happiness they might never know, a happiness whose first premonitions had come to them with that vision of Vineta–that mirage at sunset.

Waldemar was first to speak. "The atmospheric effects in this North-sea region are very wonderful," he said. "This mirage, this fata morgana which is so often seen here, has given rise to one of the most beautiful of our North-German legends. So clearly defined are the outlines of the city which seemingly rises from the waters, that we cannot wonder at the old traditionary belief in Vineta, a city like the island of Atalantis sunken beneath the waves, and remaining in its pristine splendor at the ocean's depths; but unlike its prototype, our submerged city often revisits the upper air, and appears beautiful as of old to mortal eyes."

"We have seen it twice," said Wanda, "and both times I have fancied I heard the chiming of its bells."

"The reflection of city roofs and spires was real, the sounds were purely imaginary."

"I never heard the legend of Vineta until you told it to me four years ago," observed Wanda. "Since then I find that it has been a favorite theme of our poets."

"Yes, I am aware of that. During these years of study and travel I too have learned something of poetry, and I have in mind several little ballads founded upon this legend."

"Will you not recite one of them?" asked Wanda, eagerly.

"O, no! I never recite poetry, and I only recall a stanza here and there."

"But, please, repeat what you know," pleaded Wanda, in her most irresistible tone.

"There was a time when your wish was my law, but now–"

"Now I no longer command; I beg and entreat."

"I may yield to your entreaties if you will first recite one of your favorite poems to me," replied Waldemar.

"I know a ballad upon Vineta by Finelius. I will repeat a few stanzas." And Wanda recited, with fine expression and deep feeling, these lines from a well-known ballad:

"On Easter-morn, when the jubilant bellsRing out 'Our Lord is risen!'They call forth an echo loud and longFrom church-spires which the waves imprison."Then she rises slow from the ocean's breast,Awed to rest are the waves around her,As Vineta, the ancient, proud, and great,Breaks the spell that long has bound her."She comes forth the Queen of the Northern Sea,Fair as in her olden seeming;Her church-spires cleaving the upper sky,Her roofs in the sunlight gleaming.* * * * *"But all is silent. No host, no guest,No priest in her holy places;Her ships lie anchored with drooping sails,In her streets are no living faces!"

"Thank you; the lines are very beautiful," said Waldemar. "Now, when we read these poet fancies, we may know that they are not all fancy, for have not we too seen the enchanted, enchanting old Wonder-city? I can repeat no poem to you, but these lines of Wilhelm Müller haunt my memory to-day:

"From the sea's deep, deep abysses,Evening bells chime sweet and low,Of that olden city telling,Lost and sunken long ago."From the heart's deep, deep abyssesSounds come like those bells of even,Telling of the loves it cherishedIn the days when earth was heaven."

Wanda blushed painfully and was silent. Waldemar passed his hand over his forehead as if to dispel these romantic fancies. "Perhaps we had better return to the rendezvous and await our party," he said, hastily. "Twilight is falling, and there is something very oppressive in this heavy atmosphere."

Wanda eagerly assented. She too longed to end the interview, to break away from the spell that was enthralling her. Just as he had shouldered his rifle and they were on the point of going, Waldemar paused suddenly.

"My suspicions have offended you deeply," he said, "and perhaps they were unjust; but tell me, candidly, was the half-apology you deigned to make really addressed to Waldemar Nordeck? Was it not made rather to the master of Villica, with whom a reconciliation is desirable, so that he may tolerate, or at least overlook what is taking place on his estates?"

"Do you really know–" began Wanda, in surprise.

"Enough to remove your apprehension that you were indiscreet a few moments ago. Did you truly think me so short-sighted as not to observe what is town-talk in L–, that Villica is the focus of party schemes of which my mother is the heart and soul? You may safely confess to me what the whole neighborhood already knows. I knew it before I came here."

Wanda was silent. She tried to read from his features if he really meant what he said, but they were a sealed book to her.

"That, however, is not the point," he resumed; "I asked an answer to my question. Was that magnanimous apology of yours a voluntary one, or was it only a commission you were bound to execute? Do not be angry; I ask merely for information, and you must pardon me, Wanda, if I question an act of friendliness coming from you."

Wanda would certainly have taken these words as a fresh insult and answered them accordingly, if Waldemar's mode of saying them had not disarmed her against her will. His attitude had changed, the icy, hostile manner had vanished; his voice also had another tone; it was softer and deeper, and the young girl trembled as he called her Wanda for the first time in years.

"If my aunt has made me an unwilling instrument of her plans, you must settle with her and not with me," she said, in a low tone, and there was no sting in her words. "I suspected nothing, I was only a child following every momentary whim; but, now,"–she raised her head proudly,–"now I am responsible for my conduct, and I make confession to you of my own free will. You are right; the apology was not to Waldemar Nordeck. Since our meeting, after long years of absence, he has given me no cause to seek or to desire a reconciliation. I wanted to force the master of Villica to open his closed visor. That is no longer necessary. I have just learned from you what I had hitherto only suspected, that in you we have a bitter, merciless enemy, who will use his power at the decisive moment, even if he must tread underfoot all ties of family and of nature."

"And to whom should these ties bind me?" asked Waldemar, excitedly. "To my mother? You know our mutual relations, and that she is now less than ever inclined to forgive me for being the heir of the Nordeck wealth in place of her younger son. To Leo? Possibly there may be a feeling of brotherly love between us, but I do not believe it will survive when our ways cross–at least not on his side."

"Leo would gladly have met you as a brother if you had not made it impossible for him," returned Wanda. "You were always inaccessible even to him, but there have been moments when he might have approached you fraternally. He is too proud to seek to break through the icy reserve you maintain toward him and all around you. Any manifestation of affection from him or from your mother would be shattered against a hardness that cares nothing for them, or perhaps for any one in the wide world."

She stopped suddenly as her eyes met Waldemar's searching gaze. "Your judgment is correct, although merciless," he said, gravely. "Have you ever asked yourself what made me hard? There was a time when I was not so–at least not toward you,–when a word or a glance of yours ruled me, when I patiently submitted to your every whim. Wanda, you could then have made much, perhaps everything of me. You did not wish to do so. My handsome, chivalrous brother was your favorite. This was but natural, I cannot blame you. I was not at all suited to you then. But that was the turning-point of my existence, and a man like myself, who is resolved not to allow his life to be blighted by disappointment, will become hard and suspicious. I now consider it very fortunate that my youthful passion was spurned and derided. If it had been otherwise, my mother would have insisted upon our repeating the drama which was played here twenty-five years ago, when a Nordeck led home a young countess for his bride. You perhaps, with your sixteen years, might have yielded to the will of your family, and have married a fortune, while I should have shared my father's fate. We have both escaped such a calamity, and that foolish past is now buried and forgotten. I only wished to remind you that you have no right to upbraid me with hardness, or to complain when this hardness is manifested toward you and yours. Shall I now accompany you to the rendezvous?"

Wanda complied in silence. Although she had at first been irritated and combative, the turn taken by the conversation had finally wrested the weapons from her hands. To-day they again parted as enemies, but both felt that from this hour the conflict between them was of another character, although perhaps none the less bitter.

The whole landscape was wrapped in twilight shadows that grew deeper every moment, and misty vapors rose from field and forest. White clouds, a now shapeless, dissolving mass, still hovered over the lake. The vision that had risen above the waters had sunk beneath their depths, but it would never be forgotten by this strong, earnest, reticent man and this dreamy young girl, who walked so silently side by side.

Here in the desolate autumnal forest, at the ghostly twilight hour, the breath of that old ocean fable of the distant North again floated around them, and whispered anew its ancient prophecy:–"Whoever has once seen Vineta and listened to the chiming of its bells, must be consumed by regret and longing until the fairy vision again appears to bring him peace, or until the old phantom-city draws him downward into its ocean depths."

CHAPTER XV.

THE "HISTORY OF ANCIENT GERMANY."

The two rooms in the castle assigned to Doctor Fabian faced the park. The princess, while having the suit of rooms which had been occupied by her first husband put in readiness for his son, had set apart an adjoining one for his tutor, which, although small and noisy from its nearness to the main stairway, was supposed to be ample for a dependant who had been obliged to put up with all sorts of discomforts at Altenhof, and was not likely to be either fastidious or exacting. This arrangement did not suit Waldemar; immediately upon his arrival he ordered that two of the guest-chambers on the other side of the castle should be assigned to Doctor Fabian. These happened to be the apartments occupied by Count Morynski and his daughter on their frequent visits to Villica; but Waldemar, who was not aware of the fact, chose these rooms as the best and most pleasant, and had the corridor leading past them closed up, so that Doctor Fabian might not be disturbed in his studies.

The princess, when informed of this proceeding, made no protest; she was resolved never to oppose her son in minor matters. She had other rooms arranged for her brother and his daughter, but she felt some natural resentment against Doctor Fabian, the innocent cause of Waldemar's mistake. She, however, gave no expression to her displeasure, for she and all the inmates of the castle soon learned that, although the young master required but little attention for himself, he resented keenly any neglect shown his former tutor. And so it happened that all in the castle, from the princess down to the humblest servant, treated the shy, unobtrusive student with the greatest consideration.

This was no difficult task, for the doctor was a polite, unassuming man, who required few services, and returned thanks for every slight attention. He appeared only at meals, his days being passed with his books and his evenings with Waldemar. Master and pupil were on terms of the greatest intimacy.

"Doctor Fabian is the only person for whom Waldemar has any regard," said the princess to her brother, as she informed him of the change of apartments. "The young landlord's whims must be humored," she added, "although I cannot see what he finds to admire in this tiresome pedagogue whom he once slighted, but now treats with such marked respect and affection."

The complete change of relations between himself and his pupil had exerted a favorable influence over Doctor Fabian. He still retained his old modesty and diffidence, but that subdued, anxious look he had once worn disappeared with the humility and dependence of his former position. He had become almost healthy and vigorous in appearance; those four years passed at the university in congenial pursuits and varied by extensive travel, had done much toward making a man of the once sickly, timid, and oppressed tutor. His pale, but agreeable face, his soft, well-modulated voice, made a very favorable impression, and it was his own fault that his natural shyness and reserve prevented his asserting his claim to the position his worth and talent merited.

Doctor Fabian had a visitor–a very unusual occurrence. Near him, upon the sofa, sat no less a personage than Assessor Hubert; but the great man's intentions were now entirely pacific, he had no idea of arresting any one at present. That unfortunate blunder had paved his way to an acquaintance with Doctor Fabian. When the affair became known (which was only too soon), the doctor was the assessor's sole friend and comforter. Margaret Frank had been so heartless as to relate the full details to her friends in L–. The story of the attempted arrest of the young master of Villica was told and laughed at throughout the city, and when it reached the ears of the chief of police, he sharply admonished his over-zealous official, advising him to use more caution in future, and in his pursuit of suspicious Polish emissaries to beware how he attacked wealthy German proprietors, whose attitude, in the present state of affairs, was of the most vital importance. At L–, in Villica, wherever the poor assessor went, he was subject to annoying allusions to this matter, and to open ridicule.

The day after his unfortunate blunder he had come to apologize to Herr Nordeck, but not finding that gentleman at home, he had applied to the doctor, who, although one of the aggrieved persons, acted very magnanimously, comforting the contrite assessor to the best of his ability, and proposing to act as mediator with the young landlord. The assessor's contrition, however, was neither of great depth nor of long duration; his overweening self-conceit enabled him to bound back to his former position, like a steel spring when the pressure is removed. The derision he everywhere met exasperated and wounded him without depriving him of a particle of self-confidence. After such an occurrence, any other person would have remained quiet as possible so that the matter might be forgotten, instead of rushing into similar undertakings with the feverish ardor which now characterized Hubert. He felt that he must redeem himself at all hazards, and show his official colleagues and all his acquaintances that he really possessed a master-mind. He must by some means lay hold of a brace of conspirators, or ferret out a plot, it was immaterial where or how, so that he could win the renown he coveted and the promotion he had long and vainly sought.

Villica remained the chief goal of his efforts, for its loyalty, under the present rule, was exceedingly doubtful. Young Nordeck's return gave little hope of a change for the better, as he was supposed to be entirely under the influence of his Polish relatives. He must, it was thought, be their aider and abetter, or else indifferent to what occurred on his estates. The young landlord was severely criticised in L–, and Assessor Hubert was his sternest judge. If Hubert had but possessed the required authority, he would at once have crushed all revolutionary movements, and have won the applause of his country and the world. Unfortunately, as he was neither master of Villica, nor a high government official, he could do nothing but ferret out the conspiracy which was no doubt brewing. His whole energy and ambition were directed to this one end.

The two gentlemen in their conversation alluded to none of these things. The good-natured Fabian must not suspect that this visit had been prompted by an irresistible desire to gain entrance to the castle, and the wary assessor made another pretext for coming.

"I have a favor to ask of you, Doctor Fabian," he began, after the first greetings were over; "not a favor to myself, personally, but to the family of Superintendent Frank, where I am a frequent visitor. You doubtless are master of the French language?"

"O, yes; I read and speak it," answered the doctor, "but I have not had much practice for the last few years. Herr Nordeck does not like French, and here in Villica they do us the favor to speak only German in our presence."

"Practice is also what Fräulein Frank lacks," said the assessor. "When she returned from school two years ago, she spoke French very fluently, but she has no opportunities for conversation here in the country. As you have such abundant leisure, would you not be willing occasionally to read and speak French with the young lady? By so doing, you would, confer the greatest possible favor upon me."

"Upon you, Herr Hubert? I must confess my surprise that this proposition comes from you rather than from the young lady's father."

"There are certain reasons for my asking this favor," replied Hubert, in a dignified tone. "You doubtless have observed–indeed, I make no secret of it–that I cherish certain wishes and intentions which may be realized at no distant day. In short, I regard Margaret Frank as my future wife."

The doctor stooped to pick up a piece of paper from the floor, and seemed deeply engrossed in deciphering its contents, although not a word was written on the blank surface. "I congratulate you," he said at length, in a constrained voice.

"O, I cannot just yet accept your congratulations," replied the assessor, with a smile of indescribable self-satisfaction. "We are not really engaged, but I am certain of being accepted. To tell the truth, I wish to obtain promotion before urging my suit (I expect soon to become government counsellor), and then my position will plead powerfully for me. You must know that this young lady is a very excellent match."

"Ah, indeed!"

"A very excellent match; her father is a wealthy man. He is about to resign his present position in order to become himself a proprietor, and he has a large sum of money to invest in an estate of his own. He has only two children, this daughter, and a son who is now in the agricultural college. I can rely upon a handsome dowry and upon quite a large inheritance at some future day. And besides, Fräulein Margaret is a charming, amiable girl, whom I adore."

"Besides!" echoed the doctor, in a low tone, and with a bitterness quite unusual to him. The assessor did not hear the half-suppressed exclamation; he went on in a very consequential tone:

"Superintendent Frank has spared no expense in the education of his children; his daughter for a long time attended one of the first young ladies' seminaries in P–, and I am entirely satisfied with her proficiency. You can easily understand, Doctor Fabian, that in the position I shall one day occupy, I must have a wife of fine culture and elegant manners. As a high officer of the government I shall be obliged to go much into society, and to entertain a great deal at my own house, and I am particularly anxious that my future wife should be a proficient in piano-music and French. In regard to the latter, if you will have the kindness–"

"If the superintendent and his daughter desire my assistance, it will be given with great pleasure," returned Doctor Fabian, with forced composure.

"Most certainly they desire it, but the idea of presuming upon your obliging disposition is solely my own," said Hubert, exceedingly proud of this brilliant piece of strategy. "The young lady having recently complained that she was forgetting her French, the superintendent proposed to have a master come from the city and give her lessons; but I could not consent to that! Why, this master would no doubt be some young Frenchman who would make love to his pupil at the very first lesson. Frank is so much absorbed in business that he would not be on his guard, but I am more cautious. I would not for the world allow a youthful, susceptible French master to be so frequently in the society of this young girl, while an elderly gentleman like you–"