Vineta, the Phantom City

The doctor was silent. The mention of Janowo embarrassed and confused him. Fortunately for him, they at this moment reached the spot where their ways parted; Fabian bade his companion good day, and the assessor proceeded to the superintendent's house.

Meantime a serious interview had taken place between the superintendent and his daughter. Gretchen had at last assumed a decidedly warlike attitude; she stood before her father with her arms folded, her blonde head thrown back; she even stamped violently to give due emphasis to her words.

"I tell you, papa, I don't like the assessor, and even if he should sigh around me for another six months, and you should encourage him ever so much, I could never be compelled to say yes."

"My child, no one wishes to compel you. You very well know that you can do just as you like, but the matter must be finally settled. If you are determined to persist in your refusal, you must not give Hubert any more encouragement."

"I don't give him the least encouragement," replied Gretchen, almost crying with vexation. "I treat him just as hatefully as I know how, but it is of no use. Ever since I nursed him so faithfully through that cold, he persists in thinking I am in love with him. If I should refuse him to-day, he would smile, and say, 'You don't mean it, Fräulein Frank; you love me, you know you do!' and he would be here again to-morrow."

Herr Frank took his daughter's hand, and drew her close to his side. "Gretchen, now be serious," he said, "and tell me what you really have against the assessor. He is young, rather good-looking, and possessed of some property; he can give you a very good social position. I admit that he has his peculiarities, but a woman of the right sort can make something of him. His highest recommendation is his unbounded love for you. What has changed you so toward him? You did not at first look upon him with such unfavorable eyes."

This question embarrassed Gretchen somewhat. She did not answer it immediately. At length she said,–

"I do not love him; I do not want him; I will not marry him!"

This positive declaration disarmed the father; he answered, with a shrug,–

"Well, do just as you like. I shall tell the assessor the plain truth before he leaves us. I shall, however, wait until the moment of his departure; perhaps your reason may return to you by that time."

"I shall never be of any different opinion," the young girl said, indifferently; then seating herself at her sewing-table, she took up a book and began to read.

The superintendent paced impatiently up and down the room; at length he paused before his daughter.

"What thick volume is that I see constantly in your hands? Is it a grammar, and are you studying French so very diligently?"

"No, papa; grammar is a very tiresome study to me. At present I am studying the 'History of Ancient Germany.'"

"Studying what?" asked the superintendent, scarcely believing his ears.

"The History of Ancient Germany," repeated Gretchen, emphatically. "It is an excellent work, full of the profoundest learning. Would you like to read it? Here is the first volume."

"Don't bother me with your Ancient Germany!" exclaimed the superintendent. "I have all I can do with ancient Slavonia. How do you come by such learned rubbish? Doctor Fabian must have lent you the book; but that is not according to agreement: he promised to teach you French, and instead of doing so, he brings you musty old books out of his library, not a word of which you understand."

"I understand every word," retorted the young girl, angrily. "And this is not a musty old book; it is an entirely new work, and Doctor Fabian himself wrote it. It is creating a great sensation in the literary world, and two of our greatest scholars, Professors Weber and Schwarz, are having a controversy about the book and its author. You will very soon see that he has become a greater man than either of them."

"Schwarz?" said the superintendent, thoughtfully. "That must be our assessor's celebrated uncle at the university of J–. Doctor Fabian may consider himself fortunate if his books attract even the hostile attention of so renowned a man."

"Professor Schwarz knows nothing at all," declared Gretchen, with the infallibility of an academic judge. "He will disgrace himself as much by his criticism of Fabian's book, as the assessor did by his attempted arrest of our young landlord. You might know they were uncle and nephew–for they are both fools!"

A new light appeared to dawn upon the superintendent; he gazed searchingly at his daughter. "You seem perfectly well informed in these university matters," he said; "you must enjoy the unlimited confidence of Doctor Fabian."

"And so I do," replied Gretchen, proudly; "but it has cost me great effort to win his confidence. In spite of his great talents, Doctor Fabian is the most modest and reticent of men. I had to question him a great deal before I found all this out, and it was a long time before he would lend me his book; but I became angry at last, and sulked and pouted, so that he did not dare refuse me any longer."

"My daughter," said the superintendent, gravely, "I fear the assessor made a stupid blunder in advising you to take French lessons of this learned doctor. That quiet, pale-faced tutor, with his soft voice and timid manners, has really bewitched you, and is the sole cause of the shameful treatment poor Hubert receives at your hands. Are you sure you are not acting foolishly? Doctor Fabian is nothing but an ex-tutor, who lives with his old pupil and draws a pension from him. He may write learned works for recreation, but they will bring him little money; they will certainly insure him no certain income. It is fortunate that he is too timid and too sensible to base any hopes upon your predilection for him; I think it best, however, for the French lessons to end, and I shall arrange this in a way that will wound no one's feelings. When you, who scarce have patience to read a novel, study the 'History of Ancient Germany,' and grow enthusiastic over such dry stuff merely because the doctor wrote it, I can but have my suspicions."

Gretchen was highly displeased at her father's words, and was about to utter a vehement protest, when the superintendent was called from the room. Assessor Hubert could not have come at a more inopportune moment, but the evil star which had always controlled this young man's wooing, now guided him into the presence of his beloved. He was, as usual, all politeness and attention, but Gretchen's ill-humor was so marked that he could not refrain from alluding to it.

"You appear out of sorts, Fräulein Margaret," he began, after several ineffectual attempts to enter into conversation. "May I inquire the cause?"

"I am vexed that the most talented people should be the most timid, and show so little self-confidence."

The assessor's face lighted up at these words. 'Talented people--timidity--no self-confidence!' Ah, yes! One day he had drawn back when in the very act of kneeling, and to this day he had not ventured upon a formal proposal. In truth, the young lady herself was to blame for it all, but still she was vexed because he had so little self-confidence. He must redeem himself without delay; no hint could be plainer or more direct.

Gretchen saw at once the effect of her thoughtless words which Hubert had naturally applied to himself. She made haste to conceal her "History of Ancient Germany," as Doctor Fabian had charged her not to mention it to the nephew of his literary rival. As the assessor's glance rested upon her, she said, sharply, "You need not follow me around with a detective's eye, sir; I am engaged in no conspiracy, and I don't want to be watched so narrowly."

"My dear young lady," replied the assessor, in a dignified and yet an injured tone,–for he was conscious of having given only tender glances to the mistress of his heart,–"you reproach me unjustly; I gave you no such glance, and you are inclined to deride my zeal in the performance of official duty, when you should consider it my greatest merit. The security and welfare of the nation rest upon us public servants; thousands have to thank us that they can lie down in peace at night; without us–"

"If you had been our only safeguard, we here in Villica might have been murdered long ago," interrupted Gretchen; "Herr Nordeck is a more powerful protection than the whole police force of L–."

"Herr Nordeck seems just now to be the object of universal admiration," remarked the assessor in an irritated tone; "I see that you, too, are infatuated with him."

"Yes, very much so; with him and no other!" exclaimed Gretchen, throwing a mischievous glance at the assessor; but he only smiled.

"No momentary infatuation would content me," he said. "I hope for quite another feeling in the one soul which is akin to mine."

Gretchen saw that she had gained nothing by this harsh treatment of her admirer. Hubert was evidently on the point of making a direct proposal, but the young girl was determined not to hear it. She did not want to refuse him; she preferred delegating that unpleasant duty to her father. She therefore asked the first question that occurred to her.

"You have not for a long time told me anything about your renowned uncle, Professor Schwarz. What is he doing now?"

The assessor saw from this question that his future wife felt a deep interest in his relatives, and it gave him intense satisfaction.

"My poor uncle has suffered great vexation of late," he replied. "A rival party has sprung up against him at the university (what great man does not suffer from the envy and jealousy of others?) Professor Weber stands at its head. This gentleman literally hankers after popularity; the students are blindly infatuated with him, everybody speaks of his amiability, and my uncle, who disdains such artifices and never caters to public opinion, encounters ill-will on every side. The rival party have brought forward an obscure individual solely to annoy him, and are trying to compare his book on Ancient Germany with my uncle's works."

"Is it possible?" observed Gretchen.

"Yes, with my uncle's works!" repeated the assessor, indignantly. "I know neither the name nor the antecedents of this insignificant rival; my uncle does not enter into details in his letters, but the affair has so enraged him, and his controversy with Professor Weber has reached such a height, that he thinks of tendering his resignation. Of course, this is a mere threat, the resignation would not be accepted; the university would meet with an irreparable loss if he should leave it, but he thinks it necessary to intimidate his opponents."

"I hope they are duly intimidated," said Gretchen in such an indignant tone that the assessor started back; but the next moment he approached nearer, and said,–

"It affords me great pleasure to see you take so deep an interest in the welfare of my uncle. He is already interested in you; I have often written to him of the house and the family where I have found such a friendly welcome, and it would delight him to hear that I had formed a–"

Again he was on the way to a proposal. Gretchen sprang up despairingly, rushed to the open piano, and began to play. She under-estimated the perseverance of her suitor, for the next moment he stood at her side, listening attentively.

"Ah, the Longing Waltz! My favorite piece! Yes, yes; music, far better than words, expresses the longings of the heart–is that not so, dear Margaret?"

Gretchen saw that everything conspired against her to-day. This happened to be the only piece she could play without notes, and she could not venture to rise and fetch her music, for the assessor's manner plainly indicated that he was only awaiting a pause in the playing to give utterance to the emotions of his heart. She therefore rattled off the Longing Waltz with all her might, and to the time of a military march. The discord was horrible, a string snapped, but the tumult was loud enough to thwart any attempt at a declaration of love.

"Is fortissimo proper in a sentimental piece like this?" interposed the assessor at the top of his voice. "I think it should be played in pianissimo."

"I prefer to play it in fortissimo," retorted Gretchen, thumping still more forcibly at the keys. A second string broke.

The assessor grew nervous. "You will ruin this splendid instrument," he said, in his loudest key.

"There are plenty of piano-tuners in the world," cried Gretchen; "I want to help one of them;" and seeing the assessor's discomfiture, she banged at the keys with all her might, and coolly sacrificed a third string. This proved effectual. Hubert saw that speech would be impossible to him to-day, and he beat a retreat, vexed at the girl's coquetry, but still with unshaken confidence in himself and in the final success of his suit. This wilful young lady had nursed him so tenderly when threatened with that lung-fever, and only an hour ago she had called him talented, and reproached him for his lack of self-confidence! Her obstinacy was indeed incomprehensible, but she loved him in spite of all.

When he was gone, Margaret rose and closed the piano. "Three strings are broken," she said, regretfully, and yet with an air of great satisfaction; "but I have kept him from proposing, and papa can arrange matters so that he never will." She then seated herself at her work-table, took from one of its drawers the "History of Ancient Germany," and was soon absorbed in its contents.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE FOREST DRIVE

Some hours later, Waldemar Nordeck was returning from L–, whither He had ridden in the morning. Intercourse between Villica Castle and the city was becoming quite frequent, and Waldemar often went to L–, where he always received the most polite attentions from the government officials, who well knew what a powerful ally they had in him, the master of a frontier estate, whose disloyalty might prove very dangerous.

Waldemar knew that his disagreement with his mother was the topic of daily conversation in L–, and that exaggerated reports were in circulation. Firmly resolved to furnish no material for gossip, he presented a firm front and a quiet brow to strangers; but now, when alone and unobserved, his forehead, which had just seemed perfectly calm and unruffled, grew corrugated and anxious. He rode along heedless of all around him, and upon arriving at a cross-road, he reined up mechanically to allow passage to a sleigh which was advancing at full speed.

Norman reared suddenly; his rider had jerked the reins so violently that the animal was frightened, and sprang wildly to one side of the road. In so doing, his hind-feet caught in a rut hidden beneath the snow; he stumbled, and nearly fell with his master.

Waldemar quickly guided his horse into the road, where a sleigh, in which a lady sat, had stopped short at her command.

"Pardon me, Countess Morynski," he said, "if I have frightened you; my horse shied upon suddenly meeting yours."

"I hope you are not injured," said Wanda, turning pale.

"O, not at all; but my Norman–"

He did not finish the sentence; he sprang quickly from the saddle. Norman was evidently injured in one of the hind-feet. Waldemar made an examination, and said, coldly but politely, "I beg you not to delay your journey on account of this slight mishap, Countess Morynski." He bowed, and stepped aside to allow the sleigh to pass.

"Shall you not mount again?" asked Wanda, as she saw Waldemar throw the reins over his arm.

"No; Norman has injured his foot, and limps badly; he cannot possibly carry me."

"But Villica is nearly a dozen miles distant from here," said Wanda; "you cannot possibly walk there."

"No other alternative is left me; I must at least take my horse to the nearest village, and leave him there until I can send for him."

"But it will be dark before you reach the castle."

"No matter–I know the way."

Wanda knew that the road to Villica led most of the way through a dense forest full of dangers to the young landlord, who was the object of so much secret hostility.

"Would it not be better for you to take a seat in my sleigh?" she asked, in a low, timid voice, not daring to lift her eyes. "My coachman can take your horse to the village."

Waldemar gazed intently into the young girl's face; her proposition seemed to surprise him greatly.

"No, I thank you; you are doubtless on your way home?"

"Radowicz does not lie far out of your way–you can leave me there, and then take the sleigh and drive home." These words were uttered in a subdued, almost anguished tone. Waldemar let the reins fall slowly, and some moments passed before he replied,–

"I think it will be better for me to go directly to Villica."

"But I implore you, do not walk there alone; ride along with me."

There was such a tone of anxiety in Wanda's voice, that the refusal was not renewed. Waldemar resigned his horse to the coachman's care, and took his seat. The place at Wanda's side remained vacant.

They drove on in profound silence. Waldemar gave his whole attention to the reins. Wanda wrapped her furs more closely about her, and, apparently absorbed in herself, did not pay the least heed to her companion, who sat on the driver's box, which was at the back of the sleigh.

Although it was the beginning of March, winter still held undisputed sway over the earth. Far and near, the whole landscape was enveloped in snow and ice; tempestuous blasts swept over it, whirling the snow and sleet in all directions.

The wind went down at last, but the air was raw and cold as upon the bleakest December day. The horses flew over the smooth road, the keen, frosty air lending them new life and vigor, but a chill, oppressive atmosphere seemed to envelop the two inmates of the sleigh, who sat there silent and wrapped in their own contemplations. They had not met for three months, and this was the first time they had been alone since that interview by the forest-lake. Melancholy and depressing as that autumnal evening had been, with its fallen leaves and its flitting shadows, yet nature, even in dying, had then shown some signs of life; now, the pangs of dissolution were over; a deathly silence pervaded the broad fields stretching out so white and boundless. Nothing but snow met the eye, while overhead floated leaden clouds, and all nature lay stark and dead in this wintry solitude and desolation.

The road ere long turned into the forest, where the snow was so deep that the horses were compelled to slacken their pace. The driver relaxed the reins which he had thus far held so tightly. On both sides of the way, dark, giant pines bent beneath their burden of snow; one of the boughs grazed Waldemar's head, and a cloud of snowflakes fell over him and his companion, who for the first time turned half around, and remarked,–

"The road to Villica lies all the way through an unbroken forest just like this."

Waldemar smiled. "I am fully aware of that," he said; "I make the journey very often."

"But not on foot and at dusk. Do you not know, or will you not believe, that it is dangerous for you to do so?"

Waldemar's face grew grave. "If I had entertained any doubts of that," he said, "they would have been dispelled by the ball that grazed my hair as I was passing along here a few days ago."

"After that experience, your constant venturing forth alone is an actual challenge," exclaimed Wanda, unable to conceal her alarm.

"I am always armed; no escort can protect me against a secret shot. As matters now stand, if I should manifest fear and surround myself with safeguards, my authority would be at an end. My best course is to continue to face attacks alone."

"And what if that ball had hit?" asked Wanda, in a tremulous voice. "You see how near the danger came."

The young man bent forward toward her seat. "In insisting upon my accompanying you, did you wish to shield me from a similar danger?" he asked.

"Yes," was the scarce audible answer.

Waldemar seemed about to reply, but as though a recollection had suddenly flashed upon his mind, he seized the reins, and said, in a bitter tone,–

"You will have to pay dear for this to your party, Countess Morynski."

She turned quite around, and her eyes met his. "No," she said; "for you have proclaimed open enmity to us. It lay in your power to offer us peace; you declared war."

"I did what I was forced to do. You forget that my father was a German."

"And your mother is a Pole."

"You need not remind me of it in that reproachful tone. That unhappy difference of nationality has cost me so much that I cannot forget it for a moment. It caused the separation of my parents; it poisoned my childhood, it embittered my youth and robbed me of my mother. Perhaps she would have loved me as she loves Leo if I had been a Zulieski. She, more than all others, made me cruelly atone for being–the son of my father. Our present political antagonism is simply the result of the past."

"You carry out this antagonism with an iron will," said Wanda, excitedly. "Any one else would have sought a reconciliation, an adjustment, which would certainly have been possible between a mother and son."

"Between any other mother and son, perhaps, but not between the Princess Zulieski and me. She forced me to the alternative of submitting unconditionally to her interests, or of declaring war against her. Were it not for this struggle for the mastery, she would have left me long ago. I certainly did not request her to remain."

Wanda did not reply; she knew that Waldemar was right, and the certainty forced itself upon her that this man, who was universally considered cold and forbidding, was grieved and pained at his mother's want of affection for him. In those exceptional moments when he disclosed his inner nature, he always reverted to this subject. The indifference of his mother toward him and her love for her younger son, had been the dart which had pierced the heart of the boy, and in the man's heart the wound had never healed.

They had passed through the forest; the horses quickened their pace, and soon Radowicz appeared in sight. Waldemar was about to turn into the main avenue leading to the castle, but Wanda pointed in another direction.

"Let me alight at the outskirts of the village," she said; "I prefer to walk the short distance to my home. You can keep on in the road to Villica."

"Then you dare not appear at Radowicz in my company," said Waldemar, after a moment's silence. "You could never be forgiven if you did so–we are enemies."

"It is your fault alone that we are so; our struggle is not against your fatherland, it is to be fought out on a foreign soil."

"It is better not to discuss this matter," said Nordeck, resignedly. "Necessity may have driven your father and Leo into the conflict, but the same necessity drives me to opposition. Birth and family traditions point out but one way to Leo, and he has taken it, but I was forced to choose between the two sides. I must belong to one party or the other; I could not oscillate between both. No one cares to ask what the step I have taken costs me; but no matter. I have chosen, and shall maintain my position. Leo throws himself enthusiastically into the contest for his highest ideal, spurred on by the love and admiration of his kindred; he knows that his safety is their daily concern, and even danger has a charm for him; but I stand alone at my post, in daily peril of assassination. All Villica hates me, and my mother, my brother, and you, Wanda, hate me more bitterly than all others. Fate has not dealt equally with Leo and me, but I have never been spoiled by love and indulgence, and I can endure anything. So continue your hatred, Wanda; doubtless it is best for us both."

Upon reaching the entrance to the village, Waldemar reined in the horses, sprang from the seat, and offered to assist Wanda in alighting. She declined the proffered aid. No parting word came from her compressed lips; she merely bowed.

"I shall send back the sleigh to-morrow, with my thanks," Waldemar said, coldly, "if you will not reject them."

Wanda seemed to be passing through an inward conflict; she should already have been on the way, but she still lingered.

"Herr Nordeck!"

"What is your pleasure, Countess Morynski?"

"I–you must promise me not to be so rash as to again expose yourself to danger as you were on the point of doing to-day. You are right: all Villica hates you; do not make it so easy for your enemies to attack you, I entreat."