"Brother," he cried, "do nothing rash. Avoid the shedding of blood—not that I fear bloodshed in itself, but the hatred that is sure to grow out of it. We must not hate one another. Your sword must not drink our people's blood. A peaceful issue is still possible."
"What, then, do you advise?"
"Go and speak to the prioress, and persuade her to leave the building with all her nuns; they have no costly possessions to carry with them, and you can soon clear the house. Then we will admit the leaders of the mob and show them that there is no booty to be had, and no nuns there to burn. We will write on the outer doors: 'This is state property,'—as it really is,—and no further injury will be done to the building. Mausmann and I will keep back the mob while you do your errand. By that time the rest of our party will be here, and we will go among the people and make them listen to reason, and cease from violence."
Richard pressed the other's hand. "You are a brave fellow," he exclaimed, "and I will do as you say. Only keep the 'brothers' amused while I go and talk with the 'sisters.'"
With an added respect for these two young menwho were bravely trying to gain their ends by peaceful means, Richard returned to the entrance of the convent, and knocked at the door. The cautious door-keeper was at length persuaded to open to him. The captain of hussars felt somewhat ill at ease in playing any other rôle before the helpless nuns than that of their defender at the head of his cavalry; he consoled himself, however, with the thought that a nun was after all not the same as other women, but a sort of sexless creature who was not to be treated according to the conventional rules of society.
He found the passages all deserted, the nuns being assembled in the refectory. Pausing on the threshold of this room, the young officer beheld a scene that could not fail to move him deeply. In the middle of the room lay a dying sister, while about her were grouped her companions, ministering to her wants and seeking to comfort her. In the group one face caught his eye and held him spellbound.
It was Edith. This, then, was where her aunt had placed her to await her marriage. She stretched out her hands to her lover in despairing appeal, as the bloodthirsty howls of the infuriated mob fell on her ears. With wrath in his bosom the young man ran down the stairs, and out of the door. As he sprang into his saddle he thought he saw a shutter of one of the upper windows pushed partly open. Perhaps Edith was looking out, and watching him.
"Well, if she is looking, she shall see that her lover is a man," he said to himself.
"Clear out of here, you dirty rascals!" were his words to the mob. Insolent laughter and mocking shouts were the answer he received.
The officer's sword flashed over his head, the bugle gave the signal to charge, and Richard dashed forward into the very heart of the raging mob, straight toward the giant form of its leader. The latter brandished his iron weapon and made it whistle through the air. At that moment Richard seemed to hear a scream from the window above; then the six-foot iron bar came down toward his head with a hiss as it cleft the air.
All honour to the Al-Bohacen sword that was raised to meet the blow; and all honour to the arm and hand that received the brunt of its force on the sword-hilt. There was a clash and a shower of sparks, but the Damascus blade stood the test and suffered not a nick or a scratch. Before the giant could lift his weapon again he found himself lying under the horse's hoofs. Five minutes later the square was empty.
Through the unlighted streets of Vienna a carriage was slowly making its uncertain way by night. The gas-mains had been wrecked,—that was one of the results of the glorious days of "liberty,"—and only the feeble coach-lamps lighted a path for the equipage.
The carriage halted before the Plankenhorst house, and the coachman stepped down and held the door open while two women alighted, after which he drove into the courtyard, leaving his passengers to make the best of their way up the unlighted stairs. The hostess, coming to meet them with a lamp in her hand, kissed one of her callers, who was evidently a nun, and gave her hand to the other. The latter's hood falling back revealed Edith's bright face.
"Heaven must have guided you hither, Sister Remigia!" exclaimed the baroness, in a guarded tone.
"We had need enough of Heaven's guidance in this fearful darkness," was the reply. "Not a street lampis lighted in the whole city, and the pavement is torn up in many places."
"Heaven watches over its chosen ones," said Antoinette, leading her guests into the dining-room, where the table was spread in readiness for them, while the water was already boiling in the tea-kettle.
First assuring herself that no one was in the next room, the hostess locked the door, bade her daughter serve the tea, and then drew her chair to Sister Remigia's side. "What word does the general send?" she asked.
"To-morrow is fixed upon for a general attack," replied the sister, in an anxious tone.
"Did you know that things were going badly?" asked Antoinette.
"How so?"
"The insurgents are counting on a secret understanding with a part of the investing forces. Goldner told me the whole plan. Of course I pretended to be very much alarmed as to what would become of us who have played so important a part in the uprising, if the city should be taken. But the good young man bade me have no fear: in case of any mishap, a plan of escape was arranged for those whose lives would be endangered by remaining. He said that between the Mariahilf and Lerchenfeld cemeteries the line of investment was held by a squadron of hussars with whom the Aula had for some time beenfraternising, and that it was hoped this squadron would not only offer a free escape to fugitives in case of danger, but would also join in their flight and cover their rear, thus securing them a safe retreat into Galicia or Hungary. The only thing in the way of this plan, it appears, is the obstinacy of the squadron's commander, Captain Richard Baradlay."
"The same who drove the rioters away from the convent?"
"Yes."
"So far as I have learned," said Sister Remigia, "he has not since then associated with the members of the Aula and the popular leaders."
"No," rejoined the baroness, "he has held himself aloof from them and refused to be drawn into their scheme. His men would have yielded, but they stand by their commander: if he bade them fight against their own kith and kin, they would obey him. Lately, however, the rebels have gained a new and unhoped-for ally."
"In whom?"
"In a woman, and a very dangerous one, too. She does not shrink from the boldest and most perilous undertakings. She is the young Baradlays' mother."
"But how, pray, could she have made her way through the investing lines?" asked the sister, in astonishment.
"By a daring stroke that seems hardly credible.Fritz told me all about it. This delicate widow of the late Baron Baradlay procured from an old market-woman in Schwechat, the costume and basket of a vegetable-vender, and then proceeded with this woman, on foot, her basket of onions and potatoes on her back, through the lines of the investing army, selling her wares on the way, until she reached the city. She is now here in Vienna, at number 17 Singer Street, in the shop of her attendant market-woman."
"And what is her object in all this?"
"To take her sons home with her. She wishes to persuade them to return to Hungary and enter the government service there."
"Has she spoken with them yet?" asked the nun.
"Not yet, fortunately. She only arrived this afternoon. Goldner has spoken with her, and she is to have an interview with her son Richard, the cavalry officer, to-morrow morning. She is allowed to go to him unmolested, and as surely as she speaks with him, he will yield to her. The general will then be informed of the affair through his secret agents, and before the hussars can carry out their plan, the whole squadron is to be surrounded. Who is the commanding officer in your section now?"
"The cuirassier major, Otto Palvicz."
"Ah, he is the right man for the business. The hussars will be decimated, and Captain Baradlay shot."
To all this Edith was forced to listen, but she suffered no look of hers to betray how keenly it affected her. On hearing her lover's probable fate, she nearly choked over a piece of ham, and had to resort to a dose of vinegar to conquer a sudden faintness.
Alfonsine could not refrain from venting her spite on her cousin. "Your appetite," said she, "does not seem to suffer greatly at the prospect of losing your lover."
Edith helped herself composedly to another slice of ham. "Better to be executed than buried alive," she rejoined. Holding out her glass, she begged her cousin to pour her some chartreuse. "I must get used to it if I am to be a nun," she remarked playfully.
Alfonsine handed her the bottle and bade her help herself, and Edith's hand never once trembled as she filled her cognac glass to the brim with the green liquor; then she poured out a glassful for Sister Remigia.
"Drink with me, Sister Remigia," she cried, with a roguish smile; "we must take something to keep up our spirits."
The nun made a show of reluctance, but was finally obliged to yield to the seductions of her favourite beverage. Meanwhile the hostess proceeded with her instructions.
"Don't forget the address," said she,—"number17 Singer Street, the vegetable shop in the basement. The mother will be sure to return for her youngest son, and we must not let her escape us. Give the general full information of these details in the morning, but take care that Captain Baradlay doesn't get wind of the affair. That man must die, and we must leave him no loophole for slipping out of our hands."
An incomprehensible child, that Edith! Even now she asks nonchalantly for a piece offromage de Brie, sips her chartreuse like an epicure, and refills her companion's glass as often as it is emptied. A well-spread table in this world, her soul's salvation in the next, and meanwhile the quiet life of a cloister, seemed to satisfy her every desire. Soon she was nodding as if overcome with sleepiness, and finally she leaned back on the sofa, and her eyes seemed to be closed; but through her long lashes she was watching intently the three women before her. They thought her asleep.
"Is she always like this?" asked the Baroness Plankenhorst.
"She is incorrigibly lazy," replied Sister Remigia. "No work, no books seem to interest her. Eating and sleeping are her sole delight."
"Well, we must make the best of the matter," returned Antoinette. "I hope she will enjoy her convent life. An allowance will be made for hersupport as long as she lives; that has been provided for."
"Are you, then, sure that she has lost her lover?"
"Quite. If he once has an interview with his mother, he will be persuaded to desert. Her eldest son she has already drawn into the net: he is now a recruiting officer in the Hungarian service, and is busy raising troops. But if Richard fails to meet his mother, and still refuses to join the insurgents, a ball will be sent through his head at the critical moment—so Fritz assures me. Two of his own men have vowed to shoot him if he opposes their wishes. So he has but a short shrift in any case. By to-morrow evening he will be either a dead man, assassinated by one of his troopers, or, if he attempts to desert, a prisoner in the hands of Major Palvicz; and, in the latter case, he will be shot day after to-morrow. It is all one to me how it turns out. I don't wish him the ignominy of a public execution, although he has given me reason enough to hate him."
When Sister Remigia at length aroused Edith and led her, apparently half asleep, down to the carriage, Antoinette accompanied them with a light, explaining as she went that all the men-servants had been called away to the barricades. Her real purpose was to see Edith safely seated in the coach, and sound asleep by the nun's side. She had only the vaguest suspicions regarding her niece, but it was best to take no chances.
The heavy coach rumbled slowly through the dark streets. Perhaps the driver himself was half asleep. When they were well on their way, Edith opened her eyes and peered cautiously about. Her sole thought was to make her escape, even if a thousand devils stood guard at the carriage door, and the ghosts of all who had fallen in the last few days haunted the unlighted streets of the city. Sister Remigia was already fast asleep; it was her eyes, not Edith's, that refused to hold themselves open after the evening's ample repast. The chartreuse had done its work.
Assuring herself of her companion's condition, Edith softly opened the door at her side and sprang lightly to the ground, unperceived by the deaf and sleepy coachman. Swiftly, and with wildly beating heart, she ran back toward the heart of the city, leaving the coach to lumber on its way without her. It was only with difficulty that she could find her way in the dark. The tall tower of St. Stephen's loomed up ahead of her, and thither she turned her steps, hoping to find some one in that neighbourhood to direct her farther. With limbs trembling, and heart anxiously throbbing, now that she was safe from observation, the poor girl hastened on as best she could. Twice as she ran she heard the greattower-clock strike the quarter-hour, and she knew she must have gone astray; for half an hour suffices to go from one end of the inner city to the other. Coming to a street corner, she paused and looked about for the tower, and at last made it out on her right. Then she knew where she was, and concluded that Singer Street must be somewhere in the vicinity. As she stood there in uncertainty, the great clock struck again—midnight this time—and, as it struck, a fiery rocket shot upward from the turret's summit,—a signal seen and understood by some one in the distance.
By the bright but momentary glare of this rocket, Edith's eyes sought in all haste the name of the street in which she stood. With a thrill of joy, she read on the wall over her head the word "Singerstrasse." Now she had the Ariadne clue in her hand, and, before the rocket burst and its light suddenly went out, leaving her in apparently deeper darkness than before, she had learned that the house next to her was number 1, and that consequently all the numbers on that side of the street were odd. By simply counting the doors she could soon find number 17.
Feeling her way with her hands like a blind person, lest she should omit a door in her course, Edith moved slowly from house to house, counting the numbers as she went.
"Thirteen, fifteen," she whispered; "now the next will be seventeen. Who is there?" she cried suddenly, starting back in alarm as her hands encountered a human form.
"The blessed Virgin and St. Anne!" exclaimed the unknown, equally frightened. It proved to be an old woman who was crouching in the doorway, and over whom Edith had unwittingly stumbled.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" panted the girl, recovering from her fright. "You see I was so startled at finding any one here."
"And I was startled, too," rejoined the other. "What do you wish here, miss?"
"I am looking for number 17."
"And what is your errand at number 17?"
"I wish to speak with a woman, a vegetable-vender who arrived here this evening with another market-woman."
"This is the house," said the old woman, "and I have the key in my pocket. Follow me."
She opened the narrow basement door and admitted the girl, following her and locking the door behind them. At the end of the corridor a lamp was flickering on the floor in the draught. The old woman raised the lamp and examined her guest by its light. At sight of the convent dress she started back with an exclamation of surprise. In the young girl's form and face, as she stood there under the feeble rays ofthe lamp, was something that suggested to her the saints and martyrs of old.
Edith was conducted to a low basement room, in whose corners she saw piles of potatoes and beets, with strings of onions hanging on the walls. In the middle of the room stood two straw chairs, on one of which was a tallow candle stuck into a hollow potato, while the other was occupied by a woman dressed in the costume of a Vienna vegetable-vender. She looked up and calmly surveyed the newcomer. Her face was not one to betray surprise at any unexpected occurrence; indeed, its expression indicated an unusual degree of self-mastery. But the girl practised no such self-control. Hastening forward and sinking on her knees before the stranger, she seized her hand and looked into her face with wide-open eyes.
"Baroness Baradlay," she exclaimed breathlessly, "they are plotting to murder your son!"
The other started slightly, but stifled the cry that rose to her lips. "Richard?" she stammered, forgetting her caution for an instant.
"Yes, yes," cried the other; "Richard, your Richard! Oh, dear madam, save him, save him!"
The baroness looked into Edith's face with searching scrutiny. "You are Edith?" she asked.
The girl started in surprise. "Have you heard my name already?" she asked.
"I know you from my son's letters," was thereply. "In your face and your words I read that you can be none other than Richard's betrothed. But how did you learn all this,—that I was here, who I was, and that Richard was in danger?"
"I will tell you all," answered Edith, and she gave a hurried account of what she had overheard at her aunt's that evening. "But they were mistaken in me," she concluded. "They thought my spirit was broken and that they could do what they wished with me. But I ran away from them; I ran all the way here in the dark, and though I never saw you before, I knew you at once. God protected and guided me, and he will lead me still farther."
The speaker's passionate words betrayed so much nobility of soul that the baroness, quite carried away with admiration, put her arm around Edith's neck and let her eyes rest tenderly on the face of the girl who showed such true love for her Richard.
"Calm yourself, my child," said she, "and let us take counsel together. You see I am perfectly composed. This plot is to be carried out to-morrow morning, you say?"
"Yes, I am sure of it."
"Then half the night is still left for defeating it."
The girl clasped her hands with a beseeching gesture. "Oh, take me with you!" she begged.
The other considered a moment. "Very well," she replied, "you may come, too."
Edith clapped her hands with delight, while the baroness opened the door and called the market-woman.
"Frau Babi," said she, "we must set out at once, and this young lady will accompany us."
"Then she must wear another dress," interposed the old woman.
"And have you one for her?" asked the baroness.
"Oh, plenty of them." And with that Frau Babi raised the cover of an old chest and rummaged about for garments suitable for a young peasant girl's wear. She seemed to have an ample stock of old clothes.
"A charming little market-wench!" exclaimed the old woman, when she had wrought the desired metamorphosis. "And now for a basket to carry on her back. You never carried anything like that before, I'll warrant. But don't fear; I'll find you a light one and fill it with dry rolls that won't weigh anything. We two will manage the potatoes and onions."
Edith regarded it all as an excellent joke and hung her basket on her back in great good humour.
The clocks were striking two as the three women at length reached the Kaiserstrasse. At the barricade there was no guard visible. The investing forces here consisted only of a small detachment of cavalry whose main body was encamped at Schwechat; and cavalry is never used for storming barricades. Nevertheless, there were sharpshooters posted in the neighbouring houses to guard against a possible assault. Thus the women were able to pass unchallenged.
It was a more difficult task, however, to get through the investing lines. But those who remember the Vienna of those days will recall the unfilled hollow between Hernals and what was then known as the Schmelz, designed to receive the water that flowed from the mountains after heavy rains. Hewn stones and wooden planks lined the sides of this depression. It was not a pleasant spot to visit, but it offered a good hiding-place to any one seeking concealment.
Frau Babi led the way down into this hollow, which was then, luckily, free from water. Climbing out on the farther side, she looked cautiously around and then bade the others follow her, first drawing up their baskets for them.
"Leave them here," said she. "The hussars are over yonder."
At a distance of two hundred paces could be seen a couple of men standing by a watch-fire, while beyond them, within the cemetery, five or six more fires were burning in a group, indicating the encampment of the squadron.
"I was right," added the old woman. "You two go on now; you won't need me any longer."
Taking Edith by the hand, Baroness Baradlay advanced toward the first watch-fire. The sentinels saw their approach, but did not challenge them until they were very near.
"Halt! Who goes there?" cried one of the horsemen.
"Friends," was the answer.
"Give the countersign."
"Saddle horses and right about!"
At this the hussar sprang from his saddle, approached the baroness, and kissed her hand respectfully. "We have been looking for you, madam," said he.
"Do you know who I am, Paul?"
"Yes, madam, and thank heaven you are here safely."
"Where is my son?"
"I will take you to him at once. And that pretty little creature?" he asked, in a low tone, pointing to Edith.
"She comes with me."
"I understand."
The old hussar left his horse in his comrade's care and led the two women toward a small whitewashed house which stood within the cemetery, and had formerly been used as the grave-digger's dwelling, but now served as Richard's quarters. He occupied a little room that looked out upon the city, and thisroom he had that moment entered after a late night ride.
"There they are again!" he cried, bringing his fist down heavily on the table, upon which the latest newspapers from Pest were spread out, showing a number of articles marked with red. "Into the fire with them!"
But, angry as he seemed to be at finding the papers thrust upon his notice, Captain Baradlay could not persuade himself to burn them unread; and having once begun to read, he could not stop. Resting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, he read over and over again the marked passages, his brow darkening as he proceeded.
"It is not true, it cannot be true!" he exclaimed, struggling with his feelings. "It is all false, it is utterly preposterous!"
At the sound of approaching footsteps, he crumpled the papers up in his hand. Old Paul entered, and Richard turned upon him in a passion.
"What thieving rascal has been stealing into my room and leaving these infamous newspapers on my table?"
Paul made answer with his accustomed phlegm: "If you told me a thief had carried off something, I could understand it; but that a thief should bring you something is stranger than anything I ever heard of."
"A bundle of newspapers is smuggled through my locked door every day, and laid on my table. Who does it?"
"What do I know of newspapers? I can't read."
"You are trying to fool me, Paul," rejoined his master. "Don't you suppose I know that you have been learning to read these last three months? Who is your teacher?"
"Never mind about him. He was a trumpeter, a student expelled from his university, and he died yesterday. He had been at death's door for a long time. I begged him not to take all his learning with him to the next world, but to leave me some of it."
"And why did you want to learn to read?"
Straightening himself up, the old soldier answered firmly: "Captain, I could easily give you a false reply to that question. If I wished to deceive you, I could say I had learned to read because I wanted to be promoted. But I will tell you the truth: I have learned to read in my old age in order to know what is going on at home."
"So you too read this stuff? How does it get in here?"
"Never mind that now. I have to report that two ladies wish to speak with Captain Baradlay."
The astonished officer thought he must be dreaming when his old servant opened the door and hefound himself face to face with his dear and honoured mother, while, peering out from behind her back, was seen the sweet young face of the girl he loved more than life itself. Both forms were clad in coarse peasant garments, bedraggled with rain and mud. What Richard had just been reading with so much incredulity in the newspapers from Pest, he now saw to be true. Women of noble birth were forced to flee from their homes in disguise because of the outrages committed by bloodthirsty hordes of marauders; husbands and brothers were slain before their eyes, and their houses were set on fire. The picture of all this passed before him in fancy, as he found himself in the presence of his mother and his betrothed.
He embraced and kissed the former in a passion of tenderness, but toward the latter he bore himself with shyness and reserve, hardly able to believe it was actually his Edith.
"So it is all true that the papers tell us?" he asked his mother, pointing to the newspapers on his table.
The baroness glanced at the marked items. "That is but a thousandth part of the truth," she replied.
"I must believe it now," he rejoined, "from the mere fact that you are here before me as a living proof." He struck the table an emphatic blow. "Henceforth no general shall order my movements!You only shall command me, mother. What would you have me do?"
The baroness drew Edith to her side, and then turned to her son. "This girl has told me what to ask of you. Only an hour ago I myself was at a loss how to proceed."
"Edith!" whispered the young man, caressing the little hand extended toward him. "But how has it all come about?"
"This convent pupil," replied the mother with a tender look at Edith, "overheard a plot that was forming for your destruction. Whatever course you choose, you are a dead man if you tarry here longer. Arrest for desertion on the one hand, and assassination on the other, threaten you. And this dear girl, without a moment's loss of time, without stopping to weep and wring her hands in despair, escaped from her guardians and sought me out in the dead of night, to beg me make all haste and save you while there was yet time."
"Edith!" stammered the young man once more, overcome by his feelings.
"These are times," continued the baroness, "when mothers are calling their sons home; but you have refused to listen to that call."
"I will listen now, mother; only tell me what to do."
"Learn of your own soldiers. The watchword bywhich we entered your camp is, 'Saddle horses and right about!' It points your course to you."
"So be it, then," said Richard, and he stepped to the door and issued an order to old Paul.
"The die is cast," said he to his mother as he returned to her side. "But what will become of you?"
"The Father above will watch over us," she returned calmly.
"But you cannot go back into the city," objected Richard; "it will be stormed to-morrow on all sides, and you would be in great danger. I must be off while we still have darkness and rain to cover our flight; and you had best come with me to the next village, where you can get a conveyance and escape into Hungary. Take Edith with you, too, mother."
The women, however, both shook their heads. "I am going back into the city, my son," declared the baroness.
"But the town will surely be taken to-morrow and you will be in danger," protested Richard.
"Nevertheless I am mindful but of one thing: I have another son there, and I am going back for him, no matter how great the peril. I must bring him away at all hazards."
Richard buried his face in his hands. "Oh, mother," he cried, "how small I seem to myself before your greatness of courage and loftiness ofpurpose!" He threw a look at Edith, as if to ask: "What will become of you, delicate lily uptorn by the blast? Whither will you go, where find shelter?"
Edith understood the questioning look and hastened to reply. "Don't be anxious about me. Your mother will accompany me to the convent. Punishment awaits me there, but it won't kill me; and I shall be well taken care of until you come back for me."
The sound of horses' hoofs fell on their ears.
"Time is flying, my son!" exclaimed the baroness. "You must not linger another moment."
A slow rain was falling. The hussars were drawn up in order, and their captain had nothing to do but mount his horse and place himself at their head.
"Saddle horses and right about!" sounded the subdued watchword; and the squadron wheeled around. The trumpeter was dead, but the valiant band needed no bugle blast to spur it forward. In a moment it had vanished in the mist and darkness.
The two women were escorted by old Paul back to the watch-fire, where the market-woman awaited them. Paul himself was to remain behind with one other sentinel to deceive the patrol and allay suspicions. Then the two were to hasten after their comrades.
Dawn was breaking when Edith reëntered the convent. A cry of horror was raised in the refectory over her appearance at such an hour. In the wholenunnery not an eye had been closed that night, so great was the alarm caused by Sister Remigia's return unaccompanied by her companion. The door of the coach had been found open, Edith was not inside, and the sister, awaking from her slumbers, could not account for her disappearance. And what made matters worse, no one dared take any action that should publish the scandalous occurrence abroad.
Edith found herself besieged with questions on all sides: where in the world had she been, and what had she been doing all night?
"I will give my answer this evening—not before," she declared; and as her unheard-of contumacy yielded to no threats or scolding, chastisement was resorted to.
The pious sisters were horrified when they began to undress their obstinate charge and found her clothes all wet and stained with mud. Who could tell where she had been roaming about in the night? But she would answer not a word to their questions.
The rod and the scourge were applied with no sparing hand, but neither the one nor the other could make her confess. The brave girl only closed her teeth the more tightly when the shameful blows struck her tender body, and after each stroke she whispered to herself: "Dear Richard!"—repeating the words until at last she fainted under the torture. When she recovered consciousness she found herselfin bed, her body half covered with plasters. She was in a high fever, but was able to note the approach of nightfall. She had slept nearly all day.
"Now I will tell where I have been," said she to those around her bed. "I went to the camp of the hussars and passed the night in the room of my lover, their captain. Now you may publish it abroad if you choose."
At this fearful revelation the prioress threw up her hands in consternation. Naturally she took every precaution to keep the matter secret; for had it been allowed to leak out, the good name of that nunnery would have been ruined.
Jenő had of late made his abode in the Plankenhorst house, having formally installed himself there in the room of the footman, who had gone to join the insurgents at the barricades. Thus the young man was able to be in the house day and night. Extraordinary events produce extraordinary situations. The young man's cup of happiness held but one drop of bitterness,—anxious uncertainty what the morrow might bring forth. Would the cause of the insurgents prevail, or would they be defeated? And what would be his fate and that of the Plankenhorsts, in the latter case?
The assault had come to an end on the evening of the third day. The insurgents had in great part laid down their arms, only a few detached companies still maintaining the unequal contest in the outlying districts. The victorious army was already advancing into the city along its principal streets. In the Plankenhorst parlours there were but three persons, the two ladies and Jenő. Those who had of late beensuch constant frequenters of that drawing-room were now fallen or scattered. As the military band at the head of the conquering forces passed the house, Jenő heard heavy steps ascending the stairs. The victors were coming; they had singled out that particular house, and there was no escape. The young man nerved himself to meet any issue—except the one actually before him.
The old family friends and acquaintances, the pre-revolutionary frequenters of the Plankenhorst parties, came pouring into the room, smiling with triumph, and all meeting with a hearty welcome from the ladies, who seemed to take the whole affair as a matter of course, and to be affected by the sudden change of atmosphere no more than if the past eight months, with their stirring scenes and epoch-making events, had been but a dream.
No one paid any heed to Jenő or seemed in the smallest degree conscious of his presence, until one guest entered who was polite enough to give him a word of greeting. It was Rideghváry. Making his entrance with no little pomp and ostentation, he congratulated the ladies with much effusion and shook a hand of each in both his own. Leaving them upon the entrance of a new guest, he sought out Jenő, who was sitting in one of the windows, a passive spectator of the scene before him.
"Your humble servant, my young friend," was theelder's condescending salutation. "Glad to find you here, for I have matters of importance to discuss with you which may have great influence on your future. Pray be good enough to go home and await my coming."
Jenő had still spirit enough to resent this summary mode of sending him home. "I am at your Excellency's service," he replied. "You will not need to go out of the house; I am living here at present,—on the third floor, at the right as you go up."
"Ah, I didn't know that," answered the other, in surprise. "Have the goodness, then, to wait for me there." With that his Excellency returned to the ladies, leaving the young man to seek his chamber in no very pleasant frame of mind.
That room, in which visions of rapture had visited the slumbers of the youthful lover, was a paradise to him no longer. The weary humdrum of ordinary life was beginning again. What in the world could that angular gentleman have to say to him, he wondered. He seemed long enough, in all conscience, about coming.
Suddenly the rustling of a woman's dress fell on Jenő's listening ear, and in another moment Alfonsine entered his room. She had run away from the company below and had hurried up alone to her lover. She seemed agitated, and her coming had apparently been a sudden impulse. Falling on Jenő's bosomand embracing him, she burst out with every sign of passionate emotion:
"They want to part us!"
"Who?" asked Jenő, no little disturbed by the other's manner.
"They, they!" cried she, half choked with emotion, and bursting into tears, while she clasped her lover still more closely.
Jenő's agitation increased; he became thoroughly alarmed. "For heaven's sake, Alfonsine," he begged, "do be cautious! Rideghváry is likely to come in at any moment, and what if he found you here?" Poor, kind-hearted youth, more careful of his sweetheart's good name than she herself!
"Oh, he won't come yet," she made haste to assure him. "He and mamma are having a talk, and they have decided that you must return to your lodging at once,—that you are not to stay here a day longer. Oh, I know what that means; we are to be parted for ever."
Jenő was on the point of fainting; each word from his sweetheart's lips struck him with dismay. Meanwhile she continued her passionate outburst.
"I will not be separated from you!" she declared. "I am yours, yours for ever, yours in life and in death, your beloved, your wife, ready to sacrifice all for you, to suffer all!"
At length she recovered her composure somewhat,and, lifting her tearful eyes to heaven, breathed a solemn vow: "To you, my friend, my lover, my all, to you or to the grave I dedicate myself. No power on earth shall tear me from you. For your sake I will leave kith and kin, abjure my faith, disown the mother who bore me, if they stand in the way of our happiness. For you I will go into exile and wander over the earth as a homeless beggar. Whatever your destiny,—be it life or be it death,—I will share it."
The exaltation of the moment quite robbed Jenő of his last bit of reason. Was it all a dream, or was it reality, he asked himself.
Neither one nor the other, dear Jenő, but an excellent bit of play-acting. Poor credulous youth! It is all a part of a well-laid and far-reaching plot, of which you are the innocent victim.
After leaving her lover, Alfonsine did not return to the drawing-room, but hastened to her maid's chamber, where she learned that Sister Remigia was waiting for her in her room. First removing, with Betty's help, the traces of her scene with Jenő, Alfonsine hurried to meet the nun.
"Is Major Palvicz here?" she demanded.
"No," answered the sister; "he only returned yesterday from his pursuit of Captain Baradlay, whom he failed to overtake."
"Did he send an answer to my letter?"
"Yes; there it is." Sister Remigia handed Alfonsine a note, and then crossed the corridor to Antoinette's room.
Alfonsine remained behind to read her letter. She first locked her door, to guard against surprise, after which she sat down at her table and broke the seal.
"Gracious lady," ran the note, "when you find what you havemislaid, you shall recover what you havelost."
At these enigmatical words the reader of the message turned pale and the paper trembled in her hand. Her eyes rested on her porcelain lamp-shade, on which was painted the well-known picture of an angel flying heavenward with a sleeping child. The young woman gazed intently at the translucent figures, as if watching to see whither the angel would carry the little child.
Meanwhile Jenő was listening at his door for the departure of the last guest from the drawing-room. Finally they were all gone and he was able to speak with the baroness alone.
"Baroness," said he, "there have been great changes since yesterday. Let me hope that one thing, at any rate, has not altered,—the relation that has hitherto existed between Alfonsine and myself, with the apparent sanction of the young lady's mother. I regard that relation as the very breath of my life, and I beg you, madam, to let me knowwhether there is any reason why I should fear a discontinuance of your favour."
"My dear Baradlay," returned Antoinette, "you know very well that we are warmly attached to you, and in that attachment you cannot have detected any diminution, nor shall you in the future. My daughter has a sincere fondness for you, and thinks of no one else, while I, for my part, could not but feel myself honoured by a tie that should connect us with the noble house of Baradlay. So far, then, there is nothing to be said against your engagement. The late turn of events, however, has brought with it a change that affects you intimately; and that change, my dear Baradlay— Do I need to speak further?"
"Really, I cannot think what you mean, madam," protested Jenő.
"You can't? H'm! What, pray, are you now?"
"What am I? Nothing at present."
"That is it exactly. Henceforth you are nothing. There are now two hostile parties, and each is striving for the mastery. In this strife it is uncertain as yet which will win, or whether they may not effect a compromise; but in any event he is lost who belongs to neither side. Yet do not consider my words as a definite rejection of your suit. We are attached to you, and wish the consummation of that which you so ardently desire. I impose upon you no seven-year probation, like that required by Jacob's father-in-law. So soon as you shall succeed in winning a place in the world, so soon as you cease to be a nobody in our political and national life, I shall be the first to bid you welcome,—whether to-morrow or next month or next year. Meanwhile you have my best wishes."
There was nothing for the young man to do but take his lesson to heart and return to his former quarters. The baroness had told him he was a nobody, and he could not dispute her. He was, moreover, forced to remember that the monthly allowance regularly forwarded to him by his mother had failed to reach him the last month, and, in consequence, he was likely to find himself financially embarrassed within a very few days. There is something decidedly depressing in an empty purse.
Scarcely had he returned to the dreary atmosphere of his old rooms when Rideghváry paid him the honour of a call.
"In the first place," began Rideghváry, "I have a letter to deliver to you. It is from your mother. Put it in your pocket and read it later. For the last two weeks, as you may know, the commanding general has detained all mails and ordered all letters to be opened. It was a necessity of the situation—to prevent treason. On your letter I chanced to recognise your mother's handwriting, and I was fortunately able to rescue it from the common fateand bring it to you. No one has tampered with it, but it probably treats of matters that are no longer of importance in the eyes of the government. Furthermore, the writer will be here in person before many hours have passed."
"Is my mother in the city?" asked Jenő, much surprised.
"Yes, she is here somewhere, and the reason you haven't seen her before is that you kept yourself at the Plankenhorsts', whither she had her grounds for not going. But you may be sure she has sought you here at least a dozen times, and she will come again to-day."
"But what is she doing in Vienna?"
"Nothing good, as we know but too well, alas! She came to persuade your brother Richard to desert with his men and return to Hungary."
"And did she succeed?"
"Yes, and a detachment of cavalry was sent in pursuit of him three days ago. He has fled to the mountains of Galicia, whence he cannot possibly escape on horseback over the border. Your mother, meanwhile, is here in hiding; she is one of those whom the authorities are trying to arrest."
"Merciful heaven!" cried Jenő, starting up from his chair.
"Keep your seat. Until to-morrow morning she will be in no danger. The city is now in the handsof the army, the civil government being as yet unorganised. There is no effective police and detective force; all that takes time, and in the general confusion now prevailing, any one who wishes can easily remain in hiding. But no one can leave the city undetected, as the lines are closely drawn and every traveller is stopped and required to show a passport. Now, although I have reason enough to feel embittered against your family, yet I cannot allow your father's widow to come to such an untimely end as at present threatens her. So I have provided a passport with a fictitious name for her use, and you will hand it to her when she comes. And now let us talk about your affairs, my dear Jenő. You remained in Vienna after the March uprising, and have maintained throughout a cool and impartial attitude which nothing short of genius could have dictated. The espousal of a cause before one can judge of its merits—much less be sure of its ultimate success—indicates weakness of judgment and a lack of mental stability. Therefore you were quite right in holding aloof from either side; yet you must not continue to hide your light under a bushel. A fortunate chance has placed a very important appointment virtually in my hands, since a testimonial from me is more than likely to decide the choice of an incumbent. Your qualifications and ability justify me in regarding you as the fittest person to fill thisposition. It is the secretaryship of our embassy to Russia."
Jenő's heart beat high with gratified self-esteem at the sudden prospect of both realising his proudest ambition and attaining his heart's fondest desire. He had often heard his father refer to this eminent post as the goal for which Ödön was to strive. His head fairly swam at the vision so unexpectedly presented to him. In his wildest dreams he had scarcely dared soar so high.
Meanwhile the other pretended not to note the effect he had produced on the young man. Consulting his watch, he rose hastily. "I have stayed too long," said he. "Another engagement calls me. You will have until to-morrow morning to consider my proposal. Weigh the matter well, for your decision will be of no little importance as regards your whole future career. Look at the question from all sides, and take your mother into your confidence if you wish; she may have weighty arguments to urge against your acceptance. Consider them all carefully, and then decide for yourself."
So saying, he took his leave, well knowing the impression he had made on his plastic subject, and fully confident that the young man would take good heed not to breathe a word of all this to his mother.
As soon as he had left the room, Jenő broke theseal of his letter. His monthly allowance was enclosed, and also a few lines in his mother's hand.
"My dear son," she wrote, "I have read your letter asking me to share in your happiness and to give my love to the young woman whom you wish to make your wife. Any happiness that befalls you cannot fail to rejoice me also. Rank, wealth, birth are slight matters in my eyes. If you chose a bride from the working classes,—a virtuous, industrious, pure-hearted girl,—I should give you my blessing and rejoice in your happiness; or if you should select a spoiled creature of fashion, a coquette and a spendthrift, I should still receive your bride as my daughter, and pray God to bless the union and turn evil into good; but if you marry Alfonsine Plankenhorst, it will be without the blessing of either God or your mother, and we shall be parted for ever."
That was a cruel thrust. How, he asked himself, had Alfonsine incurred his mother's displeasure? What possible offence could she have committed? He recalled her words,—"For your sake I will leave kith and kin, abjure my faith, disown the mother who bore me,"—and remembered the passionate kisses and warm embrace that had accompanied the vow. And should he be outdone by her in devotion? Was his fondness for his mother stronger than his love for Alfonsine? Was not the one feeling a weakness and the other a mark of manly strength? Surely he wasno longer a child. How scornfully that other mother had told him he was a mere nobody, and bade him make a place for himself in the world if he wished to marry her daughter! What a triumph it would be to appear before that proud woman on the morrow, with a man's full right to claim his own!
He resolved to accept Rideghváry's offer and to listen to no argument or pleading by which his mother might seek to dissuade him. Bidding his servant admit unannounced the lady who had already called a number of times, he sat awaiting her coming. But he waited in vain, and at last threw himself on his bed and fell asleep. His rest was troubled, however, by a succession of bad dreams.
Filled with fears for his mother's safety, Jenő hastened the next morning, as early as propriety would allow, to call upon Rideghváry.
"Do you know anything about my mother?" were his first words after greeting his patron. "She did not come to see me yesterday."
"Yes, I know," replied the other; "she has made her escape. The market-woman, in whose house she hid, was arrested last night and acknowledged having accompanied your mother to the outskirts of the town, where a carriage was waiting for her. She must be in Pressburg by this time."
These words relieved poor Jenő's breast of a heavyload. His mother was out of danger and he was free to act for himself.
"Well, have you considered my proposal?" asked Rideghváry.
"Yes. I have decided to accept the appointment."
Rideghváry pressed the young man's hand. "I was sure you would," said he; "and, to show you my confidence in you, I have your certificate of appointment all made out." He took an official document from his table-drawer and handed it to Jenő. "To-morrow you will take the oath of office, and then you will be free to wind up your affairs here in Vienna."
Luckily the Baroness Plankenhorst was up and dressed betimes that morning, else Jenő would certainly have sought her out in her boudoir. Hastening into the proud lady's presence, he began, without a moment's loss of time, the speech which he had been rehearsing on the way.
"Madam," said he, "you will perhaps recall your parting words to me yesterday,—'whether to-morrow or next month or next year.' That 'to-morrow' has come, and I am here,—no longer a nobody." To prove his assertion, he produced his certificate of appointment to the secretaryship of the embassy to Russia, and handed it to the baroness.
With a look of the utmost surprise, and a smile ofhearty congratulation, she received the document and read it. "I am indeed delighted," she exclaimed, giving the young appointee her hand. "Do you wish Alfonsine to be informed of this?"
"If you please."
The baroness had to go no farther than the next room to find her daughter. Leading her in by the hand, she presented "the secretary of the Austrian legation at the court of St. Petersburg."
"Oh!" exclaimed Alfonsine, when she had somewhat recovered from her apparent astonishment; and she extended her hand with a gracious smile to the young incumbent of a twelve-thousand-florin position. He eagerly clasped the offered hand in both his own. "It is yours now to keep," she whispered with another smile, and then turned and hid her face in her mother's bosom, overcome, it is to be supposed, by a feeling of maidenly modesty and girlish fear.
Jenő next kissed his prospective mother-in-law's hand, whereupon she impressed a kiss on his forehead. Alfonsine could hardly be induced to raise her modestly downcast eyes again in the presence of the man who was there to claim her as his bride.
"When shall we announce the engagement?" asked the mother, turning to Jenő. "To-morrow, shall we say—at twelve? Very well. And now are you satisfied with me?"
The young man's heart beat high with triumphand happiness, as he returned to his rooms. He felt that at last he had begun to live; hitherto he had only vegetated, but now he was entering on the full life of a man. Yet there was some alloy in his happiness even then. The thought of his mother, and of her disapproval of his course, refused to be banished from his mind; and though he pretended to rejoice that she had escaped from the city, and had been spared the pain of a meeting and a useless conflict with him, yet his conscience would not be deceived. Too well he knew that he was afraid to meet his mother, and was more relieved at being freed from that necessity than rejoiced at her safe escape.
With the approach of evening poor Jenő's thoughts became such a torment to him that he prepared to go out in quest of distraction. But on stepping before his mirror to adjust his cravat, a sight met his eyes that made him start back in sudden fear. Reflected in the glass he saw his mother enter the room.
"Mother!" he cried, turning toward her.
The woman before him was not the proud, commanding form that he knew so well. It was one of those sorrowing figures which we see painted at the foot of the cross, bowed with grief and spent with watching and weeping,—the very incarnation of bitter anguish. In such guise did the Baroness Baradlay present herself to her youngest son Jenő, andat sight of her, the young man's first thought was one that gave him no cause to blush afterward. Forgetting his dread of meeting her, he thought only of the danger to which she was exposing herself in coming to him, and he put his arms around her, as if to shield her from harm. On his cheek he felt the warm kisses,—so different from those of that other mother!
"How did you manage to come to me, dear mother?" he asked.
"I came by a long way."
"They told me you had left the city, and were in Pressburg."
"So I was. For three days I sought you in vain; then I gave up the hope of finding you, and left the city. But in Pressburg I heard something that made me turn back and seek you once more."
"Oh, why did you do it?" exclaimed the son. "You had but to send for me, and I would have hastened to you. Why did you not command me?"
"Ah, my son, I have forgotten how to command. I have come not to command, but to implore. Do not be afraid of me; do not look at me as if I were a spectre risen between you and your heart's desire. Not thus do I come to you, but only as a suppliant, with one last petition."
"Mother," cried Jenő, much moved, "do not speak to me like that, I beg of you."
"Forgive me. Only a few days ago I could have commanded my sons, but not now. I wrote you a letter—did you receive it?—an arrogant, offensive letter. Destroy it; let it be as if it had never been written. It was an angry woman that wrote it. That proud, angry woman is no more. Grievous afflictions have humbled her, and the end is not yet. She is now but a mourning widow, begging for mercy at the open grave of her sons."
"Dear mother, your sons are still alive," Jenő interposed reassuringly.
"But do you know where they are? One of them is fighting his way over the Carpathians to his native land, pursued, surrounded, and harassed on all sides. At his feet yawns the mountain chasm with the raging torrent at its bottom; over his head the storms vent their fury and the hungry vultures wheel in circles. If he eludes his pursuers, and escapes starvation and freezing, he may, perhaps, be fortunate enough to reach the battle-field, where my eldest son awaits his coming at the head of a volunteer force. Do you know the sort of soldiers who compose that force? Boys that have run away from their homes, and fathers that have left their wives and children. It is as if a feverish madness were driving every one to the field of battle, where certain death awaits its victims."
"But why do they thus rush to their destruction?"
"Because they cannot help themselves, in the bitter woe that oppresses all hearts."
"They may be victorious, mother."
"Oh, yes, they will be. They will win a glorious victory, but it will avail them naught. It will but bring heavier woes upon them. They will show the world wonderful deeds of daring, and compel the admiration of all; their star will shine brightly over all Europe, now wrapped in darkness; but it will be so much the worse for them in the end. Their fate is already sealed by the great world-powers. If they are not prostrated by the first blow, another will be dealt them, and still another, until at last they succumb. I learned this in Pressburg from intercepted letters, and it brought me back here again. How could I resist the longing to come back and see you once more,—the last time in my life?"
"Oh, do not speak so!"
"You are going far away, and it will be a dark day for us that sees your return. The proud and powerful have been putting their heads together, and they have formed a plan for taking vengeance on their mother country for the chastisement she has inflicted on them."
"Who are they?"
"Your friends and patrons. But fear not; I am not here to inveigh against them. They are kinder to you than I am. I would point you the way toruin; they show you the road to safety. I offer you a joyless life of trials and afflictions; they hold out to you happiness and a brilliant career. I cannot compete with them. No, my son, you and they are right, and we are but foolish enthusiasts, sacrificing ourselves for a mere nothing, an idea, a dream. May you never be able to understand us! Go with those who are now preparing to ally themselves with the Russians against their own fatherland. As Hungarians, you and they are of course pained at the necessity of invoking your old enemy's aid against your own mother and brothers; but you do it because you are convinced that your mother and brothers must be humbled. The Baradlay escutcheon has received two shameful stains in the conduct of Ödön and Richard. It is reserved for you to wipe out those stains. What a brilliant refutation of all charges it will be in the world's eyes to point to the youngest son, who atoned for the crime of his two elder brothers by joining the party that summoned a mighty power to the pacification of his misguided country!"
Jenő's face was white and he sat gazing into vacancy. They had not said anything to him about all this; and yet he might have perceived it clearly enough with a little reflection.
"There can be but one issue," continued the mother: "we are lost, but you will be saved. Two mighty powers are more than we can withstand, bewe ever so stanch and brave. Your brothers will fall sooner or later: death is easy to find. You will then be left as the head of the Baradlay family. You will be the envied husband of a beautiful wife, a man of high rank and wide influence, the pride of the new era on which we are entering."
Jenő's head had sunk on his breast; his heart was no longer filled with pride and exultation. His mother proceeded.
"The unfortunate and the helpless will come and kiss the ground under your feet. You will be in a position to do much good, and I am sure you will make the most of it; for you have a kind and tender heart. Among the petitions that will be laid before you, do not forget my own. You see I have come to you as the first suppliant."
Alas, how humiliated the young man felt before his mother! And the more so that she spoke not in irony, but in the gentle tones of pleading earnest.
"Not for myself do I ask anything," she went on; "our fate will soon overtake us, and if it lingered we should, I assure you, hasten to meet it. Your brother Richard is unmarried and so leaves no family; but Ödön has a wife and two children,—two dear, pretty children, the younger only a month old. You are sure to be richly rewarded for your great services. Your brothers' property will be confiscated and handed over to you."
Jenő started up in horrified protest.
"And when you are a rich and powerful man," his mother continued, "in possession of all that we now hold in common, and when you are crowned with honours and happiness, then, my son, remember this hour and your mother's petition: let your brother's children never suffer want."
"Mother!" cried Jenő, beside himself with grief and pain. Hastening to his desk, he drew forth his certificate of appointment from one of its drawers, tore it into a hundred pieces, and then sank weeping on his mother's breast. "Mother, I am not going to Russia."
The mother's joy at these words was too great for utterance. She clasped her youngest, her dearest son in a warm embrace. "And you will come with me, my boy?" she asked.
"Yes, I will go with you."
"I shall not let you follow your brothers to the battle-field. You must stay at home and be our comforter; your life must be spared. I wish you to lead a happy life. May I not hope for many years of happiness for you?"
Jenő sighed deeply, his thoughts turning to what was now a thing of the past,—his bright dream of happiness. He kissed his mother, but left her question unanswered.
"Let us hurry away from here at once," said she, rising from the sofa.
Then for the first time Jenő remembered the passport. "This passport," said he, producing it, "was all in readiness for you had you come yesterday; and you can still make use of it."
"Who gave it to you?" asked the mother.
"An old friend of the family, the same who procured me my appointment."
"And do you think I will accept any favour from him?" Therewith the baroness tore up the passport and threw the fragments on the floor, among those of the destroyed certificate.
"Oh, what have you done?" exclaimed Jenő in alarm. "How will you make your escape? Every outlet is barred."
The other merely raised her head in scorn and triumph. "As if I could not put all their precautions to shame!" she exclaimed. "Get your cloak, my son; I will take you by such a way that no man will venture to follow us."
The next day Rideghváry waited in vain for the young secretary, in order to escort him to the place where he was to take the oath of office. In vain, too, did the bride and her mother, and all the invited guests, wait for the bridegroom to join them. He failed to appear. Surely that dreaded mother of his must have seduced him!
Whither he had vanished, and how he had madehis way through the lines, remained an unsolved riddle. It never occurred to any one that in times like those the Danube offered an excellent road for such as dared trust their lives to a frail boat, in the mist and darkness of the night, with two stout-hearted fishermen at the oars.