"Herr Commissary-General Eugen von Baradlay:—You are hereby summoned before the military tribunal in Pest."
"Herr Commissary-General Eugen von Baradlay:—You are hereby summoned before the military tribunal in Pest."
The judge-advocate's signature followed.
By a slight mistake in translation, "Ödön" had been rendered in German by "Eugen" instead of "Edmund." Such mistakes were not uncommon in those days.
In two weeks Jenő's case came up for trial. Meanwhile the prosecution had been busy collecting evidence of the rebel commissary-general's guilt.
"Are you Eugen Baradlay?" asked the judge-advocate.
"I am."
"Are you married?"
"I have a wife and two children."
"Were you commissary-general of the rebel forces?"
"I was."
"Are you the same Eugen Baradlay that drove the administrator from his chair as presiding officer in your county assembly?"
"The same."
"Did you appear during the March uprising at the head of the Hungarian deputation that was sent to Vienna, and did you there address the people in language calculated to stir them to rebellion?"
"I cannot deny it."
"Do you recognise these words as having been spoken by you at that time?"
The judge-advocate handed him a sheet of paper covered with pencilled writing in a woman's hand. Jenő had good cause to remember the contents of the sheet, and to recognise the writing. Had he not seen Alfonsine taking down the orator's words on that well-remembered night when they both paused to listen to his brother's eloquence? She had rested her portfolio against his shoulder while she wrote down the most striking portions of the address—for her scrap-book.
"Yes," said he, returning the paper, "those were my words."
The judges consulted together. The prompt and positive acknowledgment of the last charge was more than they had expected; the accused need not have committed himself. The examination was resumed.
"A brother of yours, a hussar officer, deserted with his men. Did you use your influence to persuade him to that course?"
So it was not known who had actually persuaded Richard to lead his men into Hungary; or were they intentionally heaping all the blame on his head to make his condemnation the surer? He hastened to reply:
"Yes, it was I who did it." He answered so eagerly as to excite some surprise.
"Have you not another brother,—Edmund or Jenő?"
"Yes; 'Jenő' in Hungarian, 'Edmund' in German."
"Aren't you wrong? Is not 'Eugen' the German for 'Jenő,' and 'Edmund' the German for 'Ödön'? I have heard the matter discussed before now."
"No, it is as I say."
"This brother disappeared from Vienna simultaneously with the hussar officer. Do you know the reason?"
"I believe it was because he found himself thrown out of his place in the chancellor's office, and was unwilling to pass his time in idleness."
"What became of him?"
"Ever since then he has been at home, looking after the estate in his brothers' absence. He took no part whatever in the uprising, but occupied his leisure hours with painting and music, and in teaching my little boy. He is still at home."
"Did you not raise and maintain at your own cost a battalion of volunteers?"
"Yes; two hundred cavalry and three hundred infantry. At the battle of Kápolna I led the cavalry in person."
"You are anticipating the prosecution. Were you present at the Debreczen diet?"
"As one cannot be in two places at the same time, I was not."
"At the battle of Forro did you not exert yourself in rallying the routed forces of the rebels?"
"Yes, I did."
Jenő had committed himself unnecessarily. He seemed not merely unconcerned as to his fate, but even eager to meet it. The judge-advocate sought to test him. Searching among his papers, he finally looked up and said:
"The charge is here made against you that in the expedition among the mountains you seized and appropriated to your own use all the bullion stored in the public mints."
At this charge Jenő's face flushed with anger. "That is false!" he cried. "That is a shameless slander! No Baradlay would commit a crime!"
This outburst sealed his fate by removing any lingering doubt as to his identity. Such a passionate denial could have come only from him whom the charge actually concerned, that is, from Ödön Baradlay.
"What have you to say in your defence?" he was asked in closing.
"Our defence is in our deeds," was the proud rejoinder. "Posterity will judge us."
The jury was then sworn in the presence of the accused, and the latter was led into a side room towait until summoned to hear the verdict and receive his sentence. In a quarter of an hour he was led back again. Omitting the charge which he had denied, he was found guilty on all the other counts, and they were amply sufficient to condemn him to death. He bowed as if well satisfied with his sentence. An early hour the next morning was assigned for his execution. He heaved a sigh. His purpose was accomplished. He had but one favour to ask,—the privilege of writing to his wife, his mother, and his brother, before he died. His request was granted, and he thanked the court with a smile so serene and an eye so clear that more than one heart was touched with compassion.
His judges were not to blame that the Eumenides thirsted for blood.
In the rainy autumn days the Baradlay family removed from Körös Island to Nemesdomb. The latter was no longer a hospital: the patients had been elsewhere provided for, and all traces of war and bloodshed had disappeared.
One evening, when the little family was gathered about the lamp, the door opened and a guest entered unannounced. It was a guest not wont to stand on ceremony, a guest whose right it was to enter any house at any time, whether its inmates were at table, at prayers, or whatever they might be doing. His uniform—that of the imperial police—was his passport. He raised his hand to his cap in military salute.
"Pardon me for disturbing you at so late an hour," said he in German; "but I bring a despatch from Pest directed to Baron Edmund von Baradlay."
So the fatal summons had come at last!
Ödön took a lamp from the table. "That is my name," said he, calmly. "Will you please come with me to my room?"
"Excuse me; I have also letters for the two ladies,—the dowager Baroness Casimir von Baradlay and the young Baroness von Baradlay."
The messenger took from his pocketbook the three letters, and delivered them according to the addresses they bore. "I will await your pleasure in the anteroom," said he, as he saluted and withdrew.
All three looked at their letters with pale faces, as one scrutinises a missive he fears to open and read. Each of the letters bore the government seal, and was addressed in the clear, caligraphic hand of an office clerk.
Each contained, in the same caligraphic handwriting, the following:
"It is my duty to forward to you the enclosed communication, which has been officially examined by me, and found to contain no objectionable matter."
Then followed an illegible scrawl as signature. The "enclosed communication" proved in each case to be a letter from Jenő. Ödön's ran as follows:
"Dear Edmund:—To-day I bring to its fulfilment that for which I have lived. I die for the cause I have embraced. Be not bowed down with sadness at my fate; I go to meet it with head erect. I leave you my blessing, and take my faith with me. The blood we shed will moisten no thankless soil: from it will spring golden harvests for our fatherland and for humanity. You who survive will rear again the structure that now falls in ruins over our heads. Sooner or later the helm of the ship of state will come into your hands. I die with entire submission to the decrees of destiny. Dry Aranka's tears; kiss for me little Béla and the baby, and when they ask whither I have gone, say I am in your heart. For yourself, never lose courage; live for our family and our country, which may God prosper for ages to come!Your brother,"Eugen."
"Dear Edmund:—To-day I bring to its fulfilment that for which I have lived. I die for the cause I have embraced. Be not bowed down with sadness at my fate; I go to meet it with head erect. I leave you my blessing, and take my faith with me. The blood we shed will moisten no thankless soil: from it will spring golden harvests for our fatherland and for humanity. You who survive will rear again the structure that now falls in ruins over our heads. Sooner or later the helm of the ship of state will come into your hands. I die with entire submission to the decrees of destiny. Dry Aranka's tears; kiss for me little Béla and the baby, and when they ask whither I have gone, say I am in your heart. For yourself, never lose courage; live for our family and our country, which may God prosper for ages to come!
Your brother,
"Eugen."
The parting message to Aranka was thus conceived:
"My dear, my beloved Aranka:—Your noble words still ring in my ears,—'Do what your heart bids you.' I have done it. Forgive me for causing you pain by my death. I would have you, while you weep for me, still be comforted. Do not sadden your little ones by showing them a sorrowful face. You know how quickly sadness in you affects them, and how you are thus in danger of blighting the joy of their innocent young lives. Be good to my mother and brothers; they will care for you. Veil the little portrait for awhile, that it may not too often bring to mind sad thoughts of the past. I will spare you the pain of reading more. I would leave you in such a way that you may not be bowed downwith grief at my going. I send you a kiss through the air; it will reach you from the heavens above. May God keep you for ever. Even in death,"Your ever loving"Eugen."
"My dear, my beloved Aranka:—Your noble words still ring in my ears,—'Do what your heart bids you.' I have done it. Forgive me for causing you pain by my death. I would have you, while you weep for me, still be comforted. Do not sadden your little ones by showing them a sorrowful face. You know how quickly sadness in you affects them, and how you are thus in danger of blighting the joy of their innocent young lives. Be good to my mother and brothers; they will care for you. Veil the little portrait for awhile, that it may not too often bring to mind sad thoughts of the past. I will spare you the pain of reading more. I would leave you in such a way that you may not be bowed downwith grief at my going. I send you a kiss through the air; it will reach you from the heavens above. May God keep you for ever. Even in death,
"Your ever loving
"Eugen."
To his mother the young man sent the following message:
"My dear, my adored Mother:—The words with which I parted from you I now repeat once more,—I love you. You no longer fear that Aranka's little ones will come to want, do you? Heaven has ordered all things well,—both for him who dies, and for those that are left behind. You have a strong nature, an exalted soul, and I need not leave you any strength of mine. The mother of the Gracchi received into her arms her murdered sons, and wept not. For those that die a glorious death their mothers need shed no tears,—so you have told us. Therefore, do not mourn. With true Christian submission say, 'Father, thy will be done!' And bear no one any malice because of my death; forgive even her who by her accusation has driven me to an early grave, and do not let her know how much good she has really done by her criminal act. She has made death easy for me, and I thank her. I die at peace with all the world, and I trust that no one harbours any ill will against me. An hour more,and I shall have joined my father up yonder. Of us three boys, you both showed me the greatest affection. When I was small and you used to fall out with each other, I was often the means of effecting a reconciliation. Now once more that shall be my mission. They are calling me. May God preserve you, dear mother.Your loving son,"Eugen."
"My dear, my adored Mother:—The words with which I parted from you I now repeat once more,—I love you. You no longer fear that Aranka's little ones will come to want, do you? Heaven has ordered all things well,—both for him who dies, and for those that are left behind. You have a strong nature, an exalted soul, and I need not leave you any strength of mine. The mother of the Gracchi received into her arms her murdered sons, and wept not. For those that die a glorious death their mothers need shed no tears,—so you have told us. Therefore, do not mourn. With true Christian submission say, 'Father, thy will be done!' And bear no one any malice because of my death; forgive even her who by her accusation has driven me to an early grave, and do not let her know how much good she has really done by her criminal act. She has made death easy for me, and I thank her. I die at peace with all the world, and I trust that no one harbours any ill will against me. An hour more,and I shall have joined my father up yonder. Of us three boys, you both showed me the greatest affection. When I was small and you used to fall out with each other, I was often the means of effecting a reconciliation. Now once more that shall be my mission. They are calling me. May God preserve you, dear mother.
Your loving son,
"Eugen."
Only a subdued sobbing was heard as they read their letters and exchanged them. In the next room was a stranger who must not hear any loud lamentation. But why did he linger? Who was to go and ask him?
The widow was the first to recover her composure. She dried her tears and rose. "Check your grief for a moment," said she to the other two, and then she went to the door and bade the messenger enter. "Have you any further communication for us?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, drawing a small package from his breast pocket, and delivering it to the baroness.
She opened it. It contained a blue silk waistcoat which Aranka had embroidered with lilies of the valley and pansies. In the midst of the embroidered flowers were three holes, each as large as a rifle ball, singed and blood-stained at the edges. The embroidery and the bullet-holes explained all.
The government emissary uttered no word, but for a moment, while the packet was being opened, he removed his cap. The baroness forced herself to bear up yet a little longer. With a firm step she went to a cupboard; returning, she handed the man a gold coin. He murmured a "thank you" and something about God's blessing; then he saluted and withdrew.
The necessity of restraint being removed, the grief-stricken family were at liberty to moisten the dear memento with their tears and pay their loving tribute to the noble martyr's memory.
But had Jenő held no communication with his brother Richard before his death? Yes; Richard was a prisoner in the same building, and it was fitted with a telegraph which communicated with all the cells and was never idle. It could not be silenced; the prisoners could not be prevented from making use of it at all hours of the day and night. It consisted simply of the prison walls.
No wall is so thick that a knocking on one side cannot be heard on the other. One rap stood for A, two for B, three for C, and so on through the alphabet. The rapping went on continually all over the building, and each new prisoner learned its meaning on the very day of his arrival, and became a telegraph operator himself. A message sent out from one cell was passed along until it reached its destination, when an answer was returned by the same route.
On the day which was destined to be Jenő's last on earth, the following questions and answers passed from cell to cell.
"What news?"
"Death sentence."
"Who?"
"Baradlay."
"Which one?"
"The oldest."
Through Richard's cell, too, passed this cryptogram, and he asked again:
"First name?"
But the only reply he could elicit was a repetition of the above: "The oldest."
The governor plenipotentiary was suffering with a splitting headache, which at times made him inclined to believe that all the bullets he had sent through his victims' heads were holding a rendezvous in his own. On such occasions it was dangerous to approach the great man. In the frenzy of his pain he was wont to rage even against those he loved best, and to find fault with all who were under his authority, as if determined to make others feel some small fraction of the discomfort he was forced to endure. To ask a favour of him in such moments, or even to demand simple justice, was worse than useless. Did he find favour with his torturer, he wanted to know, or was there any justice in his undeserved suffering?
This was the sort of man that was set as judge over a vanquished people.
In the midst of one of these attacks the governor sat alone one evening in his room when his servantopened the door. "Some one here to speak with your Excellency," he announced.
"Send him away."
"But it is a lady."
"The devil take all these hysterical women! I don't want any woebegone faces around me now. I can't see the lady."
Many women, most of them in mourning, crossed his threshold in those days.
"It is the Baroness Alfonsine Plankenhorst who asks to see you," the servant ventured to add.
"Can't she stay at home, I'd like to know? Is this time of night my hour for receiving callers?"
"She says she must see your Excellency—it is important."
"A young person of strong character. Well, show her in. Besides," he added to himself, "she isn't a woman; she is a devil." Then resuming his chair, and without removing the bandage that adorned his head, he awaited his caller.
Alfonsine entered in travelling costume, and closed the door carefully behind her.
"My dear Baroness," began the governor, "I must beg you to be as brief as possible, for I have a fearful headache."
"I will do my errand in a very few words," was the reply. "I learned to-day of your removal from the governorship of Hungary."
"Ha! Is that so? And why am I removed?" The sufferer felt as if a cannon-ball had crashed through his head.
"Because there is an outcry against the present severe measures, and the public is to be told that the government is not responsible for them, but you personally in your excess of zeal."
The sick man pressed both hands to his temples, as if to keep his head from bursting.
"Beginning to-morrow, a new system is to be inaugurated," resumed Alfonsine, "and imprisonment is to take the place of the death penalty."
"Ah, I am very grateful to you for this information—very grateful."
"I made all haste to bring you warning, for to-morrow morning you will receive official notification of your retirement. But you still have a night before you for action."
"And I will use it, I assure you!" exclaimed the governor.
He rang his bell and summoned his adjutant. The latter soon appeared.
"Go at once to the judge-advocate and tell him to have all pending suits drawn up and ready to submit to the court at midnight, when it will hold an extra session. At three o'clock all the verdicts must be in my hands; at five let the accused stand ready to hear their sentences. The garrison meanwhile is to be kept under arms. Now go; despatch is the word!"
The governor turned again to his visitor. "Are you satisfied with my promptness?" he asked.
Alfonsine answered with another question. "Is Richard Baradlay one of those whose cases will come up to-night?"
"His name is among the first on the list," was the reply.
"Do not forget, your Excellency," urged the other, "that he has done us more harm than any one else."
"I know all about him, Baroness, and his case shall receive our immediate attention. And now I thank you for bringing me this word so promptly; I thank you heartily."
"Good night."
"Ha! ha! and a royal good night it will be for me!" exclaimed the governor when his guest had gone.
All that night Alfonsine Plankenhorst never closed her eyes. Fiendish joy and nervous excitement frightened sleep from her pillow. She was impatient for morning to come, that she might take the first train for Vienna and revel in her poor cousin's grief and despair. She counted the hours as they dragged slowly by. Twelve o'clock. The court was now in session; the accused were hearingthe charges read out against them; they were being asked if they had any defence to offer; they had none. Then they were led back to their cells. One o'clock. The verdicts were being considered; no one said a word in the prisoners' favour; the vote was taken. Two o'clock. The verdicts were being recorded. Three o'clock. The man with the bandaged head was signing each sentence. Four o'clock. All was in readiness. Whoever had slept in that prison was now, at any rate, on his feet and was being told to feast his eyes for the last time on this beautiful world, on the rosy flush of dawning day, and on the dying of the twinkling stars in the eastern sky.
Unable to lie longer in bed, Alfonsine rose and went down-stairs. A cab stood in the courtyard. She ordered the porter to bring down her hand-bag, and then drove to the judge-advocate's house. She knew him well,—as the sexton knows the undertaker,—and she felt sure of finding him at home and awake. She was shown into his presence without delay. The judge-advocate was a man of few words.
"Have you finished your night's work?" asked Alfonsine.
"Yes."
"What were the sentences?"
"Death."
"In every case?"
"Without exception."
"And Richard Baradlay?"
"Is on the list."
"He is condemned?"
"To death."
Alfonsine pressed the judge-advocate's hand and hastened away to her train. The city clocks were striking five,—the last hour they would ever strike for Richard Baradlay, said she, as she hurried on, feeding her imagination with the last grim scenes of his earthly career.
On arriving at Vienna she found the family carriage awaiting her, and she lost no time in reaching her home. Hastening from room to room in quest of Edith, she found her sewing on a black dress for herself.
"I have fulfilled my vow," cried Alfonsine, smiling with gratified malice. "He is dead!"
Edith raised her eyes sadly and met her cousin's gaze. Then she bowed her head on her breast, but she did not weep or cry out.
Hearing her daughter enter, Baroness Plankenhorst hastened to join her and hear all about the success of her mission. Nor did the other omit any detail in recounting her experiences of the night and the early morning. She dwelt with pride on the instant and entire success that had crowned her efforts. Thereupon the mother and daughter embraced and kissed each other in their joy, nearly forgetting in their congratulations the presence of a third person. But was the victim determined not to wince?
"Haven't you a single tear to shed for him?" they asked, scornfully. But perhaps she had not yet grasped the meaning of it all. "Don't you hear me?" screamed her cousin; "your Richard Baradlay is dead."
The other only sighed. "God has taken him," said she to herself, "and I shall mourn him as long as I live." But she could not trust herself to say anything aloud. Her anguish was too keen.
"Weep for him, I tell you!" cried the beautiful fury, stamping her foot, while loose locks of her fair hair fluttered about her face.
At that moment the servant opened the door and announced, "Captain Richard Baradlay." There he stood, but no longer in the uniform of a captain of hussars. He wore plain citizen's clothes.
The tormented victim of the headache had employed the last hours of his tenure of office in causing one hundred and twenty of the chief prisoners under his care to be tried and sentenced with the utmost expedition. They were condemned to death, but he exercised his right of pardon, and set them all free, without exception. He thus, as he had vowed in his hour of torment, took ample revenge—not on theaccused, but on the minister who was about to remove him from office. He issued a wholesale pardon. "Now let the minister, in his zeal for milder methods, outdo me if he can!" he exclaimed, as he threw down his pen.
Richard had been summoned before the judge-advocate immediately after receiving the unexpected announcement of his pardon.
"You are set free, it is true," said the high official; "yet for a time you are not allowed to live in Hungary, but are ordered to make your home in some city of the empire outside your own country. Let us say Vienna, for example. The governor, who has to-day given you your liberty, wishes you to call on the young Baroness Alfonsine Plankenhorst, upon your arrival at Vienna, and thank her for her good offices in securing your liberation. Without her intervention you would not so soon have left your prison cell. So give her your heartiest thanks."
"I shall not fail to do so," was the reply.
"And one thing more: your brother Eugen, or Ödön, as you call him, has paid the penalty of his treason with his life—"
"Yes, I know it," interrupted the other; "but I am puzzled how the German and the Hungarian names—"
Here he was sharply cut short. "In the first place," said the judge-advocate, sternly, "it wasagainst all rules and regulations for you to hear anything about it, since you were a prisoner, and communication with a prisoner is treason. In the second place, I did not ask you for a lecture on philology; you are here to attend to what I have to say." Therewith he took a little pasteboard box out of a drawer. "Your brother left you a lock of his hair, which I now deliver to you."
Richard opened the box. "But this is not—" he began, in great surprise, when the other again shut him off.
"I have nothing more to say to you. Good morning."
With this, the released prisoner was shown to the door. A little more, and he would have blurted out his astonishment at finding blond hair in the little box, whereas Ödön's hair was dark.
Hastening to the railway station, Richard caught the early train to Vienna, and so made the journey all but in Alfonsine's company. She, however, took her seat in a first-class compartment, while he, as a poor released prisoner, contented himself with a third-class seat. And while the young lady was revelling in her supposed revenge, only a few yards away sat the object of her hatred, puzzling his brain over three baffling riddles. The first was: "What is the meaning of the blond lock of hair, and whyEugenBaradlay instead ofEdmund?" The second: "How isit that I am indebted to Alfonsine Plankenhorst for my freedom?" And the third: "Where shall I find Edith, and when I find her what is to be my next step?"
He could solve neither of the three riddles.
Richard entered the Plankenhorst house with the ease and freedom of a man visiting old friends. He did not note the expression of amazement and terror—as if at sight of a ghost—with which the mother and daughter stared at him. He had eyes only for Edith, who, beside herself with joy, sprang to embrace him, stammering as she lay on his bosom: "Richard, is it really you?"
The baroness was the first to regain her composure. "Edith," said she severely, turning to her niece, "I cannot understand your immodest behaviour toward this gentleman. What do you wish, sir?" she asked coldly of Richard.
The young man advanced to Alfonsine and addressed her in words of sincere gratitude and friendliness. "First of all," he began, "it was to pay a debt of heartfelt gratitude that I hastened hither this morning. At daybreak I was to have been executed as a condemned criminal, but at the last moment I was pardoned. The governor, in remittingmy sentence and setting me free, enjoined upon me as my first duty to pay you, my dear young lady, my sincere thanks for my freedom. Without your intervention I should have been sentenced to at least fifteen years' imprisonment. Accept, I beg you, my warmest thanks for your kind act."
Every one of his words was a crushing blow on the viper's head. Did he thank her, Alfonsine Plankenhorst, for his liberation, he whose destruction had been the end and aim of all her strivings for weeks and months past, and the sweet vision of her nightly dreams?
Her mother, whose self-control was greater than her own, was forced to come to her aid.
"My dear sir," said she to Richard, "there must be some mistake here. The service which you ascribe to my daughter cannot have been rendered by any member of my family, for the simple reason that we have not concerned ourselves with your affairs in the slightest degree. We live in strict retirement, meet no one, never meddle in politics, and our drawing-rooms are closed to society. This last I beg leave to emphasise for your benefit."
"I understand you perfectly, madam, and I can assure you that this is the last time I shall intrude upon you. A few words more and I have done. You will remember that a year and a half ago I became engaged to your niece—"
"An engagement which, of course, must now be considered as broken off," interrupted the baroness. "When you asked for my niece's hand you were an officer in the army, a man of property, and a nobleman. Now, however, you are neither."
"But I am still Richard Baradlay," returned the young man, with dignity.
"And free as a bird!" added the other, scornfully. "But it so happens that the other party to the engagement is not equally free. Miss Edith Liedenwall is bound to comply with the wishes of her relatives on whom she is dependent, and they consider it their duty to discountenance her engagement to Mr. Richard Baradlay. She feels, too, that she has a perfect right to break the engagement and choose again more wisely."
"I beg to ask Miss Liedenwall whether that is so?"
Edith shook her head, but did not venture to speak.
Her aunt was bent on settling the matter once for all. "Edith will do as we think best for her," said she. "We are not only entitled, but in duty bound, to make wise provision for her future. You, sir, are now too late with your wooing. We provided for her while you were still in prison and little likely ever to see your freedom. My niece is promised to another."
Edith started from her chair. "Your niece willgive her hand only to the man she loves," she declared, firmly.
"Edith," commanded her aunt, without losing her composure, "let us not have a scene, if you please. You are my foster-daughter and I have a lawful right to demand obedience of you."
"I will not be your foster-daughter any longer," cried the young lady, asserting herself resolutely; "I will go into service, for which I have been trained in your house. As chambermaid or kitchen girl I can give my hand to whom I choose."
"You will not be allowed to execute your threat, my dear," returned the baroness calmly. "You are under very good care here, and things will take their orderly and proper course until you are called upon to kneel at the altar; and should you choose to weep while pledging your vows there, your tears would be merely regarded as a fitting accompaniment to the solemn ceremonial."
"But I should not weep," cried the girl, excitedly; "I should do something very different. If you really found a man who consented to marry me to please you and against my will, I should say to him, before he led me to the altar, that I once ran away from a convent,—ran away in the night and made my way to the camp where my lover was, in whose room I passed half the night. Some of his comrades, as well as the market-woman in Singer Street, saw methere, and all the nuns in the St. Bridget Convent know about it. Sister Remigia knows that I ran away and where I was. The marks of the punishment I received the next day are still visible. And now, madam, do you wish another than the man for whom I bear those scars to see them?"
Passionate scorn and maidenly indignation spoke in the girl's every look and gesture. Richard was struck dumb with admiration. The baroness fairly choked with amazement and impotent wrath. Of what she had just heard she had entertained not the slightest suspicion. She felt her self-control and will-power slipping away from her in the determined girl's presence; yet she made one last attempt to carry her point.
"You wretched girl!" she cried, clasping her hands and turning her eyes heavenward; "alas, that you should have so far forgotten yourself! Do you know that you have fallen a victim to an unprincipled seducer? This man here whom you claim to be your betrothed is already married to another woman, who, of course, has rights that take precedence of yours, and who will drive you from his side with reviling and insult."
"I—married already?" gasped Richard, in amazement.
"Yes, you!" retorted the baroness. "Or do you choose to deny that you have a son in Pest overwhom you watch with tender care, whose education you pay for, and whom you sent to the hospital when he was ill? Deny that, sir, if you can!"
"So you drag a poor innocent child into our unfortunate quarrel," said Richard.
"The child is innocent, but not its father," returned the accuser, pointing her finger at Richard.
"Very well, madam, I will tell you the story of this child. It happened not long ago that I mortally wounded a brave opponent in battle. This man summoned me to him in his dying hour and told me he had, somewhere in the world, a son whom he had long sought in vain, but traces of whom he had recently discovered. The mother had abandoned the child. He begged me to promise that I would find the boy, and I did so, assuring him that I would care for the poor waif as tenderly as if he were my own brother's child. Accordingly, I prosecuted the search and was at last successful. I have in my possession certain letters and other papers which establish the child's identity and parentage."
Baroness Plankenhorst and her daughter were trembling in every limb and seemed powerless to utter a word. Meanwhile the speaker went on, standing proudly erect as he proceeded:
"But I promised my dying adversary never to betray the mother's name to any one, and you may rest assured I never shall."
Edith approached her lover and said, with great gentleness: "Whoever the mother may be of the child to which you have promised to be a father, I will be its mother." And she leaned fondly on his breast and rested her head on his shoulder.
Her aunt, vanquished and prostrate, raised her hand as if in malediction and muttered hoarsely:
"Take her then and begone, in the devil's name!"
Richard lost no time in sending to his mother from Vienna a full account of his varied experiences. Her reply was supplemented by the arrival of her steward and his wife, who informed him fully of all that had occurred at home during his absence. The good wife had come with her husband to be of such service as she could to Edith in preparing for the young girl's wedding. Edith had been placed by Richard in a hotel until the marriage should take place.
The riddle of the blond hair was now explained, and Richard's grief and love for his martyr-brother made him prize the little lock of hair more than all other earthly possessions. He was also told that his mother had wished to attend his wedding, but on applying for a passport,—which was now necessary even for the shortest journeys,—she had been refused, and had received instructions not to leave Nemesdomb until farther notice. Then the young baroness had planned to come, but was detained by her baby's illness. As for his brother Ödön, he had the best of reasons for not showing himself in Vienna at present. So the steward and his wife had come to represent the family.
Finally, the good man announced that the Baradlay property had been taken possession of by the government,—not permanently, as only the inheritance of two of the brothers, at most, could be confiscated, while the third brother's share must be restored in the end; but such matters were settled only after long delay. Meanwhile the total income of the property went into the state treasury, and a mere pittance was returned to the widow, in monthly payments, for the support of her family. Therefore Richard's expenses were to be regulated with extreme economy. The young man found all this only what was to have been expected. He had been granted his life and liberty, and was not disposed to grumble at losing his property. What engrossed his thoughts just then was his approaching marriage with Edith, which was to make him the happiest man in all the world.
When in due time he had attained to that longed for bliss, he found himself confronted by a situation that demanded earnest consultation with the partner of his happiness.
"Do you know, little wife," said he, "that we are very poor?"
But Edith only laughed at him. "How can webe poor when we have each other?" she demanded, triumphantly.
"That makes two millions, I know," admitted Richard; "but it yields no interest in cash. We must economise. Do you know what our monthly income actually amounts to? One hundred florins. More than that my mother cannot spare me, as she is much straitened herself."
"But I don't see how we can spend even that amount," declared Edith. "It is a great sum of money."
"I must confess one thing more to you," pursued the young husband; "even this small income is not all mine. I have a number of little debts here in the city, dating back one and two years, or more,—trifling sums that I owe to honest shopkeepers and working people. These debts were mere bagatelles to me then, but they press me heavily now. Yet I can't allow these poor people who have trusted me to suffer loss. I shall pay them every penny, and for that purpose I propose to set aside one-half my monthly allowance."
"Very well," assented the other cheerfully; "we can live royally on fifty florins a month. I will be cook, and we will get along with only two courses for dinner. You shall see what a good cook I am. I will have a little servant girl to wash the dishes, and I am sure we shall manage famously."
Richard kissed his wife's hand and delivered into her keeping fifty florins for household expenses.
He then asked leave to absent himself for a few hours on business, and Edith told him he might stay out until one o'clock, when she should have dinner ready for him.
Richard appeared punctually at the hour set, like a model husband. And how good the little dinner tasted! He ate like a wolf, and declared that not even the emperor himself fared better. Really it was a splendid meal for fifty-five kreutzers.
"Such a dinner was more than I often got when I was a captain of hussars," declared the gratified husband, "especially when old Paul was cook—Heaven bless him!"
The dinner had been well earned, too. Richard had secured a place as workman in a machine-shop, at fifty florins a month, a splendid salary! He had also transacted other business in the course of the morning. He had called on the old shopkeeper in Porcelain Street, and asked him to take charge of his finances and arrange a settlement with his creditors, to whom he owed perhaps two thousand florins. He wished to pay it off in instalments until the last penny of indebtedness was discharged. Old Solomon had promised to call on him between one and two o'clock, when his shop was always closed.
At half-past one the old man's shuffling steps wereheard in the passageway. Edith was still busy with her dish-washing, and the window was open to let fresh air into the single room that served as kitchen, dining-room, and parlour in one.
"Ah, my dear madam," began the visitor, bowing low, "I kiss your fair hand; I am ever glad to kiss the hand that works—rather than the hand that knows only how to hold a fan. You have a very pleasant home here,—a little cramped for room, perhaps, but that brings you so much the nearer each other. Now then, Captain Baradlay, let us proceed to business," said he, turning to Richard. "The lady of the house will not be inconvenienced, I trust, by our transacting a little business in her parlour. It is here a case of two hearts that beat as one, I am sure." The old Jew took a bit of chalk from his pocket. "Have the goodness, please, to give me a list of all your debts."
Richard's memory in such matters was good, and he named the items, one after another, while old Solomon wrote them down on the table.
"Heavens and earth!" cried the aged Hebrew, raising his eyebrows and causing his round cap to move backward and forward on his bald skull; "a large sum, a big pile of money that makes. H'm, h'm!" He took a pinch of snuff from his black snuff-box, and then resumed his reckoning. "It appears, if I mistake not, that Captain Baradlaywas still under age when these debts were contracted."
"But my honour was not under age," said Richard.
"Ah, well said! That should be posted up in large letters,—'My honour was never under age!' Do you see, madam, what sort of a man you have married? A spendthrift who values his honour at more than two thousand florins.
"But look here, Captain, there's a way we have of settling debts like these, by agreeing with the creditors to pay a certain per cent. They are generally glad enough to get even a small fraction of what they supposed was dead loss. It's a very sensible arrangement all around."
"But it doesn't suit me," returned Richard emphatically. "Florin for florin, it shall all be paid as fast as I get the money. I can't cheat the poor people out of their just dues, even if I have to go hungry to pay them."
"Incorrigible!" exclaimed the other. "Remember, you are no longer a bachelor; you must think of your changed circumstances. Well, well, don't heat yourself. We'll say no more about it, but pass on to consider how all these debts are to be paid."
So saying, he marked off two parallel columns on the table, over one of which he wrote, "Debit," and over the other, "Credit."
"In the first place," began Richard, "I receive ahundred florins monthly from my mother, half of which is to go to my creditors."
"Half of it? and does your wife agree to that?"
"Oh, yes," Edith hastened to reply.
Solomon made an entry in the second column.
"Fifty florins more will come to me monthly as wages for my work in the machine-shop," continued Richard. "Half of it I shall use toward paying my debts, and the other half is for my wife's wardrobe."
"But how can I ever spend so much?" interposed Edith. "Your dear, good mother sent me so many dresses for wedding presents that I never can wear them out. Let it all go to your creditors." She would give the two no peace until Solomon had written down the whole amount.
Then the old man pushed up the sleeves of his caftan, like one who prepares to execute a masterstroke. "To that must next be added," said he, "the three hundred thousand florins that Miss Edith Liedenwall brought to Captain Baradlay as her dowry." Therewith he wrote "300,000 fl." as the next entry.
The two young people looked at him to see what he meant by such a joke; but he merely rose from his chair, took each of them by the hand, and addressed them as follows:
"I wish you all happiness in your married life. You are worthy of each other. What I just said,and what I wrote, were both in earnest; and now I will explain."
The three resumed their seats, and the old man proceeded to explain to them the mystery of the three hundred thousand florins.
"You had, my dear madam, a great-uncle, Alfred Plankenhorst, who was a rich man and an old bachelor. He had great family pride, as I have reason to know, having been well acquainted with him and acted as his banker and business agent. I thus came to know a good deal about his family affairs. The old gentleman made a will by which he left all his property—his house in Vienna and his invested funds—to his niece, Baroness Plankenhorst, and her daughter. The old uncle was long-lived,—it is a way with some people, especially when they are rich,—and before he died the young lady had a love affair which resulted unfortunately for her good name. Well, there was no help for it; but the old gentleman had very strong prejudices in such matters, and he made a new will. Hunting up the orphan daughter of a distant relative,—Edith Liedenwall was the young lady's name,—he left her in the care of the Plankenhorst ladies for her education. The substance of the second will I can give you in a few words.
"Should Alfonsine Plankenhorst ever marry and make good her false step by a union with a man ofbirth equal to her own, she was to receive the bulk of the property as her dowry; but if she failed to retrieve herself before Edith Liedenwall grew up and married, the latter was to receive this dowry, provided her marriage was a suitable and honourable one, and provided she had committed no act such as had led the testator to destroy his first will. Failing this disposition of the property, as dowry either of Alfonsine Plankenhorst or of Edith Liedenwall, it was to go, after a certain number of years, to the St. Bridget Convent, though the house was in any case to remain in the possession of the Plankenhorst ladies. I was made executor of this will, the contents of which were to be kept secret. But the secretary who wrote it communicated its items to the baroness and her daughter, so that they have long known all about it. If you will now review the events of your courtship and engagement, in the light of what I have just told you, you will find everything explained that has been hitherto mysterious to you. Meanwhile, I was watching the course of events and knew all that was going on. Oh, we quiet old people have sharp eyes; we can see into houses, into pockets, and even into hearts.
"The Plankenhorst mansion will remain in the possession of its present occupants. It is a pretty bit of property by itself, but they'll go through it within ten years. Yet these are not times when onethinks about what is to be ten years hence. He who clothes the lilies of the field and the girls in the ballet will also provide for Alfonsine Plankenhorst.
"And now, Captain and Mrs. Baradlay, are you satisfied with what fortune has brought you?"
THE END.
SELECTIONS FROML. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'SLIST OF FICTION