Under a Charm. Vol. I

That wild tone of torture and desperation revealed to the Doctor how matters stood with his pupil at this moment, and how little he cared whether he were really dashed to pieces on the stones below, or not. In his mortal dread of the accident he saw inevitably approaching, this man, usually so timorous, ventured to seize the reins, meaning to continue his remonstrances. Just then, however, a fearful blow of the whip crashed down on the rebellious animal. It reared again, and beat the air with its forefeet, but still refused the leap. At the same instant, a faint cry reached the rider's ears. He started, stopped, and then, with a movement swift as lightning, reined his horse back. It was too late. Dr. Fabian had been thrown to the ground, and Waldemar, leaping from his saddle, saw his tutor stretched, bleeding and unconscious, at his feet.

CHAPTER IX

The dwellers at Altenhof had passed a week of great suspense and anxiety. When Herr Witold returned home on the evening of the accident, he found the whole house in commotion. Dr. Fabian lay bleeding and still unconscious in his room; and Waldemar, with a face which terrified his guardian even more than the sight of the sufferer, was endeavouring to stanch the wound. Nothing could be extracted from him, save that he had been the cause of the misfortune which had occurred; so the Squire was obliged, in a great measure, to rely on the reports of the servants. From them he learned that the young master had returned at dusk, bearing in his arms the injured man, whom he must have carried from a distance, and that he had immediately sent off messengers to the nearest doctors. A quarter of an hour later, the horse had come in in his turn, exhausted, and bearing all the traces of fast and furious riding. The animal, on being abandoned by its master, had taken the familiar road home–that was all the servants knew. The wound on the Doctor's head, evidently caused by a blow from the hoof, seemed of a serious nature; and the great loss of blood and weakly constitution of the patient aroused for some time fears of the worst. Herr Witold, thoroughly sound and healthy himself, and accustomed to a like vigour in Waldemar, had no experience of sickness or suspense, and swore often enough that for all the gold in the world he would not live through that week again. To-day, for the first time, the Squire's face wore its accustomed cheery look, as he sat by the bed in the patient's room.

"So we have tided over the worst," said he. "And now, Doctor, you will do me the favour to have a little rational talk with Waldemar." He pointed to his adopted son, who stood by the window, leaning his head against the panes, and looking out absently into the court. "I can do nothing with him, but you can obtain what you like from him now; so try and bring him to reason, or I shall have the boy ruined for life through this unhappy business."

Doctor Fabian, who wore a broad white bandage across his brow, still looked very weak and wasted; but he was sitting up, supported by pillows, and his voice, though faint, was quite clear as he asked–

"What do you wish Waldemar to do?"

"I wish him to be reasonable," returned Witold, emphatically; "to be reasonable, and to thank God that things have gone so well with us; instead of which he goes about tormenting himself, as if he really had a murder on his conscience. I was anxious enough myself for the first two or three days, when your life hung on a thread; but now that the doctor has declared you to be out of danger, one may breathe freely again. There is no good in overdoing a thing, and I can't bear any longer to see the boy wandering about with such a face, and hardly saying a word for hours together."

"But I have told Waldemar over and over again that I alone am to blame for the accident," said the Doctor. "His attention was quite taken up with his horse; he could not see I was standing so near. I was imprudent enough to seize the animal's veins, and it pulled me to the ground."

"You caught hold of Norman's reins?" asked the Squire, petrified with amazement. "You, who will go ten paces out of any horse's way, and have never ventured to approach the wild beast? How did you come to do that?"

Fabian glanced across at his pupil. "I was afraid of an accident," he answered, gently.

"Which would unquestionably have happened," went on Witold. "Waldemar could not have all his five senses about him that evening, to want to leap the ditch just at that spot, at dusk too, and with a horse dead beat! I have always told him that temper of his would get him into trouble some day. Now he has had a lesson–but he takes it rather too much to heart. So, Doctor, you just read him a sermon–you are allowed to talk now, you know–and persuade him to be reasonable. He will do what you tell him now, I am certain."

Saying which, the Squire rose and left the room.

The two who remained behind were silent awhile. At last the Doctor began–

"Did you hear what I have been charged with, Waldemar?"

The young man, who up to this time had stood by the window, silent and abstracted, as though the conversation in no way concerned him, turned round at once, and went up to the bed. At first sight, Witold's anxiety might have appeared exaggerated. Such a nature as Waldemar's does not succumb so easily to moral influences. He only looked somewhat paler than of yore; but any one who observed him closely would have discerned the change.

There was a strange, new expression in his face, well calculated to excite uneasiness–a peculiar rigidity of feature, as though all emotion had died out within him. This, however, might only be the vizier behind which some deeply wounded feeling hid itself from the outer world. His voice, too, had lost its full strong ring; it sounded weary and spiritless as he replied–

"Don't listen to my uncle. There is nothing the matter with me."

Dr. Fabian took his pupil's hand between his own, the young man submitting unresistingly.

"I have not ventured to touch on the subject yet," went on the Doctor, timidly. "I see it still gives you pain. Shall I be silent?"

Waldemar drew a deep, long breath.

"No," said he, after a minute. "I ought to thank you for withholding the truth from my uncle. He would have tortured me with questions which I should not have answered; but my madness on that evening nearly cost you your life. I cannot–I do not wish to deny to you what you, indeed, must know already."

"I know nothing," replied the Doctor, with a troubled look. "I can only form a guess from the scene I witnessed. Waldemar, tell me, for Heaven's sake, what had taken place?"

"Oh, it was nothing–a mere childish joke," said Waldemar, bitterly. "A piece of folly, which was not worthy to be taken seriously–so my mother wrote the day before yesterday. Unfortunately, I have taken it seriously–so seriously that it has wrecked part of my life for me, perhaps the best part."

"You love Countess Morynska?" asked the Doctor, in a low tone.

"I did love her; it is over. I know now that she was miserably trifling with me. I have done with her and her love."

Dr. Fabian shook his head, as he scanned the young man's face with deep anxiety. "Done with her? no, not for some time to come! I can see but too plainly what you are suffering at this moment."

Waldemar passed his hand across his brow. "That will pass. I have borne it, and I shall conquer it; for conquer it I will, at any cost. Only one thing I beg of you. Say no word of it to my uncle, nor–nor to me. I shall battle down the weakness, I know; but I cannot speak of it, not even to you. Let me settle the matter by myself–it will be all the sooner buried."

His trembling lips betrayed how sensitive was the wound to the slightest touch. The Doctor saw he must desist.

"I will be silent, since you wish it. You shall in future hear no word of it from me."

"In future!" repeated Waldemar. "Why, are you thinking of staying on with me? I took it for granted that you would leave us when you got well. I can hardly expect you to put up with a pupil who rides you down in return for all your care and trouble."

The Doctor took the young man's hands again soothingly between his own.

"As though I did not know that you have suffered far more than I! One good result my illness has had. It has convinced me on a point–forgive me–on which I was not fully convinced before. I know now that you have a heart to feel for others."

Waldemar seemed hardly to hear the last words. His eyes had a gloomy, absent look; but suddenly he roused himself, and said, "My uncle is right in one thing. How did you come to take hold of Norman's reins, you of all people?"

Fabian smiled. "You mean because my cowardice is notorious? It was anxiety on your account which made me courageous for once. I had, it is true, often seen you commit similar mad acts of rashness, and never ventured to interfere; but then I always knew that you were a match for the danger which you set yourself to overcome. On that evening you were not bent on overcoming a danger; you were bent on bringing about that fall, Waldemar. I saw you wished for it, saw it would be death to you, if I did not hold you back by force, and I forgot even my fear, and seized the bridle."

Waldemar looked at the speaker with wide, astonished eyes. "So it was not mere imprudence, not by any unlucky accident that you were thrown to the ground. You knew to what you were exposing yourself. Do you care at all about my life, then? I thought nobody cared for it."

"Nobody? and your guardian?"

"Uncle Witold? Yes, he perhaps; but no one else."

"I think I have shown you that somebody else cares," said the Doctor, with gentle reproach.

The young man bent over him.

"I know that I have deserved it least of all from you; but, believe me, Doctor, I have had a hard lesson, so hard a one that I shall never forget it as long as I live. From the hour I carried you home bleeding, from the two first days when the surgeon gave you up for lost, I have been learning what a murderer must feel. If you really are willing to stay on with me, you may risk it now. Here, by your bed of pain, I have for ever forsworn those violent fits of passion which blind me to everything that comes in my way. You shall not have to complain of me any more."

The words were spoken with a touch of the old energy; but Dr. Fabian still gazed anxiously into his pupil's countenance, as the latter bent over him. "I wish you could tell me that with a different face," he replied. "Of course I shall stay with you; but I would rather have your old impetuosity than this dull unnatural calm. There is a look in your eye which does not please me."

Waldemar raised himself quickly, withdrawing from the too keen observation. "Don't let us be for ever talking of me," he said. "The doctor says you may have some fresh air now. Shall I open the window?"

The sick man sighed. He saw there was nothing to be done here; moreover, the conversation was now interrupted by the entrance of Herr Witold.

"Here I am again," said he, coming in. "Waldemar, you will have to go down. Young Prince Baratowski is there."

"Leo?" asked Waldemar, in evident astonishment.

"Yes, he wants to speak to you. My presence will be superfluous, I am very sure, so I'll stay and keep the Doctor company."

The young man left the room, and Witold sat down in his former place by the bedside.

"The Baratowskis are exceedingly anxious to get hold of him again," said he, alluding to his adopted son. "Three days ago a letter came from her Highness, our lady mamma. Waldemar has not answered it, to my knowledge; in fact, nothing would induce him to leave you, so now the brother is sent over in person. And I must say this, the young Polish shoot is of a very trim growth–a perfect picture of a boy! only, unfortunately, as like his mother as two peas, which goes strongly against him in my eyes. And now it just occurs to me, I have never asked you what discoveries you made at C–. In my worry about you, I had quite forgotten the whole affair."

Dr. Fabian cast down his eyes, and plucked nervously at the counterpane. "I am sorry I cannot give you any information, Herr Witold," he replied. "My visit to C– was too short, too hurried, and I told you before that I had neither skill nor luck for a diplomatist."

"Ah, you are thinking of the crack in your skull," said the Squire; "but that had nothing to do with the business. However, I won't bother you with such commissions in future. So you could not find out anything? More's the pity! And how goes it with Waldemar? Did you read him a good lecture?"