Vineta, the Phantom City

Assessor Hubert had meantime suffered much from the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," and yet many would have considered his lot an enviable one, Professor Schwarz having died unmarried, and left him a considerable fortune. But what availed pecuniary independence, when the young lady he had chosen out of all the world, and upon whose hand he had counted with such assurance, belonged to another; when he had not reached the goal of his life-long ambition, the post of government counsellor? In spite of his untiring zeal and his laudable efforts to serve the state, he met with the most atrocious treatment. The state, far from appreciating his ability, self-sacrifice and devotion, seemed to incline to Superintendent Frank's opinion, that Assessor Hubert went on perpetrating one blunder after another, and was really unfit for the public service.

In truth, Hubert was so palpably slighted in every official promotion, that his colleagues began to jeer at him, and his aspiring soul, wounded to its depths, formed a grim resolve to leave the police department of L– to its own destruction. His uncle's legacy placed him above pecuniary want, why should he longer endure unappreciation and neglect; why submit to non-advancement? Why longer serve a thankless government which persistently refused to recognize his brilliant qualities, while it appointed commonplace men like Doctor Fabian to the highest positions, and conferred the most honorable distinctions upon them?

The more Hubert thought upon the wrongs and slights he had endured, the deeper became his indignation; at length it carried him so far that he went to the governor and hinted at resigning. To his great chagrin the hint was received eagerly and without one word of protest. He was declared wise in laying aside the cares and fatigues of active service now that he had no need of its pecuniary rewards, and the governor added that he really was rather too nervous and excitable to perform the duties of an office which required both courage and self-control.

As Hubert went forth from this interview to draw up his formal resignation, he felt a touch of his renowned uncle's misanthropy and contempt for the world. The resignation was sent in and actually accepted. When it took effect, to Hubert's great surprise the state and police departments were not dissolved, and the world went on as usual! The ex-assessor had only imitated his uncle's stupid man[oe]uvre, like him anticipating the direst consequences; but in neither case did the expected catastrophe arrive.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A DREAM OF EXILE

Waldemar, reined up his horse before the main entrance to Radowicz. His visits here was brief and infrequent; the breach between himself and his nearest relatives would not close, and recent events had widened it still more.

Waldemar's visit was to Wanda alone, and in a few moments the two sat side by side. The young girl was greatly changed; she had always been pale, but her face had never before been deathly white and colorless as now, when it bore the imprint of deep suffering. Leo's fate, her father's imprisonment, and the downfall of her people's cause, weighed heavily upon her heart. She knew that her father was ill and perhaps near death, but she could not see him for one brief moment, and she knew also that the hope of national freedom, for which he had perilled his life, was extinguished forever. The anguish of separation, the oscillation between hope and fear, the excitement and suspense attending these abortive attempts at liberation, had all left their traces upon her face. Wanda was one of those natures which contend against the most cruel misfortunes with unabated ardor while a gleam of hope remains, but which succumb powerlessly when the gleam is extinguished. It was evident that she had now reached that point; for the moment her manner betrayed a feverish excitement, a summoning of her last waning energies.

Waldemar had risen, and stood before the young girl stern and almost defiant. His manner was half angry, half imploring, and his voice expressed both exasperation and sorrow.

"For the last time I entreat you to abandon this idea," he said; "you will only forfeit your own life without aiding your father in the least; you will rather enhance his misery. You wish to accompany him to that frightful desert, to that climate which proves fatal even to the most robust; you, who from infancy have been indulged and petted, and surrounded by every comfort and luxury, would subject yourself to the bitterest privations. Your father's iron constitution may, perhaps, endure what would kill you in a few months. Ask your physician, question the present state of your health, and both will give answer that you cannot live there a year."

"Neither can my father live there," replied Wanda, in a tremulous voice; "but we are both indifferent to life, and we can die together."

"And I?" asked Waldemar, in a reproachful tone.

She turned away without answering.

"And I?" he reiterated, still more emphatically. "What will become of me?"

"You at least are free, and life is still before you. Endure it manfully; my burden is incomparably heavier than yours."

Waldemar was on the point of giving way to an outburst of passion, but a glance at that pale, sorrow-stricken face restrained him.

"Wanda," he said, calmly, "a year ago, when our hearts at last understood each other, we declared our mutual love. I should have won you from Leo at all hazards, but fate willed otherwise; his death removed that barrier. By Leo's new-made grave, at a time when the sword hung hourly suspended over your father's head, I did not venture to speak to you of love and marriage. I saw you only for a few moments at a time and at long intervals. You and my mother made me feel, whenever I visited Radowicz, that you still regarded me as an enemy; but I hoped for better things in the future, and now you meet me with this insane resolve, against which I will contend to my last breath: 'We will die together.' This is easily said, and also easily done, if, like Leo, one can die instantly, pierced through the heart by a bullet. Have you a clear conception of what death in banishment really is? It is a slow decline, a lingering struggle against privations which break down the mind long before they destroy the body. To languish far from home, to be cut off from the world and its interests, to be deprived of those intellectual and social enjoyments which are vital to you as the air you breathe, to be crushed and stifled under a load of misery,–this is exile. Do you ask my consent to your voluntary acceptance of such a destiny?"

The young girl shuddered. She felt the truth of Waldemar's description, but she remained silent.

"And will your father accept this incredible sacrifice?" continued the young man, still more excitedly. "Will my mother permit it? O, yes! They want to tear you from my arms, and if they can only do that, they will not hesitate to consign you to a living grave. If I had fallen in Leo's stead, your father would have commanded you to remain, and my mother would have kept you back for him. Now they have persuaded you into this idea of martyrdom; they know it will bring you certain death, but it will make your union with me impossible, and that is just what they want."

"Cease these bitter reproaches!" interposed Wanda. "You wrong my family; no one has persuaded me, this is my own resolution. My father stands upon the threshold of age; wounds, imprisonment, and, above all, defeat, have prostrated him mentally and physically. I am the only one left him, the last tie which binds him to life. I belong to him. The frightful picture you have drawn depicts his lot. Do you believe that I could enjoy a moment's peace at your side, knowing that my father had gone forth alone to confront that destiny, knowing that I had caused him the last and bitterest pang of his life by marrying a man he considers an enemy? My only solace in that merciless decree of exile is the permission to accompany my father. I knew that the conflict with you would be a hard one; I have just learned how terrible it is. Spare me, Waldemar; I have not much strength left!"

"O, no, not much for me!" cried Waldemar, bitterly; "whatever strength you have belongs to your father. I was a fool to trust that outburst of emotion which, in a moment of supreme danger, threw you into my arms. My mother is right: your national prejudices are your life's blood; you imbibed them in infancy, you can resign them only with life itself. You will sacrifice yourself and me to these prejudices; to them your father will sacrifice his only child. If your lover belonged to his own nation, he would never allow you to accompany him into exile. Do you Poles know only hatred, even beyond death and the grave?"

"If my father were free," said Wanda, in a broken voice, "I might have the courage to defy him, and what you call our national prejudices, for your sake. Now I can not, and I will not, for it would be treason to my filial duty. I shall go with my father even at the cost of my life; I will not leave him alone in his adversity."

The firmness with which she uttered these words convinced Waldemar that her resolution was not to be shaken, and he ceased opposing it. "When do you leave?" he asked, after a long pause.

"Next month. My aunt will accompany me to O–, and there we shall meet my father. Some weeks are left us; our final parting need not be to-day. But promise me that you will not come again until the last moment. I need all my courage for the farewell hour, and your despair takes it from me. We shall meet once more; until then, good-bye."

"Good-bye," Waldemar replied, curtly, almost roughly, without looking at her or taking her proffered hand.

"Waldemar," said the young girl, appealingly, and with an accent of reproachful tenderness in her voice; but it was lost upon the stern man, who was excited almost to frenzy. Rage and anguish at the thought of losing his beloved outweighed every appeal to his sense of right.

"I cannot be reconciled to this sacrifice," he said, sternly; "my whole nature rebels against it; but, as you insist upon it, I must prove equal to my fate. You know that I cannot indulge in idle lamentations, and as my remonstrances and reproaches wound you deeply, I had best keep silence. Farewell, Wanda."

Wanda lingered for a few moments as if in violent conflict with herself, but she dared not give utterance to the emotions that swelled her heart almost to bursting. "Farewell, Waldemar," she said softly, and left the room.

The lover made no effort to detain her; he stood vacantly gazing out of a window. Many conflicting emotions struggled for mastery in his features, but among them all there was no trace of the renunciation his loved one had demanded of him. He remained for a long time with his face pressed against the panes, not looking up until his name was spoken.

The princess had entered unobserved. How heavily the terrible events of the past year had fallen upon this woman! Her bearing was still erect and firm, and at the first glance no striking change was noticeable in her appearance, but closer scrutiny revealed what Leo's death had cost his mother. Her features wore a quiet, rigid composure, which was the result neither of self-control nor resignation, but rather of enforced submission; it was the expression of one who has nothing more to hope for or to lose,–whose life has been bereft of every interest and charm. The once brilliant eyes were lustreless, the once smooth brow was deeply furrowed, the dark hair was flecked with gray. The blow to the maternal pride of the princess had been a mortal one, and had wrought a change in her whole nature; the defeat of her countrymen, and the fate of the brother whom she loved next to Leo, had prostrated the remaining strength of this resolute woman.

"Have you been torturing Wanda again?" she asked. Her voice, too, had changed; it had a hollow, broken sound. "You know it is useless."

"Yes, it is useless," replied Waldemar, turning around and gazing at his mother. His face was still clouded; he had not overcome his vexation.

"I told you so. Wanda is not one of those women who say no to-day and throw themselves into your arms to-morrow. When she once forms a resolution, it is irrevocable. You ought to recognize this fact, but you will not; you keep forcing her back into the useless conflict. You deal unsparingly with her. I can not and will not attempt to keep Wanda back, and you ought not. She is her father's only child, his all; in accompanying him, she only fulfils a daughter's duty."

"To die in exile," interposed Waldemar.

"Death has of late come near us so often that we no longer fear it," replied the princess. "Those to whom fate has dealt blows so merciless must learn to endure the worst that may happen. Wanda has learned this lesson. We have nothing more to lose, and therefore nothing more to fear. This fatal year has ruined more and brighter hopes than yours; you, too, must submit to the overthrow of your happiness."

"You would never forgive me if I should wrest my happiness from the ruin of your hopes," returned Waldemar, bitterly. "You need have no fear. I have learned to-day that Wanda cannot be influenced; she remains steadfast in her refusal."

"And you?"

"Well–I submit."

The mother scanned her son closely. "What do you intend to do?" she asked.

"Nothing. I have just told you so. I resign all hope, and submit to the inevitable."

The mother's eyes still rested upon his face. "You do not submit," she said. "I know my son better. Is it submission that I see written upon your brow? You harbor some scheme, some rash, dangerous venture. Take care! It is Wanda's own will that opposes you; she will yield to no compulsion, not even from you."

"We shall see!" rejoined the young man, coldly. "However, you need feel no concern. I may have some dangerous scheme in view, but it will affect me alone, and imperil only my own life."

"Do you speak of imperilling your life with an idea that this will console your mother?"

"Forgive me. I thought you would not care for my peril, now that you have lost your Leo."

The mother cast down her eyes. "From the hour of Leo's death you have made me feel myself indeed childless," she said.

"I?" ejaculated Waldemar. "Ought I to have insisted upon your sharing my home at Villica? I knew that you sought only to flee from my presence, that the sight of me was a torture you could not endure. Mother," he added, with deep emotion, "when you stood in such terrible agony by my brother's corpse, I did not venture to speak one word of consolation. I shall speak no such word to-day. Your heart has never found room for me; I have always been an alien and an outcast. I come to Radowicz because I could not live without seeing Wanda. I have sought you in this time of sorrow as little as you have sought me, but I shall not bear the blame of the estrangement between us; do not accuse me of deserting you in the bitterest hour of your life."

The mother had listened without interrupting her son, but now she answered, with quivering lips, "If I loved your brother more than I loved you, I have been forced to lose him, and to lose him in the most cruel manner. I sent him forth to battle for his country, and I could have borne his death if it had come at his post, or in the thick of the conflict, but to have him fall ingloriously–" Her voice faltered, she struggled for breath, and several moments passed ere she could go on:–

"I let my Leo go from me without one word of forgiveness, without that last farewell which he implored upon his knees, and that same day he was laid lifeless at my feet. His memory–all that remains to me of him–is linked eternally with that ill-fated deed which brought ruin upon my countrymen. My people's cause is lost, my brother goes forth to meet a destiny worse than death; Wanda is to accompany him, and I shall be left entirely alone. One would suppose, Waldemar, that you had been fully avenged."

The hollow voice and rigid glance of the woman were more touching than the most violent outburst of anguish. Waldemar could not resist their might; he bent over his mother, and said, significantly,–

"Mother, Count Morynski is still in his own country, and Wanda is also here. To-day she unwittingly showed me a way in which I may yet win her. I shall attempt it."