Vineta, the Phantom City

Waldemar was silent. He could not at this moment remind Wanda of her promise; the count's bowed form and broken health pleaded powerfully for his daughter's request, but all the egotism of love asserted itself in the young man's nature. He had done and dared so much to win his beloved, and he could not endure the thought of having the prize longer denied him. His gloomy brow, his set lips, and downcast eyes expressed the protest he would not utter. The princess was first to break the painful silence.

"I will take care of your father, Wanda," she said; "I will go with him."

All started in surprise. "Do I understand you aright, Maryna?" asked the count. "Do you say you will go with me?"

"Yes, into exile," added the princess, in an unshaken voice; "we both know what exile is, Bronislaw; we have tasted it for long years, we will again share it together."

"Never," cried Waldemar, excitedly. "I will not consent to have you leave me, mother. The old strife is buried. The chasm that once yawned between us is closed up. Your place henceforth is at Villica with your son, who–"

"Who is at this moment seeking to Germanize his estates," interposed the princess, gravely. "No, Waldemar, you undervalue the Pole in my nature if you think I can now live in Villica. I love you at last wholly and unselfishly, as a mother should love her child. I shall maintain this love through distance and separation; it will be renewed and strengthened at our occasional meetings in the future; but we can never be one in national ideas and feelings, and did we attempt to live together, the old strife might again break out between us. Therefore let me go; it is best for us both."

"The old strife ought not to intrude into an hour like this," said Waldemar, reproachfully.

"We are not at war with you," replied the princess, sadly; "it is with the destiny that has condemned us to overthrow. My brother is the last of his race–a race which for centuries has been illustrious in the annals of our people. Wanda's name will soon be merged in yours. She is young; she loves you. She may forget the past for your sake. To you two belong life and the future; we have only the past."

"Maryna is right," added the count. "I cannot remain here, and she will not. Wanda, too, is the daughter of her people, and will not disown her lineage. I augur no happiness from the marriage of a Nordeck and a Morynski, but your hearts are set upon the union, and–I oppose it no longer."

The young pair had no joyous betrothal. A deep shadow brooded over that hour which is usually so full of sunshine and promise to plighted hearts. But they could not believe the count's mournful augury; they felt that the love which had fought its way through so many conflicts and surmounted so many barriers would bless and sanctify their lives, whatever trials might intervene–that it would remain a love lasting as time and changeless as eternity.

"Come, Bronislaw," said the princess, taking her brother's arm, "you are weary, and must rest. We will leave these lovers alone; they have scarce spoken to each other, and they must have so much to say."

Professor Fabian and his wife had remained in the adjoining room. Gretchen was ill at ease; every now and then she would throw a melancholy glance upon the tea-table, which she had arranged with especial care.

"Why must people, in giving way to their sentimental feelings, always forget what is proper and necessary?" she said, in an aggrieved tone. "The anxiety and excitement are over, so is the meeting; if they would only act like reasonable beings, we might all of us be cosily seated around the tea-table. I cannot persuade the princess or the count to taste a mouthful, but Wanda must certainly take a cup of tea. I have just made some fresh for her. Now I will go and see if she and Herr Waldemar are in the parlor. You stay here, Emil."

Emil, like an obedient husband, heeded his wife's command. He remained keeping guard over the tea-service, but the time seemed very long; ten minutes, at least, had rolled away, and his wife did not return. The professor began to be uncomfortable. He felt so superfluous here; he wished he could only make himself useful in some way, like Gretchen, whose practical nature always asserted itself. He must have the satisfaction of doing something, no matter of how little consequence, and so he poured out two cups of tea, and taking one in each hand, carried them into the next room. To his surprise, he found neither Waldemar nor Wanda there, but his wife was standing close to the library door, which was slightly ajar.

"Gretchen, my love," said Fabian, balancing the tea-cups as carefully as if they held the most precious life-elixir, "I have brought the tea. I was afraid it might become cold, and I thought–I had an idea that perhaps–they would like it."

The Frau Professorin had allowed herself to be surprised in a position not quite suited to her dignity. She stood close to the crevice of the door, evidently peeping into the next room, and listening also. Upon hearing her husband's voice, she started in alarm and confusion; but, quickly recovering her equanimity, she seized the professor by the shoulder, and marched him and the tea-cups back to the place they had just left.

"Set down the cups, Emil," she said; "the young countess doesn't want any tea; she won't require any for a long time. And you need have no further anxiety about your dear Waldemar; things are going on very nicely in the room over yonder–very nicely indeed! I may as well confess that I have done the young man wrong; he really has a heart. This cold, stiff Nordeck can actually kneel before a lady, and pour forth his love in the most eloquent and glowing words. O Emil, if you could only hear the sweet, nice things he has been saying to her! I certainly could not have believed it."

"But, dear child, how do you know all this?" asked the professor, who, in his scholastic innocence, had never dreamed that anybody could listen at doors or peep through key-holes. "You stood outside."

Gretchen's face flushed crimson, but her discomfiture was only for a moment; she looked her husband full in the face, and said, with an air of great superiority,–

"What an absurd question, Emil! You do not understand such things at all; you would not understand if I should tell you. As the tea is poured out, we will drink it ourselves."

CHAPTER XXX.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN!

The mild spring night which had enveloped the waters began to give place to the dawn. The stars were dying out one by one, and in the eastern horizon glimmered the first beams of day. The waves, lightly stirred by the rising breeze, murmured softly as in a dream.

A ship sped on through the ever-brightening morning twilight. It had left the harbor of S– at midnight, and having passed the broad river's mouth, was about to enter the open sea. Count Morynski, with his daughter and Waldemar, stood on the deck. Wanda had insisted upon accompanying her father to S–, and remaining until the last possible moment at his side. The ship would pass Altenhof in its course, and here the final parting would take place. The count was now on the way to England, where his sister would join him after the marriage of her son and niece, which was to be solemnized in a few weeks. Upon reaching England, the exiles would decide upon their future residence.

It was broad day. A light, cold and colorless as yet, illuminated the waves. The strand of Altenhof hove in sight, and the dreaded separation was close at hand. The ship at length landed near the beech-holm, which was just discernible through the morning vapors. The parting between the father and daughter was full of anguish; the count could not control his emotion; he broke down utterly as he placed Wanda in the arms of her future husband. Waldemar, feeling that this torture must not be prolonged, hastily carried his betrothed to the boat that was waiting to convey them to the strand. It reached the beech-holm in a few moments. The ship was already in motion. A white handkerchief fluttered from the deck, and was answered by another from the shore. The distance between the father and his children grew wider and wider, and the ship steamed away to the north.

Wanda sank helplessly upon a stone seat under one of the beeches, and gave herself up to an outburst of passionate anguish. "My darling," said Waldemar, taking her hand in his, "the separation is not final; if your father cannot come to us, nothing hinders our going to him. You shall see him within a year, I promise you that."

"In a year's time I shall not find him living," sobbed Wanda.

Waldemar could not answer. He felt the same foreboding. When, years ago, the count had gone into exile, he had borne with him the mental and physical strength of a man in the prime of life, and hope for the future of Poland had still animated his breast. Now his strength was broken, his hope was dead; what more had life to offer him?

"Your father will not be alone," Waldemar said, consolingly; "my mother will be with him. You know her love for her only brother; she will comfort and sustain him."

Wanda's glance was still riveted upon the ship, which grew less and less in the distance.

"And you, too, must part from your mother," she said, softly,–"part from her when you have just found your true place in her heart."

"It will be a hard parting for us both," replied the young man, sadly, "and yet I feel that my mother is right. Away from each other, we may join hands across the abyss that lies between us, and feel that we are mother and son; but I fear that we cannot walk side by side. Separation alone can insure us peace."

Wanda raised her dark, tearful eyes to his. "Did you hear my father's gloomy prophecy?" she asked. "He thinks that because the married life of your parents was unhappy, ours also must be so."

"My parents were unhappy because they did not love each other," returned Waldemar, "because they entered from cold, sordid calculation into that closest union that can exist between two mortals. Their marriage was cursed from the beginning; it needed no old national antipathy to enhance its wretchedness. Our case is not a parallel one; our love has been tried in the furnace, and it has stood the test. What do we care for this slight difference in nationality, when we have chosen each other out of all the world? If our marriage is indeed a venture, we dare to make it."

The light morning clouds still floating in the sky began to disperse, and the eastern heaven was all aflame with the glory of the sunrise. The horizon was flushed with rosy hues, and the waves were bordered with liquid gold. Now, flashing and gleaming athwart the blue, came the first rays that heralded the advancing sun; now, slowly and majestically, he rose from the waters, mounting higher and higher, until he stood far above them in the clear, unclouded sky. A warm, roseate flush thrilled the air just now so white and cold, and the vast expanse of sea, that had been at night so dark and desolate, became tinged with a blue deep as that of the heaven above it. The sunrise had flooded sea and land with life and light.

Its first beams touched the beech-holm, dispersing the white vapors that still floated between the trees; they descended upon the dewy meadows; they diffused themselves over the forests, but only to blend there with the light shadows they could not dispel. The morning wind swept through the crowns of the mighty beeches, which in soft whispers bent down to one another; but they now murmured no mournful lament over the fading and dying of the beautiful, such as they had murmured that autumnal day by the forest-lake at Villica; and yet from that desolate forest, from out the twilight and its misty shadows, had risen that dream-picture, whose reality existed here–the beech-holm environed by the sea, bathed in the sunlight, and invested with the poetry of its fairy legend.

Waldemar and Wanda stood again in that very place where, years ago, the wild, impetuous boy had stood, the boy who then thought that he need but stretch forth his hand to win and to retain as his very own, the one being who had awakened his first passion, and the spoiled child who had made sport of that passion. Then neither knew anything of life and its problems. They had since stood face to face with its grave responsibilities, they had been involved in its bitter conflicts; it had placed between them every barrier that can sunder mortals. But the old sea-myth had spoken truth to them. Since that hour, when it had thrown its spell around these youthful hearts, it had held them under its thrall in spite of estrangement and separation, drawing them together when strife and hatred raged all around them, and bringing them through all opposing forces to this moment.

Waldemar threw his arm around his loved one, and gazed deep into her eyes. "Do you still believe that the union of a Nordeck and a Morynski can bring no happiness?" he asked. "We will dispel the shadows that once darkened such a union."

Wanda leaned her head upon his shoulder. "You will have to forgive and forget much in your wife," she said. "I cannot renounce all that has my whole life-long been holy and dear to me. Do not seek to separate me wholly from my people, Waldemar! A part of my life is rooted there."

"Have I ever been hard with you?" he asked, and his voice had that strange tenderness which one only being on earth could call forth from this cold stern man. "Your eyes long ago taught the unruly boy submission, they will know how to control the man. That unblest shadow may often obtrude between us, it may perhaps cost you many tears and conflicts, but I know that in every decisive moment my Wanda will stand where she stood that day when mortal danger threatened me, and where henceforth her place alone will be–by her husband's side."

The ship which bore the exile from his native land vanished in the nebulous distance. All around, the blue sea rose and fell in gentle undulations, and the beech-holm lay bathed in golden sunbeams. The waters sang again their old, eternal melody, a rhythm of whispering breezes and murmuring waves, and amid the pauses of the music came a far-off mysterious chorus like the chime of sweet-voiced bells–the spirit-greeting of Vineta from its ocean-depths.