CHAPTER IX.
Three weeks had slipped by, and Christmas was close at hand. Day after day the same glowing sunshine flooded lake and mountain. Every one said it was the loveliest December ever known on Lake Garda. And yet in the midst of this beauty of nature, the two in the palazzo by the Porta San Michele walked in the dull, uncertain twilight life.
Judith had recovered quickly. She came to table as formerly, and neither sigh nor reproach passed her lips. The count, too, adapting himself to the new conditions, never spoke of the past. But both felt acutely that a wide, wide gulf had opened between them. They lived as in a cloud, seeing each other dimly, and neither stretched out a hand to the other in compassion or in love.
Only twice during this week had they spoken of anything more than was necessary. The Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung at that time the only large newspaper permitted in Austria, contained one day a lengthy leader concerning the new civil marriage law of the grand duchy of Saxe-Weimar. It was the first of those laws in Europe allowing marriage between Christians and Jews, without a change of faith on the part of the Jews. Judith had just finished reading it as Agenor entered the room. She asked if he knew of it.
He said, "Yes," adding, "it is very curious."
"Truly, and any one educated with us at home would be inclined to think it impossible. But since this miracle has been accomplished in one country, I suppose the others will follow. Perhaps the time will come when it will not be counted a crime for one to have a heart and to follow the mandates of that heart. May I keep this paper? If I had a prayer-book, I would put this in it."
He made no answer, but presently said, "The people in Weimar are rather given to innovation." She had hardly heard it, when an expression of deep pain overspread her countenance.
"Do you believe there is a prayer-book," she asked, "that would do for all mankind, no matter what their confession?"
"I don't know, but I will inquire."
"It would be useless, I suppose. As yet there is no occasion for such a book, but the time may come."
The second conversation, relating to something besides the dinner, the weather, or the health of the baby, took place just after a call from the podestà of Riva. Agenor paled when the chief official of the town was announced. But it was a harmless business he had called about. New-Year's Eve there was to be a festival in Trent for the benefit of the poor of Southern Tyrol. The podestà brought cards of invitation to the wealthy forestieri in person, so as to secure a handsome gift. As the stout, olive-complexioned gentleman bowed himself out of the room, elated with the splendid donation he had received, Judith said, "Are you not going?"
"No," was the somewhat surprised reply. "It does not interest me in the slightest degree. Besides, how could I leave you alone?"
"What could happen to me here? I have often thought, though I did not like to say so, that it would be a good thing for you to live for a few weeks in the world. And perhaps it would be--"
"Good for you, too? Has it got so far between us?"
"It would be good for both of us," she said, gently. "Perhaps there would be less restraint between us after a brief separation. Do not say more now," she continued, hastily, as she saw him about to speak. "This cannot be arranged by words, but I beg you to consider my proposal."
She arose and quitted the room.
A week after this conversation Agenor received a letter from his Vienna bankers, Messrs. M. L. Biedermann & Co., saying that he had overdrawn his account considerably, and that though, of course, they had no hesitation in forwarding the sum he asked for, still they would be obliged if he would straighten out matters as soon as possible. They also forwarded him two letters, one of which they had held for a week, the other had just arrived by special post.
The latter was from Stiegle, advising strict economy; the other from Wroblewski, in reply to that of Agenor, written on the 30th of November. He said that Raphael had opened the letter addressed to the deceased, and had placed it with other testimony, but he hoped to be able to evade danger if he received thirty thousand gulden. If they were not sent, he intended to escape disgrace by putting a bullet through his head, and he advised the count to do the same. There were a few lines extra from Stiegle, saying he had managed to secure the wished-for ten thousand gulden, but at forty per cent interest; and as he saw certain destruction looming up in the distance, he gave notice that his situation would be vacant by the end of March.
Agenor crumpled up Wroblewski's letter in an ungovernable rage. He had credited him with a good deal of avarice and falsehood, but not with such dastardly conduct. Owing to his conversation with Judith, he had quite forgotten to countermand the check, and, besides, it would have been too late, and Wroblewski would perhaps regard it as an advance for future services. And now came this letter! He had delivered himself up into the hands of this scoundrel, though he was, perhaps; not entirely helpless, since this letter proved clearly Wroblewski's rascality. Still, this would do no good so long as the count, by his absence, showed how timorous he was. For that reason he ought to go home, see to his estates, and sell one of them. But Judith, could he leave her alone?
Hours passed in these painful reflections, and dinner-time came. He braced himself as best he could, so as to show Judith a cheerful face. It was not a great success, however, for as he lit his cigar after dinner she said, "You had bad news from home to-day. What has happened?"
"Nothing of importance," he answered. "Merely money complications. My cousin's old debts--"
"Then you must go home and arrange them. It is your duty. I will stay here with the baby, and you can fetch us in April, or we can go alone."
"You will be glad to be rid of me?" He said this with a forced smile, but his face was very grave, nevertheless.
She knew what he meant, and said, quietly, "You need have no fear, Agenor. You know well the child would hold me to life, under any circumstances. And how could I cause you such sorrow? No matter how you have erred in other ways, you kept your word and made me your wife. I say it openly, Agenor, I believe it would be a blessing to you and to me if I died a natural death."
"Judith!"
"Forgive me. I ought not to have said it, but it came from my heart, as it were, and forced its way through my lips. And it is perfectly true. Here life is hard enough; what will it be at home? But voluntary death would be a dreadful misfortune for you. Your conscience would never know peace. It is a frightful feeling that the death of a beloved one is on your soul. You, Agenor, shall never experience that. When will you start?"
"Let me consider it. How can I go when your mind is filled with such hideous fancies, and I know you are tormenting yourself in vain?"
"Do not let us talk of it. Words cannot change the circumstances. You ought to go, if only for love of me. I feel I should be better if I could be alone awhile. What else is there to hinder you? Fear of Raphael's revenge and the court? I have thought of it frequently the past few days, and cannot think you have much to fear. The defendant is a count, of an ancient line, who has brought another soul into the Holy Catholic church, while the plaintiff is a common Jew, and the trial will take place in Galicia. Believe me, Agenor, if you had dishonored and deceived me and then kicked me into the street, and I, the betrayed and ruined, had accused you and asked for judgment against you, the judges would have looked upon it as a good joke. I say this without bitterness; it is the unvarnished truth. Again, I say, you must go."
Again he besought time for consideration. "Suppose she finds all out in the meantime? But how can she when her address is known only to myself and the Vienna banker." These were his thoughts. He was convinced he would be unable to detain her in Italy later than April. If he went he might make preparations, and perhaps take counsel with a clever lawyer.
He took his departure soon after Christmas. Even that drew their estranged hearts no closer, despite the gentle and kindly words their lips uttered. She watched him with dry eyes as the carriage rolled through the park gates. "Au revoir!" he cried. "Au revoir!" she answered, waving her handkerchief.
It was more quiet than ever in the palazzo by the Porta San Michele. Only old Jan, who stayed behind to protect the women, went occasionally into the town. Judith never went beyond the park enclosures. She passed some of her time in caring for her child, some in reading books sent from Innsbruck by Agenor; but for the most part she sat motionless in a brown study.
Faithful Hamia crept about anxiously, continually inventing excuses for going into the drawing-room where Judith sat. This clever girl had entered Judith's service at Czernowitz, during their journey, and knew very little of her mistress's early history. But she knew of her father's death, and her pity made her very sympathetic.
"If the count only knew what I know," she sometimes said, angrily, "he would write oftener." But in this she was wrong. He was not careless, and wrote at every break in the journey. But the longest and most tender letters would not have lightened Judith's heart. He wrote that he had found much to do, and went out very little. Now, he said, briefly, that the fear of the courts was really superfluous, and now, that he had heard Raphael was quite well and was managing the factory with great energy.
She thanked him heartily each time, and assured him that she and the child were well; but her letters were laconic, and she wrote not one syllable of that which occupied her mind. If she really believed that isolation would heal her sore heart, she deceived herself. Day and night the picture of her father's death-bed was before her eyes; even by the cradle of her baby she heard her father's curse. And perhaps it was well that the illness of Annunciata caused the care of the child to devolve entirely upon the mother. Another nurse could not be found, and they were obliged to give the poor baby artificial food. The care and anxiety which this caused numbed somewhat the other grievous sorrow.
February came to an end. Spring flowers bloomed in the villa gardens, and the breezes were warmer than in June in the north country, where were her thoughts. The baby could now pass long hours in the open air, on the sunny terrace behind the house, where Annunciata, still his nurse, would hold him on her lap, Judith sitting beside him, leaning over now and then to kiss his tiny hands. The boy would smile when he saw his mother and stroke her face, and then only a ghost of a smile would light up her careworn features.
As they were sitting thus one March day, Jan announced a friar who desired to speak with the count. Although Annunciata was unable to understand the message given in Polish, still Jan's voice was lowered to a whisper when he added, "He is from Galicia, and knows our real name. I have told him repeatedly, 'The count is away,' but he always replies, 'Tell him; he is sure to receive me,' and he won't go."
"Bring him here, then," ordered Judith.
The monk, an old bent man, with long white beard, appeared.
"Praised be Jesus Christ!" he began, bowing low. When Judith made no response, he added, "In all eternity, Amen!"
"Do you wish to speak to my husband?" she asked. "He left here just before New Year's, and it is uncertain when he will return. He is now on his estate in Podolia."
"Most gracious countess," said the old man, in a quavering voice, "I must speak to him. Please tell him."
"If you do not believe me," said Judith, curtly and proudly, "I have nothing more to say."
The man fell back a step. "Forgive," he pleaded, "but it is so terrible for me, so terrible!" he repeated, in such a changed voice that Judith regarded him with astonishment. "I have made this long journey," he resumed, in his old weak voice, "only that I might speak to him."
"Can you tell me?"
"No, that is impossible;" but he retained his position, notwithstanding.
"What else do you want?" she asked.
The monk answered nothing, but Jan said, "The reverend gentleman would not despise a meal and a small gift, perhaps."
"You can give him both," said Judith, turning again to the child. When she looked up again the monk had followed Jan into the hall.
"Curious," mused Judith. "How did the man find his way here? Even Agenor's letters reach me through the bankers, and what did he want?"
An hour later, during dinner, Jan announced, "The old fellow is still in the servants' hall. Things are not quite in order."
"How?"
"When Hamia took him his dinner, he started. I saw quite plainly how he shuddered and trembled. But she says she does not know him. Then, again, the old man is guzzling more than three young men would. I have warned him that this Veltliner is the devil himself. But he keeps pouring it down, groaning he does not know what to do."
"Give him two francs and send him out of the house," ordered Judith.
Shortly after she was in her sitting-room, writing to Agenor describing this visit, when Hamia came running in, pale as death, and trembling all over.
"Most gracious countess," she stammered, in great excitement, "the monk is a swindler. He is Tondka, the scoundrel; I know him."
"What do you mean?"
"Ignatius Tondka, who was clerk to the lawyer with whom I was in service at Czernowitz. He courted me then and wanted to marry me, but luckily I found out that he was a swindler and that the police were after him. He used to dress himself like a priest and cheat the people."
"But the monk is an old man!"
"He has a false beard. For it came off in Jan's hands when he took hold of it. When Jan told him to go, he kept asking for more wine, yelling, 'I can demand what I wish in this house.' He raised his fist to strike Jan, but he was so drunk he fell down and Jan on top of him. When I heard the noise I rushed in, and saw Jan getting up with the beard in his hands, but the monk lay still. 'Who is that?' I cried, and then I recognized the scamp. 'So it's you! I will spoil your game of playing priest. I'll fetch the police on the spot.' No sooner had I said that than he grew almost sober with fright. He got up and said, 'You are mistaken. I do not know you.' 'What,' I cried, 'I do not know my old lover! You just wait, you villain.' Then he whispered, 'Be quiet, as you love your life!' 'Rubbish,' said I, 'I won't spare a cheat and scoundrel like you. Jan, pitch him out!' But Jan must have seen him before, too, for he stared at him and turned quite pale. 'Where have I seen that face?' he kept saying. 'You have never seen me,' said Tondka. 'Yes, I have,' said Jan, 'in Borky.' But you are pale also, gracious countess."
Judith's face had indeed grown ashen. Every drop of blood seemed to have oozed from it. She sank back into her arm-chair and murmured, "Go on, go on."
"There is nothing more to tell, and why are you so frightened? Ought I not to have told you? I thought I ought, as Jan is like that old woman in the Bible who turned to stone. He stands there saying, 'In Borky! in Borky,' and Tondka answers, 'No, no!' But, mon Dieu, you are fainting."
So it seemed. Judith's eyes were closed and her head bent low on her heaving bosom. But she mastered her weakness and arose. "I must speak to him."
"With Jan--shall I fetch him?"
Judith shook her head and moved on. But her knees shook so that she would have fallen had not Hamia supported her. "For God's sake," cried the girl, "what is the matter? Where do you wish to go?"
"Give me your arm," said Judith, and they went to the servants' hall.
The door of the large, low room stood wide open. Jan was by the table, opposite him the stranger, whose knavish face, with his short cropped hair, peered curiously out of the monk's hood. The false beard was on the floor by the side of a broken bottle. The poor faithful servant had just emptied his money-bag on the table, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. "Here are all my savings," he sobbed. "Two hundred and four gulden. They will take you home, and the count will give you what you want. But go, for God's sake, go! The poor thing must not find it out."
Judith entered. "Thank you, Jan. But I wish to speak with the man in private."
The poor fellow staggered backward. "My most gracious countess," he moaned, "he lies! he lies!"
"Go," she repeated, "or I shall not be able to stand it."
Weeping bitterly, he crept out of doors, and motioned Hamia away, who was plaguing him with questions.
"We must watch her day and night, for the lake is close at hand."
The conversation lasted but a few minutes. Then Tondka came slinking out with the beard in his hand. "Really, Herr Jan, I am downright sorry for her. But I am to send you in. She has something for you to do."
Jan entered the room. Judith was sitting on a bench by the table. "Take this," she said, giving him a key. "Open the safe in my room, and give the man the three hundred francs I have promised him. Then send Hamia here."
The girl, who arrived a minute after, found her mistress senseless on the floor.
It was a deep swoon. The doctor, who was called by Jan, remained until late in the night, seemingly very anxious. "Brain fever is threatening," he said, when leaving. "I am afraid the case will be a serious one."
He was mistaken, for when he came the following day he found his patient out of bed. She had aged suddenly, and looked like a shadow, and it shocked him greatly to see silver threads among her auburn tresses.
"My dear madam, I do not know what has happened, but I hope you will remember you are a mother."
"I assure you I will not forget it," and she thanked him for his sympathy. He left her with a quiet mind.
Hamia was relieved, too, when she heard her mistress talking as sensibly and reasonably as ever. Only Jan was suspicious. He feared it would not end well, and prayed all day long that God would preserve the balance of her mind. His anxiety was still greater when she sent for him in the evening, and said: "You were about to sacrifice your savings for me. Since you love me that much, will you lend them to me if I ask you?"
"With the greatest pleasure; but there is still a good sum in the safe."
"Still, I ask them from you. I will certainly repay you."
He took the money to her, but said sorrowfully to Hamia: "Now I am sure she is not right in her mind."
He was to discover the next morning that she was perfectly sane.
CHAPTER X.
It was the first day of spring, according to the calendar, but the moors of Podolia were as melancholy and dreary as if sunshine and blue skies were thousands of miles away.
Count Baranowski shivered as he drove along the half-frozen roads, through wind and rain, from Borky to the county town, to keep an appointment with his lawyer. But it was not altogether the fault of the weather, for after nearly an hour spent in the well-warmed room of his legal adviser, he was forced to pace up and down and rub his hands, to dispel the chill and heaviness that seemed to paralyze his limbs. "Almost three months," he groaned, "and what has been accomplished?"
"If that is intended as a reproach to me," said the lawyer, "I decline to accept it. What I could do, that I have done. I have straightened out your finances, and as economically as possible. Herr Stiegle is reengaged, and I cannot aid you in shaking off Wroblewski. Generosity is of no avail there. If you offered him twenty thousand gulden this year as hush-money, he would take it thankfully, and next year would demand twenty thousand more. If you refused to give them, things would drop back into their old conditions. You can never intimidate the man. His letters show his rascality. But your letters prove you have committed sacrilege, and that you have tried to induce him to bribe the judges. Dare you defy him? I advised you to do so once, but, since I know the man, I withdraw that advice. He is a thorough type of an easy-going scoundrel, extortioner, and spendthrift. All he receives from you is owing to the usurers. Your fear of him is his only resource. If that source of income is shut up, he will be worse off than a beggar, and his words, 'Then I will look to the jail to support me, where I will amuse myself with my fellow-convict, Baranowski,' are pretty true. Ought you to fear his confession? Yes. The deception practised on the girl would not count, but the breaking of the law, especially the act of sacrilege, would lead to the most serious results. I sum them up as they actually stand; morally, perhaps, they should be reversed."
"I think so, indeed," said the count, gloomily. "When I think of the poor creature, it pains me to the heart."
"Then, possibly, you have thought of what I was about to advise?"
"Do you mean that I should confess all and have a real baptism and marriage? I have frequently thought of that, but I fear my repentance comes too late. Once, when she had doubts, I lied to her basely--it was the dirtiest trick of my life--and I am afraid that if she found this out she would die rather than live with me."
"Count on the love she bears her child. At any rate, you ought to try it. I am confident you will succeed. I give you this advice as a lawyer. Then you can leave Wroblewski to his fate, and turn him out of the home you like best, yet must avoid because of his presence in it. Very likely he will bring a suit against you, but the judgment will be trifling, and you will no longer rank as a dishonored man. The bishop will not interfere, as you will have been the means of bringing a soul into the church, and your temporal judge, Herr Groze, Wroblewski's successor, is a man of the most delicate sense of justice. I am quite sure he would say, 'The count has sinned, but he has also suffered, and will now expiate his guilt.' However, I give this advice not only as lawyer, but also as friend. You are not happy now?"
"God knows I am not."
"No one could be with such a burden on his conscience. Free yourself from this burden. Regard for your position in society can no longer hinder you."
"No," said Agenor, bitterly. "Truly not. My position could not be worse. I am ostracized."
"You paint things too black. But bad stories are in circulation. I have many times been surprised that the story of a sham marriage, coming from the words of your valet in Florence, should have found so much credence. I suppose it is because, unhappily, the truth is, in this case, the most slanderous. If a worse construction could have been put upon it, the real truth would have remained unknown. Now every one has an opportunity to prove his orthodoxy by lifting his eyes in horror at the sacrilegious acts performed in the chapel at Borky, and his chivalry by damning your conduct towards the girl as unworthy a nobleman. It has actually gone so far, they are pitying the Jewess. I should not have believed this if I had not heard it with my own ears. This is known generally, but it is supposed to be a secret. Herr Groze must not hear of it, for that would be denunciation. How public opinion would go if you brought the Jewess here for a few months as your legitimate wife I am unable to guarantee; but it would be no worse for you, I think. The good and noble-minded, though in verity they are scarce, would think of you differently."
"You are right," said Agenor, as he arose. "And what is to be, shall be soon. I will drive to town today, arrange with Stiegle for my absence, and start for Riva to-morrow. Will you procure the necessary papers, and send them after me?"
"No commission could be more agreeable to me," rejoined the lawyer, shaking Agenor's hand cordially. "Bon voyage."
When the count drove back over the moor, the weather changed for the worse. Rain and snow fell together, freezing as soon as they touched the ground; and the coachman drove along the slippery road at snail's pace. But the count was no longer cold. His cheeks were ruddy and his eyes bright, and it had been long since he had felt so well. He had marked out a straight, narrow path in which to tread; but he felt it would make him at peace with himself, and perhaps eventually lead to happiness.
The rain fell heavier than ever, accompanied by a cutting north wind. Twilight was approaching, and honest Fedko was obliged to stop occasionally to make sure he had found the right road. "The weather is not fit for a dog. My lord," he said, apologetically, "I know the moor and its tricks, but I never knew it to be so bad as this, except once, that day when--"
Suddenly he remembered that the allusion to the day when the Jewess threw herself into the water might not be pleasing to his master. In his confusion, he lashed the horses so that they broke into a furious gallop. In the dimness, Fedko overlooked a small cart with a linen covering, which was creeping along ahead. He drove so close to it that the wheels became interlocked. He dismounted, cursing, to free the wheels; and the other coachman, evidently a Jew, cursed too. "You are driving as if you had the emperor," he cried.
"I have not the emperor," Fedko answered, with pride; "but his lordship, Count Baranowski, would like to get on a bit faster."
"I," said the Jew, "am only driving a poor sick Jewish woman and her child, but they are human."
"Well, well," said good-natured Fedko, gently, "this little delay will do them no hurt," and, lashing his fiery steeds, he soon lost sight of the other vehicle.
Fedko had reached the castle long before the cab came in sight of the lights of Roskowska. The Jew turned. "Woman," he called, "here we are in Roskowska. You can get milk for the child in the inn."
"Praise be to God!" answered a feeble voice. "Please stop. I am afraid the child has taken more cold, he is so restless."
"But you have put all your wraps on the little one, and are cold yourself. You are sinning against your own health. However, I should be a fool to quarrel with a mother."
A baby's voice sounded from the cart. "Only two minutes longer. Where shall I drive?"
There was no answer. "Woman, don't you hear? Where shall I stop?"
"In the street. I will get out in the street," answered a gentle, trembling voice.
"Because you are so warmly clad?" growled the man. "But just as you like. Here is the inn."
He aided her to alight, but when he saw how she tottered he attempted to take the child from her. She resisted, and so he took her into the tap-room. The large, dismal place was crowded with peasants and cattle-drivers. The air was foul and heavy with the smell of oil, bad tobacco, and steam generated by the stove-heat acting on the dripping garments.
"This won't do for you," said the hostess, compassionately, as the coachman ushered in the new guest, opening the door into an adjoining room, at once her bed and dwelling room. She brought the milk immediately, protesting better could not be found in the wide world, and then watched the stranger filling the feeding-bottle and giving it to the child.
"Don't you nurse the baby yourself?" she inquired. "Poor thing! I suppose you are too weak."
The stranger had pulled the cloth which covered her head well down in front, so that her face could not be seen distinctly, but the hostess felt convinced it was pale and emaciated. "What a bonny boy! It is a boy, is it not? How merrily he uses his little legs! I suppose you have not travelled far, he is so wide awake. Have you come from Tluste?"
"No," answered the stranger, "we have been travelling for weeks. But I have done the best I could for him, and compassionate people are to be found everywhere."
"For weeks!" exclaimed the woman. "In winter! Then you have come from the neighborhood of Cracow, perhaps!"
"Still farther away."
"Still farther? Then from Aschkanas or Prague? There is a large congregation there. But, from your accent, I should have judged you belonged to this neighborhood. Will you spend the night with me?"
The stranger declined. "I must go on into the town."
"Because you fancy the inns there will be better," said the woman, somewhat hurt. However, she resumed, in a pitying tone, "How you are trembling! Have you a fever? Just wait; I'll bring you some soup, and if you are poor you need not trouble about the pay." And before an answer could be given she was away into the kitchen.
But the stranger was not to be left alone long. First came the coachman. "Rest yourself, madam. I have plenty of time."
Then a bearded man poked his head into the room. "God's welcome! I am the landlord. The soup will be here directly." Finally an old woman entered, at the sight of whom the stranger started, pulling her head-cloth still closer over her face. But the poor little woman with her shrivelled-up face, with its prominent hooked nose, did not bother her. She only said "Good-morning," and then sat down at the other end of the table and gazed into vacancy with her bleared eyes.
The landlady came, bearing a steaming bowl. "Welcome, Aunt Miriam," she said to the old woman. "It is nice of you to come here instead of sitting over there alone in your little room."
She placed the bowl before the stranger. "Help yourself. I have put some chicken in it; not much, but as much as I could." She then turned again to the old body. "It is not right, Aunt Miriam, for you to weep so much."
"Ah!" sobbed Miriam Gold, "I cannot help it. It is as if my soul were bleeding. She was my child, my flesh, my blood!"
"Well, I said little against it at first. But now she has been dead four months, and you are weeping yourself blind. Must we not all die? Did I not have to bury my Radel--and my Rachel--but I will not hurt you."
"I know what you were going to say: that your Rachel was a good child and my Lea was not. But even if she did join the church and marry a Christian, have you it in written testimony, Aunt Malke, that God in heaven--praised be his name!--looks upon her as you do?"
"Yes, Aunt Miriam," said the landlady, solemnly, "we have that testimony. There it is," and she pointed to a copy of a Hebrew Bible which lay in the window. "God does not wish a Leah to become a Barbara."
"We won't discuss it," answered the old woman, wiping her eyes with her apron. "Leave me that one comfort--that God will prove a merciful judge to my poor child. When she was dying she remembered she had been called Leah, and sent and begged me to go to her. But I was cowardly, and let myself be persuaded to offer this last insult to my poor child. She is at rest now; but I am devoured by remorse, and therefore I weep, Aunt Malke, and shall continue to weep till--"
"You know I advised neither for nor against going. I told you to ask the rabbi and other pious men. It was not a woman's business."
"It was a woman's business. Who has a right to step between a mother and her child? They intimidated me. God did not wish it; and when I went to Raphael, he told me my allowance should not be withdrawn if I went, though he could not advise it. 'Your daughter is not dying,' he said. 'She has been long dead. I would not go in your place. You are happier than I, for your Lea did not become a harlot, like my sister. But,' he said--"
A cry of pain, sharp and shrill, rang through the room, so that both women jumped. "What ails you?" they cried, running to the stranger. She had covered her face with her hands, her cloth had slipped from her head, so as to reveal her auburn hair streaked with gray.
The hostess gazed at the flowing hair with disgust, as if a nestful of adders had crawled to meet her.
"What's that?" she exclaimed. "Are you not an honest Jewess, who wears her own hair?"
Miriam stood as if paralyzed. "Merciful God!" she murmured; "this hair! the unfortunate creature!"
"Answer!" cried the hostess to the stranger. "This is a Jewish house. One wishes to know who one is receiving."
Miriam went to her. "Be quiet. Don't you know her? It is Judith!"
"Judith!" shrieked the landlady. "Away with her!"
Judith dropped her hands. "I am going; I am going."
The landlady gazed with wide-open eyes at the pale face which, so it seemed, she had seen but yesterday beautiful and comely, and at the bent form, shaken with fever. "God hath shown her his hand," she muttered.
Miriam had rushed up to Judith. Tears coursed down her cheeks in streams as she embraced the slender form with passionate affection, and stroked the thin face with her withered hands. "My poor darling! God has sent you to me."
The hostess looked at her in surprise. Fierce as was her anger towards this renegade, yet her eyelids smarted at the sight. She turned to the door. "Make it short, Aunt Miriam, for I must tell my husband, and he won't stand it." But her thought was, "How sympathetic Miriam is! I would be, too, if I did not fear God."
Miriam's pity thawed even the unspeakable misery of Judith. "I know, Miriam--I know how you have always loved me."
"I do love you. You were so beautiful and good. Ay, so good! When I heard you had been seen in the count's garden a sudden pain pierced my heart, almost as great as the day my husband said to me, 'Wife, it would have been better had you never given birth to a child. Our Lea is courting with Wassilj.' In my anxiety I ran and told you my child's story to warn you. It was hard, but I did it out of love. Alas, alas! it was in vain. How I have lamented for you! I dared not pray, for they say it is a sin to pray for a renegade. You are a Christian, are you not?"
Judith shook her head.
"Oh," said the old woman, joyfully, "then much can be made good yet. You refused baptism, and so were thrown off by the count?"
"No, I am a Jewess, and yet I am a renegade. I am a miserable creature, doomed in this world and the world to come."
"Not in the world to come, Judith," said Miriam, gravely. "One as old as I, who has experienced so much of evil in her dealings with human beings, must feel that God is more merciful than man. How you have suffered! I do not need to ask. It is written on your face."
A loud noise was heard outside. "She must go!" said a man's voice. "She found no mercy with her own father." It was the landlord. Between his scoldings could be heard his wife's voice in gentle expostulation.
"Come," urged Miriam, "my room is warm, and I live but a few doors from here. You can spend the night with me."
Judith carefully wrapped up the child. "Thank you," she said, "but you shall not get into trouble on my account. You have to depend on the charity of your neighbors, and they would be angry with you."
"Let them be," cried the old woman. And she stood erect, her withered features glowing with enthusiasm. "Though I die of hunger, I shall bless the day when your foot crosses my threshold. For God sent you to me. He has heard the daily and hourly prayer that I have made since my poor child died. Then I wrung my hands and cried, 'Oh, that I could atone for my cowardice and cruelty! Of what use are lamentations for those already dead? Of what avail is repentance, merciful God, who wills that men also should be merciful?' But he knew, and I can now repay to the living what I owe the dead. Come, come with me!"
"I cannot; I must go to Raphael."
"No, no; spare yourself that pain. You heard what was said."
"I must." She attempted to rise, but her strength failed. "I must," she repeated, and this time she succeeded. But she swayed to and fro, she was so shaken by fear; and when Miriam took the child from her arms she did not resist.
The door was thrown open, and the landlord entered. "Leave, or--" He stopped as he saw she was prepared to go. The sight of her misery seemed to render him speechless.
"Twelve kreuzer," he murmured, as she asked her indebtedness. He took the coppers, however, with unwillingness.
"Consider it," pleaded Miriam, as they walked towards the cart. "If you wish to look Raphael up, do it to-morrow, after you have rested.
"It must be to-day," Judith answered. "My fever is growing worse and worse. The physician in Tluste said I would be seriously ill. To-morrow I may be unconscious, and may die. Drive to the large house opposite the monastery," she said to the man, who stood sulkily beside his horses.
"I know," said the man, in a surly voice. "Since I have been paid, I must do it. But if I had known in Tarnopol who you were--"
He did not finish the sentence, but lashed the horses till they galloped into the road. Once more in the mud, they fell into a walk. Judith sat still, pressing her baby close to her bosom, her teeth chattering with the chill. Miriam again entreated her to wait till tomorrow. "You are already half dead."
"It must be. But my thoughts are growing confused, and I must tell it to one soul at least, while I am able to speak. The guilty must not escape punishment. Listen, Miriam, to the manner in which the count treated me."
She told her story in short, confused sentences. Miriam could not quite understand it, only this was clear, that the poor creature had been frightfully cheated. "Poor child," she sobbed, putting her arms around the trembling girl. When the cart halted before the house she begged to be allowed to prepare Raphael for the meeting.
But Judith would not hear of it. As she alighted, and stood once more before the house where she had passed the happy, sunny, well-guarded days of her life, the house she had longed for since she had been abroad, her strength nearly failed her. She tottered, and would have fallen in spite of Miriam's assistance had not a stronger arm come to her relief. It was the coachman of another carriage which was standing before the door. "Are you made of stone?" he shouted, angrily, after Judith's driver, who never left his seat, but drove away without caring for the two women.
The Jew turned. "You can earn God's thanks with her," he cried, sneeringly. "I don't grudge it to you," and then was swallowed up in the fog.
Judith pulled her strength together, and, with her child on her arm, followed by Miriam, she went into the passage, and, without knocking, entered her father's study. The room was dimly lighted, and Raphael sat, writing a letter. When he heard the door opening, he looked around. A half-suppressed cry escaped his lips as he stared, with horror and disgust, at the unfortunate girl, who stood like a ghost before him.
"Away! away!" he shouted, pointing to the door with shaking hand.
"Raphael!" she sobbed, falling on her knees. Miriam stepped forward, and, taking hold of him by his talar, cried, despairingly, "Have mercy! She has come home to die."
He freed himself, and drew back towards the door into the adjacent room. It was hideous to behold him as he stood there, his pale lips half open, his waxy face distorted, his right hand seeking the door-handle and his left buried in his tangled black hair, a picture of such insane fury and horror that the old woman shuddered. Some seconds passed; neither he nor Judith moved. It was only when the child in her arms began to cry that his consciousness seemed to return.
"Take her away!" he cried to Miriam. The voice was hoarse, the words almost indistinguishable. "The burgomaster has her share of the inheritance. There is nothing for her here."
"Have pity!" pleaded Miriam. "You were carried at the same bosom. Remember her grave has been prepared for her between that of your father and of your mother."
"Yes, more's the pity!" he shouted, madly. "A parricide does not deserve it."
Judith groaned and fell prostrate. The child slipped from her arm and screamed. Miriam seized the baby and held it up. "Raphael," she cried, "have mercy upon the innocent child!" But he did not even hear her. He had left the room, and Miriam was alone with the unconscious girl.
"Help!" cried the poor old woman. "Father in heaven, have mercy!"
Her cry was answered. The door opened, and an old gentleman, with a rugged bronze face and white hair and moustache, entered.
It was Dr. Reiser. "Be quiet!" he ordered, for Miriam, at sight of him, had begun to cry much louder with joy than she had just done with despair. He looked at Judith, and turned away deeply moved. He had no need to ask who she was or what had happened. He rushed to the door, called to his coachman, who was waiting (for the doctor had been making a call on the magistrate on the floor above), for his case of medicines. He then bent his energies to bringing his patient out of her swoon. His only assistants were Miriam and the coachman; for old Sarah, who once looked through the open door, ran away timidly when Miriam called her.
At last Judith opened her eyes, but the doctor saw immediately that her mind was wandering. "My grave!" she shouted wildly, trying to free herself from the hands of her custodians. "I want my grave!"
Not until this paroxysm was over could the doctor carry her to his carriage. "Take her to me," begged Miriam. "I have a good bed and a warm room."
Dr. Reiser knew of no other refuge, for she would have been refused admittance both in Christian and Jewish hospitals; the nearness of Miriam's home to his own was an advantage. So he ordered the coachman to drive to Roskowska by the most direct route, which was past the castle.
"Curse him!" cried the old woman, as they passed the brilliantly lighted windows of the castle. "There he is, rioting with his friends. What does he care for his victim and her child?"
The doctor made no answer, but probably thought much the same. But they were mistaken. If any punishment could have been great enough to atone for his sin, surely he was suffering it now. He paced his study, tortured by all the furies of fear and remorse, and read a letter which had just arrived from Riva.
Hamia told of the occurrences of the past few days, and the disappearance of her mistress. How they had engaged neighbors to search the lake, when a driver from Mori brought them her farewell greetings, and the assurance to Jan that his loan should be repaid. "It is not for this, but because we are so anxious about our gracious mistress and the dear little boy, that we beg Monsieur le Comte to give us permission to go home."
Too late! the avalanche was already descending. Nothing could now be made good--nothing hid. She was coming home as his mortal enemy, to deliver him up to disgrace. Unable to control his emotions, he paced the room till his feet failed him, while his pale lips murmured ceaselessly, now aloud, now under his breath--"Too late! too late!"