Danira

IX

The voyage had been a swift and pleasant one, and after a short stay in Trieste the train conveyed the regiment to its native mountains and former garrison, the capital of southern Tyrol.

The city was all astir, for every one had hurried to welcome the returning soldiers who had endured so many a hard fight on the farthest frontier of the empire, and now, after dangers and privations of every kind, were coming home in peace.

At the railway station and immediately around it a joyous throng waited for the train; the country people especially had flocked there in crowds. There was scarcely a peasant family in the neighborhood that did not have son, brother or some other relative in the Imperial Chasseurs to whom they now wished to give the first welcome home.

At last the thunder of cannon far and near among the mountains announced the approach of the train, which, amid loud cheers and waving banners, ran into the station. The cars were opened and the whole regiment poured out upon the platform, to which only the magistrates and a few of the most distinguished citizens had been admitted.

After the first flood of official and friendly greetings was over, Gerald von Steinach, who had his young wife leaning on his arm, attempted to make his way through the throng, he too had seen many a familiar face, pressed many a hand, and received numerous congratulations, for through his comrades' letters his marriage was already known in the garrison; but they were only the greetings of strangers.

The arms which at his departure had clasped him with such anxious love were not outstretched to him on his return; no mother waited to welcome him home, and yet his whole heart was devoted to his mother and hitherto he had been her all.

In this hour of universal joyous meeting the young officer felt, with infinite grief, what he had lost. The parental home, which now opened to every one, was closed to him and his young wife, and perhaps would remain so forever. Much as he strove to conceal his depression he could not entirely banish the cloud that rested on his brow, and Danira guessed what he was missing; she best knew what his choice of a wife had cost him. She instantly assented when he proposed withdrawing from the crowd as soon as possible and driving to his lodgings in the city, where the young couple intended to remain until the arrangements for the future home had been made.

Behind them walked Jovica, who had travelled in the same compartment, and George, who, though obliged to ride with his comrades, had shot through the crowd like a rocket as soon as he arrived, to take the place he considered his rightful property.

The young Slav now wore the Tyrolese peasant costume, which had been obtained for her on the way, and in which she looked extremely pretty. Her shining black hair was carefully arranged in braids, and her large black eyes gazed curiously and joyously at the throng. But her appearance was still extremely childish and entirely foreign; one could see at the first glance that she belonged to a different race.

George walked with great importance by her side. He had not entrusted his love affair to his lieutenant in vain, the latter's advocacy proved very effective. Gerald and Danira had warmly espoused his cause, and, during the journey, even won over Father Leonhard.

The priest, it is true, had no objection to Jovica personally; he had himself become fond of his gentle, modest, docile pupil; but he still shook his head doubtfully at the idea of seeing the "little pagan" the mistress of the Moosbach Farm, and declared it to be impossible to obtain the consent of George's parents, though he had promised his mediation.

For the present the priest's attention was claimed by some ecclesiastical brothers who had also been present at the reception of the regiment in the station.

Gerald had just escaped from the throng, and was walking with Danira toward the door, when both stopped as though rooted to the floor at the sight of the young lady who was waiting there to meet them. The dainty, graceful figure in the elegant travelling dress, the fair hair whose curls escaped from beneath the little hat, the sparkling blue eyes–the whole vision was so familiar and so dear. Gerald dropped the arm of his wife, who stood pale and speechless. He intended to face the painful meeting alone, but the young girl had already rushed to Danira and flung both arms round her neck.

"Danira, you naughty runaway! So I am to find you again in the Tyrol."

"Edith, how came you here?" cried the young wife, in half-joyous, half-startled tones. "Is it an accident?"

"Oh! no. I came especially to receive you. I wanted to bring you the first greeting," replied Edith. She hesitated a few seconds, then hastily turned and held out her hand to her former lover. "How do you do, Gerald? Welcome home with your wife!"

Gerald bowed silently over the little hand that lay in his. He did not feel its slight quiver when his lips pressed it. He only saw Edith's blooming face, her smile, and a deep sigh of relief escaped him. Thank God! Here at least he had caused no suffering as he had feared; here at least forgiveness was proffered.

"Did you really come on our account?" cried Danira, with eager joy. "Oh, you do not suspect what this welcome from your lips is to me–to us both."

The young lady drew back a step, with a comic assumption of formality.

"Don't be so impetuous, madame! I have another important mission to discharge, and must maintain my dignity as official ambassador. Castle Steinach sends a greeting to its young master and mistress, and is ready to receive them. They will find open hearts and arms there. Here is a letter from your mother, Gerald; only a few lines, in which she calls her son and daughter to her."

"Edith–this is impossible–is it your work?" cried Gerald, still doubting as he took the note which bore his mother's handwriting.

"My first essay in diplomacy! I think it hasn't resulted so badly, and it wasn't very easy either; for both aunt and papa were united against me. But now you must let me have Danira to myself for half an hour, Gerald. We must part again immediately, and I want to have her alone at least once more."

"Part! Why, surely you will go with us?"

"No, I shall take the next express train and join my father in G. But your mother expects you at Steinach this very day, and you ought not to keep her waiting; great preparations have been made for your reception."

Meanwhile Gerald had hastily torn open and glanced through the letter, which he now handed to his wife. It really contained only a few lines, but they confirmed Edith's words. It was the greeting of a mother calling her children to her.

"How do you do, Fräulein? I'm here again, too!" said George, taking advantage of the momentary pause to introduce himself, and he saw with satisfaction that he was not forgotten.

The old mischievous smile hovered round the young lady's lips as she turned toward him.

"George Moosbach! Have you got safe back from Krivoscia? After all it isn't quite so bad as you represented it, for I see you wear the medal for courage. Listen, George, you make a great impression upon me as a returning conqueror! What of the offer with which you once honored me? I am now free again, and should not be wholly disinclined to become the mistress of the Moosbach Farm."

"I thank you very kindly," stammered George, intensely confused. "I'm very sorry, but–I'm already engaged."

With these words he pulled Jovica forward and presented her; but Edith now burst into a merry laugh.

"Another Krivoscian? For Heaven's sake, did all the Imperial Chasseurs get betrothed and married there? There will be a rebellion among the Tyrolese girls. I think you are very inconsistent, George. You protested that day, by everything you held dear, that you would marry nobody but a Tyrolese, and made the sign of the cross as if you saw Satan himself when I suggested the daughters of that country, whom you preferred to dub 'savages.'"

"Fräulein," replied George, solemnly, "there is nothing, not even in this world, so bad that it has not one good thing. The only good thing Krivoscia had was Jovica–and that I brought away with me."

"Well, I wish you and your Jovica every possible happiness. But now come, Danira, that we may have at least half an hour's chat. Gerald must give you up for that time. Come, we shall not be interrupted in the waiting-room to-day."

She drew Danira away, while Gerald, who saw Father Leonhard coming hastily went to him to tell him his unexpected and joyful news.

The little waiting-room was, in truth, perfectly empty; every one was pressing toward the door of the station.

The two young ladies sat close together. Edith had put her arm around her adopted sister in the old familiar way, and was laughing and chatting continuously; but Danira could not be so easily deceived in this respect as Gerald.

She herself loved, and knew that a love which had once taken root in the heart cannot be so speedily forgotten. She said little, but her eyes rested steadily on Edith's features.

The pretty face still seemed unchanged in bloom and brightness, but it was only seeming. Around the little mouth was an expression all its smiles were powerless to banish; an expression that told of secret sorrow; and any one gazing deep into the blue eyes could see the shadow in them. The vivacious gaiety still remained, but it was no longer the mirth of a glad careless child who had known no grief. In the midst of all the jesting there sometimes echoed a tone which sounded as if the speaker were striving to repress tears.

At such a moment Danira suddenly clasped both the young girl's hands and said softly:

"Cease jesting, Edith. I have caused you pain. I could not help doing so; but, believe me, I have myself suffered most. I felt so deeply wounded when you sent me no answer.

"Are you angry about it? I could not–"

"No, you could not answer then–I ought to have understood."

A burning blush suddenly crimsoned Edith's face, and she tried to avoid the gaze whose secret scrutiny she felt.

"At first papa would not allow it," she said hastily. "He wanted to forbid my writing to you at all and I yielded; but before we left Cattaro I was firmly resolved to bring you the answer in this form. True, my courage fell when we accepted Baroness von Steinach's pressing invitation to spend a few days with her, for matters looked very badly at the castle. Gerald was under a ban, and you, too. No one was permitted to mention your names, and papa fanned the fire. So long as he remained I could do nothing, but I managed to have him go to his garrison alone and leave me behind."

"And then you interceded for us?"

"Fairly intrigued, according to the very best rules of diplomacy. I was myself amazed at the talent I suddenly developed. The baroness tried to console me for my lost lover, but I turned the tables by energetically taking her to task for her hard-heartedness. I tried to put the affair in the right light by making her consider that you are really a Krivoscian princess."

"Oh, Edith!"

"Well, isn't it true? Your father was chief of his tribe, your brother is its head now. Chief, prince, king–it all comes to the same thing in the end. I made this clear to the baroness, and would have traced your lineage back to Mahomet–oh dear, no, that wouldn't do, you are a Christian–or to Saint George himself. I told her so much about your father's heroic deeds that she became filled with reverence, and then I gave her your letter to me and made her admire your own courage and Gerald's rescue at the Vila spring. That shook the fortress, and when I stormed it with an appeal to her maternal love and Gerald's letters were produced again, it yielded. You see I am not a degenerate daughter of my father; my first campaign ended with victory along the whole line."

The young wife sat silently with down-cast eyes. She felt the generosity of this conduct and at the same time realized how greatly she had formerly undervalued Edith.

"And I must not even thank you!" she said with passionate fervor. "You want to escape our gratitude and leave us this very hour. Must it be?"

"I must go to papa, who expects me. Don't prevent me, Danira, I–cannot stay."

She tried to smile again, but this time she did not succeed, her lips only quivered and she was obliged to turn away to force back the rising tears. Then she felt Danira's arms clasp her, and her lips pressed to hers.

"Edith, don't try to deceive me like the others. I know what your brave championship of our happiness has cost you, and how you have suffered. You may surely confess it to me."

Edith did not contradict her. She only hid her face on Danira's shoulder, but how the tears streamed from her eyes!

"It was nothing," she sobbed. "A child's foolish dream–nothing more. Don't tell Gerald I have been crying–promise to say nothing to him–he ought not, must not know."

"Be calm, he shall learn nothing. It is enough for me to endure the grief of having robbed you of your happiness."

"No!" Edith's tears suddenly ceased as she started up. "No, Danira, I should not have been happy with him. I felt from the first moment that he did not love me, and knew it the instant he flamed into such passionate defence of you. He never had that look and tone for me; you first taught them to him. Is it not true that he can love ardently and make his wife infinitely happy?"

"Yes," replied Danira, softly, but the one word told enough.

Edith turned hastily away toward the window.

"There is the signal for the train! We have only a few minutes; let us bid each other farewell! Don't look so mournful, Danira, and don't grieve about me. I have no intention of going into a convent or sorrowing all my life. It must be delightful to devote yourself heart and soul to the man of your choice, but that destiny isn't allotted to everybody. It can't be done, as George says."

Just at that moment Gerald entered to tell them that the train was coming. He saw a bright face and heard only gay, cordial parting words. A few minutes after, Edith was seated in the car, nodding one more farewell through the window; then the train rolled on again and instantly disappeared from the gaze of those left behind.

George had quitted the station with Jovica to take her to his lieutenant's lodgings, where she was to wait for Danira.

There was an immense throng in the great open square outside. All the country people had flocked thither, each one trying to find his or her relatives among the returning soldiers. Everywhere were joyous meetings, shouts of delight, clasping of hands, and embracing, and whoever got into the midst of the residents of his native village, who usually went in troops, was almost stifled with tokens of friendship.

George had hitherto escaped this fate, but now a portly farmer and his equally corpulent wife, worked their way through the throng straight toward him, shouting his name while still a long distance off.

"By all the saints! there are my parents!" cried the young Tyrolese, joyously. "Did you really take the long journey here? Yes, here I am, alive and kicking, and have brought my whole head back with me! That's saying something, when a fellow returns from Krivoscia."

The farmer and his wife instantly seized upon their son and wanted him to walk between them, but Jovica, who, during the exchange of greetings, had remained behind him, now suddenly appeared. She had been frightened by the noise and crowd that surrounded her on all sides, and when she saw that her George was to be taken away she clung to his arm, beseeching him in the Slavonic tongue not to leave her.

The parents looked greatly surprised at the sudden appearance of the young girl who clung so confidingly to their son. Luckily Jovica's extremely childish figure prevented them from suspecting the real relation between the pair.

Yet the farmer frowned, and his wife said slowly: "What does this mean?"

"This means–this is what I've brought back from my journey," replied George, who saw a storm rising which he wished for the present to avoid. Yet he did not release "what he had brought," but held her firmly by the hand.

"What does this mean? How came you by the child?" cried the farmer angrily, and his wife sharply added:

"The girl looks like a gipsy! Where did you pick her up! Out with the whole story."

Jovica, who during the journey had greatly enlarged her knowledge of the language, understood that the people before her were George's parents, but she also perceived their unkind reception. Tears filled her dark eyes, and she timidly repeated the words of greeting she had been taught "How do you do?" But the foreign accent completely enraged the mother.