Vineta, the Phantom City

CHAPTER XX.

THE CONFLICT BETWEEN LOVE AND DUTY

Radowicz, embracing a tract of land only one tenth as large as Villica, could in no respect compare with that magnificent estate. It had no splendid castle, no extensive forests, no grand and noble park. It was situated only a few miles from L–, in the midst of an open country, and possessed little to distinguish it from the small estates of the neighboring gentry.

Wanda had lived alone upon the estate since her father's departure. Under other circumstances, she would have remained at Villica with her aunt, but now it seemed proper and natural that the daughter of Count Morynski should avoid the castle whose master maintained so hostile an attitude toward her people. The stay of the princess there excited much comment. The aunt made her niece frequent visits and was now her guest. She had arrived upon the evening of Wanda's return, and as yet knew nothing of her meeting with Waldemar. Upon the morning of the second day of her visit, the two ladies sat in Wanda's apartments. They had just received letters which evidently brought them gloomy tidings, for both looked grave and anxious.

"Again repulsed!" said the princess, with suppressed emotion; "they had advanced to the very heart of the country, and now they have been driven back to the border. There has been nothing decisive, no noteworthy result. We may almost despair of ultimate success."

"My father also writes in a very despondent tone," said Wanda. "He is vexed and discouraged at this eternal conflict with so many opposing elements. All seek to command, none are willing to obey; dissension among the leaders is constantly on the increase. Where will all this end?"

"Your father looks upon the dark side, as he is wont to do," said the princess, reassuringly. "The order and discipline of a well-drilled army cannot be expected from a body of volunteers who at the first call rush to arms. All this will come in time."

Wanda shook her head doubtingly. "The fighting has gone on for three months," she said, "and we have atoned with three defeats for every slight success. I now for the first time understand my father's depression when he left us; it was not merely the grief of separation,–he went away cheered by no hope of victory."

"Bronislaw has always taken life too seriously," replied the princess. "I hope much from Leo's constant presence and influence over his uncle. He has all the elasticity and enthusiasm of youth; he regards every doubt of our ultimate success as treason. It would be well if he could infuse into others his unshaken confidence in victory. We all have need of it."

She re-read her son's letter. "In any event, Leo is happy," she said; "his uncle has at last yielded to his entreaties, and intrusted him with an independent command. He is stationed with his troops only a few miles from the boundary,–and yet his mother and his betrothed bride may not see him for a single moment."

"For heaven's sake, do not put such thoughts into Leo's head!" interposed Wanda. "In his present frame of mind he might commit the maddest folly in order to obtain an interview."

"Never fear for him!" replied the mother, confidently. "He has positive orders not to leave his post, and he will obey. But what does he write to you? His letter to me is brief and hasty, yours seems longer."

"It contains very little," replied Wanda, with apparent displeasure; "very little of importance to us who must remain here inactive and in suspense. Leo prefers to write me about his love; he finds time in the midst of a bloody conflict to torment himself and me with his jealousy."

"That is a strange reproach from the lips of an affianced bride!" returned the princess, sharply. "Any other girl would be proud and happy to be the centre of her lover's thoughts at a time like this."

"Leo is engaged in a life-and-death struggle. I demand deeds from him, not vows of constancy."

The mother's brow grew dark. "Now that my son has at last the opportunity, deeds will not be wanting. Do you think coldness and taciturnity are essential to the performance of great deeds?"

Wanda rose and walked to the window. She knew the purport of her aunt's words, but she could not and would not expose herself to the gaze of those penetrating eyes which rested pitilessly upon her face as if they would discover the most secret emotions of her heart. In her dealings with her niece, the princess acted upon the discovery she had made in Waldemar. She had alluded to it but once; she considered repetitions useless and dangerous, and yet the conviction that she was subjected to constant surveillance, that her every word and look was carefully noted and inwardly commented upon, robbed Wanda of all freedom in intercourse with her aunt.

"We are likely to have fighting near the boundary in a few days," resumed the princess. "Villica might be of great advantage to us,–but what is it now?"

Wanda turned and fixed her dark eyes upon her aunt. "I know the necessity that detains you in Villica," she said; "but I could not submit to it. I would make any sacrifice rather than live day after day in determined opposition, as you and Waldemar live."

"We two are the only ones who could endure such a life," returned the princess, with bitter irony. "I confess, Wanda, that your judgment of Waldemar was correct; the conflict with him is more obstinate than I had anticipated. Instead of wearying him, I am myself on the point of yielding; he is more than a match for me."

"He is your own son," replied Wanda; "you always forget that."

The princess, with an air of deep dejection, rested her head on her hand. "He takes pains that I shall not forget it," she said; "he daily proves to me what these four years of absence have made him. I should never have thought it possible that this incredible strength of character could result from a youth so wild and uncontrollable. He has learned to subdue himself, and he subdues all around him. The employés on the estate are all devoted to me, and yet when he opposes my orders I can no longer enforce them, he overawes all at Villica; there is authority in his glance, his will is more imperious than even mine. I only wish that Nordeck had given me this boy! I would have trained him for our cause, and perhaps he would have become something more than master of Villica. He now belongs body and soul to his father's people, and he will not renounce them for the highest prizes our side can offer. I deeply feel the misfortune of never having been allowed to be a mother to my eldest child. Both of us are atoning for this injustice."

There was a tone of remorseful self-accusation in these words; the princess had never before spoken in this manner of her eldest son. The tenderer emotions of her nature had hitherto been called forth only by her younger child, her Leo. She made a violent effort to overcome this unusual emotion, and rising abruptly, she said in a cold, hard voice,–

"It is immaterial; we are enemies and shall remain so. We must endure strife and enmity, as we endure other unavoidable evils."

A servant entered with tidings that the head steward of Villica had arrived, and urgently requested an interview with his mistress. The princess was startled. "Something must have happened," she said; "show him in immediately."

The next moment Paul entered. He had been the valet of the late Prince Zulieski, and had followed his master's family into banishment; he was now head servant at the castle. The old man appeared hurried and excited, but he did not neglect the usual tokens of respect as he approached his mistress, who said impatiently,–

"Waive all formalities, Paul. What news do you bring? What has happened in Villica?"

"Nothing in Villica, my lady, but at the border-forester's place–"

"Well?"

"There has been another skirmish, and the forester has placed all manner of obstacles in the way of the military authorities. He finally insulted the patrols, thereby provoking an open attack."

"Will the indiscretion of these subordinates eternally thwart our plans?" cried the princess, angrily. "Just now, when everything depends upon attention being diverted from that forester's place, our men literally court observation. I have ordered this Osiecki to conduct peaceably, and to restrain his servants. I will dispatch a messenger to renew that command."

"Unfortunately, Herr Nordeck has anticipated us," said Paul, hesitatingly. "He has ordered the forester to leave the house with all his servants, and to report at Villica. A German overseer is to be stationed at the boundary until a substitute can be found."

"And what has the forester done?" asked the princess.

"He has refused to obey; he sent back word to the young landlord that you had placed him there, and that whoever wished to drive him away might attempt it."

"And what has my son resolved upon?" asked the princess, her face white with terror.

"He has declared that he will himself ride over there this afternoon."

"Alone?" asked Wanda, who had been an attentive listener to the whole conversation.

"He always rides alone," said Paul.

The princess had seemed lost in revery. "Paul," she said, rousing herself, "have the horses harnessed immediately; you will accompany me to Villica. If anything happens, I must be there."

Paul left to execute the order. The door had scarcely closed behind him, when Wanda was at her aunt's side.

"Did you hear, aunt, that Waldemar intends to go to the border-forester's place?" she asked.

"Yes, child, I heard; what of it?"

"Do you believe the forester will submit?"

"No, he dares not. His district is the most important of all for us; it is doubly important now in view of impending events. We must have a reliable man in charge there. The fools, to jeopardize the post just at this crisis!"

"We have lost it!" exclaimed Wanda, excitedly. "Waldemar will enforce obedience."

"He will not do so in this case," replied the princess. "The forester will yield only to superior force, and Waldemar will not resort to violence. Have we not just heard that he is going over alone?"

"You certainly will not permit it. Are you not going to Villica to warn him–to keep him back?"

The princess gazed at her niece in surprise. "What are you thinking of, Wanda?" she said. "A warning from me would betray everything to Waldemar, and he would at once perceive that the men obey me and not him. He would then absolutely insist upon the overseer's removal, which may yet be prevented,–and it shall be, cost what it may."

"Do you believe that your son will tolerate open disobedience? He has not done so as yet, I do not believe that he ever will. This overseer is a desperate man capable of anything, and I do not believe that his subordinates are any better."

"Waldemar knows his character," returned the princess, "and will be careful how he irritates him. He has perfect self-control, and will always maintain that attitude toward his subordinates."

"They hate him," said Wanda, with quivering lips. "One ball has already missed him, the second may fulfil its mission better."

The princess was startled. "Who told you this?" she asked.

"I learned it from some one at Villica."

"It is a myth," said the princess, disdainfully, "and was probably invented by that cowardly Doctor Fabian, who no doubt has taken a random shot in the forest for a murderous attack upon his beloved pupil. He is constantly anxious for Waldemar's safety; but the master of Villica is my son, and that shields him from all danger."

"When the murderous passions of these men are once aroused, this circumstance will not protect him," exclaimed Wanda, in evident alarm and excitement. "You ordered the overseer to keep quiet, and you see in what manner he has obeyed you."

"Would it not be better for you to save your extreme solicitude for your own friends?" asked the princess cuttingly. "You seem to forget that Leo is hourly exposed to mortal danger."

"Knowing this, if it lay in our power to protect him, we should hasten to his rescue," broke out the young girl passionately. "And, besides, wherever Leo is, he is at the head of his own followers, while Waldemar confronts alone those savage, unrestrained bands of men whose hatred toward him you yourself have provoked, and who will not scruple to turn their hostility against their own master, if he exasperates them."

"And they will do perfectly right in that case. But he knows the danger, and he will not exasperate them. If he resorts to violent measures–let the consequences fall upon his own head."

Wanda trembled at the glance which accompanied these words. "Does a mother say this?" she asked.

"They are the words of a deeply offended mother whose son has driven her to the last extremity; in the present posture of affairs, there can be no peace between Waldemar and me. Wherever I set my foot, I find him in my way; whatever I attempt, he confronts and opposes me. How many of our plans he has already thwarted! How much we have been forced to sacrifice just for his sake! He has carried his opposition so far that we stand in the relation of mortal enemies. Yes, he stands alone–let him endure alone what the enmity he has provoked brings upon him."

Her voice had an icy tone; it bore no longer a trace of the maternal feeling, of that tenderness which had thrilled it a moment before; it expressed the real feeling of the Princess Zulieski, who never forgave nor forgot an injury, and against whom no greater offence was ever committed than to deprive her of authority. This was Waldemar's offence, and his mother could not forgive it.

She was about leaving the room to make preparations for departure, when her glance fell upon Wanda, who stood gazing at her, motionless and speechless, but with such a look of determination in her face that the princess paused, and said,–

"I would like to impress one thing upon you before I go: If I do not warn Waldemar, no one else should dare warn him; it would be treason to our cause. Why do you shudder at that word? What would you call it if any one of our party revealed our secrets by a spoken or a written word to the master of Villica? It would thwart our plans and cost us the loss of the forester's place. Wanda, the Morynskis have never had cause to regret taking the women of their house into their confidence–a traitoress has never been found among them."

"Aunt Maryna!" cried Wanda in such a tone of horror that the princess withdrew the hand she had laid heavily on her niece's arm.

"I only wished you to know what is at stake here," she said. "You do not want to be ashamed to look your father in the face when he returns; as to the manner in which you will settle with Leo for the mortal terror concerning his brother which now tortures you, that is your affair, not mine. If I had known that this blow threatened Leo, I should have opposed his fatal love for you instead of fostering it. Now it is too late for him and for you. This present hour has proved to me–"

The sentence was cut short by Paul's announcement that the carriage was at the door. At parting, Wanda silently placed her ice-cold hand in her aunt's, and the latter seemed content with the unspoken promise.

Wanda fled to her own room: she was finally alone with herself, alone with her apprehension of danger to Waldemar, of which his mother had no fear. Love alone could foreshadow such peril, and the princess did not love her eldest son. If she had known that Waldemar's life was in danger, she would not have uttered a word to save him, for this word might have jeopardized the interests of her party.

Wanda seated herself at her writing-desk. A brief warning, a few written lines, sent to Villica, might save Waldemar; he need not know whence they came. If he went to the forester's place, he would go accompanied by others, and no one would venture to attack him. He would, thus sustained, easily enforce obedience; he could have the forester arrested, and the forest-house guarded by soldiers. Then Waldemar would have peace.

But what would be the result to her own party? This forester's place was now used for the same purpose which Villica Castle had so long served; a portion of the weapons which had been removed from Villica were concealed there, it was the focus of the insurrection, the point whence all messengers went and to which they came. It was of the utmost importance that the present forester should remain, as firm reliance could be placed upon his loyalty and his silence. His removal would be the loss of this central point of operations; he knew that fact as well as his mistress, and he resolved to remain at all hazards.

Nordeck himself came but seldom to this remote house in the forest; his idea in going there now was to enforce obedience by his personal authority. He had often been called to such duties of late, and he probably did not regard the present affair as one of any great importance. If his authority should meet with opposition at the forester's place, if he should discover that a systematic resistance had been organized against him, he would act with his wonted energy, and deprive his mother of her last foothold. Discovery could no longer be prevented if he were told that danger threatened him from that quarter.

All this was terribly clear to Wanda's mind, and Waldemar's danger was just as clearly revealed to her. She was firmly convinced that the ball which had recently imperilled his life had come from the forester's rifle; that the man whose bitter hatred had culminated in an attempt at assassination, would not hesitate to slay his master should opportunity offer. Knowing this, must she allow Waldemar to rush unwarned perhaps into the very jaws of death? But before that terrible word Treason her resolution faltered; hitherto she had been her father's confidant, he relied implicitly upon his daughter, and would have scorned the thought that she could divulge a word of the secrets he had committed to her, in order to rescue an enemy. She herself had treated Leo with contempt when in a fit of jealousy he had hesitated to do his duty. The same duty that had forced him from her side to deadly conflict, now bade her do the most difficult of all things: remain silent and inactive, a witness of an impending danger she could avert with a single stroke of the pen–a single word from her lips.

All these thoughts surged in wild commotion through Wanda's breast, and almost overwhelmed her. In vain she sought to silence the voice of her heart, and let reason alone decide this conflict between love and duty; in vain she looked about her for some means of rescue compatible with her own loyalty and honor,–that inevitable and terrible "either--or" still confronted her. If she had not already understood her own heart, this hour would have revealed it to her. For months she had known that Leo was exposed to danger, and she had been anxious for him as for a dear relative, with a brave composure and a silent heroism. Now Waldemar was in peril, and her composure and heroism were at an end; they vanished before the mortal agony that convulsed her whole being at thought of the danger of the man she loved.

There is a point where even the most violent and anguished suffering yields to stupefaction, at least for a time, because the capacity to suffer is completely exhausted. For more than an hour Wanda had been alone in her chamber, torn by conflicting emotions; her face bore traces of the agony she had endured; she had reached that place where she could no longer dispute or question, where she could not even think. She sank helplessly upon a chair, leaned back her head, and closed her eyes.

The old dream-picture reappeared–that vision once conjured up by the sun's golden beams and the ocean vapors, and which had thrown its magic spell around two youthful hearts as yet ignorant of its deep significance. Since that autumnal evening at the forest-lake it had often appeared before their eyes, and all their strength of will had not availed to exorcise its haunting presence. It had accompanied them on that lonely drive through the wintry forest, it had hovered around them as they sped over those broad fields of snow, it had taken shape and hue from the mists rising in the zenith, it had floated on the lowering clouds away at the horizon's verge; no desolate waste, no icy atmosphere hindered its appearance. And now it suddenly rose again in its olden beauty and splendor, as if evoked by supernatural powers.

Wanda had not invoked this vision. She had placed distance and estrangement between herself and the man she wished to hate because he was not the friend of her people; she had sought a way of escape from an infatuation which she was resolved to conquer, in the fierce strife that had broken out between two hostile nations. This desperate conflict with herself had been unavailing, it had ended only in defeat. She was under the influence of no dream, no self-delusion; she knew the nature of the spell that had first been thrown around her at the beech-holm, that had been renewed at the forest-lake, that had deepened and strengthened day by day.

In one thing surely the old tradition had spoken truth: the remembrance would not vanish, the longing would not be stilled. In the midst of strife and hatred a fairy vision rose before her, beautiful as Vineta emerging from its ocean-depths,–the vision of a love truer and deeper than any other earth could offer, of a happiness that might have been hers if kindlier fates had smiled upon her life, and in fancy she heard a chiming as of bridal bells from the old city towers sunken beneath the wave.

Wanda rose slowly. The conflict between love and duty which had raged so long in her breast was over; the last ten minutes had decided it. The pen upon her writing-desk remained untouched, the words of warning were not written. She leaned for support against the desk; her hand trembled, but her face bore the serenity of an unalterable purpose.

"I will go to the forester's," she said, "and if the worst happens, I will interpose. His mother coldly and indifferently allows him to rush into the midst of danger. I will rescue him!"

CHAPTER XXI.

THE RESCUE

The border-forester's place was situated in the midst of dense forests, and close to the boundary. The once large and stately house, which had been erected here by the elder Nordeck, showed signs of dilapidation and decay, as it had not been repaired for twenty years. The present occupant owed his position to the Princess Zulieski. He had been here three years, his bad management being entirely overlooked by his mistress, because she knew that he was devoted body and soul to her interests, and could be relied upon in any emergency. Waldemar seldom visited this distant portion of his estate, and had only a very slight acquaintance with the forester. He had, however, of late felt obliged to interfere, on account of the conflicts between this man and the soldiers who guarded the German frontier.

Winter still held undisputed sway. Forest and forest-house lay wrapped in snow, and the dim light of a gray, cloudy sky fell around the chill, desolate landscape. The forester and his men, numbering three or four assistants and as many servants, were gathered in a large room upon the ground-floor. They were all armed, and were awaiting the landlord's arrival. Waldemar had ordered the forester, Osiecki, and his men to depart quietly from the place, but appearances did not indicate an intention to obey. The lowering faces of the subordinates boded nothing good, and the forester's aspect was that of a man capable of any act of desperation. These men, who had passed their lives in the solitude of the forest, were little disposed to law and order, and their leader was known as one who placed but slight restraint upon his lawless, passionate nature.