Vineta, the Phantom City

The princess, who stood near her brother, was first to observe the young man's entrance.

"Are you here at last, Waldemar?" she said, in a reproachful tone, as she advanced to meet her son; "we began to think you was not coming."

"I did not wish to intrude," replied Waldemar, hesitatingly.

"Will you always insist upon remaining a stranger to us? Have you not been so long enough? My son," she added, extending both arms to him, "I thank you."

For the first time since infancy Waldemar was clasped in his mother's arms. In that long, fervent embrace years of estrangement, strife, and bitterness vanished; that cold, hostile barrier which had separated two beings who belonged to each other by the holiest and nearest ties of kindred, was broken down. The son had at last won his mother's love.

The count rose and offered his hand to his deliverer. "Thank him your whole life long, Maryna," he said; "you do not know what he has dared for me."

"The venture was not so great as it appeared," returned Waldemar. "I smoothed the way beforehand. Wherever prisons exist, bribery is possible, and golden keys sometimes unlock the strongest doors. I have hitherto set little value upon the wealth that came to me without any effort or merit of my own, but I have at last learned its worth."

Wanda still kept close to her father, holding him fast, as if she feared he might again be torn from her. She had not uttered a word of thanks, but her glance spoke more than words. Waldemar understood that silent language, and was content.

"The danger is not over," he continued; "Hubert's papers, which are now in my hands, authorize your arrest and extradition, even here. You must rest a few hours, and then we will leave for S–, which is the nearest seaport, and only a day's journey. An English ship has for four weeks lain there at my disposal; it is ready to sail at any moment, and will carry you directly to England. Upon your arrival there, France, Switzerland, and Italy will be open to you. When once upon the high seas, you are safe."

"And you, my nephew, will you not have to atone for this deed?"

"I have no fears," replied Waldemar; "I am a German, and as such your political enemy. If my connivance in your escape is discovered, it will hardly be considered a crime, since I am your nephew, and hope ere long to be your son."

As Waldemar alluded to the closer tie that would soon bind him to his uncle, the latter was deeply moved; his lips quivered, his features seemed convulsed by some inward struggle. He had fought against his daughter's love for this man with every weapon at his command. For the sake of rending a tie so hated he had consented for Wanda to accompany him into an exile that must be almost certain death. Never had the old national animosity been stronger in his heart than at this moment of shipwreck to all his hopes, but he looked upon the man who had rescued him, who had risked life for his sake, and then he bent down to his daughter.

"Wanda!" he said, softly.

Wanda gazed into his face. Never had she seen it so sorrowful as at this moment. As she read in his eyes what acquiescence would cost him, every selfish wish vanished, and filial love and tenderness alone ruled her heart.

"Not now, not now, Waldemar," she cried, imploringly; "you see what my father has suffered and is suffering still. You cannot ask me to leave him at the very moment of reunion. Allow me to remain a little longer at his side–one brief year more. Shall I let him go into a foreign land, into exile, alone and ill?"

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."