Judith Trachtenberg Part 14

The summer pa.s.sed, and the anniversary of the count's introduction to his inherited estates came, and was celebrated by a ma.s.s in the parish church. Herr Stiegle distributed alms by request of the count, but the donor's whereabouts none knew. A n.o.bleman in the neighborhood reported that he had seen the young couple in Verona, in the garden which contains the grave of Juliet; that they looked very happy, and that the servant addressed her as Madame la Comtesse. But the man had the reputation of being a liar; so that even if he spoke the truth accidentally this time, it was valueless without further confirmation, for no one believed that Agenor could marry the Jewess.

Towards the end of November another anniversary occurred, the particulars of which were firmly cemented in the memories of the people. The old synagogue could scarcely contain the wors.h.i.+ppers who had a.s.sembled to attend the first celebration of Nathaniel's death. The services over, young and old went to the cemetery and listened with deep emotion to the prayer which Raphael delivered at the grave. "Amen!

Amen!" was echoed from all sides. Afterwards the throng viewed the beautiful memorial stone erected there, and repeated the words carved upon it, better than any eulogy--"The remembrance of the righteous never faileth."

Between this grave and that of Nathaniel's wife was an empty place.

Weeds covered the narrow s.p.a.ce, and thorn-bushes spread out their ugly branches. Very few besides the elders and members of the burial guild knew that this ground, too, had been dug up a year before, and something buried there. Others suspected it, but no one asked, and of the hundreds present not one mentioned Judith's name as long as they were in the "Good Place."

"The name of the righteous never dies; but whoso dies in sin, that name shall never be mentioned." Only when they had pa.s.sed that gate which separates the world of peace from that of battle did they curse the outcast.

But one was silent. He paced by the side of the elders, his form erect, his face set. Since his return, no one had seen a smile on his lips or a tear in his eye. It was only when the procession pa.s.sed the Baranowski castle that his mouth quivered; and by the glance which he gave towards the white building, which stood in the midst of the leafless park, one could see his implacable hatred.

Perhaps it would have comforted him in his anguish had he known what was transpiring in one of those rooms where the manager was sitting.

There Herr Michael Stiegle had sat at his writing-table since morning, and had reckoned, shaken his head, reckoned again, and then growled. He stared at the ceiling a long time, and at last plucked up courage and wrote a short, plain letter to the count, saying that when he became bailiff his intention had been to get rid of the debts with which the late lord had burdened the estate; that after the interest on the debts had been paid, twelve thousand gulden had been netted, but he had expended at least ten times that amount, while the new loans had been negotiated under very hard conditions. Would the count not lessen his expenses, and, if possible, look after his affairs a little more?

Otherwise he, Stiegle, would be obliged to relinquish his position. He understood agriculture, but not the mode of dealing with usurers. The letter bore the address of "The Bank of M. L. Biedermann, Vienna, for Count Agenor Baranowski," for neither did he know of the count's whereabouts. This oppressed Herr Stiegle's mind, like some other mysterious circ.u.mstances.

Possibly it was owing to that state of mind that the announcement of a servant that a Capuchin monk was outside, who refused to leave, made him more brusque than usual, so that he fairly shouted at the bent old man, with long white beard, who entered the room with hesitating step.

The monk's inquiry also annoyed him, for it was for the address of Count Baranowski.

"It is none of your business," he growled.

The monk stepped near. "It is very important," he urged, with shaking voice; "by G.o.d and all the saints, it is very important!"

"Write a letter, then, and I will forward it."

The monk shook his head. "Perhaps the good director would aid him. It was concerning his cousin in Russia, a poor fellow, Ignatius Tondka by name, whom the count had allowanced three hundred gulden a month, in consideration of important services; but Herr von Wroblewski only paid him one third of the amount, and that very irregularly. Could the Herr Director not pay it now?"

As he said this he glanced at the papers on the desk, and noted the address of the letter which was there.

"No!" said Herr Stiegle, "I know nothing of the affair. You must go to Wroblewski. Adieu!"

The monk stood doubtfully for a moment, and then quitted the room, with a pious salutation. In the corridor he drew out his breviary, and hastily wrote the address. He then went to Wroblewski. There he seemed to have suddenly shaken off the infirmities of old age. His figure was straight, and his voice firm. "You need not start, Wroblewski; I have only come to arrange matters by word of mouth, it seems so difficult to do it by correspondence."

Herr von Wroblewski grew pale, but quickly regained his composure. "Why should I start?" he asked, with a smile. "You are only risking your own neck. I am not in your debt. All the count has sent I have forwarded.

Nothing has been as yet received for November."

"Every word is a he. My money, or I will write to the count."

"Why don't you? I have not the address or I would give it you. Herr Stiegle forwards the letters. But consider which the count is most likely to believe, you or me. Will you send him my letters? And if you do, is there any sum specified in them?"

The monk was still. Then he burst out into violent invectives, declaring he would confess all; that it would be more pleasant to have enough in prison than to starve in Mohilev, and the good company he would have would compensate for his loss of liberty.

Wroblewski heard him with a smile. "Good!" he answered. "Of course, if you must, you must. But hearken to my last word. Here," drawing out his purse, "are two hundred gulden. I place them in this envelope. On the envelope I write--do you see, my dear Tondka--'Herr Anton Brodski, in Mohilev.' My servant will now take the letter to the post and you will accompany him. Here are twenty gulden besides for your journey home. I shall ring the bell for the servant, and he will either go with you to the post, or he will kick you out of the house!"

When Wroblewski saw the monk walking peacefully by the side of the servant, a few seconds after, he laughed aloud. "He hurries towards Mohilev on the wings of desire!" Perhaps, however, he would have been less merry had he known the workings of the rogue's brain.

CHAPTER VIII.

The blush of dawn glowed on the white, glistening dome of Monte Baldo, while the cold north wind came whistling from the valley of the Sarco, clearing the lake of mists and the sky of clouds. Only here and there the dismal gray veils fluttered like signals of mourning on the mountain-tops, or hid themselves in retired clefts above the azure water. But the sun reached them even there, as it mounted above the mighty Altissimo di Nago, which lies clumsily between the smiling plains of the Etsch and the Garda.

The light grew stronger, the mists disappeared, and the golden rays fell, full and beautiful, over the deep blue of the sky and the lake, over the pale green of the meadows and the violet-hued rocks with snowy caps, and over the narrow, crooked streets of Riva, which they call Regina del Garda, the old and ugly queen of a kingdom eternally young and beautiful.

The count stood on the balcony of the ancient but well-preserved _palazzino_, whose graceful masonry rises close to the Porto San Michele, in the midst of the thick greenery of a well-kept garden, gazing over the crowded houses at the blue lake and the lovely landscape dotted with white chalets.

It was the first sunny day after endless days of rain. How he had longed for the sun, thinking when it came that it would ease his heart and clear his brain! But no sun could dispel these shadows. He was a fool when, two months before, he had said to himself, on entering that house, "It is beautiful here; so still, so peaceful, every trouble must vanish away." For his tortured mind there was no earthly refuge. It had been a delusion, also, when, a few days before, the nurse had placed in his arms his new-born boy, and he had murmured, "Thanks, Merciful One, for the angel who is to save me and lead me upwards!" He was a lovely child, with the mother's auburn hair and the father's dark eyes, who, the nurse a.s.sured the Signor Conte, smiled when he saw him. But it seemed to Agenor that the dark eyes threatened him, and the tiny hand pushed him down into deeper d.a.m.nation.

Things had turned out differently from what he had imagined as he sat by the bedside of the poor girl before he agreed to that frightful comedy. Then he had only thought of his disgrace when his deceit should be discovered. How his life was to take form after he had given her soul this opiate, or what the awaking would be--of that he had not thought. There would be time enough to consider all that. Perhaps the step might lead into a garden surrounded with prison walls; but that would be an Eden compared with the dark torture-cell in which he had felt himself after his conversation with the physician, and before that clever scoundrel had given his advice. There was always the disgrace of a discovery! But it was not likely; and, even so, it was less of a disgrace to the name of Baranowski than a marriage with a Jewess. He was forced into it to save his beloved's life! Had he chosen death, she would have followed him, and would that have been an easier solution of the difficulty?

He had felt like a free man when Wroblewski left the castle, nor had he repented during the last few days. On the contrary, when he saw that his stammering promise, "Your wish shall be accomplished; the priest is coming!" was enough to revive the invalid; as he heard the repressed sobbing with which her overwrought mind was gaining its usual tone, and gazed into her face, which was beginning to smile again, he said to himself--it was good--that he had forced himself into it, and the subterfuge appeared a braver deed than the taking of his life. Neither of them referred to the past. Only once she said, "We will pardon our mutual sins against each other. You, that I would leave you; I, that you delayed so long to do me justice. But now we have to antic.i.p.ate love, fidelity, and happiness as long as G.o.d gives us life. Ah! life is beautiful!" He bent over her hand, and covered it with kisses. He had discovered the least evil among so many that threatened, and he would spend his whole strength in making it of less consequence when once the hideous ceremony was over. The nearer the hour came the more afraid of it he became. He was like a schoolboy in the face of inevitable danger.

He shut his eyes, that he might not see it. "Why should I see the man?"

he said, when Wroblewski arrived one afternoon with the rogue, and wished to introduce him, that they might "talk over to-morrow's programme." The delay was painful. He supposed the creature had brought his costume, and Jan could light up the chapel immediately. Jan knew who was coming, and that he was to be the witness.

The magistrate smiled. "The usual impetuosity of a lover! But the reverend gentleman must first baptize the child, and before the baptism he ought to instruct the mother for at least one hour in the doctrines of our holy church."

The count drew back in horror. He was neither bigot nor atheist. He had simply never thought of religion at all. He believed in G.o.d, and kept the Catholic feast-days because he had been taught to do so, and it was the proper-thing for a Baranowski. Heretofore he had only thought of the affair as a crime against the state, not against Judith; much less had he thought of it as blasphemous. It was only now he saw it in this light.

Well, it must be borne; the sacrament of marriage must be dishonored, but how about that of baptism? It was equally holy; yea, holier. He knew his catechism.

"What baptism?" he exclaimed, finally, struggling to appear impa.s.sive.

"Let her remain a Jewess."

Wroblewski laughed out loud. "So she will, my dear count. But if we don't carry out this hocus-pocus first, she will not credit what comes after. She is a clever little girl, and knows very well that she must be baptized or the marriage is not valid. No sentimentality! And, since all is in working order, we had best hurry up affairs."

The count acquiesced, gave Jan his orders, and went up to Judith. This expected ceremony had been present to her mind from hour to hour, and had really cured her. Still she trembled, and burst into a fit of wild weeping. He took her hand, and tried to comfort her. But she sobbed on.

"I know I can only become your wife as a Christian. And I will be grateful to you for making me one my whole life long. It will be a heaven on earth into which your kind hand leads me. But what goes before is a h.e.l.l. Don't be angry. It is not because I hate your creed, or because it is strange to me. Even my father, who is an orthodox Jew, always said, 'We are all children of the same Father in heaven.' But this step cuts me off forever from him and from Raphael. Henceforth I have only you in the whole world. I do not weep out of pity for myself, but for them. They have lost daughter and sister; for, as a Christian, I am dead to them. What they will suffer from their own hearts and from our people! I must think of Miriam Gold, whose daughter became a Christian."

He stood beside her as she stammered these words, and he felt he had never before seen such emotion. He was dumb, unable to say a word; for what could he say? That he would spare her this pain? Then his whole game would be lost. The scene had so shaken him that he could hardly stand upright as he led her to the chapel.

The late candidate for holy orders made it very short, and both ceremonies were concluded in very few minutes. To the count it was as though he saw everything through a veil and heard everything m.u.f.fled by distance.

How many times since had he seen this picture: the dim, faintly lit chapel; the pale woman by his side; the gallows-face of the scoundrel in his cape; Wroblewski stuffing his handkerchief into his mouth to keep from laughing; and poor, faithful old Jan weeping bitterly because a Baranowski was marrying a Jewess!

As he stood this day on the balcony, surrounded on all sides with suns.h.i.+ne and the vivid coloring of the Southern landscape, suddenly it vanished, and in its place was the chapel at Borky, and instead of the twittering of birds in the garden was a whining voice which said, "And hereby I declare you man and wife, in the name of--"

"Ah!" he groaned. "It was frightful. It was the worst thing that could have happened."

It was not because of his blasphemy that he said this after more than a year had pa.s.sed away. He realized now that his sin against G.o.d, not to speak of that against the civil law, had not been his most grievous offence. He made this discovery the morning after the sad farce.

Wroblewski, on taking leave, had said, "Hurry up, and get away as soon as you can. Go to Italy, or even farther. Think of the danger if that revengeful fellow, Raphael, should sue you for abduction, and one fine day you were summoned before the courts. Her most gracious Lady Countess would be brought up as witness."

Agenor immediately informed Judith they would leave Borky the following day. She was ready, she answered, but their route must be through her native town.

"Why?"

"So I can beg my father's pardon."

He started. The news of her father's death would certainly affect her keenly, and if she was once in the town the news of the marriage would be sure to leak out. So he entreated her to spare herself that excitement.