"Hush!" and Miriam went close to him, and whimpered in his ear: "You want your wife, were you going to say? Do not force me--"

He drew back, and was silent. "Doctor!" he said, imploringly. But the old gentleman shook his head. "I fear I cannot help you. Come, gentlemen, the woman is needed inside."

A few hours later the rumor of Judith's death spread through the town.

Hundreds went to Roskowska to find out for a certainty. But the report was false. Perhaps it originated with the thought in the minds of the people that she could not recover. G.o.d had judged her; her grave was in readiness; it was in order for her to die.

But as she did not, and the doctor reported her to be gradually recovering, the people, both Jews and Christians, became restless. How were they to judge her? In what light should they regard her? Yet, for all that, there was but one individual in the whole town who wished for her death with his entire heart.

That was Herr Ludwig von Wroblewski. Her recovery threatened his safety. He had nothing to fear from the count; but if she lived, and informed against him, his pleasant, comfortable life was ended.

He would have to exchange his palatial residence for a lowlier dwelling-place; and that the count would have to share this with him proved a poor consolation.

The more favorable the bulletins, the more sleepless his nights; and when, three weeks after Judith's return, he heard she was able to be about, he begged Agenor for an audience. Although the count permitted him to occupy rooms in his house, and had not dared refuse his most insolent requests, yet he had had but one short conversation with him since his return, early in January.

Agenor had avoided him a.s.siduously, and Wroblewski had been obliged to deal with the lawyer. "He is a coward," thought the ex-magistrate, "and for that reason he dare not refuse to see me."

But Agenor did refuse, and Wroblewski had to resort to his pen. He described in vivid colors the reports that had been afloat in aristocratic circles regarding the sham-marriage, and were now well known for miles around. No one doubted them, and it was a mystery why Groze had not taken the case up. How would it be if Judith made a declaration? Even then there would be no danger for him. It was his friendship for the count which induced his anxiety.

Even this touching letter was left unanswered; and when Wroblewski inquired of the lawyer regarding it, the latter replied that the count had nothing to fear from the mother of his child, and that if she made an affidavit, the consequences would be disagreeable to Herr von Wroblewski princ.i.p.ally, since the testimony of Ignatius Tondka would prove that it was he who bore the lion's share of the responsibility in this dirty matter. Tondka had already placed himself at the lawyer's disposal for that purpose.

It was an evil hour for the ex-magistrate when he received this information, for as he had not had any letters from Mohilev lately, he had sent no money, but used the funds for himself. Now, suddenly, his guilty confederate appears again on the scene. "Bah!" he thought, "if the count is not afraid, I need not be. For he has his reputation to lose, and I nothing," Nevertheless, he was not quite at his ease.

Perhaps he overestimated the count's position. Perhaps Baranowski, too, had little to lose in the estimation of people. Judith's return had accentuated the reports circulated about him; and whether his old friends disapproved of so much fuss on account of a Jewess, or whether they really disapproved of his actions, they all agreed in condemning him.

The contempt with which they regarded him had caused him much discomfort during the first weeks of his return, but it was trifling now in comparison with this new affliction which burdened his soul--his repentance and his terror of the law. All the good and evil in his nature seemed to have united to sharpen his agony. His love for his victim, his longing to make expiation for his crime, his desire to regain his old self-respect, and again that false idea of honor that made him think his sin a lesser evil than marriage with a Jewess.

"She must not die!" he cried, in mad fear, to the old doctor, whom he visited almost daily, and in the same breath, with vehement earnestness, "she must not accuse me!" It did not seem clear which evil he dreaded most.

Dr. Reiser, who at first was very hard on him, grew at last to pity the tortured man, and at his request promised to make an attempt to act as mediator. But careful though he was, at the first intimation the pale cheeks of the convalescent flushed, and she raised her hand in protest.

"Do not speak of him to me, please. I am not strong enough to bear it.

When I regain my strength I will remember him."

"So as to ruin him?"

"So as to do my duty to myself, my child, and my brother. You do not know how he has misused me. He even tried to rob me of my inheritance."

"No! surely not that."

"I mean my grave, the best that remained to me. Ah! it was more than I dared to hope. You look at me curiously, doctor, but my brain is perfectly clear, and I see everything now as it really was, his cowardice and baseness! How great they were--how great!"

"Let us drop the subject," said the doctor, taking her by the hand. "I see you hate him, and I have nothing more to say."

"Yes, I hate him," she replied, sullenly, "but I would not wrong him. I can understand, and in a certain measure forgive, his deception. How could he know a Jewess is a human being and has honor and a heart?

Besides, I know that scoundrel urged him on and arranged matters for him--even his conscience. In his way he loved me. I can even understand that mean trick, the sham marriage, to which he was led by Wroblewski.

He, a Baranowski! It seemed his only way of escape. He robbed me of my honor; he gave me in exchange his protection and his fidelity. But he robbed me of something still more sacred without giving an equivalent.

He stole my faith, and gave me in its place--some drops of water from the hand of a swindler! This crime could not seem to him as grave as the first, and he feared I might be suspicious. But can that excuse him? May a man rob another of his most precious possession in order to hide another crime? And it might have been so different. Had he known how blindly I trusted him, the most stupid excuse as to baptism would have sufficed, and this mockery might have been avoided. But of that he had no thought. Has a Jewess a soul? does she need a creed? And when I told him I did, and he saw that, shut out in overwhelming darkness, I was perishing for warmth and light, his only sensation was annoyance because he was reminded of his crime."

"Suppose he had felt otherwise, what could he have done? Ought he to have had you baptized afterwards, or converted to his faith without this formality? Would this have been a lesser offence?"

"As I view it, yes! If I were a Catholic I should think of it as a terrible misfortune, but his guilt would not be so great. Furthermore: when I heard of my father's death, and I looked upon myself as a murderess, when I writhed in anguish, I implored the man I loved to allow me to bewail my father's death in the way of our people, and to tell me the truth that I might not go mad, he lied! Have you an excuse for that?"

"No excuse, but an expiation. I suppose Miriam has told you what the count is prepared to do. He had hardly heard of your arrival when he came here to take his wife and child home. How white you are! Has this been kept from you?"

The blood had left her cheeks and her head sank back on the chair. "It is nothing," she murmured, as he anxiously felt her pulse. She breathed with difficulty. "Miriam told me, but I interpreted it otherwise."

"And what will you do, now that you know the real interpretation? The very hour you become a Christian, the count is ready to marry you. That is the message I bring you."

She lay back, her eyes shut, her mouth quivering, panting for breath.

He rose. "You are unprepared. I will come for the answer to-morrow."

She was silent. But as he looked at her he saw her face grow more fixed and set. Two large tears forced their way from under the closed eyelids and rolled down her cheeks, but her brows contracted, and she made reply by a shake of the head.

"What is it? Do you decline?"

"What else can I do? It is as if he would bring the dead to life. When I thought of the happiness it might have brought, had it been a voluntary action, tears came to my eyes. But when he does it from fear of the law--"

"Have a talk with him and see how sincere is his repentance. Think, too, of your child, and you cannot say no. Is your boy to go through the world as heir of the Baranowskis or as a b.a.s.t.a.r.d? Pardon me, but that must be considered."

She seemed to have forgotten that, for involuntarily her glance turned towards the cradle of her baby. Again tears filled her eyes.

"I will not torture you more," said the doctor, taking up his hat; "but ask your conscience and then decide. I will come again to-morrow." And he left the room.

"I believe you will have your 'yes' to-morrow," said the doctor to the count, as he reported the conversation, "and, both of you being young, all will yet end well."

Agenor looked down moodily.

"I hope you are not mistaken in thinking her love for her child outweighs her hatred for me."

"I am sure of it. She is a Jewess, and what is there a Jewess would not do for her child? It is upon that I place my hope. For those things which would influence a meaner nature, such as prudence, personal advantage, rank, she will not for a moment take into consideration; and if she did, they would not move her."

The doctor was much surprised when Miriam appeared the next morning, saying Judith begged he should not call, as, since she was allowed to go out, she was going to her father's grave.

"That will excite her too much," he said. "Say I beg her to postpone it for some days."

"She will not hear of it; nor do I think it will hurt her. It will injure her more if she wishes to go and is not allowed. If I had yielded to her entreaties I should have taken her there in a carriage long ago. She will not be kept back to-day. She did not sleep last night for excitement. I believe," said the old woman, as calmly as if she spoke of visiting some living friend--"I believe she has something to say to her father!"

The doctor entered Judith's room next day with anxious forebodings, which were not diminished when he saw her face. It wore an expression of gloomy calm, which had become habitual during her convalescence.

"That is not the face of one who wishes for reconciliation," he thought, and he had scarcely taken his seat before she began:

"I cannot do it, doctor. I must say no."

"And your boy--have you considered that also!"

"That also. No doubt it would be better for him. It is a sad misfortune to have been born a Jew, and I am leaving him a heritage worse than that even, one which rarely falls to a Jewish child--the shame of birth. But whatever a mother may do to better the status of her child, one thing she must not do--become a criminal. And if I were baptized to-day, it would be a crime against G.o.d."

He was astonished. "I did not expect that. Once you were willing, and it was not your fault that it was not done."

"What did I know of G.o.d then? What does any young, happy, innocent thing know of him? And I was so happy. I believed in him, of course; and although I should have preferred to be a Christian, yet I was fairly contented with my creed, and when I wished for anything in addition to my abundance, I prayed for it. My faith was a cloak, and why should I not change it, especially as my lover wished it? It was hard for me only because it parted me from my relations. But they provided me with no new cloak; and when I felt guilty and miserable, then I found what faith was. It was no cloak, but one's very soul. I know what you are going to say," she continued, impatiently; "I have heard it often enough. We have all one Father in heaven! I believed that, too, and when I was in the deepest misery it was a consolation to hope it. But now when I consider my fate and that of those about me, I do not believe it. Why should we have suffered so much for our creed, if it were unnecessary? Is he indifferent as to whether we hold to our Jewish faith or not? Why were we born Jews? No, he must know his own wishes. Our blood, our tears, do not flow in vain, else he would not be the all-merciful, the all-just. Therefore I yield to his will in this, and will not burden my soul with fresh guilt. I have enough to answer for already."