As she stood before him, her glowing, face drooping over her heaving bosom, he lost what little self-possession he had, and his conscience was deadened by the rushing of blood in his ears. He pressed her to him, covering head, face, and clothes with kisses, till after a few minutes she tore herself away.

"I have tolerated it," she said, breathlessly, "because it is the last time before your formal proposal. Farewell!"

"May I not accompany you?" he begged, endeavoring to pa.s.s his arm about her shoulders.

She shook her head in silence, and hurried away. Once again she looked back. He stood as she had left him, gazing after her with ravening eyes. She waved her handkerchief, and hastened on. As she pa.s.sed into the street which led through the town to her home, she hesitated. It seemed impossible to go along under everybody's eyes; it seemed as if every one must see the kisses that still burned on her cheeks. She slipped into a foot-path that led along in the rear of the houses, sat down on a bench, and gave full vent to the tears that rained down her face. This soothed her, and she went on her way, entering the house by the back door.

Her father's carriage was standing in the court-yard, so he had probably returned. The old servant, who had carried her in her arms, met her in the hall. Poor old Sarah was very white, and trembled in every limb. "There you are at last!" she almost screamed, wringing her hands. "O G.o.d! merciful G.o.d! why did you let me live to see this come to pa.s.s?"

Judith, too, grew white as the wall, against which she leaned. But the weakness pa.s.sed away in a moment, and she asked: "Where is my father?"

"In the reception-room. But you cannot see him yet. The burgomaster is there, and is telling him the whole story. I have just heard it from the magistrate's cook. Oh! child, what--"

"You will let me know when he is alone," interrupted Judith; and she went to her room.

She had to wait a long time; in her present state of mind it was an intolerably long time. For the burgomaster was a good old simpleton, so he thought it expedient to tell Nathaniel what all the town knew; and he was also a gifted orator. Therefore, he began with a discourse on friendship, followed by another on the corrupt morals of recent times, until finally the poor old father discovered the drift of the whole. It was ghastly to see him sitting in his arm-chair, pale as death, and motionless, except when he occasionally pa.s.sed his hand over his silvery beard.

"Thanks," he said, when the speaker had at last ended. His voice was hoa.r.s.e, but otherwise he spoke slowly and deliberately as usual. "You have intended for the best. But now for the chief point. Did your wife herself see that kiss in the garden?"

"No, Frau von Wroblewski."

"And you only tell me that now?" cried Trachtenberg, almost gayly. He really succeeded in forcing a laugh. "A reliable witness! That quiets me. I was never in much doubt, for I know my child. I can willingly believe she went for a walk in the park; that she met the count, who accosted her politely, and received a polite answer. The rest is a lie.

I, as her father, am sure of that."

"Well, if you, Pani Trachtenberg--"

"Yes; I, her father! Please repeat this to everyone who cares to hear it."

He accompanied his astounded guest to the door, and then returned to his arm-chair. There he sank down and buried his face in his hands, where he lay motionless, not hearing, in his wild grief, the gentle, hesitating step which came into the room. It was only when Judith dared to touch his hand that he was aroused.

"Father," she said, with faltering voice. "Do not be angry with me. I know it was another happiness you had planned for me, but I did not choose this myself. It came upon me unawares."

"Silence!" he yelled, flinging her hand from off his. His wrath at her daring to speak to him almost robbed him of consciousness. "Happiness!"

he repeated. "What rubbish are you talking?"

"My happiness," she answered, gently but firmly. "For I love him, and he will make me his wife."

The old man jumped up suddenly. His eyes became rigid and seemed standing out of their sockets; his lips quivered, and he held out his hands as if to defend himself. "A--ah!" he groaned. The next instant he had caught her by both hands, and dragged her to the window into the full light. His eyes sought hers and held them fast, his gaze sinking deeper and deeper into hers. He breathed with difficulty; there was a gurgling in his throat, but no words came in this anguish of soul. The question to which he demanded an answer lay in his glazed and terrified eyes.

She bore the stare, the color mounting higher and higher in her pale face, until neck and brow were suffused with a vivid purple; but her eyelids never drooped. She understood the silent question conveyed by the horror in his eyes, and she answered it in the same silent manner.

He drew a deep, deep breath, and let her hands fall. "Tell me," he commanded, abruptly.

She hesitated.

"Have I not the right?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, perhaps, but I am not sure. Father, I do not know myself how it has come about. I did not wish it, but I was forced into it, and perhaps it was the same with him. But his intentions are honorable."

"We will hear of that later. Go on."

She told, at first in confused, indistinct words, how she had met his eyes at the entrance into the town, and what a tumult of emotions his conduct had awakened in her the evening of the ball. But as she pa.s.sed on to the conversation after Wiliszenski's reading, she overcame her fears, and she told everything as she knew it--the whole truth.

He stood with his forehead pressed against the window, and listened quietly, interrupting her but once. As she was telling him of other meetings at Wroblewski's house, he asked suddenly: "And you did not observe you were always alone?"

"No, I supposed it was a--"

"A coincidence!" he said, mockingly, shaking his clenched fist at the ceiling. "But go on."

He sank down in his arm-chair again, while she sat by him, and finished her story, not even suppressing the conversation of that day.

"Father," she concluded, piteously, "I have never forgotten, and never can forget, how much I grieve you and Raphael. Therefore I can never be fully happy. But you are clever and good, and must see that I cannot help it." She knelt at his feet and clasped his knees. "Father, don't be angry with me!"

He sat still for a long time without moving. Then he felt gently for her hands, and loosed them from his knees, rose, and, going to the window, looked into the street over which the twilight of a late autumn day was sinking. Now and then he muttered to himself: "And I, fool that I am, often bewailed your early death! It was good for you!" Then he said aloud: "Your mother--" Then he stopped again.

He stood in that att.i.tude, and it grew darker and darker in the room.

Finally he pulled himself together, lit the candles on the table, and went to his child, who was still on her knees, her head resting against the chair.

"Stand up!" he ordered, going up close to her.

She obeyed. She attempted to look him in the eye, but could not, she was so shocked to see how suddenly old his face had grown. But his voice no longer quavered.

"It is a heavy misfortune," he said. "I thank G.o.d with all my heart that he has not utterly undone us; but what he has sent is fearful enough. I am not blaming you. You ought not to have had any secrets from me; but you are so young, and he is handsome and a count. If I accuse you, I ought also to accuse myself. I ought to have considered the character of the people I was sending you among, and how their influence would affect you. I ought to have been more clever, as clever as my poor boy, whose heart would break if he knew of this. But he shall never know it--never!"

She made a motion as if to speak.

"Never!" he repeated. "Listen, Judith! I know that madness blinds your eyes to-day, and deafens your ears. You will not understand what I am going to tell you. The wall here would comprehend it better. But you ought to feel that it is your father who thinks so, who loves you more than his own life, and who will not change his opinion. You are never to see or speak to the people up-stairs or to the count. You are to remain in your own room, and not to leave it without my orders. It would be best for me to have the horses harnessed and take you to the house from which I just came--my sister Recha's, in Tarnopol. She is a clever woman, your aunt Recha, and understands the management of sick people. But that will not be possible before the close of the week.

Otherwise, this story would spread the more."

"Father," she implored, "do not ruin me!"

"Others wished to do that, and were in the best way to accomplish their purpose; but I, your father, will save you. Whether the count is a scoundrel, who is calculating on it in cold blood, and has hired that other scoundrel up-stairs to help him, or whether he is only a weak man, who, in the turmoil of pa.s.sion, has tolerated the a.s.sistance of the wretch, I do not know; but it is all the same, as in either case your fate would have been a fearful one."

"Do not insult him!" she cried. "He is good and true! Ask him, if you doubt it, or listen to him when he comes to ask for my hand."

"I can safely promise that," he replied, bitterly; "for he will not come. And I shall certainly not ask him, because I already know the answer, and will not have it said of me: 'The old man lost his senses in despair, and actually implored the count to make the lost girl his wife.'"

"But if he should come?"

"Then I should say, 'No! no! no!' as long as there was breath in my body, in order to save you from unhappiness. For fire and water will not mix quietly, and a woman who is a curse to her husband is the most wretched creature on earth. If Count Agenor Baranowski was really insane enough to marry my daughter, he would be morally dead. There would be a three months' delirium, and then a life of misery, and you deserve a better fate. Not another word," he continued, imperiously, as she was about to speak. "You have had to hear my will to-day, though as yet you cannot understand me."

She stepped forward and raised her hands imploringly. He silently shook his head. Her arms fell, and she staggered from the room, her entire body quivering with emotion. He looked after her sadly, and even after the door closed his eyes were fixed in that direction.

So the old servant found him. She brought the letters that had acc.u.mulated during his absence, and asked if he wanted his supper. He declined it, and tried to read the letters. It was impossible. Only one interested him. It was from Bergheimer's old pupil, Berthold Wertheimer, in Breslau, who informed him, in well-measured sentences, that he was pa.s.sing through Galicia on business, and would give himself the pleasure of calling upon him.

"That is done for, too," sighed the old man, painfully. "I shall consider myself happy if the poor child is cured in a year or two."

Brooding over these troubles, he failed to hear a knock at the door, and only looked up when the visitor stood before him. It was Herr von Wroblewski. With a sorrowful air, he reached out his hand. "Pani Nathaniel," he said, softly, "I have heard you are in trouble and sorrow. The faithful friend should not be missing."