CHAPTER XIV
Father Jerome had been very mild with Nina, but his mildness did notproduce any corresponding feelings of gentleness in the breasts ofNina's relatives in the Windberg-gasse. Indeed, it had the contraryeffect of instigating Madame Zamenoy and Lotta Luxa to new exertions.Nina, in her triumph, could not restrain herself from telling Soucheythat Father Jerome did not by any means think so badly of her as didthe others; and Souchey, partly in defence of Nina, and partly inquest of further sound information on the knotty religious difficultyinvolved, repeated it all to Lotta. Among them they succeeded incutting Souchey's ground from under him as far as any defence of Ninawas concerned, and they succeeded also in solving his religious doubts.Poor Souchey was at last convinced that the best service he couldtender to his mistress was to save her from marrying the Jew, let themeans by which this was to be done be, almost, what they might.
As the result of this teaching, Souchey went late one afternoon tothe Jews' quarter. He did not go thither direct from the house in theKleinseite, but from Madame Zamenoy's abode, where he had again dinedpreviously in Lotta's presence. Madame Zamenoy herself had condescendedto enlighten his mind on the subject of Nina's peril, and had gone sofar as to invite him to hear a few words on the subject from a prieston that side of the water. Souchey had only heard Nina's report of whatFather Jerome had said, but he was listening with his own ears whilethe other priest declared his opinion that things would go very badlywith any Christian girl who might marry a Jew. This sufficed for him;and then--having been so far enlightened by Madame Zamenoy herself--heaccepted a little commission, which took him to the Jew's house. Lottahad had much difficulty in arranging this; for Souchey was not opento a bribe in the matter, and on that account was able to press hislegitimate suit very closely. Before he would start on his errand tothe Jew, Lotta was almost obliged to promise that she would yield.
It was late in the afternoon when he got to Trendellsohn's house. Hehad never been there before, though he well knew the exact spot onwhich it stood, and had often looked up at the windows, regarding theplace with unpleasant suspicions; for he knew that Trendellsohn wasnow the owner of the property that had once been his master's, and, ofcourse, as a good Christian, he believed that the Jew had obtainedBalatka's money by robbery and fraud. He hesitated a moment before hepresented himself at the door, having some fear at his heart. He knewthat he was doing right, but these Jews in their own quarter wereuncanny, and might be dangerous! To Anton Trendellsohn, over in theKleinseite, Souchey could be independent, and perhaps on occasions alittle insolent; but of Anton Trendellsohn in his own domains he almostacknowledged to himself that he was afraid. Lotta had told him that, ifAnton were not at home, his commission could be done as well with theold man; and as he at last made his way round the synagogue to thehouse door, he determined that he would ask for the elder Jew. Thatwhich he had to say, he thought, might be said easier to the fatherthan to the son.
The door of the house stood open, and Souchey, who, in his confusion,missed the bell, entered the passage. The little oil-lamp still hungthere, giving a mysterious glimmer of light, which he did not at allenjoy. He walked on very slowly, trying to get courage to call, when,of a sudden, he perceived that there was a figure of a man standingclose to him in the gloom. He gave a little start, barely suppressing ascream, and then perceived that the man was Anton Trendellsohn himself.Anton, hearing steps in the passage, had come out from the room on theground-floor, and had seen Souchey before Souchey had seen him.
"You have come from Josef Balatka's," said the Jew. "How is the oldman?"
Souchey took off his cap and bowed, and muttered something as to hishaving come upon an errand. "And my master is something better to-day,"he said, "thanks be to God for all His mercies!"
"Amen," said the Jew.
"But it will only last a day or two; no more than that," said Souchey."He has had the doctor and the priest, and they both say that it is allover with him for this world."
"And Nina--you have brought some message probably from her?"
"No--no indeed; that is, not exactly; not to-day, Herr Trendellsohn.The truth is, I had wished to speak a word or two to you about themaiden; but perhaps you are engaged--perhaps another time would bebetter."
"I am not engaged, and no other time could be better."
They were still out in the passage, and Souchey hesitated. That whichhe had to say it would behove him to whisper into the closest privacyof the Jew's ear--into the ear of the old Jew or of the young. "It issomething very particular," said Souchey.
"Very particular--is it?" said the Jew.
"Very particular indeed." said Souchey. Then Anton Trendellsohn ledthe way back into the dark room on the ground-floor from whence he hadcome, and invited Souchey to follow him. The shutters were up, and theplace was seldom used. There was a counter running through it, and across-counter, such as are very common when seen by the light of dayin shops; but the place seemed to be mysterious to Souchey; and alwaysafterwards, when he thought of this interview, he remembered that histale had been told in the gloom of a chamber that had never beenarranged for honest Christian purposes.
"And now, what is it you have to tell me?" said the Jew.
After some fashion Souchey told his tale, and the Jew listened to himwithout a word of interruption. More than once Souchey had paused,hoping that the Jew would say something; but not a sound had fallenfrom Trendellsohn till Souchey's tale was done.
"And it is so--is it?" said the Jew when Souchey ceased to speak. Therewas nothing in his voice which seemed to indicate either sorrow or joy,or even surprise.
"Yes, it is so," said Souchey.
"And how much am I to pay you for the information?" the Jew asked.
"You are to pay me nothing," said Souchey.
"What! you betray your mistress gratis?"
"I do not betray her," said Souchey. "I love her and the old man too.I have been with them through fair weather and through foul. I havenot betrayed her."
"Then why have you come to me with this story?"
The whole truth was almost on Souchey's tongue. He had almost said thathis sole object was to save his mistress from the disgrace of marryinga Jew. But he checked himself, then paused a moment, and then left theroom and the house abruptly. He had done his commission, and the fewerwords which he might have with the Jew after that the better.
On the following morning Nina was seated by her father's bedside, whenher quick ear caught through the open door the sound of a footstep inthe hall below. She looked for a moment at the old man, and saw that ifnot sleeping he appeared to sleep. She leaned over him for a moment,gave one gentle touch with her hand to the bed-clothes, then crept outinto the parlour, and closed behind her the door of the bed-room. Whenin the middle of the outer chamber she listened again, and there wasclearly a step on the stairs. She listened again, and she knew that thestep was the step of her lover. He had come to her at last, then. Now,at this moment, she lost all remembrance of her need of forgiving him.Forgiving him! What could there be to be forgiven to one who could makeher so happy as she felt herself to be at this moment? She opened thedoor of the room just as he had raised his hand to knock, and threwherself into his arms. "Anton, dearest, you have come at last. But Iam not going to scold. I am so glad that you have come, my own one!"
While she was yet speaking, he brought her back into the room,supporting her with his arm round her waist; and when the door wasclosed he stood over her still holding her up, and looking down intoher face, which was turned up to his. "Why do you not speak to me,Anton?" she said. But she smiled as she spoke, and there was nothingof fear in the tone of her voice, for his look was kind, and there waslove in his eyes.
He stooped down over her, and fastened his lips upon her forehead. Shepressed herself closer against his shoulder, and shutting her eyes, asshe gave herself up to the rapture of his embrace, told herself thatnow all should be well with them.
"Dear Nina," he said.
"Dearest, dea
rest Anton," she replied.
And then he asked after her father; and the two sat together for awhile, with their knees almost touching, talking in whispers as to thecondition of the old man. And they were still so sitting, and still sotalking, when Nina rose from her chair, and put up her forefinger witha slight motion for silence, and a pretty look of mutual interest--asthough Anton were already one of the same family; and, touching hishair lightly with her hand as she passed him, that he might feel howdelighted she was to be able so to touch him, she went back to the doorof the bedroom on tiptoe, and, lifting the latch without a sound, putin her head and listened. But the sick man had not stirred. His facewas still turned from her, as though he slept, and then, again closingthe door, she came back to her lover.
"He is quite quiet," she said, whispering.
"Does he suffer?"
"I think not; he never complains. When he is awake he will sit with myhand within his own, and now and again there is a little pressure."
"And he says nothing?"
"Very little; hardly a word now and then. When he does speak, it is ofhis food."
"He can eat, then?"
"A morsel of jelly, or a little soup. But, Anton, I must tell you--Itell you everything, you know--where do you think the things that hetakes have come from? But perhaps you know."
"Indeed I do not."
"They were sent to me by Rebecca Loth."
"By Rebecca!"
"Yes; by your friend Rebecca. She must be a good girl."
"She is a good girl, Nina."
"And you shall know everything; see--she sent me these," and Ninashowed her shoes; "and the very stockings I have on; I am not ashamedthat you should know."
"Your want, then, has been so great as that?"
"Father has been very poor. How should he not be poor when nothing isearned? And she came here, and she saw it."
"She sent you these things?"
"Yes, Ruth came with them; there was a great basket with nourishingfood for father. It was very kind of her. But, Anton, Rebecca says thatI ought not to marry you, because of our religion. She says all theJews in Prague will become your enemies."
"We will not stay in Prague; we will go elsewhere. There are othercities besides Prague."
"Where nobody will know us?"
"Where we will not be ashamed to be known."
"I told Rebecca that I would give you back all your promises, if youwished me to do so."
"I do not wish it. I will not give you back your promises, Nina."
The enraptured girl again clung to him. "My own one," she said, "mydarling, my husband; when you speak to me like that, there is no girlin Bohemia so happy as I am. Hush! I thought it was father. But no;there is no sound. I do not mind what anyone says to me, as long as youare kind."
She was now sitting on his knee, and his arm was round her waist, andshe was resting her head against his brow; he had asked for no pardon,but all the past was entirely forgiven; why should she even think of itagain? Some such thought was passing through her mind, when he spoke aword, and it seemed as though a dagger had gone into her heart. "Aboutthat paper, Nina?" Accursed document, that it should be brought againbetween them to dash the cup of joy from her lips at such a moment asthis! She disengaged herself from his embrace, almost with a leap."Well! what about the paper?" she said.
"Simply this, that I would wish to know where it is."
"And you think I have it?"
"No; I do not think so; I am perplexed about it, hardly knowing what tobelieve; but I do not think you have it; I think that you know nothingof it."
"Then why do you mention it again, reminding me of the cruel wordswhich you spoke before?"
"Because it is necessary for both our sakes. I will tell you plainlyjust what I have heard: your servant Souchey has been with me, and hesays that you have it."
"Souchey!"
"Yes; Souchey. It seemed strange enough to me, for I had always thoughthim to be your friend."
"Souchey has told you that I have got it?"
"He says that it is in that desk," and the Jew pointed to the olddepository of all the treasures which Nina possessed.
"He is a liar."
"I think he is so, though I cannot tell why he should have so lied; butI think he is a liar; I do not believe that it is there; but in such amatter it is well that the fact should be put beyond all dispute. Youwill not object to my looking into the desk?" He had come there with afixed resolve that he would demand to search among her papers. It wasvery unpleasant to him, and he knew that his doing so would be painfulto her; but he told himself that it would be best for them both that heshould persevere.
"Will you open it, or shall I?" he said; and as he spoke, she lookedinto his face, and saw that all tenderness and love were banished fromit, and that the hard suspicious greed of the Jew was there instead.
"I will not unlock it," she said; "there is the key, and you can do asyou please." Then she flung the key upon the table, and stood with herback up against the wall, at some ten paces distant from the spot wherethe desk stood. He took up the key, and placed it remorselessly in thelock, and opened the desk, and brought all the papers forth on to thetable which stood in the middle of the room.
"Are all my letters to be read?" she asked.
"Nothing is to be read," he said.
"Not that I should mind it; or at least I should have cared but littleten minutes since. There are words there may make you think I have beena fool, but a fool only too faithful to you."
He made no answer to this, but moved the papers one by one carefullytill he came to a folded document larger than the others. Why dwellupon it? Of course it was the deed for which he was searching. Nina,when from her station by the wall she saw that there was something inher lover's hands of which she had no knowledge--something which hadbeen in her own desk without her privity--came forward a step or two,looking with all her eyes. But she did not speak till he had spoken;nor did he speak at once. He slowly unfolded the document, and perusedthe heading of it; then he refolded it, and placed it on the table, andstood there with his hand upon it.
"This," said he, "is the paper for which I am looking. Souchey, at anyrate, is not a liar.
"How came it there?" said Nina, almost screaming in her agony.
"That I know not; but Souchey is not a liar; nor were your aunt and herservant liars in telling me that I should find it in your hands."
"Anton," she said, "as the Lord made me, I knew not of it;" and shefell on her knees before his feet.
He looked down upon her, scanning every feature of her face and everygesture of her body with hard inquiring eyes. He did not stoop to raiseher, nor, at the moment, did he say a word to comfort her. "And youthink that I stole it and put it there?" she said. She did not quailbefore his eyes, but seemed, though kneeling before him, to look upat him as though she would defy him. When first she had sunk upon theground, she had been weak, and wanted pardon though she was ignorantof all offence; but his hardness, as he stood with his eyes fixed uponher, had hardened her, and all her intellect, though not her heart,was in revolt against him. "You think that I have robbed you?"
"I do not know what to think," he said.
Then she rose slowly to her feet, and, collecting the papers which hehad strewed upon the table, put them back slowly into the desk, andlocked it.
"You have done with this now," she said, holding the key in her hand.
"Yes; I do not want the key again."
"And you have done with me also?"
He paused a moment or two to collect his thoughts, and then he answeredher. "Nina, I would wish to think about this before I speak of it morefully. What step I may next take I cannot say without considering itmuch. I would not wish to pain you if I could help it."
"Tell me at once what it is that you believe of me?"
"I cannot tell you at once. Rebecca Loth is friendly to you, and I willsend her to you to-morrow."
"I will not see Rebecca Loth," said Nina. "Hush! there
is father'svoice. Anton, I have nothing more to say to you--nothing--nothing."Then she left him, and went into her father's room.
For some minutes she was busy by her father's bed, and went about herwork with a determined alacrity, as though she would wipe out of hermind altogether, for the moment, any thought about her love and the Jewand the document that had been found in her desk; and for a while shewas successful, with a consciousness, indeed, that she was under thepressure of a terrible calamity which must destroy her, but still withan outward presence of mind that supported her in her work. And herfather spoke to her, saying more to her than he had done for days past,thanking her for her care, patting her hand with his, caressing her,and bidding her still be of good cheer, as God would certainly be goodto one who had been so excellent a daughter. "But I wish, Nina, he werenot a Jew," he said suddenly.
"Dear father, we will not talk of that now."
"And he is a stern man, Nina."
But on this subject she would speak no further, and therefore she leftthe bedside for a moment, and offered him a cup, from which he drank.When he had tasted it he forgot the matter that had been in his mind,and said no further word as to Nina's engagement.
As soon as she had taken the cup from her father's hand, she returnedto the parlour. It might be that Anton was still there. She had lefthim in the room, and had shut her ears against the sound of his steps,as though she were resolved that she would care nothing ever again forhis coming or going. He was gone, however, and the room was empty, andshe sat down in solitude, with her back against the wall, and began torealise her position. He had told her that others accused her, but thathe had not suspected her. He had not suspected her, but he had thoughtit necessary to search, and had found in her possession that which hadmade her guilty in his eyes!
She would never see him again--never willingly. It was not only that hewould never forgive her, but that she could never now be brought toforgive him. He had stabbed her while her words of love were warmest inhis ear. His foul suspicions had been present to his mind even whileshe was caressing him. He had never known what it was to give himselfup really to his love for one moment. While she was seated on his knee,with her head pressed against his, his intellect had been busy with thekey and the desk, as though he were a policeman looking for a thief,rather than a lover happy in the endearments of his mistress. Her vividmind pictured all this to her, filling her full with every incident ofthe insult she had endured. No. There must be an end of it now. If shecould see her aunt that moment, or Lotta, or even Ziska, she would tellthem that it should be so. She would say nothing to Anton--no, not aword again, though both might live for an eternity; but she would writea line to Rebecca Loth, and tell the Jewess that the Jew was now freeto marry whom he would among his own people. And some of the words thatshe thought would be fitting for such a letter occurred to her as shesat there. "I know now that a Jew and a Christian ought not to loveeach other as we loved. Their hearts are different." That was herpresent purpose, but, as will be seen, she changed it afterwards.
But ever and again as she strengthened her resolution, her thoughtswould run from her, carrying her back to the sweet rapture of somemoment in which the man had been gracious to her; and even while shewas struggling to teach herself to hate him, she would lean her head onone side, as though by doing so she might once more touch his brow withhers; and unconsciously she would put out her fingers, as though theymight find their way into his hand. And then she would draw them backwith a shudder, as though recoiling from the touch of an adder.
Hours had passed over her before she began to think whence had come thepaper which Trendellsohn had found in her desk; and then, when the ideaof some fraud presented itself to her, that part of the subject didnot seem to her to be of great moment. It mattered but little who hadbetrayed her. It might be Rebecca, or Souchey, or Ruth, or Lotta, orall of them together. His love, his knowledge of her whom he loved,should have carried him aloft out of the reach of any such poor trickas that! What mattered it now who had stolen her key, and gone likea thief to her desk, and laid this plot for her destruction? That heshould have been capable of being deceived by such a plot against herwas enough for her. She did not even speak to Souchey on the subject.In the course of the afternoon he came across her as she moved aboutthe house, looking ashamed, not daring to meet her eyes, hardly ableto mutter a word to her. But she said not a syllable to him about herdesk. She could not bring herself to plead the cause between her andher lover before her father's servant.
The greater part of the day she passed by her father's bedside, butwhenever she could escape from the room, she seated herself in thechair against the wall, endeavouring to make up her mind as to thefuture. But there was much more of passion than of thought within herbreast. Never, never, never would she forgive him! Never again wouldshe sit on his knee caressing him. Never again would she even speak tohim. Nothing would she take from his hand, or from the hands of hisfriends! Nor would she ever stoop to take aught from her aunt, orfrom Ziska. They had triumphed over her. She knew not how. They hadtriumphed over her, but the triumph should be very bitter to them--very bitter, if there was any touch of humanity left among them.
Later in the day there came to be something of motion in the house. Herfather was worse in health, was going fast, and the doctor was againthere. And in these moments Souchey was with her, busy in the dyingman's room; and there were gentle kind words spoken between him andNina--as would be natural between such persons at such a time. He knewthat he had been a traitor, and the thought of his treachery was heavyat his heart; but he perceived that no immediate punishment was to comeupon him, and it was some solace to him that he could be sedulous andgentle and tender. And Nina, though she knew that the man had given hisaid in destroying her, bore with him not only without a hard word, butalmost without a severe thought. What did it matter what such a one asSouchey could do?
In the middle watches of that night the old man died, and Nina wasalone in the world. Souchey, indeed, was with her in the house, andtook from her all painful charge of the bed at which now her care couldno longer be of use. And early in the morning, while it was yet dark,Lotta came down, and spoke words to her, of which she rememberednothing. And then she knew that her aunt Sophie was there, and thatsome offers were made to her at which she only shook her head. "Ofcourse you will come up to us," aunt Sophie said. And she made manymore suggestions, in answer to all of which Nina only shook her head.Then her aunt and Nina, with Lotta's aid, fixed upon some plan--Ninahardly knew what--as to the morrow. She did not care to know what itwas that they fixed. They were going to leave her alone for this day,and the day would be very long. She told herself that it would be longenough for her.
The day was very long. When her aunt had left her she saw no one butSouchey and an old woman who was busy in the bedroom which was nowclosed. She had stood at the foot of the bed with her aunt, but afterthat she did not return to the chamber. It was not only her father who,for her, was now lying dead. She had loved her father well, but with alove infinitely greater she had loved another; and that other one wasnow dead to her also. What was there left to her in the world? Thecharity of her aunt, and Lotta's triumph, and Ziska's love? No indeed!She would bear neither the charity, nor the triumph, nor the love. Oneother visitor came to the house that day. It was Rebecca Loth. But Ninarefused to see Rebecca. "Tell her," she said to Souchey, "that I cannotsee a stranger while my father is lying dead." How often did the ideaoccur to her, throughout the terrible length of that day, that "he"might come to her? But he came not. "So much the better," she said toherself. "Were he to come, I would not see him."
Late in the evening, when the little lamp in the room had been alreadyburning for some hour or two, she called Souchey to her. "Take thisnote," she said, "to Anton Trendellsohn."
"What! to-night?" said Souchey, trembling.
"Yes, to-night. It is right that he should know that the house is nowhis own, to do what he will with it."
Then Souchey took the note
, which was as follows:
My father is dead, and the house will be empty to-morrow. You may come and take your property without fear that you will be troubled by NINA BALATKA.