CHAPTER XVI
Early in the following year, while the ground was yet bound with frost,and the great plains of Bohemia were still covered with snow, a Jew andhis wife took their leave of Prague, and started for one of the greatcities of the west. They carried with them but little of the outwardsigns of wealth, and but few of those appurtenances of comfort whichgenerally fall to the lot of brides among the rich; the man, however,was well to do in the world, and was one who was not likely to bringhis wife to want. It need hardly be said that Anton Trendellsohn wasthe man, and that Nina Balatka was his wife.
On the eve of their departure, Nina and her friend the Jewess had saidfarewell to each other. "You will write to me from Frankfort?" saidRebecca.
"Indeed I will," said Nina; "and you, you will write to me often, veryoften?"
"As often as you will wish it."
"I shall wish it always," said Nina; "and you can write; you are clever.You know how to make your words say what there is in your heart."
"But you have been able to make your face more eloquent than anywords."
"Rebecca, dear Rebecca! Why was it that he did not love such a one asyou rather than me? You are more beautiful."
"But he at least has not thought so."
"And you are so clever and so good; and you could have given him helpwhich I never can give him."
"He does not want help. He wants to have by his side a sweet softnature that can refresh him by its contrast to his own. He has doneright to love you, and to make you his wife; only, I could wish thatyou were as we are in religion." To this Nina made no answer. She couldnot promise that she would change her religion, but she thought thatshe would endeavour to do so. She would do so if the saints would lether. "I am glad you are going away, Nina," continued Rebecca. "It willbe better for him and better for you."
"Yes, it will be better."
"And it will be better for me also." Then Nina threw herself onRebecca's neck and wept. She could say nothing in words in answer tothat last assertion. If Rebecca really loved the man who was now thehusband of another, of course it would be better that they should beapart. But Nina, who knew herself to be weak, could not understand thatRebecca, who was so strong, should have loved as she had loved.
"If you have daughters," said Rebecca, "and if he will let you name oneof them after me, I shall be glad." Nina swore that if God gave hersuch a treasure as a daughter, that child should be named after thefriend who had been so good to her.
There were also a few words of parting between Anton Trendellsohn andthe girl who had been brought up to believe that she was to be hiswife; but though there was friendship in them, there was not much oftenderness. "I hope you will prosper where you are going," saidRebecca, as she gave the man her hand.
"I do not fear but that I shall prosper, Rebecca."
"No; you will become rich, and perhaps great--as great, that is, as weJews can make ourselves."
"I hope you will live to hear that the Jews are not crushed elsewhereas they are here in Prague."
"But, Anton, you will not cease to love the old city where your fathersand friends have lived so long?"
"I will never cease to love those, at least, whom I leave behind me.Farewell, Rebecca;" and he attempted to draw her to him as thoughhe would kiss her. But she withdrew from him, very quietly, with nomark of anger, with no ostentation of refusal. "Farewell," she said."Perhaps we shall see each other after many years."
Trendellsohn, as he sat beside his young wife in the post-carriagewhich took them out of the city, was silent till he had come nearly tothe outskirts of the town; and then he spoke. "Nina," he said, "I amleaving behind me, and for ever, much that I love well."
"And it is for my sake," she said. "I feel it daily, hourly. It makesme almost wish that you had not loved me."
"But I take with me that which I love infinitely better than all thatPrague contains. I will not, therefore, allow myself a regret. Though Ishould never see the old city again, I will always look upon my goingas a good thing done." Nina could only answer him by caressing hishand, and by making internal oaths that her very best should be done inevery moment of her life to make him contented with the lot he hadchosen.
There remains very little of the tale to be told--nothing, indeed, ofNina's tale--and very little to be explained. Nina slept in peace atRebecca's house that night on which she had been rescued from deathupon the bridge--or, more probably, lay awake anxiously thinking whatmight yet be her fate. She had been very near to death--so near thatshe shuddered, even beneath the warmth of the bed-clothes, and with theprotection of her friend so close to her, as she thought of those longdreadful minutes she had passed crouching over the river at the feetof the statue. She had been very near to death, and for a while couldhardly realise the fact of her safety. She knew that she was gladto have been saved; but what might come next was, at that moment,all vague, uncertain, and utterly beyond her own control She hardlyventured to hope more than that Anton Trendellsohn would not give herup to Madame Zamenoy. If he did, she must seek the river again, or someother mode of escape from that worst of fates. But Rebecca had assuredher of Anton's love, and in Rebecca's words she had a certain, though adreamy, faith. The night was long, but she wished it to be longer. Tobe there and to feel that she was warm and safe was almost happinessfor her after the misery she had endured.
On the next day, and for a day or two afterwards, she was feverish andshe did not rise, but Rebecca's mother came to her, and Ruth--and atlast Anton himself. She never could quite remember how those few dayswere passed, or what was said, or how it came to be arranged that shewas to stay for a while in Rebecca's house; that she was to stay therefor a long while--till such time as she should become a wife, andleave it for a house of her own. She never afterwards had any clearconception, though she very often thought of it all, how it came to bea settled thing among the Jews around her, that she was to be Anton'swife, and that Anton was to take her away from Prague. But she knewthat her lover's father had come to her, and that he had been kind,and that there had been no reproach cast upon her for the wickednessshe had attempted. Nor was it till she found herself going to mass allalone on the third Sunday that she remembered that she was still aChristian, and that her lover was still a Jew. "It will not seem sostrange to you when you are away in another place," Rebecca said to herafterwards. "It will be good for both of you that you should be awayfrom Prague."
Nor did Nina hear much of the attempts which the Zamenoys made torescue her from the hands of the Jews. Anton once asked her verygravely whether she was quite certain that she did not wish to seeher aunt. "Indeed, I am," said Nina, becoming pale at the idea ofthe suggested meeting. "Why should I see her? She has always beencruel to me." Then Anton explained to her that Madame Zamenoy had madea formal demand to see her niece, and had even lodged with the police astatement that Nina was being kept in durance in the Jews' quarter; butthe accusation was too manifestly false to receive attention even whenmade against a Jew, and Nina had reached an age which allowed her tochoose her own friends without interposition from the law. "Only," saidAnton, "it is necessary that you should know your own mind."
"I do know it," said Nina, eagerly.
And she saw Madame Zamenoy no more, nor her uncle Karil, nor her cousinZiska. Though she lived in the same city with them for three monthsafter the night on which she had been taken to Rebecca's house, shenever again was brought into contact with her relations. Lotta she oncesaw, when walking in the street with Ruth; and Lotta too saw her, andendeavoured to address her; but Nina fled, to the great delight ofRuth, who ran with her; and Lotta Luxa was left behind at the streetcorner.
I do not know that Nina ever had a more clearly-defined idea of thetrick that Lotta had played upon her, than was conveyed to her by thesight of the deed as it was taken from her desk, and the knowledge thatSouchey had put her lover upon the track. She soon learned that she wasacquitted altogether by Anton, and she did not care for learning more.Of course there had been a trick. Of cour
se there had been deceit. Ofcourse her aunt and Lotta Luxa and Ziska, who was the worst of themall, had had their hands in it! But what did it signify? They hadfailed, and she had been successful. Why need she inquire farther?
But Souchey, who repented himself thoroughly of his treachery, spokehis mind freely to Lotta Luxa. "No," said he, "not if you had ten timesas many florins, and were twice as clever, for you nearly drove me tobe the murderer of my mistress."
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