CHAPTER XIV.

TRUE LOVE.

Through the unlighted streets of Vienna a carriage was slowly making its uncertain way by night. The gas-mains had been wrecked,--that was one of the results of the glorious days of "liberty,"--and only the feeble coach-lamps lighted a path for the equipage.

The carriage halted before the Plankenhorst house, and the coachman stepped down and held the door open while two women alighted, after which he drove into the courtyard, leaving his passengers to make the best of their way up the unlighted stairs. The hostess, coming to meet them with a lamp in her hand, kissed one of her callers, who was evidently a nun, and gave her hand to the other. The latter's hood falling back revealed Edith's bright face.

"Heaven must have guided you hither, Sister Remigia!" exclaimed the baroness, in a guarded tone.

"We had need enough of Heaven's guidance in this fearful darkness," was the reply. "Not a street lamp is lighted in the whole city, and the pavement is torn up in many places."

"Heaven watches over its chosen ones," said Antoinette, leading her guests into the dining-room, where the table was spread in readiness for them, while the water was already boiling in the tea-kettle.

First assuring herself that no one was in the next room, the hostess locked the door, bade her daughter serve the tea, and then drew her chair to Sister Remigia's side. "What word does the general send?" she asked.

"To-morrow is fixed upon for a general attack," replied the sister, in an anxious tone.

"Did you know that things were going badly?" asked Antoinette.

"How so?"

"The insurgents are counting on a secret understanding with a part of the investing forces. Goldner told me the whole plan. Of course I pretended to be very much alarmed as to what would become of us who have played so important a part in the uprising, if the city should be taken. But the good young man bade me have no fear: in case of any mishap, a plan of escape was arranged for those whose lives would be endangered by remaining. He said that between the Mariahilf and Lerchenfeld cemeteries the line of investment was held by a squadron of hussars with whom the Aula had for some time been fraternising, and that it was hoped this squadron would not only offer a free escape to fugitives in case of danger, but would also join in their flight and cover their rear, thus securing them a safe retreat into Galicia or Hungary. The only thing in the way of this plan, it appears, is the obstinacy of the squadron's commander, Captain Richard Baradlay."

"The same who drove the rioters away from the convent?"

"Yes."

"So far as I have learned," said Sister Remigia, "he has not since then associated with the members of the Aula and the popular leaders."

"No," rejoined the baroness, "he has held himself aloof from them and refused to be drawn into their scheme. His men would have yielded, but they stand by their commander: if he bade them fight against their own kith and kin, they would obey him. Lately, however, the rebels have gained a new and unhoped-for ally."

"In whom?"

"In a woman, and a very dangerous one, too. She does not shrink from the boldest and most perilous undertakings. She is the young Baradlays' mother."

"But how, pray, could she have made her way through the investing lines?" asked the sister, in astonishment.

"By a daring stroke that seems hardly credible. Fritz told me all about it. This delicate widow of the late Baron Baradlay procured from an old market-woman in Schwechat, the costume and basket of a vegetable-vender, and then proceeded with this woman, on foot, her basket of onions and potatoes on her back, through the lines of the investing army, selling her wares on the way, until she reached the city. She is now here in Vienna, at number 17 Singer Street, in the shop of her attendant market-woman."

"And what is her object in all this?"

"To take her sons home with her. She wishes to persuade them to return to Hungary and enter the government service there."

"Has she spoken with them yet?" asked the nun.

"Not yet, fortunately. She only arrived this afternoon. Goldner has spoken with her, and she is to have an interview with her son Richard, the cavalry officer, to-morrow morning. She is allowed to go to him unmolested, and as surely as she speaks with him, he will yield to her. The general will then be informed of the affair through his secret agents, and before the hussars can carry out their plan, the whole squadron is to be surrounded. Who is the commanding officer in your section now?"

"The cuirassier major, Otto Palvicz."

"Ah, he is the right man for the business. The hussars will be decimated, and Captain Baradlay shot."

To all this Edith was forced to listen, but she suffered no look of hers to betray how keenly it affected her. On hearing her lover's probable fate, she nearly choked over a piece of ham, and had to resort to a dose of vinegar to conquer a sudden faintness.

Alfonsine could not refrain from venting her spite on her cousin. "Your appetite," said she, "does not seem to suffer greatly at the prospect of losing your lover."

Edith helped herself composedly to another slice of ham. "Better to be executed than buried alive," she rejoined. Holding out her glass, she begged her cousin to pour her some chartreuse. "I must get used to it if I am to be a nun," she remarked playfully.

Alfonsine handed her the bottle and bade her help herself, and Edith's hand never once trembled as she filled her cognac glass to the brim with the green liquor; then she poured out a glassful for Sister Remigia.

"Drink with me, Sister Remigia," she cried, with a roguish smile; "we must take something to keep up our spirits."

The nun made a show of reluctance, but was finally obliged to yield to the seductions of her favourite beverage. Meanwhile the hostess proceeded with her instructions.

"Don't forget the address," said she,--"number 17 Singer Street, the vegetable shop in the basement. The mother will be sure to return for her youngest son, and we must not let her escape us. Give the general full information of these details in the morning, but take care that Captain Baradlay doesn't get wind of the affair. That man must die, and we must leave him no loophole for slipping out of our hands."

An incomprehensible child, that Edith! Even now she asks nonchalantly for a piece of _fromage de Brie_, sips her chartreuse like an epicure, and refills her companion's glass as often as it is emptied. A well-spread table in this world, her soul's salvation in the next, and meanwhile the quiet life of a cloister, seemed to satisfy her every desire. Soon she was nodding as if overcome with sleepiness, and finally she leaned back on the sofa, and her eyes seemed to be closed; but through her long lashes she was watching intently the three women before her. They thought her asleep.

"Is she always like this?" asked the Baroness Plankenhorst.

"She is incorrigibly lazy," replied Sister Remigia. "No work, no books seem to interest her. Eating and sleeping are her sole delight."

"Well, we must make the best of the matter," returned Antoinette. "I hope she will enjoy her convent life. An allowance will be made for her support as long as she lives; that has been provided for."

"Are you, then, sure that she has lost her lover?"

"Quite. If he once has an interview with his mother, he will be persuaded to desert. Her eldest son she has already drawn into the net: he is now a recruiting officer in the Hungarian service, and is busy raising troops. But if Richard fails to meet his mother, and still refuses to join the insurgents, a ball will be sent through his head at the critical moment--so Fritz assures me. Two of his own men have vowed to shoot him if he opposes their wishes. So he has but a short shrift in any case. By to-morrow evening he will be either a dead man, assassinated by one of his troopers, or, if he attempts to desert, a prisoner in the hands of Major Palvicz; and, in the latter case, he will be shot day after to-morrow. It is all one to me how it turns out. I don't wish him the ignominy of a public execution, although he has given me reason enough to hate him."

When Sister Remigia at length aroused Edith and led her, apparently half asleep, down to the carriage, Antoinette accompanied them with a light, explaining as she went that all the men-servants had been called away to the barricades. Her real purpose was to see Edith safely seated in the coach, and sound asleep by the nun's side. She had only the vaguest suspicions regarding her niece, but it was best to take no chances.

The heavy coach rumbled slowly through the dark streets. Perhaps the driver himself was half asleep. When they were well on their way, Edith opened her eyes and peered cautiously about. Her sole thought was to make her escape, even if a thousand devils stood guard at the carriage door, and the ghosts of all who had fallen in the last few days haunted the unlighted streets of the city. Sister Remigia was already fast asleep; it was her eyes, not Edith's, that refused to hold themselves open after the evening's ample repast. The chartreuse had done its work.

Assuring herself of her companion's condition, Edith softly opened the door at her side and sprang lightly to the ground, unperceived by the deaf and sleepy coachman. Swiftly, and with wildly beating heart, she ran back toward the heart of the city, leaving the coach to lumber on its way without her. It was only with difficulty that she could find her way in the dark. The tall tower of St. Stephen's loomed up ahead of her, and thither she turned her steps, hoping to find some one in that neighbourhood to direct her farther. With limbs trembling, and heart anxiously throbbing, now that she was safe from observation, the poor girl hastened on as best she could. Twice as she ran she heard the great tower-clock strike the quarter-hour, and she knew she must have gone astray; for half an hour suffices to go from one end of the inner city to the other. Coming to a street corner, she paused and looked about for the tower, and at last made it out on her right. Then she knew where she was, and concluded that Singer Street must be somewhere in the vicinity. As she stood there in uncertainty, the great clock struck again--midnight this time--and, as it struck, a fiery rocket shot upward from the turret's summit,--a signal seen and understood by some one in the distance.

By the bright but momentary glare of this rocket, Edith's eyes sought in all haste the name of the street in which she stood. With a thrill of joy, she read on the wall over her head the word "Singerstrasse." Now she had the Ariadne clue in her hand, and, before the rocket burst and its light suddenly went out, leaving her in apparently deeper darkness than before, she had learned that the house next to her was number 1, and that consequently all the numbers on that side of the street were odd. By simply counting the doors she could soon find number 17.

Feeling her way with her hands like a blind person, lest she should omit a door in her course, Edith moved slowly from house to house, counting the numbers as she went.

"Thirteen, fifteen," she whispered; "now the next will be seventeen. Who is there?" she cried suddenly, starting back in alarm as her hands encountered a human form.

"The blessed Virgin and St. Anne!" exclaimed the unknown, equally frightened. It proved to be an old woman who was crouching in the doorway, and over whom Edith had unwittingly stumbled.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" panted the girl, recovering from her fright. "You see I was so startled at finding any one here."

"And I was startled, too," rejoined the other. "What do you wish here, miss?"

"I am looking for number 17."

"And what is your errand at number 17?"

"I wish to speak with a woman, a vegetable-vender who arrived here this evening with another market-woman."

"This is the house," said the old woman, "and I have the key in my pocket. Follow me."

She opened the narrow basement door and admitted the girl, following her and locking the door behind them. At the end of the corridor a lamp was flickering on the floor in the draught. The old woman raised the lamp and examined her guest by its light. At sight of the convent dress she started back with an exclamation of surprise. In the young girl's form and face, as she stood there under the feeble rays of the lamp, was something that suggested to her the saints and martyrs of old.

Edith was conducted to a low basement room, in whose corners she saw piles of potatoes and beets, with strings of onions hanging on the walls. In the middle of the room stood two straw chairs, on one of which was a tallow candle stuck into a hollow potato, while the other was occupied by a woman dressed in the costume of a Vienna vegetable-vender. She looked up and calmly surveyed the newcomer. Her face was not one to betray surprise at any unexpected occurrence; indeed, its expression indicated an unusual degree of self-mastery. But the girl practised no such self-control. Hastening forward and sinking on her knees before the stranger, she seized her hand and looked into her face with wide-open eyes.

"Baroness Baradlay," she exclaimed breathlessly, "they are plotting to murder your son!"

The other started slightly, but stifled the cry that rose to her lips. "Richard?" she stammered, forgetting her caution for an instant.

"Yes, yes," cried the other; "Richard, your Richard! Oh, dear madam, save him, save him!"

The baroness looked into Edith's face with searching scrutiny. "You are Edith?" she asked.

The girl started in surprise. "Have you heard my name already?" she asked.

"I know you from my son's letters," was the reply. "In your face and your words I read that you can be none other than Richard's betrothed. But how did you learn all this,--that I was here, who I was, and that Richard was in danger?"

"I will tell you all," answered Edith, and she gave a hurried account of what she had overheard at her aunt's that evening. "But they were mistaken in me," she concluded. "They thought my spirit was broken and that they could do what they wished with me. But I ran away from them; I ran all the way here in the dark, and though I never saw you before, I knew you at once. God protected and guided me, and he will lead me still farther."

The speaker's passionate words betrayed so much nobility of soul that the baroness, quite carried away with admiration, put her arm around Edith's neck and let her eyes rest tenderly on the face of the girl who showed such true love for her Richard.

"Calm yourself, my child," said she, "and let us take counsel together. You see I am perfectly composed. This plot is to be carried out to-morrow morning, you say?"

"Yes, I am sure of it."

"Then half the night is still left for defeating it."

The girl clasped her hands with a beseeching gesture. "Oh, take me with you!" she begged.

The other considered a moment. "Very well," she replied, "you may come, too."

Edith clapped her hands with delight, while the baroness opened the door and called the market-woman.

"Frau Babi," said she, "we must set out at once, and this young lady will accompany us."

"Then she must wear another dress," interposed the old woman.

"And have you one for her?" asked the baroness.

"Oh, plenty of them." And with that Frau Babi raised the cover of an old chest and rummaged about for garments suitable for a young peasant girl's wear. She seemed to have an ample stock of old clothes.

"A charming little market-wench!" exclaimed the old woman, when she had wrought the desired metamorphosis. "And now for a basket to carry on her back. You never carried anything like that before, I'll warrant. But don't fear; I'll find you a light one and fill it with dry rolls that won't weigh anything. We two will manage the potatoes and onions."

Edith regarded it all as an excellent joke and hung her basket on her back in great good humour.

The clocks were striking two as the three women at length reached the Kaiserstrasse. At the barricade there was no guard visible. The investing forces here consisted only of a small detachment of cavalry whose main body was encamped at Schwechat; and cavalry is never used for storming barricades. Nevertheless, there were sharpshooters posted in the neighbouring houses to guard against a possible assault. Thus the women were able to pass unchallenged.

It was a more difficult task, however, to get through the investing lines. But those who remember the Vienna of those days will recall the unfilled hollow between Hernals and what was then known as the Schmelz, designed to receive the water that flowed from the mountains after heavy rains. Hewn stones and wooden planks lined the sides of this depression. It was not a pleasant spot to visit, but it offered a good hiding-place to any one seeking concealment.

Frau Babi led the way down into this hollow, which was then, luckily, free from water. Climbing out on the farther side, she looked cautiously around and then bade the others follow her, first drawing up their baskets for them.

"Leave them here," said she. "The hussars are over yonder."

At a distance of two hundred paces could be seen a couple of men standing by a watch-fire, while beyond them, within the cemetery, five or six more fires were burning in a group, indicating the encampment of the squadron.

"I was right," added the old woman. "You two go on now; you won't need me any longer."

Taking Edith by the hand, Baroness Baradlay advanced toward the first watch-fire. The sentinels saw their approach, but did not challenge them until they were very near.

"Halt! Who goes there?" cried one of the horsemen.

"Friends," was the answer.

"Give the countersign."

"Saddle horses and right about!"

At this the hussar sprang from his saddle, approached the baroness, and kissed her hand respectfully. "We have been looking for you, madam," said he.

"Do you know who I am, Paul?"

"Yes, madam, and thank heaven you are here safely."

"Where is my son?"

"I will take you to him at once. And that pretty little creature?" he asked, in a low tone, pointing to Edith.

"She comes with me."

"I understand."

The old hussar left his horse in his comrade's care and led the two women toward a small whitewashed house which stood within the cemetery, and had formerly been used as the grave-digger's dwelling, but now served as Richard's quarters. He occupied a little room that looked out upon the city, and this room he had that moment entered after a late night ride.

"There they are again!" he cried, bringing his fist down heavily on the table, upon which the latest newspapers from Pest were spread out, showing a number of articles marked with red. "Into the fire with them!"

But, angry as he seemed to be at finding the papers thrust upon his notice, Captain Baradlay could not persuade himself to burn them unread; and having once begun to read, he could not stop. Resting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, he read over and over again the marked passages, his brow darkening as he proceeded.

"It is not true, it cannot be true!" he exclaimed, struggling with his feelings. "It is all false, it is utterly preposterous!"

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he crumpled the papers up in his hand. Old Paul entered, and Richard turned upon him in a passion.

"What thieving rascal has been stealing into my room and leaving these infamous newspapers on my table?"

Paul made answer with his accustomed phlegm: "If you told me a thief had carried off something, I could understand it; but that a thief should bring you something is stranger than anything I ever heard of."

"A bundle of newspapers is smuggled through my locked door every day, and laid on my table. Who does it?"

"What do I know of newspapers? I can't read."

"You are trying to fool me, Paul," rejoined his master. "Don't you suppose I know that you have been learning to read these last three months? Who is your teacher?"

"Never mind about him. He was a trumpeter, a student expelled from his university, and he died yesterday. He had been at death's door for a long time. I begged him not to take all his learning with him to the next world, but to leave me some of it."

"And why did you want to learn to read?"

Straightening himself up, the old soldier answered firmly: "Captain, I could easily give you a false reply to that question. If I wished to deceive you, I could say I had learned to read because I wanted to be promoted. But I will tell you the truth: I have learned to read in my old age in order to know what is going on at home."

"So you too read this stuff? How does it get in here?"

"Never mind that now. I have to report that two ladies wish to speak with Captain Baradlay."

The astonished officer thought he must be dreaming when his old servant opened the door and he found himself face to face with his dear and honoured mother, while, peering out from behind her back, was seen the sweet young face of the girl he loved more than life itself. Both forms were clad in coarse peasant garments, bedraggled with rain and mud. What Richard had just been reading with so much incredulity in the newspapers from Pest, he now saw to be true. Women of noble birth were forced to flee from their homes in disguise because of the outrages committed by bloodthirsty hordes of marauders; husbands and brothers were slain before their eyes, and their houses were set on fire. The picture of all this passed before him in fancy, as he found himself in the presence of his mother and his betrothed.

He embraced and kissed the former in a passion of tenderness, but toward the latter he bore himself with shyness and reserve, hardly able to believe it was actually his Edith.

"So it is all true that the papers tell us?" he asked his mother, pointing to the newspapers on his table.

The baroness glanced at the marked items. "That is but a thousandth part of the truth," she replied.

"I must believe it now," he rejoined, "from the mere fact that you are here before me as a living proof." He struck the table an emphatic blow. "Henceforth no general shall order my movements! You only shall command me, mother. What would you have me do?"

The baroness drew Edith to her side, and then turned to her son. "This girl has told me what to ask of you. Only an hour ago I myself was at a loss how to proceed."

"Edith!" whispered the young man, caressing the little hand extended toward him. "But how has it all come about?"

"This convent pupil," replied the mother with a tender look at Edith, "overheard a plot that was forming for your destruction. Whatever course you choose, you are a dead man if you tarry here longer. Arrest for desertion on the one hand, and assassination on the other, threaten you. And this dear girl, without a moment's loss of time, without stopping to weep and wring her hands in despair, escaped from her guardians and sought me out in the dead of night, to beg me make all haste and save you while there was yet time."

"Edith!" stammered the young man once more, overcome by his feelings.

"These are times," continued the baroness, "when mothers are calling their sons home; but you have refused to listen to that call."

"I will listen now, mother; only tell me what to do."

"Learn of your own soldiers. The watchword by which we entered your camp is, 'Saddle horses and right about!' It points your course to you."

"So be it, then," said Richard, and he stepped to the door and issued an order to old Paul.

"The die is cast," said he to his mother as he returned to her side. "But what will become of you?"

"The Father above will watch over us," she returned calmly.

"But you cannot go back into the city," objected Richard; "it will be stormed to-morrow on all sides, and you would be in great danger. I must be off while we still have darkness and rain to cover our flight; and you had best come with me to the next village, where you can get a conveyance and escape into Hungary. Take Edith with you, too, mother."

The women, however, both shook their heads. "I am going back into the city, my son," declared the baroness.

"But the town will surely be taken to-morrow and you will be in danger," protested Richard.

"Nevertheless I am mindful but of one thing: I have another son there, and I am going back for him, no matter how great the peril. I must bring him away at all hazards."

Richard buried his face in his hands. "Oh, mother," he cried, "how small I seem to myself before your greatness of courage and loftiness of purpose!" He threw a look at Edith, as if to ask: "What will become of you, delicate lily uptorn by the blast? Whither will you go, where find shelter?"

Edith understood the questioning look and hastened to reply. "Don't be anxious about me. Your mother will accompany me to the convent. Punishment awaits me there, but it won't kill me; and I shall be well taken care of until you come back for me."

The sound of horses' hoofs fell on their ears.

"Time is flying, my son!" exclaimed the baroness. "You must not linger another moment."

A slow rain was falling. The hussars were drawn up in order, and their captain had nothing to do but mount his horse and place himself at their head.

"Saddle horses and right about!" sounded the subdued watchword; and the squadron wheeled around. The trumpeter was dead, but the valiant band needed no bugle blast to spur it forward. In a moment it had vanished in the mist and darkness.

The two women were escorted by old Paul back to the watch-fire, where the market-woman awaited them. Paul himself was to remain behind with one other sentinel to deceive the patrol and allay suspicions. Then the two were to hasten after their comrades.

* * * * *

Dawn was breaking when Edith reA"ntered the convent. A cry of horror was raised in the refectory over her appearance at such an hour. In the whole nunnery not an eye had been closed that night, so great was the alarm caused by Sister Remigia's return unaccompanied by her companion. The door of the coach had been found open, Edith was not inside, and the sister, awaking from her slumbers, could not account for her disappearance. And what made matters worse, no one dared take any action that should publish the scandalous occurrence abroad.

Edith found herself besieged with questions on all sides: where in the world had she been, and what had she been doing all night?

"I will give my answer this evening--not before," she declared; and as her unheard-of contumacy yielded to no threats or scolding, chastisement was resorted to.

The pious sisters were horrified when they began to undress their obstinate charge and found her clothes all wet and stained with mud. Who could tell where she had been roaming about in the night? But she would answer not a word to their questions.

The rod and the scourge were applied with no sparing hand, but neither the one nor the other could make her confess. The brave girl only closed her teeth the more tightly when the shameful blows struck her tender body, and after each stroke she whispered to herself: "Dear Richard!"--repeating the words until at last she fainted under the torture. When she recovered consciousness she found herself in bed, her body half covered with plasters. She was in a high fever, but was able to note the approach of nightfall. She had slept nearly all day.

"Now I will tell where I have been," said she to those around her bed. "I went to the camp of the hussars and passed the night in the room of my lover, their captain. Now you may publish it abroad if you choose."

At this fearful revelation the prioress threw up her hands in consternation. Naturally she took every precaution to keep the matter secret; for had it been allowed to leak out, the good name of that nunnery would have been ruined.