"If my father were free," said Wanda, in a broken voice, "I might have the courage to defy him, and what you call our national prejudices, for your sake. Now I can not, and I will not, for it would be treason to my filial duty. I shall go with my father even at the cost of my life; I will not leave him alone in his adversity."
The firmness with which she uttered these words convinced Waldemar that her resolution was not to be shaken, and he ceased opposing it. "When do you leave?" he asked, after a long pause.
"Next month. My aunt will accompany me to O----, and there we shall meet my father. Some weeks are left us; our final parting need not be to-day. But promise me that you will not come again until the last moment. I need all my courage for the farewell hour, and your despair takes it from me. We shall meet once more; until then, good-bye."
"Good-bye," Waldemar replied, curtly, almost roughly, without looking at her or taking her proffered hand.
"Waldemar," said the young girl, appealingly, and with an accent of reproachful tenderness in her voice; but it was lost upon the stern man, who was excited almost to frenzy. Rage and anguish at the thought of losing his beloved outweighed every appeal to his sense of right.
"I cannot be reconciled to this sacrifice," he said, sternly; "my whole nature rebels against it; but, as you insist upon it, I must prove equal to my fate. You know that I cannot indulge in idle lamentations, and as my remonstrances and reproaches wound you deeply, I had best keep silence. Farewell, Wanda."
Wanda lingered for a few moments as if in violent conflict with herself, but she dared not give utterance to the emotions that swelled her heart almost to bursting. "Farewell, Waldemar," she said softly, and left the room.
The lover made no effort to detain her; he stood vacantly gazing out of a window. Many conflicting emotions struggled for mastery in his features, but among them all there was no trace of the renunciation his loved one had demanded of him. He remained for a long time with his face pressed against the panes, not looking up until his name was spoken.
The princess had entered unobserved. How heavily the terrible events of the past year had fallen upon this woman! Her bearing was still erect and firm, and at the first glance no striking change was noticeable in her appearance, but closer scrutiny revealed what Leo's death had cost his mother. Her features wore a quiet, rigid composure, which was the result neither of self-control nor resignation, but rather of enforced submission; it was the expression of one who has nothing more to hope for or to lose,--whose life has been bereft of every interest and charm. The once brilliant eyes were lustreless, the once smooth brow was deeply furrowed, the dark hair was flecked with gray. The blow to the maternal pride of the princess had been a mortal one, and had wrought a change in her whole nature; the defeat of her countrymen, and the fate of the brother whom she loved next to Leo, had prostrated the remaining strength of this resolute woman.
"Have you been torturing Wanda again?" she asked. Her voice, too, had changed; it had a hollow, broken sound. "You know it is useless."