CHAPTER XXX.
[AUF WIEDERSEHEN!]
The mild spring night which had enveloped the waters began to give place to the dawn. The stars were dying out one by one, and in the eastern horizon glimmered the first beams of day. The waves, lightly stirred by the rising breeze, murmured softly as in a dream.
A ship sped on through the ever-brightening morning twilight. It had left the harbor of S---- at midnight, and having passed the broad river's mouth, was about to enter the open sea. Count Morynski, with his daughter and Waldemar, stood on the deck. Wanda had insisted upon accompanying her father to S----, and remaining until the last possible moment at his side. The ship would pass Altenhof in its course, and here the final parting would take place. The count was now on the way to England, where his sister would join him after the marriage of her son and niece, which was to be solemnized in a few weeks. Upon reaching England, the exiles would decide upon their future residence.
It was broad day. A light, cold and colorless as yet, illuminated the waves. The strand of Altenhof hove in sight, and the dreaded separation was close at hand. The ship at length landed near the beech-holm, which was just discernible through the morning vapors. The parting between the father and daughter was full of anguish; the count could not control his emotion; he broke down utterly as he placed Wanda in the arms of her future husband. Waldemar, feeling that this torture must not be prolonged, hastily carried his betrothed to the boat that was waiting to convey them to the strand. It reached the beech-holm in a few moments. The ship was already in motion. A white handkerchief fluttered from the deck, and was answered by another from the shore. The distance between the father and his children grew wider and wider, and the ship steamed away to the north.
Wanda sank helplessly upon a stone seat under one of the beeches, and gave herself up to an outburst of passionate anguish. "My darling," said Waldemar, taking her hand in his, "the separation is not final; if your father cannot come to us, nothing hinders our going to him. You shall see him within a year, I promise you that."
"In a year's time I shall not find him living," sobbed Wanda.
Waldemar could not answer. He felt the same foreboding. When, years ago, the count had gone into exile, he had borne with him the mental and physical strength of a man in the prime of life, and hope for the future of Poland had still animated his breast. Now his strength was broken, his hope was dead; what more had life to offer him?
"Your father will not be alone," Waldemar said, consolingly; "my mother will be with him. You know her love for her only brother; she will comfort and sustain him."
Wanda's glance was still riveted upon the ship, which grew less and less in the distance.