As she stood and looked at him, her eyes stony, her face set in despair, Fessenden for the first time felt his courage recede. Her next words left him for a few moments without speech, and with the sensation that the world had come suddenly to an end.
“Then,” she said, “I must work out my destiny with my house. If it is tottering, then the severer my duty to stand by it till it falls. What happiness could I have?—what a picture!—I secure in America, and all my kind groaning under the ruins of Europe? I believe that what you predict has reason enough. I am no infatuated monarchist. I have known Alexandra too long for that. And I have never doubted the fate of Austria since Rudolf’s death. There is no reason why the rest of Europe should not follow. But it will not come in a moment, and it is the bare duty of every man and woman of royal birth to give to the old idea their last drop of heart’s blood and life-blood, whether there is any individual achievement for them or not. As for me, if I were convinced—which I am not—that I could do no good by making Hungary mine, still would I remain at my post. It will break my heart; it will make life a mere tread-mill, now that I have known you; but if you kidnapped me I should return.”
They faced each other then for two or three minutes without speaking; but although Fessenden could descend into depths of discouragement, nothing this side of death could keep him there. The army of resources in his soul stirred in their nap—it was seldom they slept—and quickened his blood in the old lust of the fight. He revolted with angry impatience against his momentary despair; and at the same time realized that this, the supreme desire of his life, he would not have won with no exercise of the talents which had been given him that he might wear down and ride down the obstacles of life.
“Very well,” he said, “your way of looking at things is natural enough; but I don’t want you to forget for one moment that, deeply as I respect even your prejudices, they mean nothing to me intellectually, and never can influence my conduct in the least. But on this subject I will say no more now except that your argument that you should stand by your house until it falls is too illogical to be worthy of you. It is not a woman’s part in life to prop up rotten structures, but to assist man in founding new ones to replace the old; nor is it the highest destiny of human beings to retrograde or stand still, but to progress. And if I regard the past with its superstitions and institutions as mere history, as a mere prelude to a far greater present, and if I myself belong to that present and to the future, you by no means are an indissoluble part of the past. You are too virile, too healthy, too modern, too great in every part of your equipment; you represent the utmost that Europe and her centuries have been able to make of your sex; and if she had any design in making you, it was as a present to the future, not as a sacrifice to the past. But enough. I have a plan to propose. For two months we will not speak of this. Nurse your traditions if you like, believe that we must part, but make up your mind to be happy during this time. We will have constant companionship and some moments alone.”
The light broke through her face again, and she held out her hands. “Yes! Yes!” she exclaimed. “A fool’s paradise! That is what I would have asked. It is all I can ever know, and it will give me courage for the rest of my life. But I was afraid—I was afraid— It is a very unpractical plan for you to suggest.”
“I have my unpractical moments,” said Fessenden, “and this is one of them.” And then he caught her in his arms and kissed her, while the music of the Chardash from the palace and the Danube beat upon them; and something of the dearest dream of both was realized.
But he left her presently. As he closed behind him the door by which he had entered the private apartments, he had a flashing glimpse of a face he knew; but the blood was in his head, and the small white visage, disappearing like a ghost’s, made no impression on him—he did not even recall it in cooler moments. He had readjusted his disguise, and he made his way down the great staircase, exciting no more comment than would have fallen to the portion of Prince Nadasdy, who certainly would be expected to go home early. When he reached the palace of the old Prince he changed his gorgeous trappings for the inconspicuous tweeds he had left there, and then went out and walked until dawn. When he returned to his hotel he wrote two letters, one to his father, and one to his friend in Berlin. The latter concluded as follows: “... But not for two months, or thereabouts. I want her to have a deep draught of this Hungarian wine she finds so heady, that she may have the less to torment her imagination with in the future. Moreover, I want that much time to teach her that she really loves me. If we acted too promptly, she might, during the inevitable weeks, perhaps months, of separation, persuade herself that it had been but a passing madness. And I want her to be in no doubt during that time of what her rewards will be.”
“I can safely count on help there,” thought Fessenden, as he enclosed the letter in a second envelope addressed to a less conspicuous name, “for before these two months have passed he will be as anxious to see her in America as I am.”
XX
At luncheon that afternoon Fessenden found himself beside the Countess Piroska. The Archduchess had an Independent on either hand, and Alexandra assisted her with one of them. The Countess Vilma had another in charge. There were no other guests, and Sarolta, who had found the prospect of Radical politicians anything but amusing, was lunching elsewhere. The table had been laid in the small dining-room adjoining the blue room, but the curtains were half drawn across the large windows, for all the women were paler than usual. Three had danced until the cocks of Buda announced the morning, and the other had slept less than they. She and Fessenden had met without a word, but with a handshake of complete understanding. The “Young Kossuths” were in good order; they had left the ball as soon as the general dancing began. As they entered to-day they had looked somewhat truculent, as if fearful of patronage, but were now at their ease, and Molnár alone appeared indifferent to the delicate viands of the palace chefs.