On the Cross Part 73

"You have done me a priceless service; I thank you." She pressed a bank note into the man's hand.

"No, no; I did it gladly," he answered, noiselessly retreating.

The exhausted woman closed her eyes and rested a few minutes from the torture she had endured. The chorus entered, and opened the drama again, a tableau followed, then the High Priest and Annas appeared in the balcony of his house, Judas soon entered, but everything pa.s.sed before her like a dream. She could not see what was occurring on her side of the stage.

Thus lost in thought, she leaned back in her dark corner, forgetting the present in what the next hours would bring, failing to hear even the hosannas. But now a voice startled her from her torpor.--"I spake openly to the world; I ever taught in the synagogue and in the temple--"

Merciful Heaven, it was he! She could not see him, the side scenes concealed him; but what a feeling! His voice, which had so often spoken to her words of love, entreaty, warning, lastly of wrath and despair--without heed from her, without waking an echo in her cold heart, now pealed like an angel's message into the dark corner where she sat concealed like a lost soul that had forfeited the sight of the Redeemer! She listened eagerly to the marvellous tones of the words no longer addressed to her while the speaker's face remained concealed--the face on which, in mortal dread, she might have read the runes engraved by pain, and learned whether they meant life or death?

And yet, at least she was near him; so near that she thought he must hear the throbbing of her own heart.

"Bear patiently; do not disturb him in his sacred fulfillment of duty.

It will soon be over!"

The play seemed endlessly long to her impatient heart. Christ was dragged from trial to trial. The mockery, the scourging, the condemnation--the tortured woman shared them all with him as she had done the first time, but to-day it was like a blind person. She had not yet succeeded in seeing him, he always stood so that she could never catch a glimpse of his face. Would he hold out? She fancied that his voice grew weaker hour by hour. And she dared not tend him, dared not offer him any strengthening drink, dared not wipe the moisture from his brow. She heard the audience weeping and sobbing--the scene of bearing the cross was at hand!

The sky had darkened, and heavy sultry clouds hung low, forming natural soffits to the open front stage, as if Heaven desired to conceal it from the curious G.o.ds, that they might not see what was pa.s.sing to-day.

Mary and John--the women of Jerusalem and Simon of Cyrene a.s.sembled, waiting in anxious suspense for the coming of the Christ. Anastasia was again personating Mary, the countess instantly recognized her pure, clear tones, and the meeting in the fields ten years before came back to her mind--not without a throb of jealous emotion. Now a movement among the audience announced the approach of the procession--of the cross! This time the actors came from the opposite direction and upon the front stage. Every vein in her body was throbbing, her brain whirled, she struggled to maintain her composure; at last she was to see him for the first time!

"It is he, oh G.o.d!--it is my son!" cried Mary. Christ stepped upon the stage, laden with the cross. It was acting no longer, it was reality.

His feet could scarcely support him under the burden, panting for breath, he dragged himself to the proscenium. The countess uttered a low cry of alarm; she fancied that she was looking into the eyes of a dying man, so ghastly was his appearance. But he had heard the exclamation and, raising his head, looked at her, his emaciated face quivered--he tottered, fell--he _was obliged_ to fall; it was in his part.

The countess shuddered--it was too natural!

"He can go no farther," said the executioner. "Here, strengthen yourself." The captain handed him the flask, but he did not take it.

"You won't drink? Then drive him forward."

The executioners shook him roughly, but Freyer did not stir--he _ought_ not to move yet.

Simon of Cyrene took the cross on his shoulders, and now the Christ should have risen, but he still lay prostrate. The cue was given--repeated--a pause followed--a few of the calmer ones began to improvise, the man who was personating; the executioner stooped and shook him, another tried to raise him--in vain. An uneasy movement ran through the audience--the actors gathered around and gazed at him. "He is dead! It has come upon us!" ran in accents of horror from lip to lip.

An indescribable confusion followed. The audience rose tumultuously from the seats. Caiaphas, the burgomaster, ordered in a low tone: "To the central stage--every one! Quick--and then drop the curtain!" But no one heard him: He bent over the senseless figure. "It is only an attack of faintness," he called to the audience, but the excitement could no longer be allayed--all were pressing across the orchestra to the stage.

The countess could bear it no longer--rank and station, the thousands of curious eyes to which she would expose herself were all forgotten--there is a cosmopolitanism which unites mortals in a common brotherhood more closely than anything else--a mutual sorrow.

"Freyer, Freyer!" she shrieked in tones that thrilled every nerve of the bystanders: "Do not die--oh, do not die!" Rus.h.i.+ng upon the stage, she threw herself on her knees beside the unconscious form.

"Ladies and gentlemen--I must beg you to clear the stage"--shouted Caiaphas to the throng, and turning to the countess, whom he recognized, added: "Countess Wildenau--I can permit no stranger to enter, I _must_ beg you to withdraw."

She drew herself up to her full height, composed and lofty--an indescribable dignity pervaded her whole bearing: "I have a right to be here--I am his wife!"

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

STATIONS OF SORROW.

"I am his wife!" Heaven and earth have heard it. She had conquered. The tremendous deed, fear of which had led her to the verge of crime--love had now done in a _single_ moment without conflict or delay. There was joy in heaven and on earth over the penitent sinner! And all the viewless powers which watch the way to the cross, wherever any human being treads it; all the angels, the guardian spirits of the now interrupted Play hastened to aid the new Magdalene, that she might climb the Mount of Calvary to the Hill of Golgotha. And as if the heavenly hosts were rus.h.i.+ng down to accompany this bearer of the cross a gust of wind suddenly swept through the open s.p.a.ce across the stage and over the audience, and the palms rustled in the breeze, the palaces of Jerusalem tottered, and the painted curtains swayed in the air. This one gust of wind had rent the threatening clouds so that the sun sent down a slanting brilliant ray like the dawn of light when chaos began to disappear!

A light rain which, in the golden streaks, glittered like dusty pearls fell, settling the dust and dispelling the sultriness of the parched earth.

Silence had fallen upon the people on the stage and in the audience, and as a scorched flower thirstily expands to the cooling dew, the sick man's lips parted and eagerly inhaled the damp, refres.h.i.+ng air.

"Oh--he lives!" said the countess in a tone as sweet as any mother ever murmured at the bedside of a child whom she had believed dead, any bride on the breast of her wounded lover.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_I have a right to be here--I am his wife!_"]

"He lives, oh, he lives!" all the spectators repeated.

Meanwhile the physician had come and examined the sufferer, who had been placed on a couch formed of cloaks and shawls: "It is a severe attack of heart disease. The patient must be taken to better lodgings than he has. .h.i.therto occupied. This condition needs the most careful nursing to avoid the danger. I have repeatedly called attention to it, but always in vain."

"It will be different now, Doctor!" said the countess. "I have already secured rooms, and beg to be allowed to move him there."

"The Countess!" she suddenly heard a voice exclaim behind her--and when she glanced around, Ludwig Gross stood before her in speechless amazement.

"Can it be? I have just arrived by the train from Munich--but I did not see--"

"I suppose so--I drove here last night. But do not call me Countess any longer, Herr Gross--my name is Magdalena Freyer." The drawing-master made no reply, but knelt beside the sick man, who was beginning to breathe faintly and bent over him a long time: "If only it is not too late!" he muttered bitterly, still unappeased.

The burgomaster approached the countess and held out his hand, gazing into her eyes with deep emotion. "Such an act can never be too late.

Even if it can no longer benefit the individual, it is still a contribution to the moral treasure of the world," he said consolingly.

"I thank you. You are very kind!" she answered, tears springing to her eyes.

A litter had now been obtained and the physician ordered the sufferer to be lifted gently and laid upon it: "We will first take him to the dressing-room, and give him some food before carrying him home."

The countess had mentioned the street: "It is some little distance to the house."

The command was obeyed and the litter was carried to the dressing-room.

The friends followed with the countess. On the way a woman timidly joined her and gazed at her with large, sparkling eyes: "I don't know whether you remember me? I only wanted to tell you how glad I am that you are here? Oh, how well he has deserved it!"

"Mary!" said the countess, shamed and overpowered by the charm of this most unselfish soul, clasping both her hands: "Mary--Mother of G.o.d!"

And her head sank on her companion's virgin breast Anastasia pa.s.sed her arm affectionately around her and supported her as they moved on.

"Yes, we two must hold together, like Mary and Magdalene! We will aid each other--it is very hard, but our two saints had no easier lot. And if I can help in any way--" They had reached the dressing-room, the group paused, the countess pressed Anastasia's hand: "Yes, we will hold together, Mary!" Then she hastened to her husband's side--but the doctor motioned to her to keep at a distance that the sudden sight of her might not harm the sick man when he recovered his consciousness. He felt his pulse: "Scarcely fifty beats--I must give an injection of ether."

He drew the little apparatus from his pocket, thrust the needle into Freyer's arm and injected a little of the stimulating fluid. The bystanders awaited the result in breathless suspense: "Bring wine, eggs, bouillon, anything you can get--only something strong, which will increase the action of the heart."

The drawing-master hurried off. The pastor, who had just heard of the occurrence, now entered: "Is the sacrament to be administered?" he asked.

"No, there is no fear of so speedy an end," the physician answered.

"Rest is the most imperative necessity." The burgomaster led the pastor to the countess: "This is Herr Freyer's wife, who has just publicly acknowledged her marriage," he said in a low tone: "Countess Wildenau!"

"Ah, ah--these are certainly remarkable events. Well, I can only hope that G.o.d will reward such love," the priest replied with delicate tact: "You have made a great sacrifice, Countess."