On the Cross Part 75

Trembling, she sank beside Ludwig, and pressed her forehead, bedewed with cold perspiration, against his arm.

All bared their heads and prayed in a low tone. Madeleine's breast heaved in mortal anguish and, almost stifled by her suppressed tears, she could only falter, half unconsciously: "Have pity upon us!"

Meanwhile the doctor had made all necessary preparations and was waiting for the patient to wake in order to remove him to his home.

The murmured prayers had ceased and the friends gathered silently around the bed. The countess again knelt beside the invalid, clasping him in a gentle embrace. Her tears were now checked lest she might disturb him, but they continued to flow in her heart. Her lips rested on his hand in a long kiss--the hand which had once supported and guided her now lay pale and thin on the coverlet, as if it would never more have strength to clasp hers with a loving pressure.

"Are you weeping, dear wife?"

That voice! She raised her head, but could not meet the eyes which gazed at her so tenderly. Dared _she_, the condemned one, enjoy the bliss of that look? No, never! And, without raising an eyelash, she hid her guilty brow with unutterable tenderness upon his breast. The feeble hand was raised and gently stroked her cheek, touching it as lightly as a withered leaf.

"Do not weep!" he whispered with the voice of a consoling angel: "Be calm--G.o.d is good, He will be merciful to us also."

Oh, trumpet of the Judgment Day, what is thy blare to the sinner, compared to the gentle words of pardoning love from a wounded breast?

The countess was overpowered by the mild, merciful judgment.--

A living lane had formed in front of the theatre. He was to be carried home, rumor said, and the people were waiting in a dense throng to see him. At last a movement ran through the ranks. "He is coming! Is he alive? Yes, they say he is!"

Slowly and carefully the men bore out the litter on which he lay, pale and motionless as a dead man. The pastor walked on one side, and on the other, steadying his head, the countess. She could scarcely walk, but she did not avert her eyes from him.

As on the way to Golgotha, low sobs greeted the little procession. "Oh, dear, poor fellow! Ah, just one look, one touch of the hand," the people pleaded. "Wait just one moment."

As if by a single impulse the bearers halted and the people pressed forward with throbbing hearts, modestly, reverently touching the hanging coverlet, and gazing at him with tearful eyes full of unutterable grief.

The countess, with a beautiful impulse of humanity, gently drew his hand from under the wraps and held it to the sorrowing spectators who had waited so long, that they might kiss it--and every one who could get near enough eagerly drank from the proffered beaker of love.

Grateful eyes followed the countess and she felt their benediction with the joy of the saints when G.o.d lends their acts the power of divine grace. She was now a beggar, yet never before had she been rich enough to bestow such alms: "Yes, kiss his hand--he deserves it!" she whispered, and her eyes beamed with a love which was not of this earth, yet which blended _her_, the world, and everything it contained into a single, vast, fraternal community!

Freyer smiled at her--and now she bore the sweet, tender gaze, for she felt as if a time might come when she would again deserve it.

At last they reached the pretty quiet house where she had that morning hired lodgings for him and herself. Mourning love had followed him to the spot, the throng had increased so that the bearers could scarcely get in with the litter. "Farewell--poor sufferer, may G.o.d be with you,"

fell from every lip as he was borne in and the door closed behind him.

The s.p.a.cious room on the lower floor received the invalid. The landlady had hurriedly prepared the bed and he was laid in it. As the soft pillows arranged by careful hands yielded to the weary form, and his wife bent over him, supporting his head on her arm--he glanced joyously around the circle, unable to think or say anything except: "Oh, how comfortable I am!" They turned away to hide their emotion.

The countess laid her head on the pillow beside him, no longer restraining her tears, and murmuring in his ear: "Angel, you modest, forgiving, loving angel!" She was silent--forcing herself to repress the language of her heart, for the cry of her remorse might disturb the feeble invalid. Yet he felt what moved her, he had always read her inmost soul so long as she loved him--not until strangers came between them did he fail to comprehend her. Now he felt what she must suffer in her remorse and pitied her torture, he thought only of how he might console her. But this moved her more than all the reproaches he had a right to make, for the greater, the more n.o.ble his nature revealed itself to be the greater her guilt became!

The friends were to take turns in helping the countess watch the invalid through the night, and now left him. The doctor said that there was no immediate danger and went away to get more medicines. When all had gone, she knelt beside the bed and said softly, "Now I am yours! I do not ask whether you will forgive me, for I see that you have already done so--I ask only whether you will again take the condemned, sin-laden woman to your heart? In my deed today I chose the fate of poverty. I can offer you nothing more in worldly wealth, I can only provide you with a simple home, work for you, nurse you, and atone by lifelong love and fidelity for the wrong I have done you. Will you be content with that?"

Freyer drew her toward him with all his feeble strength. Tears of unutterable happiness were trickling down his cheeks. "I thank Thee, G.o.d, Thou has given her to me to-day for the first time! Come, my wife--place your fate trustfully in G.o.d's hands and your dear heart in mine, and all will be well. He will be merciful and suffer me to live a few years that I may work for you, not you for me. Oh, blissful words, work for my wife, they make me well again. And now, while we are alone, the first sacred kiss of conjugal love!"

He tried to raise his head, but she pressed it with gentle violence back upon the pillow. "No, you must keep perfectly quiet. Imagine that you are a marble statue--and let me kiss you. Remain cold and let all the fervor of a repentant, loving heart pour itself upon you." She stooped and touched his pale mouth gently, almost timidly, with her quivering lips.

"Oh, that was again an angel's kiss!" he murmured, clasping his hands over the head bowed in penitent humility.

CHAPTER XL.

NEAR THE GOAL.

From that hour Magdalena Freyer never left her husband's bedside.

Though friends came in turn to share the night-watches, she remained with them. After a few days the doctor said that unless an attack of weakness supervened, the danger was over for the present, though he did not conceal from her that the disease was incurable. She clasped her hands and answered: "I will consider every day that I am permitted to keep him a boon, and submissively accept what G.o.d sends."

After that time she always showed her husband a smiling face, and he--perfectly aware of his condition--practiced the same loving deception toward her. Thus they continued to live in the salutary school of the most rigid self-control--she, bearing with dignity a sad fate for which she herself was to blame--he in the happiness of that pa.s.sive heroism of Christianity, which goes with a smile to meet death for others! An atmosphere of cheerfulness surrounded this sick-bed, which can be understood only by one who has watched for months beside the couch of incurable disease, and felt the grat.i.tude with which every delay of the catastrophe, every apparent improvement is greeted--the quiet delight afforded by every little relief given the beloved sufferer, every smile which shows us he feels somewhat easier.

This cup of anguish the penitent woman now drained to the dregs. True, a friendly genius always stood beside it to comfort her: the hope that, though not fully recovered, he might still be spared to her. "How many thousands who have heart disease, with care and nursing live to grow old." This thought sustained her. Yet the ceaseless anxiety and sleepless nights exhausted her strength. Her cheeks grew hollow, dark circles surrounded her eyes, but she did not heed it.

"I still please my husband!" she said smiling, in reply to all entreaties to spare herself on account of her altered appearance.

"My dove!" Freyer said one evening, when Ludwig came for the night-watch: "Now I must show a husband's authority and command you to take some rest, you cannot go on in this way."

"Oh! never mind me--if I should die for you, what would it matter?

Would it not be a just atonement?"

"No--that would be no atonement," he said tenderly, pus.h.i.+ng back the light fringe of curls that shaded her brow, as if he wished to read her thoughts on it: "My child, you must _live_ for me--that is your atonement. Do you think you would do anything good if you expiated your fault by death and said: 'There you have my life for yours, now we are quits, you have no farther claim upon me!' Would that be love, my dove?"

He drew her gently toward him: "Or would you prefer that we should be quits _thus_, and that I should desire no other expiation from you than your death?" She threw her arms around him, clasping him in a closer and closer embrace. There was no need of speech, the happy, blissful throbbing of her heart gave sufficient answer. He kissed her on the forehead: "Now sleep, beloved wife and rest--do it for my sake, that I may have a fresh, happy wife!"

She rose as obediently as a child, but it was hard for her, and she nodded longingly from the door as if a boundless, hopeless distance already divided them.

"Ludwig!" said Freyer, gazing after her in delight: "Ludwig, _is_ this love?"

"Yes, by Heaven!" replied his friend, deeply moved: "Happy man, I would bear all your sorrows--for one hour like this!"

"Have you now forgiven what she did to me?"

"Yes, from my very soul!"

"Magdalena," cried Freyer. "Come in again--you must know it before you sleep--Ludwig is reconciled to you."

"Ludwig," said the countess: "my strict, n.o.ble friend, I thank you."

Leading him to the invalid, she placed their hands together. "Now we are again united, and everything is just as it was ten years ago--only I have become a different person, and a new and higher life is beginning for me."

She pressed a kiss upon the brow of her husband and friend, as if to seal a vow, then left them alone.

"Oh, Ludwig, if I could see you so happy!"

"Do not be troubled--whoever has experienced this hour with you, needs nothing for himself," he answered, an expression of the loftiest, most unselfish joy on his pallid face.

The countess, before retiring, sent for Martin who was still in Oberammergau, awaiting her orders, and went out into the garden that Freyer might not hear them talking in the next room. "Martin," she said with quiet dignity, though there was a slight tremor in her voice, "it is time for me to give some thought to worldly matters. During the last few days I could do nothing but devote myself to the sick bed. Drive home, my good Martin, and give the carriage and horses to the Wildenaus. Tell them what has happened, if they do not yet know it, I cannot write now. Meanwhile, you faithful old servant, tell them to take all I have--my jewels, my palace, my whole private fortune. Only I should like--for the sake of my sick husband--to have them leave me, for humanity's sake, enough to get him what he needs for his recovery!"

here her voice failed.

"Countess--"

"Oh, don't call me that!"