CHAPTER XXXIX.

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 rushing down to accompany this bearer of the cross

a gust of wind suddenly swept through the open space 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, refreshing 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.

[Illustration: "_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 hitherto 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 God!"

And her head sank on her companion's virgin breast Anastasia passed 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 God will reward such love," the priest replied with delicate tact:

"You have made a great sacrifice, Countess."

"Oh, if you knew--" she paused. "Hark--he is recovering his

consciousness!" She clasped her hands and bent forward to listen--"may

God help us now."

"How do you feel, Herr Freyer?" asked the doctor.

"Tolerably well, Doctor! Are you weeping, Mary? Did I frighten you?" He

beckoned to her and she hastened to his side.

The countess' eyes grew dim as he whispered something to Anastasia.

This was the torture of the damned--Mary might be near him, his

first glance, his first words were hers, while she, his wife, stood

banished, at a distance! And she had made him suffer this torture for

years--without compassion. "Oh, God, Thou art just, and Thy scales

weigh exactly!" But the all-wise Father does not only punish--He also

shows mercy.

"Where is she?" Anastasia repeated his words in a clear, joyous tone:

"You thought you saw her in the passage through which the chorus

passed. Oh, you must have been mistaken!" she added at a sign from the

physician.

"Yes, you are right, how could she be there--it is impossible."

The countess tried to move forward, but the physician authoritatively

stopped her.

The burgomaster gently approached him. "My dear Freyer--what could I do

for you, have you no wish?"

"Nothing except to die! I would willingly have played until the end of

the performances--for your sake--but I am content."

The drawing-master brought in the food which the physician had ordered.

The latter went to him with a glass of champagne. "Drink this, Herr

Freyer; it will do you good, and then you can eat something."

But the sick man did not touch the glass: "Oh, no, I will take nothing

more."

"Why not? You must eat something, or you will not recover."

"I cannot"

"Certainly you can."

"Very well, I _will_ not."

"Freyer," cried Ludwig beseechingly, "don't be obstinate--what fancy

have you taken into your head?" And he again vainly offered the

strengthening draught.

"Shall I live if I drink it?" asked Freyer.

"Certainly,"

"Then I will not take it."

"Not even if I entreat you, Freyer?" asked the burgomaster.

"Oh, do not torture me--do not force me to live longer!" pleaded Freyer

with a heart-rending expression. "If you knew what I have suffered--you

would not grudge the release which God now sends me! I have vowed to be

faithful to my duty until death--did I not, sexton, on Daisenberger's

grave? I have held out as long as I could--now let me die quietly."

"Oh, my friend!" said the sexton, "must we lose you?" The strong man

was weeping like a child. "Live for _us_, if not for yourself."

"No, sexton, if God calls me, I must not linger--for I have still

another duty. I have _lived_ for you--I must _die_ for another."

"But, Herr Freyer!" said the pastor kindly, "suppose that this other

person should not be benefitted by your death?"

Freyer looked as if he did not understand him.

"If this other of whom you speak--had come--to nurse and stay with

you?" the pastor continued.

Freyer raised himself a little--a blissful presentiment flitted over

his face like the coming of dawn.

"Suppose that your eyes did _not_ deceive you?" the burgomaster now

added gently.

"Am I not dreaming--was it true--was it possible?"

"If you don't excite yourself and will keep perfectly calm," said the

physician, "I will bring--your wife!"

"My--wife? You are driving me mad. I have no wife."

"No wife--you have _no wife_?" cried a voice as if from the depths of

an ocean of love and anguish, as the unhappy woman who had forced her

own husband to disown her, sank sobbing before him.

A cry--"my dove!" and his head drooped on her breast

A breathless silence pervaded the room. Every one's hands were clasped

in silent prayer. No one knew whether the moment was fraught with life

or death.

But it was to bring life--for the Christus must not die on the way to

the cross, and Mary Magdalene must still climb to its foot--the last,

steepest portion--that her destiny might be fulfilled.

The husband and wife were whispering together. The others modestly drew

back.

"And you wish to die? It was not enough that you vanished from my life

like a shadow--you wish to go out of the world also?" she sobbed. "Do

you believe that I could then find rest on earth or in Heaven?"

"Oh, dear one, I am happy. Let me die--I have prayed for it always! God

has mercifully granted it. When I am out of the world you will be a

widow, and can marry another without committing a sin."

"Oh, Heaven--Joseph! I will marry no other--I love no one save you."

He smiled mournfully: "You love me now because I am dying--had I lived,

you would have gone onward in the path of sin--and been lost. No, my

child, I must die, that you may learn, by my little sacrifice, to

understand the great atonement of Christ. I must sacrifice myself for

you, as Christ sacrificed himself for the sins of mankind."

"Oh, that is not needed. God has taken the will for the deed, and given

it the same power. Your lofty, patient suffering has conquered me. You

need not die. I mistook you for what you were not--a God, and did not

perceive what you _were_. Now I do know it. Forgive my folly. To save

me you need be nothing save a man--a genuine, noble, lovable man, as

you are--then no God will be required."

"Do you believe that?" Freyer looked at her with a divine expression:

"Do you believe you could be content with a _mortal man_! No, my child,

the same disappointment would follow as before. The flame that blazes

within your soul does not feed upon earthly matter. You need a God, and

your great heart will not rest until you have found Him. Therefore be

comforted: The false Christ will vanish and the true one will rise from

His grave."

"No, do not wrong me so, do not die, let me not atone for my sin to the

dead, but to the living! Oh, do not be cruel--do not punish me so

harshly. You are silent! You are growing paler still! Ah, you will go

and leave me standing _alone_ half way along the road, unable either to

move forward or back! Joseph, I have broken every bond with the duke,

have cast aside everything which separated us--have become a poor,

helpless woman, and you will abandon me--now, when I have given you my

whole existence, when I am nothing but your wife."

Freyer raised himself.

"Give me the wine--now I long to live." A universal movement of delight

ran through the group of friends, and the countess held the foaming cup

to his lips and supported his head with one hand, that he might drink.

Then she gave him a little food and arranged him in a more comfortable

position. "Come, let your wife nurse you!" she said so tenderly that

all the listeners were touched. Then she laid a cooling bandage on his

brow. "Ah, that does me good!" he said, but his eyes rested steadily on

hers and he seemed to be alluding to something other than the external

remedies, though these quickly produced their effect. His breathing

gradually became more regular, his eyes closed, weakness asserted

itself, but he slept soundly and quietly.

The physician withdrew to soothe the strangers waiting outside by an

encouraging report. Only Freyer's friends and the pastor remained. The

countess rose from beside the sleeper's couch and stretched her arms

towards Heaven: "Lend him to me, Merciful God! I have forfeited my

right to him--I say it in the presence of all these witnesses--but

be merciful and lend him to me long enough for me to atone for my

sin--that I may not be doomed to the torture of eternal remorse!" She

spoke in a low tone in order not to rouse the slumberer, but in a voice

which could be distinctly heard by the others. Her hands were clasped

convulsively, her eyes were raised as if to pierce to the presence of

God--her noble bearing expressed the energy of despair, striving with

eternity for the space of a moment.

"Oh, God--oh, God, leave him with me! Hold back Thy avenging

hand--grant a respite. Omnipotent One, first witness my

atonement--first try whether I may not be saved by mercy! Friends,

friends, pray with me!"

She clasped their hands as if imploring help. Her strength was failing.

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--God 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 God 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 God be with you,"

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

The spacious 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 noble 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,

God, Thou has given her to me to-day for the first time! Come, my

wife--place your fate trustfully in God'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.