CHAPTER CLXVII.
THE RECOMPENSE.
For four weeks Rachel had been a prisoner in her own house; all persons, with the exception of a Catholic priest and a Jewish rabbi, having been refused access to her. But at the expiration of this time a deputy from the imperial chancery was admitted, who had a long interview with the poor girl, and at dusk another visitor presented himself at the door of that gloomy abode. This last one was Baron Eskeles Flies.
The sentinels had allowed him to pass, and the guards in Rachel's anteroom gave way also, for the baron's permit to visit his daughter was from the emperor. With a respectful inclination they presented the key of the prisoner's room and awaited her father's orders.
"Go below, and wait until I call you," said he.
"Of course, as we are commanded in the permit to obey you, we follow the emperor's order."
Herr Eskeles thanked them, and putting a ducat in the hand of each, the men departed in a state of supreme satisfaction. They had scarcely left, when the banker bolted the door from the inside, and crossed the room toward the opposite door. His hand trembled so that he could not introduce the key to open it, and he was obliged to retreat to the sofa, and there recover himself.
"How will she receive me?" thought he. "They say that she is sadly changed, and that her father would scarcely know his beautiful child again. Oh, my child, will I be able to bear the sight of your grief without falling at your feet, and acknowledging my guilt? But pshaw! She is safe now. I shall take her home; and for every tear that she has shed, I will give her a diamond bright as a star She shall have gold, pearls, riches, and be once more the envy of all the women in Vienna. Yes, my Rachel, yes—gold, diamonds, and happiness!"
He turned the key, and the door opened. Not a sound greeted his entrance into that dismal room, wherein four funeral-looking wax-lights were burning at each corner of a square table. Even so had the lights burned in the room where Rachel's mother once lay head. The banker thought of this, as between those flaring lights he saw the pale, wan figure on the sofa, that seemed as rigid, as motionless, and as white as a corpse.
Was it indeed Rachel? Those pinched features, those hollow eyes; that figure, so bowed with sorrow, could that be his peerless daughter? What had diamonds and pearls in common with that pale spectre?
The banker could scarcely suppress a cry of angwish as he gaze a upon the wreck of so much beauty. But he gathered courage to cross the room, and stood before her.
"Rachel," said he, in a soft, imploring voice, "do you know me?"
"I know you," replied she, without moving; "do you know me?"
"My beloved child, my heart recognizes yon, and calls you to itself. Come, darling, come and rest within you father's protecting arms. See, they are open to receive you. I have forgiven all, and am ready to devote my whole life to your happiness."
He opened his arms, but Rachel did not stir. She looked at him, and when he saw the look, his hands dropped nerveless to his side.
"Where is Gunther?" asked she. "What have you done with him?"
"I, my child?" exclaimed Eskeles. "The emperor has detected him in some dishonorable act (I know not what), and has sent him recruit to Hungary."
"I have heard this fable before," said Rachel, with a glance of mourn. "The priest who was sent to convert, has tried to console me for my loss, by dinning in my ears that Gunther was a traitor; but I know better. He is the victim of a Jew's revenge. It is you who have accused him with false witnesses, false letters, with all that vengeance can inspire, and wicked gold can buy. You are the accuser of my noble Gunther!" By this time she had arisen, and now she stood confronting her father, her wasted finger pointing toward him, and her sunken eyes glowing like lights from a dark, deep cave. "Who says so? Who has dared accuse me?" said he.
"Your face accuses you!—your eyes, that dare not encounter mine! Nay—do not raise your hand in sacrilegious protest, but answer me. By the faith of your ancestors, are you not the man who denounced him?"
He could not meet her scrutinizing glance. He averted his face, murmuring: "He who accused him is no better than himself. But it is the emperor who condemned him."
"The emperor is miserably befooled," cried Rachel. "He knows not the subtlety of Jewish revenge. But I am of the Jewish race, and I know it. I know my father, and I know my lover!"
"In this hour of reunion we will not discuss the innocence or guilt of the emperor's secretary," said the banker, gently. "I am thankful that the dark cloud which has hidden you so long from my sight is lifted, and that all is well with us again."
"All is not well, for between us lies the grave of my happiness, and that grave has sundered us forever. I cannot come to you, my father: the memory of my lover is between us, and that memory—oh, do not call it a cloud! 'Tis the golden beam of that sun which has set, but whose rays are still warm within my breaking heart. I say nothing to you of all that I have endured during these four weeks of anguish; but this I can tell you, my father, that I have never repented my choice. I am Gunther's for life, and for death, which is the birth of immortality!"
"He is a dishonored man!" said Eskeles, frowning.
"And I, too, will be dishonored to-morrow," replied Rachel.
Her father started. He had forgotten the disgrace which threatened her.
"Rachel," said he, with exceeding tenderness, "I come to rescue you from shame and suffering."
"To rescue me?" echoed she. "Whither would you have me fly?"
"To the house of your father, my child."
"I have no father," replied she, with a weary sigh. "My father would have forced my heart, as the priest and the rabbi would have forced my belief. But I am free in my faith, my love, and my hate; and this freedom will sustain me to-morrow throughout the torture and shame of a disgraceful punishment."
"You surely will not brave the lash!" cried her father, his cheeks blanched with horror at the thought. "You will be womanly, my child, and recant."
"I must speak the truth," said she, interrupting him. "The doors of the synagogue, as well as those of the church, are closed against me. I am no Jewess, and you forced me to swear that I would never become a Christian. But what matters it?" continued she, kindling with enthusiasm, "I believe in God—the God of love and mercy; and to-morrow I shall see His face!"
"You would destroy yourself!" cried her father, his senses almost forsaking him.
"No. But do you suppose that I shall survive the severity and humiliation of the lash which it is the pleasure of the emperor to inflict upon me? No, my father, I shall die before the executioner has time to strike his second blow."
"Rachel, my Rachel, do not speak such dreadful words!" cried Eskeles, wringing his hands in despair. "You cannot be a Christian, I know it; for their belief is unworthy of a pure soul. How could you ever give the hand of fellowship to a race who have outlawed you, because you scorn to utter a falsehood! But confess yourself a Jewess, and all will be well with us once more."
"I shall never return to the Jewish God of wrath and revenge! MY God is all love. I must acknowledge Him before the world, and die for His sake!"
There was a pause. Rachel was calm and resolute; her father almost distracted. After a time he spoke again.
"So be it, then," cried he, raising his hand to heaven. "Be a Christian. I absolve you from your oath, and oh, my Rachel! if I sought the world for a proof of my overweening love, it could offer nothing to compare with this sacrifice. Go, my child, and become a Christian."
She shook her head. "The Christian's cruelty has cured me of my love for Christianity. I can never be one of a race who have persecuted my innocent lover. As for you, the cause of his martyrdom, hear my determination, and know that it is inflexible. I am resolved to endure the punishment; and when the blood streams from my back, and my frantic cries pierce the air until they reach your palace walls;—when in the midst of the gaping populace, my body lies stretched upon the market-place, dishonored by the hand of the executioner,—then shall your revenge have returned to you; for the whole world will point at you as you pass, and say, 'He is the father of the woman who was whipped to death by the hangman!' "
"Alas!" sobbed the father, "I see that you hate me, and yet I must rescue you, even against your own will. The emperor has given me a pass to Paris. It is himself who allows me to escape with my poor, misguided child. Come, dear Rachel, come, ere it be too late, and in Paris we can forget our sorrows and begin life anew!"
"No! he has made the law, and he must bear the consequences of his own cruelty. He need not think to rescue himself from the odium of his acts, by conniving at my escape! I hate that emperor, the oppressor of my beloved; and as he dishonored Gunther, so shall he dishonor me. Our woes will cry to Heaven for vengeance, and—"
But Rachel suddenly ceased, and fell hack upon a chair. She had no strength to repulse her father, as he raised her in his arms, and laid her upon the sofa. He looked into her marble face, and put his lips to hers.
"She has swooned," cried he in despair. "We must fly at once. Rachel,
Rachel, away! The time is almost up. Come, we must away!"
She opened her eyes, and looked around. "Come, my daughter," said her father, kissing her wasted hands.
She said nothing, but stared and smiled a vacant smile. Again he took her hands, and saw that they were hot and dry. Her breath, too, was hot, and yet her pulse was feeble and fitful.
Her father, in his agony, dropped on his knees beside the unconscious girl. But this was no time for wailing. He rose to his feet again, and darting from the room, offered a handful of gold to the sentry, if he would but seek a physician. Then he returned to Rachel. She lay still with her eyes wide, wide open, while she murmured inaudible words, which lie vainly strove to understand.
At length came the physician. He bent over the patient, examined her pulse, felt her forehead, and then turning to the banker, who stood by with his heart throbbing as if it would burst—
"Are you a relative of the lady?" asked he.
"I am her father," replied Eskeles, and even in this terrible hour he felt a thrill of joy as he spoke the words.
"I regret, then, to say to you that she is very ill. Her malady is typhoid fever, in its most dangerous form. I fear that she will not recover: she must have been ill for some weeks, and have concealed her illness. Has she suffered mentally of late?"
"Yes, I believe that she has," faltered the banker. "Will she die?"
"I am afraid to give you any hope—the disease has gone so far. It is strange. Was there no relative near her to see how ill she has been for so long a time?"
Gracious Heaven! What torture he inflicted upon the guilty father! At that moment he would have recalled Gunther, and welcomed him as a son, could his presence have saved the child whom himself had murdered!
"Doctor," said he, in husky, trembling tones, "doctor, you must save my child. Ask what you will—I am rich, and if you restore her to me, you shall have a million!"
"Unhappily, life cannot be bought with gold," replied the physician. "God alone can restore her. We can do naught but assist Nature, and alleviate her sufferings."
"How can we alleviate her suffering?" asked Eskeles humbly, for his spirit was broken.
"By cool drinks, and cold compressions upon her head," said the physician. "Are there no women here to serve her?"
"No," murmured the banker. "My daughter is a prisoner. She is Rachel
Eskeles Flies."
"Ah! The Deist who was to have suffered to-morrow? Poor, poor child, neither church nor synagogue can avail her now, for God will take her to himself."
"But there is a possibility of saving her, is there not?" asked the father imploringly. "We must try every thing, for—she must be saved!" "Must?" repeated the physician. "Think you because you are rich that you can bribe Heaven? See, rather, how impotent your wealth has been to make your beautiful child happy (for I know her story). And, now, in spite of all the gold for which you have sacrificed her, she will die of a broken heart!"
Just then Rachel uttered a loud shriek, and clasping both her hands around her head, cried out that her brain was on fire.
"Cold compressions—quick," exclaimed the physician imperatively; and the banker staggered into Rachel's dressing-room (the room which Gunther had so daintily fitted up), and brought water and a soft fine towel, which his trembling hands could scarcely bind upon his poor child's head. Then, as her moaning ceased, and her arms dropped, he passed into an ecstasy of joy, for now he began to hope that she would be spared to him.
"We must have female attendance here," said the physician.
"She must be put to bed and tenderly watched. Go, baron, and bring your servants. I will see the emperor, and take upon myself the responsibility of having infringed his orders. Before such imminent peril all imprisonment is at an end."
"I cannot leave her," returned the baron. "You say she has but a few days to live; if so, I cannot spare one second of her life. I entreat of you, take my carriage, and in mercy, bring the servants for me. Oh, listen! she screams again—doctor go, I entreat! Here—fresh compressions—water! Oh, be quick!"
And again the wretched man bent over his child, and laid the cloths upon her head. The physician had gone, and he was alone with his treasure. He felt it a relief to be able to kiss her hands, to weep aloud, to throw himself upon his knees, and pray to the God of Israel to spare his idol!
The night went by, the servants came, and the physician, examining his patient again, promised to return in a few hours. Rachel was carried to her bed, and, hour after hour, the banker sat patient and watchful, listening to every moan, echoing every sigh; afraid to trust his precious charge to any one, lest the vigilance of another might fail.
A day and another night went by, and still no sleep had come over those glaring eyes. But she wept bitter tears, and when he heard her broken, murmured words of anguish, he thought he would go mad!
But sometimes in her fever-madness she smiled and was happy. Then she laughed aloud, and spoke to her beloved, who was always at her side. She had not once pronounced the name of her father; she seemed to have forgotten him, remembering nothing in all her past life save her love for Gunther.
Often her father knelt beside her, and with tears streaming from his eyes, implored a look, a word—one single word of forgiveness. But Rachel laughed and sang, heedless of the despairing wretch who lay stricken to the earth at her side; while the lover whom she caressed was far away, unconscious of the blessing.
Suddenly she uttered a wild cry, and starting up, threw her arms convulsively about. Now she invoked the vengeance of Heaven upon Gunther's murderers and at last—at last, was heard the name of her father! She cursed him!
With a cry as piercing as that of the poor maniac, Eskeles Flies sank upon his knees, and wept aloud.
Gradually Rachel grew more tranquil: and now she lay back on her pillow with a happy smile on her lips. But she spoke not a word. Once more she sighed "Gunther," and then relapsed into silence.
Into a silence that seemed so breathless and so long, that her father arose, frightened, from his knees. He bent over his smiling child, and her face seemed transfigured. Not a sigh stirred he, bosom, not a moan fluttered from her lips. But that smile remained so long unchanged, and her eyes—surely they were glazed! Yes!—Rachel was dead. [Footnote: The sad fate of Gunther and of his beloved Rachel is mentioned by Hormayer in his work, "The Emperor Francis and Metternich: a Fragment," p 78]