PRISONED
The prince had left the room, and she heard him walk through the work-shop. Silence fell upon the house and the street. The tortured woman, utterly exhausted, sank upon her bed--her feet would support her no longer. But she could get no rest; an indescribable grief filled her heart. Everything had happened precisely as Freyer had predicted. Before the cock crowed, she had thrice betrayed him, betrayed him in the very hour when she had sworn fidelity. At the first step she was to take on the road of life with the man she loved, at the first glance from the basilisk eyes of conventional prejudice, she shrank back like a coward and could not make up her mind to acknowledge him. This was her purification, this the effect of a feeling which, as she believed, had power to conquer the world? Everything was false--she despaired of all things--of her future, of herself, of the power of Christianity, which she, like all new converts, expected would have the might to transform sinners into saints in a single moment. One thing alone remained unchanged, one image only was untouched by any tinge of baseness amid the turmoil of emotions seething in her heart--Freyer. He alone could save her--she must go to him. Springing from her bed she hurried into the work-shop. "Where is your son?" she asked Andreas Gross, who was just preparing to retire.
"I suppose he is in his room, Countess."
"Bring him to me at once."
"Certainly, Countess."
"Shall I undress Your Highness?" asked Josepha, who was still waiting for her orders.
Madeleine von Wildenau's eyes rested on the girl with a searching expression, as if she saw her now for the first time. Was she faithful--as faithful as a maid must be to make it possible to carry out the plan her father had suggested? Josepha gazed steadily into the countess' eyes, her frank face expressed nothing but innocent wonder at so long a scrutiny. "Yes--you are faithful," said the countess at last--"are you not?"
"Certainly, Countess," replied the girl, evidently surprised that she needed to give the assurance.
"You know what unhappiness means?"
"I think so!" said Josepha, with bitter emphasis.
"Then you would aid the unhappy so far as you were able?"
"It would depend upon who it was," answered Josepha, brusquely, but the rudeness pleased the countess; it was a proof of character, and character is a guarantee of trustworthiness. "If it were I, Josepha, could I depend upon you in any situation?"
"Certainly!" the girl answered simply--"I live only for you--otherwise I would far rather be under the sod. What have I to live for except you?"
"I believe, Josepha, that I now know the reason Providence sent me to you!" murmured her mistress, lost in thought.
Ludwig Gross entered. "Did you wish to see me?"
Madeleine von Wildenau silently took his hand and drew him into her room.
"Oh, Ludwig, what things I have been compelled to hear--what sins I have committed--what suffering I have endured!" She laid her arm on the shoulder of the faithful friend, like a child pleading for aid. "What time is it, Ludwig?"
"I don't know," he replied. "I was asleep when my father called me. I wandered about looking for you and Freyer until about an hour ago. Then weariness overpowered me." He drew out his watch. "It is half past ten."
"Take me to Freyer, Ludwig. I must see him this very day. Oh, my friend! let me wash myself clean in your soul, for I feel as if the turbid surges of the world had soiled me with their mire."
Ludwig Gross passed his arm lightly about her shoulders as if to protect her from the unclean element. "Come," he said soothingly, "I will take you to Freyer. Or would you prefer to have me bring him here?"
"No, he would not come now. I must go to him, for I have done something for which I must atone--there can be no delay."
Ludwig hurriedly wrapped her in a warm shawl. "You will be ill from this continual excitement," he said anxiously, but without trying to dissuade her. "Take my arm, you are tottering."
They left the house before the eyes of the astonished Gross family. "She is a very singular woman," said Sephi, shaking her head. "She gives herself no rest night or day."
It was only five days since the evening that Madeleine von Wildenau had walked, as now, through the sleeping village, and how much she had experienced.
She had found the God whom she was seeking--she had gazed into his eyes, she had recognized divine, eternal love, and had perceived that she was not worthy of it. So she moved proudly, yet humbly on, leaning upon the arm of her friend, to the street where a thrill of reverence had stirred her whole being when Andreas Gross said, "That is the way to the dwelling of the Christ."
The house stood across the end of the street. This time no moonbeams lighted the way. The damp branches of the trees rustled mournfully above them in the darkness. Only a single window on the ground floor of Freyer's house was lighted, and the wavering rays marked the way for the pair. They reached it and looked in. Freyer was sitting on a wooden stool by the table, his head resting on his hand, absorbed in sorrowful thought. A book lay before him, which he had perhaps intended to read, but evidently had not done so, for he was gazing wearily into vacancy.
Madeleine von Wildenau stepped softly in through the unfastened door. Ludwig Gross waited for her outside. As she opened the door of the room Freyer looked up in astonishment "You?" he said, and his eyes rested full upon her with a questioning gaze--but he rose with dignity, instead of rushing to meet her, as he would formerly have greeted the woman he loved, had she suddenly appeared before him.
"Countess--what does this visit mean--at this hour?" he asked, mournfully, offering her a chair. "Did you come alone?"
"Ludwig brought me and is waiting outside for me--I have only a few words to say."
"But it will not do to leave our friend standing outside. You will allow me to call him in?"
"Do so, you will then have the satisfaction of having a witness of my humiliation," said the countess, quietly.
"Pardon me, I did not think of that interpretation!" murmured Freyer, seating himself.
"May I ask your Highness' commands?"
"Joseph--to whom are you speaking?"
"To the Countess Wildenau!"
She knelt beside him: "Joseph! Am I still the Countess Wildenau?"
"Your Highness, pray spare me!" he exclaimed, starting up. "All this can alter nothing. You remain--what you are, and I--what I am! This was deeply graven on my heart to-night, and nothing can efface it." He spoke with neither anger nor reproach--simply like a man who has lost what was dearest to him on earth.
"If that is true, I can certainly do nothing except go again!" she replied, turning toward the door. "But answer for it to God for having thrust me forth unheard."
"Nay, Countess, pray, speak!" said Freyer, kindly. She looked at him so beseechingly that his heart melted with unutterable pain. "Come--and--tell me what weighs upon your heart!" he added in a gentler tone.
"Not until you again call me your dove--or your child."
Tears filled his eyes, "My child--what have you done!"
"That is right--I can speak now! What have I done, Joseph? What you saw; and still worse. I not only treated you coldly and distantly in my father's presence, I afterwards disowned you three times--and I come to tell you so because you alone can and--I know--will forgive me."
Freyer had clasped his hands upon his knee and was gazing into vacancy. Madeleine continued: "You see, I have so lofty an opinion of you, and of your love, that I do not try to justify myself. I will only remind you of the words you yourself said to-day: 'May you never be forced to weep the tears which Peter shed when the cock crowed for the third time.' I will recall what must have induced Christ to forgive Peter: 'He knew the disciple's heart!' Joseph--do you not also know the heart of your Magdalena?"
A tremor ran through the strong man's frame and, unable to utter a word, he threw his arm around her and his head drooped on her breast.
"Joseph, you are ignorant of the world, and the bonds with which it fetters even the freest souls. Therefore you must believe in me! It will often happen that I shall be forced to do something incomprehensible to you. If you did not then have implicit faith in me, we could never live happily together. This very day I had resolved to break with society, strip off all its chains. But no matter how many false and culpable ideas it has--its principles, nevertheless, rest upon a foundation of morality. That is why it can impose its fetters upon the very persons who have nothing in common with its immoral side. Nay, were it merely an immoral power it would be easy, in a moment of pious enthusiasm, to shake off its thrall--but when we are just on the eve of doing so, when we believe ourselves actually free, it throws around our feet the snare of a duty and we are prisoned anew. Such was my experience to-day with my father! I should have been compelled to sunder every tie, had I told him the truth! I was too weak to provoke the terrible catastrophe--and deferred it, by disowning you."
Freyer quivered with pain.
She stroked his clenched hand caressingly. "I know what this must be. I know how the proud man must rebel when the woman he loved did that. But I also expect my angel to know what it cost me!"
She gently tried to loose his clenched fingers, which gradually yielded till the open hand lay soft and unresisting in her own. "Look at me," she continued in her sweet, melting tones: "look at my pallid face, my eyes reddened with weeping--and then answer whether I have suffered during these hours?"
"I do see it!" said Freyer, gently.
"Dear husband! I come to you with my great need, with my great love--and my great guilt. Will you thrust me from you?"
He could hold out no longer, but with loving generosity clasped the pleading woman to his heart.
"I knew it, you are the embodiment of goodness, gentleness--love! You will have patience with your weak, sinful wife--you will ennoble and sanctify her, and not despair if it is a long time ere the work is completed. You promise, do you not?" she murmured fervently amid her kisses, breathing into his inmost life the ardent pleading of her remorse.
And, with a solemn vow, he promised never to be angry with her again, never to desert her until she herself sent him away.
She had conquered--he trusted her once more. And now--she must profit by this childlike confidence.
"I thank you!" she said, after a long silence. "Now I shall have courage to ask you a serious question. But let us send home the friend who is waiting outside, you can take me back yourself."
"Certainly, my child," said Freyer, smiling, and went out to seek Ludwig. "He was satisfied," he said returning. "Now speak--and tell me everything that weighs upon your heart--no one can hear us save God." And he drew her into a loving embrace.
"Joseph," the countess began in an embarrassed tone. "The decisive hour has come sooner than I expected and I am compelled to ask, 'Will you be my husband--but only before God, not men.'"
Freyer drew back a step. "What do you mean?"
"Will you listen to me quietly, dearest?" she asked, gently.
"Speak, my child."
"Joseph! I promised to-day to become your wife--and I will keep the pledge, but our marriage must be a secret one."
"And why?"
"My husband's will disinherits me, as soon as I give up the name of Wildenau. If I marry you, I shall be dependent upon the generosity of my husband's cousins, who succeed me as his heirs, and they are not even obliged to give me an annuity--so I shall be little better than a beggar."
"Oh, is that all? What does it matter? Am I not able to support my wife--that is, if she can be satisfied with the modest livelihood a poor wood-carver like myself can offer?"
The countess, deeply touched, smiled. "I knew that you would say so. But, my angel, that would only do, if I had no other duties. But, you see, this is one of the snares with which the world draws back those who endeavor to escape its spell. I have a father--an unhappy man whom I can neither respect nor love--a type of the brilliant misery, the hollow shams, to which so many lives in our circle fall victims, a gambler, a spendthrift, but still my father! He asks pecuniary aid which I can render only if I remain the Countess Wildenau. Dare I be happy and let my father go to ruin?"
"No!" groaned Freyer, whose head sank like a felled tree on the arms which rested folded on the table.
"Then what is left to us--my beloved, save separation or a secret marriage? Surely we would not profane the miracle which God has wrought in us by any other course?"
"No--never!"
"Well--then I must say to you: 'choose!'"
"Oh, Heaven! this is terrible. I must not be allowed to assert my sacred rights before men--must live like a dishonored man under ban? And where and when could we meet?"
"Joseph--I can offer you the position of steward of my estates, which will enable us to live together constantly and meet without the least restraint. I can recompense you a hundredfold, for what you resign here, my property shall be yours, as well as all that I am and have--you shall miss nothing save outward appearances, the triumph of appearing before the world as the husband of the Countess Wildenau."
"Oh! God, Thou art my witness that no such thought ever entered my heart. If you were poor and miserable, starving by the wayside, I would raise you and bear you proudly in my arms into my house. If you were blind and lame, ill and deserted, I would watch and cherish you day and night--nay, it would be my delight to work for you and earn, by my own industry, the bread you eat. When I brought it, I would offer it on my knees and kiss your dear hands for accepting it. But your servant, your hireling, I cannot be! Tell me yourself--could you still love me if I were?"
"Yes, for my love is eternal!"
"Do not deceive yourself; you have loved me as a poor, but free citizen of Ammergau--as your paid servant you would despise me."
"You shall not be my servant--it is merely necessary to find some pretext before the world which will render it possible for us to be constantly together without exciting suspicion--and the office of a steward is this pretext!"
"Twist and turn it as you will--I shall eat your bread, and be your subordinate. Oh, Heaven, I was so proud and am now so terribly humiliated--so suddenly hurled from the height to which you had raised me!"
"It will be no humiliation to accept what my love bestows and my superabundance shares with you."
"It is, and I could be your husband only on the condition that I might continue to work and earn my own support."
"Oh! the envious arrogance of the poor, who grudge the rich the noblest privilege--that of doing good. Believe me, true pride would be to say to yourself that your noble nature a thousand times outweighed the petty sacrifice of worldly goods which I could make for you. He who scorns money can accept it from others because he knows that the outward gift is valueless, compared with the treasures of happiness love can offer. Or do you feel so poor in love that you could not pay me the trivial debt for the bit of bread I furnished? Then indeed--let me with my wealth languish in my dearth of happiness and boast that you sacrificed to your pride the most faithful of women--but do not say that you loved the woman!"
"My dove!"
"I am doing what I can!" she continued, mournfully, "I am offering you myself, my soul, my freedom, my future--and you are considering whether it will not degrade you to eat my bread and be apparently my servant, while in reality you are my master and my judge.--I have nothing more to say, you shall have your will, but decide quickly, for what is to be done must be done at once. My father himself (when he perceived that I really intended to marry) advised me to be wedded by our old pastor at Prankenberg. But I know my father, and am aware that he was only luring me into a trap. He will receive from me to-morrow a power of attorney to raise some money he needs--the day after he will invent some new device to keep me in his power. We must take the pastor at Prankenberg by surprise before he can prevent it. Now decide!"
"Omnipotent God!" exclaimed Freyer. "What shall I, what must I do? Oh! my love, I ought not to desert you--and even if I ought--I could not, for I could no longer live without you! You know that I must take what you offer, and that my fate will be what you assign! But, dearest, how I shall endure to be your husband and yet regarded as your servant, I know not. If you could let this cup pass from me, it would be far better for us both."
"And did God spare the Saviour the cup? Was Christ too proud to take upon Him His cross and His ignominy, while you--cannot even bear the yoke your wife imposes, is forced to impose?"
He bowed his head to the earth. Tears sparkled in his radiant eyes, he was once more the Christ. As his dark eyes rested upon her in the dim light diffused by the lamp, with all the anguish of the Crucified Redeemer, Madeleine von Wildenau again felt a thrill of awe in the presence of something supernatural--a creature belonging to some middle realm, half spirit, half mortal--and the perception that he could never belong wholly to the earth, never wholly to her. She could not explain this feeling, he was so kind, so self-sacrificing. Had she had any idea that such a man was destined to absorb us, not we him, the mystery would have been solved. What she was doing was precisely the reverse. His existence must be sacrificed to hers--and she had a vague suspicion that this was contrary to the laws of his noble, privileged nature.
But he, unconscious of himself, in his modest simplicity, only knew that he must love the countess to the end--and deemed it only just that he should purchase the measureless happiness of calling this woman his by an equally boundless sacrifice. The appeal to Christ had suddenly made him believe that God proposed to give him the opportunity to continue in life the part of a martyr which he was no longer permitted to play on the stage. The terrible humiliation imposed by the woman whom he loved was to be the cross received in exchange for the one he had resigned.
"Very well, then, for the sake of Christ's humility!" he said, sadly, as if utterly crushed. "Give me whatever position you choose, but I fear you will discover too late that you have robbed yourself of the best love I have to bestow. Your nature is not one which can love a vassal. You will be like the children who tear off the butterfly's wings and then--throw aside the crawling worm with loathing. My wings were my moral freedom and my self-respect. At this moment I have lost them, for I am only a weak, love-sick man who must do whatever an irresistible woman requires. It is no free moral act, as is usual when a man exchanges an equal existence with his chosen wife.
"If you think that, Joseph," said the countess, turning pale, "it will certainly be better--for me to leave you." She turned with dignity toward the door.
"Yes, go!" he cried in wild anguish--"go! Yet you know that you will take me with you, like the crown of thorns you dragged caught in the hem of your dress!" He threw himself on his knees at her feet. "What am I? Your slave. In Heaven's name, be my mistress and take me. I place my soul in your keeping--I trust it to your generosity--but woe betide us both, if you do not give me yours in return. I ask nothing save your soul--but that I want wholly."
The exultant woman clasped him in a passionate embrace: "Yes, give yourself a prisoner to me, and trust your fate to my hands. I will be a gentle mistress to you--you, beloved slave, you shall not be more mine than I am yours--that is, wholly and forever."