Back to her Father.
In Wally's room, on Wally's bed, lay Joseph, stretched out, insensible.
All was silent and still around him; she had sent every one away, she
knelt by the bed, she hid her face in her convulsively clasped hands,
and prayed.
"Oh, Lord God!--my God! my God! have mercy and let him live; take from
me everything--everything--but let him live. I'll ask no more of him,
I'll shun him--I'll leave him to Afra even--only he must not die!" And
then she stood up again and made fresh bandages for his head where the
blood flowed from a gaping wound, and for his breast that had been torn
by the crag, and threw herself upon him as though with her body she
would close those portals through which his life was streaming away.
"Oh, thou poor lad! thou poor lad! so stricken and brought down--oh,
the sin of it--the sin of it! Wally, Wally, what hast thou done? Should
thou not sooner have struck a knife into thine own heart--sooner have
stood by at Afra's wedding, then gone home quietly and died, than have
laid him there to see him perish like cattle that the butcher has
felled?"
Thus she lamented out loud whilst she bound his wounds, turning against
herself with the same anger with which she had been used to revenge
herself on others. She would have torn her heart out with her own hands
if she could, in the wild and frenzied remorse that had seized her.
Just then the door opened softly. Wally looked round in astonishment,
for she had forbidden any one to disturb her. It was the cure of
Heiligkreuz. Wally stood before him as before her judge, pale,
trembling in her very soul.
"God be praised!" cried the old man, "he is here then." He went up to
the bed, looked at Joseph, and felt him. "Poor fellow," he said, "you
have been roughly handled."
Wally set her teeth to keep herself from crying out at these words.
"How did they get him up again?" asked the priest, but Wally could not
answer.
"Well, thank God, He has averted the worst in His mercy," continued the
cure. "Perhaps he will get well, and you will then at least have no
murder on your conscience, though before the eternal judge the
intention is as bad as the deed."
Wally tried to speak.
"I know everything," he said with severity; "Vincenz came to me when he
fled, and confessed all--your love and his jealousy. I refused him
absolution, and sent him to join the Papal army; there he may earn
God's forgiveness by good service to the Holy Father, or expiate his
crimes by death. But what shall I say to thee, Wally?" He looked at her
sadly and piercingly with his shrewd eyes.
Wally clasped her hands before her face. "Oh!" she cried aloud, "none
can punish me with so bitter a punishment as I have brought on myself.
There he lies dying, whom I loved best in all the world, and I have to
tell myself that I did it. Can there be greater misery than that? Needs
there anything more?"
The priest nodded his head. "This then is what you have done--you have
become a rough piece of wood, fit to slay men with! It has happened as
I told you; you have resisted the knife of God, and now the Lord casts
you on one side and leaves the hard wood to burn in the fire of
repentance."
"Ay, your reverence, it is so, but I know of water that will quench
that fire. Into the Ache I will fling myself if Joseph dies--then all
will be at an end."
"Alas, poor fool! do you think that is a flame that earthly water can
quench? Do you really think that, with your earthly body, you can drown
your immortal soul? That would burn in the tormenting flame of eternal
remorse, even if all the seas in the world were poured upon it."
"What shall I do then?" said Wally gloomily; "what can I do but die?"
"Live and suffer: that is nobler than death."
Wally shook her head. Her dark eyes looked vaguely before her. "I
cannot--I feel it--I cannot live, the phantom maidens thrust me
down--all has happened as they threatened me in my dream: there lies
Joseph crushed and broken, and I must follow him; it is fated so, and
it must happen so, none can prevent it."
"Wally, Wally!" cried the priest, clasping his hands in horror, "what
are you saying? The phantom maidens? What phantom maidens? In Heaven's
name! do we live in the dark heathen times when men believed that evil
spirits made sport of them? I will tell you who the phantom maidens
are:--your own passions. If you had learnt to tame your own wild
unbridled will, Joseph would never have fallen over the precipice. It
is easy to lay the blame of your own evil deeds to the influence of
hostile powers. For that it is that our Lord came to us, to teach us to
acknowledge that we bear the evil in ourselves, and must fight with it.
If we control ourselves, we control the mysterious powers which drove
even the giants of the past to destruction, because with all their
strength they had no moral power to withstand them. And with all your
strength, your hardness and your daring, you are but a pitiful, weak
creature, so long as you do not know what every homely, simple handmaid
of the Lord performs, who, every day in the strict discipline of her
cloister-life, lays on God's altar the dearest wish of her heart, and
esteems herself blessed in the sacrifice! If you had only one glimmer
of such greatness in your soul, you need have no more fear of the
'phantom maidens,' and your foolish dreams would no longer direct your
destiny, but your own clear and conscious will. Reflect for once
whether that were not nobler and happier."
Wally leaned against the bed-post; she felt as if raised to a
newly-awakened and noble consciousness. "Yes," she said shortly and
decidedly, and crossed her arms on her heaving breast, "your reverence
is right--I understand, and I will try."
"I will try!" repeated the old priest, "once before you said that to
me--but you did not keep your word."
"This time, your reverence, I will keep it," said Wally, and the priest
silently admired the expression with which she spoke the simple words.
"What security will you give me?" he said.
Wally laid her hand on Joseph's wounded breast, and two large tears
sprang to her eyes; no spoken vow could have said more. The wise priest
was silent also, he knew no more was needed.
The wounded man turned in his bed and muttered some unintelligible
words. Wally made him a fresh bandage for his head; he half-opened his
eyes, but closed them again and fell back in a death-like slumber.
"If only the doctor would come!" said Wally, seating herself on a stool
by the bed. "What o'clock may it be?"
The priest looked at his watch. "What time did you send for him?" he
said.
"About five o'clock."
"Then he cannot be here yet. It is only ten o'clock, and it is quite
three hours to Soelden."
"Only ten o'clock," Wally repeated in a low voice, and the good priest
was filled with pity to see her sit there so quietly, her hands folded
in her lap, whilst her heart beat with anguish so that it could be
heard.
He bent over the sick man, and felt his head and his hands, "I think
you may be easy, Wally," he said, "he does not appear to me like a
dying man."
Wally sat motionless, gazing fixedly before her. "If the doctor comes
and says that he'll live, I care for nothing more in this world," she
said.
"That is right, Wally, I am glad to hear you say that," said the
cure approvingly, "and now relate to me how it was that Joseph was
saved--that will help to shorten the time till the doctor comes."
"There's not much to tell," answered Wally shortly.
"Nay, it is a noble deed that does honour to the men of the
Sonnenplatte," said the priest, "were you not there?"
"Oh yes!"
"Well then, be less short in your answers. I spoke with no one on the
way, and have heard nothing about it. Who fetched him up from the
ravine?"
"I!"
"God be gracious! You, Wally? you yourself?" cried the old man, staring
at her with astonishment.
"Yes--I!"
"But how can you have done it?"
"They let me down by a rope, and I found him fixed between a rock and
the trunk of a fir-tree; if the tree had not been there he must have
fallen into the torrent, and no one'd ever have seen him alive again."
"Child," cried the old man, "that is a great thing to have done."
"May be so," she answered quietly, almost hardly, "as I'd had him
thrown yonder, it was for me to fetch him up again."
"You are right,--that was only fair," said the priest, controlling his
emotion with difficulty. "But it is not the less an act of atonement
that may take some part of the guilt from your hapless soul."
"That is all nothing," said Wally, shaking her head. "If he dies, it's
I that have murdered him."
"That is true, but you gave a life for a life. You risked your own to
save his; you have atoned as far as was in your power for the crime you
have committed--the issue is in God's hands."
Wally heaved a deep sigh; she could not take in the comfort that lay in
the priest's words. "The issue is in God's hand," she repeated out of
the depths of her burdened heart.
The eye of the priest rested on her with content; God would not reject
this soul, in spite of its great faults and imperfections. Never yet,
old as he was, had he met with her equal in power for good, as for
evil. He looked at the wounded man who unconsciously clenched his fist
in defiance. It almost angered him that he should despise the noblest
gift that earth can offer man--a devoted love; that through his
indifference he should have had it in his power to harden a heart so
noble in its nature and capable of such high-minded sacrifice. "You
stupid peasant-lout," he muttered between his teeth.
Wally looked at him enquiringly: she had not understood.
There was a knock at the door, and at the same moment the doctor
entered the room. Wally trembled so that she was obliged to hold by the
bedpost. Here was the man on whose lips hung redemption or
condemnation. A crowd of people pressed in after him to hear what he
would say, but he soon turned them all out again. "This is no place for
curiosity; the sick man must have the most perfect quiet," he said
decidedly, and shut the door. He was a man of few words. Only, when he
took the bandage from the sick man's head, "There has been foul play
again here," he muttered.
Wally stood white and silent as a statue. The cure purposely avoided
looking at her; he feared to disturb her self-possession. The
examination began; anxious silence reigned in the little chamber. Wally
stood by the window with averted face while the surgeon examined the
wounds and used his probe. She had picked up something from the ground
which she held convulsively clasped between her hands, and pressed
again and again to her lips. It was the thorn-crowned head of the
Redeemer that she had broken in the night. "Forgive, forgive," she
prayed, pale and quivering in her deadly anguish. "Have mercy on me--I
deserve nothing--but let Thy mercy be greater than my sin."
"None of the wounds are mortal," said the doctor in his dry way. "The
fellow must have joints like an elephant."
Then Wally's strength went from her. The chord, too long and too highly
strung, gave way, and loudly sobbing she threw herself on her knees by
the bed, and buried her face in Joseph's pillows. "Oh, thank God! Thank
God!"
"What is the matter with her?" asked the doctor. The priest answered
him by a sign that he understood.
"Come, collect yourself," he said, "and help me to put on the
bandages."
Wally sprang up at once, wiped the tears from her eyes, and lent a
helping hand. The priest observed with secret pleasure that she
assisted the doctor as carefully and skilfully as a sister of charity;
she did not tremble, she wept no more, she showed a steady and quiet
self-control--the true self-control of love. And withal there was a
glory on her brow, a glory in the midst of sorrow, so that the priest
hardly knew her.
"She will do yet--she will do," he said joyfully to himself, like a
gardener who sees some treasured faded plant suddenly put forth new
shoots.
When the bandages were all fixed and the doctor had given his further
orders, the priest went out with him, and Wally remained alone with
Joseph. She sat down on the stool by the bed and rested her arms on her
knees. He breathed softly and regularly now, his hand lay close to her
on the counterpane--she could have kissed it without moving from her
place. But she did not do it, she felt as if now she dared not touch
even one of his fingers. If he had lain there dying or dead, then she
would have covered him with kisses, as heretofore, when she believed
him lost; the dead would have belonged to her--on the living she had no
claim! He had died to her in the moment when the doctor had said he
would live, and she buried him with anguish as for the dead in her
heart, while the message of his resurrection came to her as the message
of redemption. So she sat long, motionless by the side of the bed with
her eyes fixed on Joseph's beautiful, pale face--suffering to the
utmost what a human soul can suffer--but suffering patiently. She
neither sighed nor lamented now, nor clenched her fist as formerly, in
anger at her own pain; she had in this hour learnt the hardest of all
lessons--she had learnt to endure. What sort of right had she, the
guilty one, to complain--what better did she deserve? How could she
dare still to wish for him, she who had almost been his murderess? How
could she dare even to raise her eyes to him? No, she would bewail
herself no more. "Thou dear God, let me expiate it as Thou will--no
punishment is too great for such as I am--" So she prayed, and bowed
her head humbly on her clasped hands.
All at once the door was flung open, and with a cry of "Joseph, my own
Joseph!" a girl rushed in, past Wally, and threw herself weeping upon
Joseph; it was Afra. Wally had started up as if a snake had touched
her: for an instant the battle raged within, the last and hardest
fight. She grasped herself, as it were, with her own arms, as though to
keep herself back from falling upon the girl and tearing her away from
the bed--from Joseph. So she stood for a time, while Afra sobbed
violently on Joseph's breast; then her arms fell by her side as if
paralyzed, and beads of cold sweat stood on her brow. What would she
have? Afra was in her rights.
"Afra," she said in a low voice, "if thou truly loves Joseph, be still
and cease these cries--the doctor says he must have perfect quiet."
"Who can be still that has a heart, and sees the lad lie there like
that?" lamented Afra, "it's easy for thee to talk, thou doesn't love
him as I do. Joseph is all I have--if Joseph dies I am all alone in the
world! Oh Joseph, dear Joseph--wake up, look at me--only once--only one
word!" and she shook him in her arms.
A low groan escaped from Joseph's lips and he murmured a few
unintelligible words.
Then Wally stepped forward and took Afra gently but firmly by the arm;
not a muscle of her pale face moved.
"I have this to say to thee, Afra: Joseph is here under my protection,
and I am responsible for all being done according to the doctor's
orders; and this is my house that thou'rt in, and if thou will not do
what I tell thee, and leave Joseph in peace, as the doctor wishes, I'll
use my right and put thee out at the door, till thou's come to thy
senses and art fit to take care of him again--then," her voice
trembled, "I'll leave him to thee."
"Oh, thou wicked thing, thou--" cried Afra passionately, "thou'd turn
me out of the house because I weep for Joseph? Dost think everyone has
so hard a heart as thou, and can stand there looking on like a stone?
Let go my arm! I've a better right than thou to Joseph, and if thou
doesn't like to hear me cry, I'll take him up in my arms and carry him
home--there at least I can weep as much as I please. I'm only a poor
servant-maid, but if I'd to pay for it by serving all my days for
nothing, I'd sooner nurse him in my own little room than let myself be
shown the door by thee--thou haughty peasant-mistress!"
Wally let go of Afra's arm; she stood before her with a white face, and
with marks of such deadly suffering round her closed lips, that Afra
cast down her eyes in shame, as if she divined how unjust she had been.
"Afra," said Wally, "thou's no need to show such hatred, I don't
deserve it of thee; for it was for thee I fetched him out of the
abyss--not for me,--and it is for thee he will live, not for me! Look
here, Afra, only an hour ago I'd sooner have throttled thee than have
left thee by his bedside--but now all is broken, my spirit, and my
pride, and--my heart," she added low to herself "And so I'll make way
for thee willingly, for he loves thee, and with me he'll have nought to
do. Stay thou with him in peace--thou need not take away the poor sick
man. Sooner will I go myself. You two can stay at the farm so long as
you will--I will account for it with him to whom it belongs now. And I
will take care of you in everything, for you are both of you poor, and
cannot marry if you have nothing. And so perhaps some day Joseph will
bless the Vulture-maiden--"
"Wally, Wally," cried Afra. "What art thou thinking of? I pray thee--oh
Joseph, Joseph--if only I might speak!"
"Let it be," said Wally, "keep thyself quiet--for love of Joseph, keep
thyself quiet. And now let me go in peace; torment me no more, for go I
must. Only one thing I pray thee in return for what I've done for thee,
take good care of him. Promise me thou will, that I may go with an easy
mind."
"Wally," said Afra entreatingly, "don't thou do that, don't go away!
What will Joseph say when he hears we've driven thee out of thy own
house?"
"Spare all words, Afra," said Wally firmly, "when once I have said a
thing, it stands, come what may."
She went to the chest, and took out a change of clothes, which she tied
together in a bundle and threw over her shoulder. Then from a box she
took a bundle of linen. "See, Afra," she said, "here is old and fine
linen that thou'll need for bandages, and here is coarser to make lint,
which the doctor will want when he comes this evening. Look, there are
scissors--thou must cut it into strips the length of my finger. Dost
understand? And every quarter of an hour, thou must put a fresh bandage
on his head to draw the heat out. Tell me, can I trust thee not to
forget? Think what it would be if, after I have fetched him out of the
ravine, I should find that thou--thou had been careless in nursing
him--here, at his bedside. And see, he must always lie with his head
high, that the blood may not go to it--and shake the pillows up often.
That is all, I think, now--I know of nought else. Ah, my God, thou'll
not be able to lift him and lay him down as I do--thou hasn't got the
strength. Get Klettenmaier to help thee; he is trustworthy. Now I leave
him in thy hands--" Her voice failed her, her knees trembled, she could
hardly hold the bundle that she carried. She threw a last glance at the
wounded man: "God keep thee!" she said, and left the room.
Outside, the priest was talking with Klettenmaier. Wally went up to
them.
"Klettenmaier," she shouted in the old man's ear, "Go in and help Afra
to mind Joseph; Afra is there now in my place. Joseph will stay at the
farm, and I am going away. You are all to treat Joseph as if he were
the master, and to obey him as if I were by, till I come back; and woe
to you, if he has to complain of ought. Let all the servants know!"
Klettenmaier had understood, and shook his head, but he did not venture
to make any remark. "Good-bye, mistress," he said, "Come back again
soon."
"Never!" said Wally softly.
Klettenmaier went into the house; Wally stood before the priest, and
met his questioning glance. "Now nought is my own that my heart clings
to, but the vulture," she said sadly, as if exhausted. "But him I
cannot give up--he must come with me. Come, Hansl." She beckoned to the
bird, which sat puffed up and drowsy on a railing; he came flying
towards her with difficulty.
"Thou must learn to fly again now, Hansl," she said, "we're going
away."
"Wally," said the priest, much concerned, "what do you mean to do?"
"Your reverence, I must go away--Afra is in there! Is it not plain that
I cannot stay? I will do anything, I will all my life go bare and
homeless, and wander through the country, and leave everything to
him--everything--but I cannot look on at his Afra's love--only that I
cannot--cannot bear!" She set her teeth to keep back the springing
tears.
"And for his sake you will really give up house and home? Do you know
what you are doing, my child?"
"The farm no longer belongs to me, your reverence. Since yesterday I've
known that it belongs to Vincenz, whenever he puts in his claim. But my
money, what I have besides, shall be for Joseph. If he is crippled by
my fault, and cannot earn his bread,--it is my accursed guilt, and I
must provide for him."
"What, is it possible," cried the priest, "that your father
disinherited you of house and home?"
"What do I care for house and home? The home I belong to is always
ready," said Wally.
"Child," said the old man, much disturbed, "you would not do yourself
an injury?"
"No, your reverence, never now. I see now how right you are in
everything, and that God Almighty will not be defied by us. Perhaps,
when He sees that I truly repent, He'll have pity on me and grant peace
to my weary soul."
"Now blessed be the hour, hard though it may have been, that broke your
proud spirit! Now Wally, you are truly great! But where are you going,
my child? Will you go to some charitable refuge? Shall I take you to
the Carmelites?"
"No, your reverence, that would never suit the Vulture-maiden. I cannot
be shut up in a cell between walls--under God's free sky, as I have
lived, will I die--I should feel as if God could not come through such
thick walls. I'll repent and pray as if I were in a church, but I must
have the rocks and the clouds about me, and the wind whistling in my
ears, or I couldn't get on at all--you understand, do you not?"
"Yes, I understand, and it would be folly to try to dissuade you. But
where then are you going?"
"I'm going back to my father Murzoll--there is now my only home."
"Do as you will," said the priest. "Go in God's name, my child--I can
part from you in peace, for wherever you go now--it is back to your
Father!"