If ever any one had cause to ruminate on the strange sport of destiny,
that person surely was Councillor Moser; for wayward chance had played
him as sorry a trick as could well be imagined. He, the most faithful
subject of a most gracious sovereign, the incarnation of loyalty, the
sworn foe of every revolutionary and democratic tendency, had lived to
see the son of a traitor to King and State lodged beneath his roof,
admitted to the sanctuary of his home--while, bitterest reflection of
all, to the imprudent and overhasty conduct of his own daughter must he
ascribe the calamity which had overtaken him.
There was no denying the fact that Agnes Moser had alone been to blame
for what had happened, though, no doubt, she had been actuated by the
most pious motives. Agnes had always looked on the short space of time
which she was to spend in her father's house before entering on her
chosen vocation, simply as an interval of preparation for the life that
was to follow. The law-writer's sick wife was by no means the only
person on whom she had bestowed her care and attention. Wherever
comfort and consolation were needed, in the Castle itself or its
immediate neighbourhood, there would be found this young girl, so
rarely seen at other times, ready, in her quiet self-sacrificing way,
to relieve the suffering and afflicted; and what, in another case,
might have appeared singular and excited remark, was from her received
as a matter of course. It was generally known that Councillor Moser's
daughter was to take the veil; the sanctity of the future nun was about
her, and this, added to her constant willingness to render help where
help was needed, procured for her from all the dwellers in the Castle a
degree of respect but seldom accorded to a maiden of seventeen. It
seemed perfectly natural, therefore, that when the wounded men were
brought up to the Castle, Fraeulein Moser should take her part in the
work of succour, and her proposal to have Dr. Brunnow, whose case was
by far the worst, carried to her father's room, where she could attend
to him herself, met with prompt and cordial acceptance. The Governor
had given orders that every care and attention were to be shown the
injured men, and more especially the young doctor, who had so nearly
lost his life in the exercise of his professional duty, and surely he
could be entrusted to no better hands than these. His precarious
condition would oblige him to remain at the Castle for the present,
whilst the two policemen, whose injuries were of a less serious nature,
might be transported to the town on the following day. The major-domo
caught at the chance of fulfilling his master's instructions so
precisely. He gave his warm support to the plan which the young lady's
feelings of Christian charity had suggested, and he had the
satisfaction of finding that the Baron, when informed of the
arrangement, appeared well pleased and spoke his full approval.
But the Councillor was by no means so satisfied with the position of
affairs. He worked himself into a fury on seeing this treasonable
patient installed in his home, and insisted on his immediate removal.
Here, however, he was met by a resistance as decided as his own. For
the first time in her life the gentle, quiet Agnes displayed an
unyielding obstinacy, refusing absolutely to obey her father in this
matter; and as that determined person, Frau Christine, declared herself
on the side of her young mistress, Moser was out-voted and vanquished.
He was given to understand that a man so dangerously ill could not be
moved without risk to his life, and that he who turned him out of doors
would incur the guilt of manslaughter; and the Councillor at length
seemed to grasp the truth of this reasoning, but it did not lessen his
despair. Early the next morning he rushed over to his chief to
communicate the dreadful tidings, and to protest in the most solemn
manner against any supposition of complicity on his part; but, in lieu
of the hoped-for decree which should free him from the presence of his
unwelcome guest, he was advised to acquiesce in and sanction his
daughter's proceedings, of which the Baron himself seemed thoroughly to
approve. Raven promised to shield the Councillor from any doubts on the
score of his loyalty, and even declared that he would send round his
own physician to the patient. It was incumbent on them, he said, to
show all interest in the young doctor, who had behaved with so much
courage and proper feeling. The Councillor was fain to submit to this
high authority, but he did so with a heavy heart. He could not forgive
his daughter for allowing herself thus to be led into extremes by her
charitable sentiments and her pity for her suffering fellow-creatures;
and though he was powerless to alter the accomplished fact, he viewed
it every day with increasing abhorrence and indignation.
On the third morning after Max Brunnow's accident, the doctor who was
attending him called to pay his usual professional visit. He was a
small, spare man, with flaxen hair, mild-looking eyes, and a very
gentle voice. On coming in, he met the master of the house, who was on
the point of leaving for his office, and a short conference took place
between the two gentlemen.
"No, Councillor, I have little, I may say no, hope of saving our
patient. He is in a bad way--a very bad way. We must hold ourselves
prepared for the worst."
"You have not seen him to-day," said the Councillor. "My daughter tells
me he has passed a very quiet night."
The little doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah, weakness--coma! There was great loss of blood, and after the
violent traumatic fever, extreme exhaustion was sure to follow. I tell
you, in my opinion, he will not rally."
"I am sorry to hear it," said the Councillor. Before the dread shadow
of Death his rancour yielded, and compassion gained the upper hand.
"And my daughter will be sorry too. She has taken all the nursing on
herself, and has zealously kept watch by the sick-bed. I fear, indeed,
that Agnes is overtaxing her strength, for I have never seen her look
so pale. I had really to insist this morning--to compel her to go and
take some rest after sitting up all night."
"Yes, Fraeulein Moser is an admirable nurse. She has all the zeal and
devotion necessary for her future vocation, and I am persuaded that her
life will be fruitful of blessing to others. In this case, however, her
exertions will soon be at an end. I fear the poor fellow's hours are
numbered. He will hardly last through the day."
With a melancholy shake of the head, he took his leave, and went off to
see his patient. The Councillor remained behind, looking very blank and
melancholy also, but from quite another cause. A fresh trouble was
coming on him. There was to be a death in the house now, after these
two long days of care and anxiety. And how shocking it would be to see
in the papers: "The son of that Dr. Brunnow, whose name is notorious in
connection with the late revolution, died on such a day in R----, at
the house of Councillor Moser. His death was occasioned by injuries
received in a street riot." Those wretched papers always made these
announcements in a dry, matter-of-fact manner, without a word of
explanation or amplification. The Councillor cast an appealing glance
to Heaven. He, the most dutiful, the most conscientious of officials,
to be exposed to such a fate! His head drooped dolefully over his white
neckcloth as he at length set out on his way to the Chancellery.
Meanwhile the physician had betaken himself to the sick-room. He
entered with the cautious, noiseless step with which it seems natural
to approach the dying. Frau Christine, who had relieved her young
mistress for a short time, sat by the bedside. The doctor exchanged a
few words with her in a whisper, and then sent her to fetch fresh
compresses. Going up to the bed, he bent over the patient, who suddenly
awoke and opened his eyes, apparently in possession of full
consciousness.
"How do you feel yourself, my dear sir?" asked the little doctor, in a
very gentle tone.
"Pretty well, thank you," replied the sick man, whose roving eyes
seemed to be seeking something. "What has been the matter with me?"
"You have been badly wounded; but make your mind easy--I will do all
that can be done. You are in good hands."
Max, having searched the whole room without finding what he sought, now
turned his attention to the speaker, and calmly surveyed him.
"A colleague, I presume?" said he. "Whom have I the honour----"
"My name is Berndt," replied his brother practitioner. "His Excellency
the Governor, who has shown the greatest sympathy for you during your
illness, would have sent his own physician. My distinguished friend,
Dr. ----, is, however, unfortunately indisposed himself, so I, as his
assistant, have undertaken the case. But you must not talk, nor, above
all, move; answer my questions by signs if you find it difficult to
speak. You are low and exhausted, and require the utmost----"
He stopped aghast, for the condemned man, having pulled himself
together with a vigorous jerk, sat bolt upright, and asked, in a voice
which was anything but faint:
"What has become of my nurse? She used to stay with me always."
"Fraeulein Moser, do you mean? She has gone to get a little rest, after
having watched by your bedside all night. You have indeed been nursed
with devoted care. That young lady is an angel of mercy."
"Mercy?" repeated Max, with protracted emphasis. "Yes, as you say, a
too intimate acquaintance with the pavement of your agreeable town has
thrown me on the mercy of mankind. Confounded misuse of paving-stones
to shy them at people's heads!"
"Do not excite yourself, my dear colleague," implored Dr. Berndt,
gently. "No agitation, I beg. Quiet, rest, and the greatest caution!
But now that you are yourself again, is there no wish, no desire you
would like to express?"
His face said plainly that he expected nothing less than a last will or
dying bequest.
Ignoring such subjects, however, the patient replied with perfect
equanimity: "Certainly; I have the most pressing wish and desire for
something to eat."
"To eat!" asked the doctor, in surprise. "To eat! Well, if you like, we
may try a little beef-tea."
"A little won't do," said Max. "I shall want a great deal; but I think
I would rather have something a trifle more substantial than beef-tea.
A steak, now--in fact, I could eat two."
"Dear, dear, dear!" exclaimed the little Esculapius, laying his fingers
on the sick man's pulse, for he began to think his patient was
delirious. But Max drew away his hand impatiently.
"Don't make such a fuss about that crack in my head-piece. It will be
well in a week. I know my constitution."
Dr. Berndt looked with commiseration at this poor deluded creature, who
had so little knowledge of his situation.
"You mistake your condition, my friend. You are very ill,
notwithstanding this flicker of vitality. You have lain two whole days
prostrated by a violent fever."
"That is no reason why I should not feel very well on the third, when
the fever has left me. Flicker of vitality! Do you really imagine I am
in danger?"
"I do not imagine it--it is a fact," said Dr. Berndt, a little piqued.
"Seriously, I fear----"
"You need not fear anything at all," interrupted Max. "I have not the
smallest intention of going over to the majority at present. But now,
have the goodness to tell me exactly how I have been treated."
This clinging to life, so bluntly expressed by a patient on whom he had
passed sentence of death without recall, seemed to disconcert the
doctor extremely. He was silent, and looked flustered. It was only when
the question was reiterated in a louder key, and with audible
impatience, that he vouchsafed the desired details, and related, with
much self-complacency, the various measures he had adopted to rescue
the sick man from the jaws of death.
Max listened rather disdainfully.
"My respected colleague, you might have done better," said he, in his
rough, outspoken way. "I don't approve of violent remedies. I never
have recourse to them in slight cases, but let Nature act, doing what I
can to assist her."
"But this was not a slight case," cried the little doctor, who, in
spite of his mild temper, was beginning to get angry. "I tell you, your
condition was a most precarious one. It is so still, indeed, as you
will find when this momentary excitement is over."
"And I tell you that I am doing very well," cried Max, still louder;
"and that there is not the smallest prospect of any danger. I am a
decided opponent of this method of treatment. I consider it useless,
injurious even. You may thank God that my robust constitution has held
out under these experiments, otherwise you would have had the death of
a brother practitioner on your conscience."
Dr. Berndt grew purple with indignation.
"I follow the method of my friend. Dr. ----, Professor of Therapeutics,
and consulting-physician to his Excellency. The professor is one of our
first authorities. He holds a most important position at the University
here, and his system is attended with marvellous success."
The little doctor raised his mild voice to as loud and shrill a pitch
as possible, but in vain, for Max with his strong lungs quite
overpowered him.
"I don't care a rap for the Professor of Therapeutics. We have far
greater authorities at our University of Z----, and our success is
infinitely more marvellous. But we do not cling to tradition and
routine, like you gentlemen here in this patriarchal R----."
Hereupon the two medical men fell into a professional dispute, which
grew so violent that Frau Christine hurried in from the next room, in
alarm. But, on crossing the threshold, she stopped, petrified with
astonishment at the sight which met her view. Dr. Brunnow, who,
according to all rule and precedent, should have lain calmly on his
death-bed, sat upright, gesticulating, and pouring forth volley after
volley of argument on his colleague, raking him with the fire of his
proofs and refutations; while the colleague himself, who, ten minutes
before, had, as it were, stolen into the room on tiptoe, so fearful was
he of disturbing the dying man, now stood before his patient in a state
of violent excitement, and fought with both arms in the air, whilst he
in vain sought to stem that torrent of speech and put in a word in his
turn. Failing altogether in this, he seized his hat at last in a rage,
and cried:
"If you know everything so much better than anyone else, treat yourself
in future, if you please. I shall let the Governor know your precise
state, and shall at the same time tell his Excellency that I have never
yet met with such a patient--a man who yesterday lay at death's door,
and who to-day flings the grossest insults at me and at the whole
body of the faculty here. You are right, sir. Such a constitution as
yours is unique. You put every diagnosis to shame. I wish you a
good-morning."
So saying, he left the room tempestuously. Frau Christine, who had not
understood a word of the business, stared after him in astonishment,
and then went up to the invalid for an explanation.
"Goodness me, what is the matter? What has happened? The doctor is
running away in a perfect fury, and you----"
"Let him run," said Max, leaning back composedly. "That man and brother
is bent on making of me a candidate for heaven. He has very nearly
killed me with his stupid proceedings. Now I will take my treatment
into my own hands, and set about it at once, too. Dear Frau Christine,
I do beg of you, in the most earnest and affectionate manner, bring me
something to eat."
It might be about an hour later that Agnes Moser, after a short
interval of rest, of which she stood but too much in need, prepared
again to take her place by the bedside whence during the last few days
she had hardly stirred. Meanwhile Dr. Brunnow had followed out his own
prescription with an exactitude which left nothing to be desired, much
to the delight of Frau Christine, who thought the doctor showed great
discernment in his mode of treatment. But in vain did she preach to him
to try and get a little sleep. Max declared that he did not want to
sleep, and occupied himself exclusively with watching the door through
which Agnes must enter. When in the short space of a quarter of an hour
he presumed to ask three times where his nurse was, and what she could
be doing, Christine grew somewhat irritated. She looked the patient
sternly in the face, and said, without any beating about the bush:
"What's all this that is going on between you and Fraeulein Agnes,
Doctor? There is something underneath, something hidden; I have seen
that a long while."
Max preferred to make no answer; but this availed him little. The
housekeeper went on, in her blunt, straightforward way:
"Don't trouble yourself to try and impose on me. I have not been in and
out of this room all these days for nothing. Do you think I have not
seen how the poor child has been fretting, and the change that came
over you whenever Agnes went near you? I know all about it, I assure
you; you won't deceive me."
"Frau Christine, what a wonderfully wise woman you are!" said the young
doctor. "You sit there and tell me things which three days ago I did
not so much as guess at, and of which Fraeulein Agnes is now as ignorant
as I was. But, unfortunately, you are right. Nemesis has overtaken me.
I am hopelessly, head over ears, in love."
Christine nodded. "I have known that ever so long. But what is to come
of it? I have not worried myself much about the matter so far, because
Dr. Berndt made so sure you were going to die, and that would have
ended everything; but now it seems there is no likelihood of your
popping off at present----"
"No likelihood at all," interpolated the patient.
"Well, then, I should like to ask what is to become of you and my young
lady?"
"What is to become of us? Why, a married couple, to be sure. What else
should become of us?"
Contrary to Max's expectation, Frau Christine did not appear shocked or
horrified at this answer. Though a Catholic herself, she was the widow
of a Protestant, and during the course of her married life she had
imbibed many heretical notions; among these figured a strong dislike to
convents and the conventual system. The girl's determination to
withdraw from the world had never found favour in her sight; in her
opinion, a myrtle-wreath would become her young mistress far better
than a nun's veil. She was far, therefore, from disapproving of the
scheme so boldly proposed by Dr. Brunnow, who had taken her fancy from
the first. Nevertheless, she shook her head gravely:
"There will never be any question of that. Have you forgotten that
Fraeulein Agnes is going into a convent?"
"Oh, that plan will come to nothing," decided Max. "She is not
in yet, and I will take care she does not go in. But--this is most
important--you must not tell your young lady that I am better, nor say
a word to her about my discussion with the doctor, and the excellent
appetite I have since developed. I will tell her all that myself."
Christine looked rather startled at receiving these instructions.
"Doctor, you will not be so unscrupulous as to go and act a part with
that poor child?" she asked.
"I am horribly unscrupulous in such matters," declared the doctor, with
sweet, equable frankness. "Besides, all I ask of you is to keep silence
until I have spoken to Fraeulein Agnes. We'll settle the rest
afterwards."
The required promise could not be given, for at this juncture Agnes
came in. She did, indeed, look very pale, and the anxious inquiring
look she turned on Christine told her utter despondency. With a
noiseless step she went up to the sick man's bed, and, bending over
him, asked in a trembling voice how he felt.
That prudent youth. Dr. Brunnow, took good care not to display the fine
animation which his late medical discussion had called forth in a
manner surprising as it was satisfactory. He thought fit, by way of
answer, feebly to hold out his hand to the young girl. Max was well
aware that in his supposed danger he had a most powerful ally, and as,
according to his own confession, he was horribly unscrupulous, he did
not hesitate an instant to take advantage of the situation.
Frau Christine thought he was acting abominably, but she was too well
disposed towards the secret design which prompted this abominable
conduct to rise in open revolt against it. She merely reported,
therefore, that Dr. Berndt had called, but had left no new
instructions, and seized the first opportunity of hurrying from the
room and leaving the young people together.
Agnes had re-assumed her functions as nurse.
"Take your medicine now," she begged. "Dr. Berndt directed me to give
it regularly. He only wrote this new prescription yesterday evening."
"Dr. Berndt gives me up for lost," replied Max, "so it is quite useless
for me to take his physic."
"No, no; don't think that," entreated Agnes, soothingly, her anxious
face belying her words. "He only said that your illness might take a
dangerous turn----"
"I spoke to him myself this morning," interrupted the young doctor,
"and heard his sentence from his own lips. He believes my wounds to be
mortal."
Agnes set down the medicine bottle, and hid her face in her hands.
Presently he heard a half-stifled sob.
"Agnes, would it grieve you if I were to die?"
The question came in a remarkably soft and tender tone from Dr.
Brunnow's lips--mildness and tenderness not being among that
gentleman's ordinary characteristics. He received no answer, but the
sobs grew louder, more passionate. Taking the girl's hands, he drew
them gently from her face all deluged in tears, and went on:
"I think I have betrayed so much to you, that you need not hesitate to
confess those tears are falling for me. It is only within the last few
days, since I have been under your care, that I have known how matters
really stood with me, or, may I say, with us both?"
The girl had sunk on her knees by the bedside and buried her face in
the pillows. For all reply she wept more bitterly and despairingly than
ever, but she offered no resistance when the sick man put his arm
round her and drew her gently to him. And then followed a wonderful
event--Max Brunnow, throwing overboard his programme with its many
clauses, launched into a fervent, heart-stirring declaration of love, a
declaration which had but one defect--in form and vivacity of
expression it was such as no dying lips could have uttered.
Poor Agnes was far too agitated to think of this; and moreover Dr.
Berndt had so impressed upon her the utter hopelessness of the case,
that she dared not admit to herself even the possibility of recovery.
She took the patient's animation for the excitement of fever, and truly
believed that she was witnessing the last transient flicker of life's
flame--the gleam which precedes its final extinction.
"I shall never forget you," she sobbed. "What in life I never should
have owned to you, now in the presence of death I may confess--my love
is endless, unspeakable; it will reach beyond the grave. It is no sin
to think of a departed one, and to send messages on the wings of
prayer--this I shall do daily, when the quiet convent walls have shut
me in for ever."
Earnest and touching as were her accents, this confession hardly
satisfied Max. He had not the smallest wish to be worshipped as a
departed spirit, and communications with the other world were by no
means to his taste.
"It would be so, in case of my death," he said; "but what if I should
live, after all?" Agnes raised her dark, tearful eyes, with an
expression of the utmost perplexity. She had evidently not thought of
this. "I believe that would not quite suit you," cried Max,
resentfully.
"Not suit me? Oh, how can you say so! Why," cried the young girl, with
a burst of feeling, "I would willingly give my life to save yours, if
that were possible!"
"You shall not be asked to give your life," declared Max, whose
conscience smote him as he saw how true and deep was the poor girl's
grief. "All you will have to give up is a foolish idea which would make
us both miserable were you to cling to it. Agnes, you are mistaken in
thinking my condition a hopeless one. I have, in fact, hardly been in
danger at all; and this morning any doubt as to my recovery has
altogether disappeared. If I left you in error a quarter of an hour
longer than was necessary, I did so because I was determined, at any
cost, to obtain from you an avowal of your affection. As a
convalescent, I well knew I should sigh for it in vain, but now you
have spoken your confession, and I shall hold you to your word. It will
be quite useless to go back--to try and recall what you have said. You
may refuse me a hundred times, it will make no difference. In spite of
all and everything, you will be my wife."
Agnes started up. "Never. You must not think of that. I have given
myself to a religious life. I must return to the convent very shortly."
"Not if I know it," answered the young doctor, stoutly. "The convent
people have no voice in the matter. Happily, you are quite free as yet;
you have taken no vows."
"I have taken vows mentally, to myself I have promised the abbess and
my confessor, and this promise is as binding as an oath taken at the
altar."
"I have no objection whatever to your taking an oath before the altar,"
remarked Max, "but I must be present on the occasion, and swear myself
in at the same time, as is usual at nuptial ceremonies. If the lady
abbess and our friend the confessor attempt to interfere, they will
have to deal with me. I shall soon settle them. I'll make such a stir
among the whole spiritual community, that----"
"For Heaven's sake, do not be so violent!" implored the girl, with deep
anxiety. "This excitement may be most hurtful, may be fatal to you.
Do--do compose yourself, I entreat you!"
"We two must come to a clear understanding first," declared Dr.
Brunnow, in his old dictatorial way. Then he poured forth on Agnes a
torrent of argument, of reasons irrefutable, such as he had lately
showered on his unfortunate colleague, proving to her, clear as day,
that she was his betrothed now, and that, come what might, she must one
day be his wife, until the poor girl, quite bewildered and stupefied,
began at last to think he was right, and the matter really stood as he
put it. It would indeed have required a more energetic nature than hers
to offer effectual resistance here, when this moribund, of whom a last
leave had just been taken, whose memory was to have been cherished
beyond the grave, and with whom spiritual communion alone was
henceforth to be held, suddenly rallied, made an unexpected sortie in
the shape of a most earthly offer of marriage, and fairly took by storm
the fortress which refused to capitulate. Agnes still wept, it is true,
and still said No, no, it could never be, she would go back to the
convent; but when Max, unheeding this, took her in his arms and kissed
her, she bore it with docility, and the young man himself seemed to
entertain no doubt whatever of his victory, for he murmured _sotto
voce_, and drawing a long breath, "Well, we have managed that business
successfully, thanks to the remarkable stupidity of my worthy
colleague. Blessings on the old blockhead!"