THE CRISIS.
Langensalza had grown very quiet after its days of storm and
excitement. The Hanoverian army was disbanded, and had returned home.
The Prussian troops had advanced upon other enemies in the south and
west, and the little town was now as placid and still as it had been
for long years before, until Fate chose it for the theatre of so bloody
a struggle.
But although the streets were as quiet and monotonous as ever in the
hot sunshine of midsummer, within the houses a quiet life went on of
inexhaustible love and mercy, that love and mercy which the tempest of
war always calls forth so abundantly, and which is so lovely a witness
of the eternal and indestructible connection between man's heart and
the God of unconquerable love, of inexhaustible compassion.
Many of the severely wounded Prussians and Hanoverians could not be
moved, and numerous hospitals were formed. All the private houses had
received the poor sacrifices of war, and from Prussia and Hanover,
besides the sisters of mercy and deaconesses, numerous relatives of the
wounded had arrived, to undertake the care of those they loved.
When the sun was setting, and the twilight brought the coolness of
evening, many women and girls in dark, simple dresses, with grave
faces, walked silently through the streets, hastily breathing in a
little fresh air, to obtain strength to continue their work of loving
self-sacrifice; and the looks of the inhabitants followed them with
quiet sympathy, as they sat before their doors after their day's work
was over, talking in whispers about one group after another as it
passed.
Madame von Wendenstein, with her daughter and Helena, had been most
kindly received into old Lohmeier's house, Margaret preparing two rooms
in the well-to-do burgher house with every possible comfort, whilst the
candidate found a lodging in a neighbouring hotel.
Trembling with anxiety, Madame von Wendenstein approached her son's
bed, repressing by a powerful effort the convulsive sobs that
threatened to choke her. The young lieutenant lay rigid and quiet, his
low, regular breathing the only sign of life.
The mother took his hand, bent over him, and gently breathed a kiss
upon his brow; and under the magnetic influence of a mother's kiss, the
young man slowly opened his eyes, and gazed around with a vacant look.
But then a happy ray of recognition animated the senseless eyes, a
smile came to his lips, and the mother felt an almost imperceptible
pressure on her fingers.
The old lady sank on her knees beside the bed, laid her head on her
son's hand, and, in silent unspoken prayer, besought God to preserve
this life, dearer to her than her own.
The two young girls stood behind Madame von Wendenstein. Helena's large
burning eyes were fixed on the image of the man, now so weak and
fragile, who had left her so fresh and strong. His sister concealed her
tears with her handkerchief; but Helena's eyes were dry and bright, her
pale features composed and motionless. She stood with folded hands, and
her lips trembled slightly.
Lieutenant von Wendenstein's widely-opened eyes fell on the young girl,
when his mother sank down beside his bed. A gleam of happiness passed
over his face, his eyes brightened with a look of delight, his lips
opened slightly, but a hard, rattling breath came from his mouth, and a
red foam appeared on his lips. His eyelids closed again, and the face
lay deadly pale and rigid on the white pillow.
Then the surgeon arrived, and brought uncertain comfort, and a time
commenced of unwearied watching--that quiet work, so difficult in its
simplicity and on which so rich a blessing rests, which raises the
heart so high above all earthly things, to the Fount of love, the
Eternal Lord of human life and human fate. How easy it seems to sit in
a comfortable chair, and watch the sleep of the sick; how small the
trouble of laying a cooling bandage on a wound, of placing a nourishing
drink, a composing medicine to the lips!
But who can weigh the anguish and anxiety with which the loving eye
hangs on each movement of the eyelash, on each quiver of the lip, on
every breath! The life of the sick may be endangered by a minute's
sleep, a forgotten order. Oh! how great these small, unimportant
services are through the long nights, when the seconds, wont to fly so
quickly, roll heavily, drearily into the sea of eternity; how small and
colourless all the changing brilliant doings of the outer world appear,
compared with the quiet sick-room and its holy work of preserving a
human life, and staying the Fates' cold hands, with their pitiless
shears, from severing a tender thread, on which hang joy and hope, love
and happiness, work and success!
And when recovery slowly, slowly approaches the bed of pain, like a
tender spring flower coyly raising its head, ever threatened by the
rough hand of a wintry death, who hesitatingly and unwillingly gives up
his prey, and with his cold flakes strives to stifle the bloom so
unweariedly tended day and night; how the loving heart bows down in
humble thanksgiving before the Almighty, in whose hand human life is
but a breath, which in a moment can fail, and which yet is so carefully
preserved, and adorned with such rich blessing. How small appear human
wishes, human will; how resignedly the heart learns to pray, "Lord, not
my will, but Thine be done!" with what trust and faith the soul rises
to the Father beyond the stars, who says, "Ask, and it shall be given
you."
Madame von Wendenstein passed through all these phases of inner life
beside the bed of her son; hoping and fearing, doubting and trusting,
she always maintained her outward calmness, and performed all the
duties of a nurse, assisted by the two young girls. Pale and quiet,
Helena took her share of the work, her large, dreamy eyes, quickened by
anxiety, watching every feature of the wounded man.
And hope had come, rejoicing every heart. The patient had passed
through the first fever from the wound. The ball had been
satisfactorily extracted; only one crisis more had to be feared--the
flow of blood which had filled the deep wound; then there was only the
recovery of strength to the much-shaken nervous system.
The most complete quiet was ordered by the surgeon; no loud sound must
be permitted to reach the patient's ear; no question must be answered,
and smiling lips and friendly glances must be the only language between
the sufferer and his nurses.
And how expressive was this language!
What pure, warm light flowed from Helena's eyes when they rested on the
pale face of the sleeper; how they hung on every breath, how thankfully
were they raised above when the regular breathing told of soft and
gentle sleep!
And when the sufferer opened his eyes, and saw those glances, what
bright, expressive looks, though weak from illness, replied. How
wonderful is it that the eye can express so much, that small circle
which yet can comprehend and mirror back the firmament, with its stars,
the everlasting mountains, and the boundless sea; what no words can
utter, what the most glowing poetry cannot express, is all said by the
eye, with its fine shades of varied expression; and above all by the
eyes of the sick, because, banished from the changing and distracting
pictures of the world, they have grown clearer and more transparent,
revealing more plainly all that passes in the self-contained soul.
When the eyes of the wounded officer rested on the young girl, their
deep eloquence telling whole volumes of poetry, recollections of the
past, hopeful dreams for the future, her eyes fell, and a slight blush
passed over her brow, and yet she raised them again, and her answer
sparkled through a veil of tears.
Once when Helena offered him some cooling drink, his long, thin, white
hand, with its dark blue veins, was stretched out towards her, she gave
him hers, and he clasped it, and held it for a long time, and his eyes
rested on her so thankfully, so enquiringly, so longingly, that, with a
sudden crimson blush, she withdrew her hand; but her look had answered
his, and, smiling, he closed his eyes, to dream again in light and
happy slumber.
And often since then, with an imploring look, he had held out his hand,
and she had given him hers,--and then her hand had been gently pressed
to his lips, and a kiss had been breathed on it with the hot breath of
sickness, and again tremblingly she had withdrawn her hand, and again
their eyes had met, and a happy smile had appeared upon her lips. And
the dumb language between them had grown richer and clearer, and he had
often opened his lips as if to make his feeble voice enforce the words
his eyes had spoken; but with a sweet smile she had laid her finger on
her lips, and his mouth had remained silent. At last his lips moved as
she sat by his bed, and in the lowest whisper he said, "Dear Helena."
Then with a quick movement and a brilliant look she had held out her
hand to him, and had not withdrawn it when he had pressed it long and
fervently to his lips.
Madame von Wendenstein had seen much of this dumb language, and had
understood it;--for what woman does not understand it? and what mother
is indifferent when the heart of a beloved son turns with tender
feelings to her who through the warfare of daily life may carry on a
gentle woman's work, begun by the mother herself during the quiet years
of childhood, that work of mild, consoling, gentle, forgiving love,
without which man's strength is hard and unfruitful; without which
man's work is without charm and graceful inspiration? Lost in these
reflections she had often sat watching the movements of the two young
hearts; whether it was pleasing to her, whether she saw with joy or
grief that which was unfolded to her, and which she could not prevent,
was hard to read in her pale, but calm and cheerful features;
nevertheless she was deeply moved by the sight of this flower of love
springing up from her son's bed of pain. And when one day the wounded
man put out both hands, and taking her hand and Helena's at the same
moment, silently implored that a mother's love might be given to his
beloved, without speaking she passed her arms round Helena, and
imprinted a kiss upon her brow; then her daughter came, and tenderly
pressed Helena to her heart; and the sick man with a look of happiness
folded his pale hands together in thankfulness.
Thus in the chamber of sickness a rich, eventful life went on, a link
between two hearts was formed, so pure, so tender, so delicate, so
holy, that it scarcely could have been thus perfected amidst the
distractions of the world; no words had been exchanged, but all was
understood--all knew what had sprung up on the border land that divides
life from death; they knew it had taken root strongly, and would grow
up in the future life. Thus God, whilst ruling the terrible tempests
that convulsed the world, and bringing forth a new order of things from
the mighty struggle of the nations of Germany--seized with a gentle,
tender hand the inner life of these two human hearts, imprinting deep
and silent feelings as indelibly, as the gigantic characters in which
His eternal judgments were graven on the tablets of history.
Fritz Deyke, with his clear, true eyes, saw plainly enough what was
going on beside the sick-bed of his lieutenant; he had not said a word,
but he had managed to express that he understood, and was perfectly
satisfied, by his respectful attentions and hearty sympathy to the
pastor's daughter, and when he saw Helena sitting beside the
lieutenant's bed, he looked with a smile from one to the other, and
gave an approving nod, as if applauding some satisfactory thought.
Since the ladies' arrival he only came to and fro to the sick room,
bringing everything needful, and at night he insisted on undertaking
the last and most weary hours of watching, driving away the ladies with
good-natured brusqueness.
But he was unwearied in assisting the pretty Margaret in all her
occupations, in her endeavour to make their quiet monotonous life as
agreeable as possible to her guests, and in her efforts to provide them
with every comfort; then he had almost taken old Lohmeier's place out
of doors, in the stable and garden, assisting everywhere with skilful
hand, lightening much of the old man's work, and relieving him entirely
of the rest. And in the evening he sat before the door with his host
and his daughter; the father listened well pleased and smiled
approvingly at his daughter when the sturdy son of Wendland, who had
long before thrown aside his soldier's coat, told stories of his home;
the old man gave a nod of satisfaction when it appeared from these
histories that old Deyke was a well-to-do man, and that a rich
inheritance must one day descend to his only son and heir.
The candidate came several times daily to see the ladies. Sometimes in
a quiet manner he helped a little in nursing. Sometimes he spoke a few
well-chosen words of comfort to the old lady. He went in and out of all
the houses where there were sick and wounded, offered spiritual
consolation, and was unwearied in assisting and directing in the
hospitals, so that he won the general respect and gratitude of all the
inhabitants of Langensalza, and all the relatives of the wounded.
Madame von Wendenstein was full of his praise, and took every
opportunity of showing her esteem and gratitude to the young clergyman.
Helena kept aloof from her cousin, and he did not seek her more than
every-day intercourse required. But his eyes often rested on her with a
strange expression, and an evil glance darted from them when he saw the
young girl sitting beside the bed of the wounded officer, when her
whole soul lay in her eyes, and the feelings of her heart were warmly
reflected in her features; but no word, no sign betrayed that he
guessed what had taken place in solitude and silence.
Late in the afternoon of one of the last days of July Madame von
Wendenstein sat, with her daughter, in her room. The window was wide
open to admit the cooler air that streamed in as the day declined. The
door of the sick-room stood open, and Helena sat by the bedside,
attentively watching the quiet slumberer as he lay with a smiling
expression of happiness on his pale features.
The candidate sat with the ladies in his faultless black dress, a white
necktie of dazzling purity carefully arranged around his neck, and his
hair brushed smoothly down on each side of his forehead.
He spoke in a low voice as he told Madame von Wendenstein of the other
sufferers whom he had visited.
"You have chosen a beautiful calling," said the old lady, smiling
kindly on the young clergyman; "in such times as these especially, it
must be a glorious satisfaction to bear the divine words of comfort to
sufferers, and to raise and refresh their souls amidst bodily pain."
"But in such times as these," said the candidate, in a humble voice,
casting his eyes to the ground, "I feel doubly what an unworthy
instrument I am in the hand of Providence; when I speak to sufferers
who have already stretched out their hands to eternity, who already
behold the glories of a future world, I often ask myself whether I am
worthy to tell them of their Lord, and I tremble beneath the weight of
my office. But," he continued, folding his hands together, "the power
of the divine word gives strength even to an unworthy instrument to
work mightily; and I can say with joy that many a heart in health
devoted to the world, has through my means, on the brink of eternity,
received the faith, and obtained salvation."
"How many families will be grateful to you!" said Madame von
Wendenstein warmly, as she held out her hand to him.
"They must not be grateful to me, but to Him who is mighty through me,"
replied the candidate, in a low voice, bowing his head.
And at the same moment he turned a quick glance towards the sick-room,
in which a slight sound was heard.
The surgeon had entered softly; he approached the bed, watched his
sleeping patient attentively for some little time, then he bent over
him, gently removed the covering of the wound, and examined it
carefully.
After a few minutes he joined the ladies in the other room.
Madame von Wendenstein looked at him anxiously. Helena followed him,
and remained standing at the door.
"Everything is progressing excellently," said the surgeon; "and though
I cannot say all danger is over, I can assure you that every day my
hopes of a complete recovery increase."
Madame von Wendenstein thanked him for this good news with emotion, and
Helena's eyes smiled through tears.
"For some time to come absolute quiet will be needful. Any shock to the
much shaken nervous system might bring on fever of an inflammatory or
typhoid character, and in the present state of weakness this would be
fatal. The deep wound is still filled with blood; this can only be
slowly absorbed and dispersed. Any sudden flow of blood from a violent
effort might be fatal; therefore, I repeat it, absolute quiet is the
first essential in the recovery of our patient, and nature will assist
his youthful strength to repair the injury he has received. Nothing can
be done beyond a slight compress to the wound, a little cooling
medicine, and the maintenance of the strength by light nourishment. But
now, ladies, I must exercise my medical authority upon you," he
continued. "It is a long time since you have been in the open air, and
to-day it is deliciously cool. You must go out!"
Madame von Wendenstein hesitated.
"It is needful for our patient's sake," said the surgeon, "that you
should keep up your strength. What would become of him if you were to
be ill? You must take a real walk. Fritz can take care of the patient,
who wants nothing but sleep."
"Oh, I will stay here," cried Helena; but suddenly recollecting
herself, she was silent, and looked down with a blush.
"I beg, my dear lady," said the candidate, "that you will follow our
friend's prescription without any anxiety. I will remain with Herr von
Wendenstein. I have learned what to do beside a sick bed. Go, for you
all need this refreshment."
"Quick, then," said the doctor. "I will take you to a beautiful shady
walk, and you will see what wonderful good you feel from that medicine
which nature prescribes for all--fresh air."
Madame von Wendenstein put on her bonnet and mantle, and the young
ladies followed her example. Helena looked anxiously at the wounded
officer, and then hesitatingly followed the other ladies, who with the
surgeon had already left the room.
The candidate, with downcast eyes and a gentle smile, accompanied her
to the door. He then turned back, entered the sick-room, and seated
himself in the armchair near the bed.
From his pale face the gentle smile and the expression of spiritual
peace and priestly dignity vanished. His half-closed, downcast eyes
opened widely, and were fixed upon the sleeper with a look of hatred,
and his thin lips were pressed firmly together.
There was a wonderful contrast between the wounded officer--who lay
stretched on his couch in light slumber, his eyes closed, the
reflection of sweet and pure dreams shining in his face, whilst on his
brow appeared a glimpse of heaven, a spark of the Divine breath--and
the man who sat near him in the garments of a priest, a horrible
expression of low, earthly passion and demoniacal hatred upon his
countenance.
The wounded man tossed his head a little to and fro, as if he felt
disturbed by the look the candidate fixed upon him, then with a deep
sigh he opened his eyes and turned them joyfully towards the place
where he hoped to see the beloved form that had filled his dreams. With
large, surprised, almost frightened eyes, he saw the clergyman beside
him. The candidate compelled his countenance suddenly to resume its
usual calm expression, lowering his eyes to conceal their hatred, for
he knew that even his strong powers of will could not at once banish
this expression.
"Do you want anything, Herr von Wendenstein?" asked the candidate, in a
low, gentle voice. "The ladies have gone out, and they have left me
here to take care of you."
Lieutenant von Wendenstein raised his finger a little and pointed to a
small table near the bed, on which stood a carafe of fresh water and a
small vial filled with a red fluid.
The candidate poured a few drops of the medicine into a glass of water,
and held it to the lieutenant's lips, who raised his head with some
little difficulty and drank it.
The eyes of the wounded man said as plainly as possible, "I thank you."
The candidate put down the glass, folded his hands together, and said,
as he cast down his eyes,--
"Did you think, Herr von Wendenstein, when your body craved earthly
refreshment that your soul needed a spiritual medicine to strengthen
and refresh it in the valley of the shadow of death, that if Providence
sees fit to call it hence, it may be prepared to stand before the
Judge, and to give an account of the deeds done in the flesh?"
The wounded man's eyes, which after the cooling drink, were closing
again in slumbrous weariness, opened widely, and gazed upon the
candidate with astonishment and fear. He was accustomed to be spoken to
by looks, by signs, by single words whispered low, and his wearied
nerves shuddered at this unusual mode of speech. Then, too, the loving
care that had watched him in sickness and encouraged with fostering
hand the seed of convalescence, had surrounded him with pictures of
hope, with assurances of a new life blooming in the future, so that the
sharp and sudden mention of death, with his threatening hand still
stretched over him, affected him as if on a sunny, flower-scented day
he had suddenly felt the ice-cold breath of a newly-opened vault. A
slight shudder ran through his frame, and he feebly shook his head, as
if to free himself from the gloomy picture so suddenly called up.
"Have you thought," continued the candidate, suddenly raising his voice
and speaking sharply and impressively, "how you will pass through those
black, dreadful hours, those hours now perhaps very near you, when your
soul, with convulsive shudders, will tear itself free from the cold
body--when your heart must leave every earthly joy, every earthly hope,
and lay them in the dark depths of the grave, where the body, born of
dust, must return to the dust of which it is formed?"
The eyes of the wounded man grew larger, a feverish glow burned on his
cheeks, and there was an imploring expression in the look he turned
upon the candidate.
He fixed his eyes upon the young officer with the electric fascinating
gaze with which the rattlesnake turns its prey to stone.
"Have you thought," continued the candidate, and his sharp voice seemed
to cut deep down into the sick man's soul, as his looks glared into his
horror-stricken eyes, "have you thought, that then, at the trumpet
blast of eternity, you must stand before the throne of a righteous and
severe Judge and give an account of your life? Your last act was
murder; the shedding of a brother's blood in a struggle justified by
earthly laws; but must it not appear a deadly sin in the eyes of
Eternal Justice?"
The features of the wounded man quivered, the feverish flush increased,
and his eyelids sank and rose with a quick involuntary movement.
"Heaven has shown you great mercy," said the candidate, "you have been
granted time for preparation here on a bed of sickness, for eternity,
whilst many were called away in the midst of mortal sin. Have you
worthily used the time so graciously granted you? Have you turned your
thoughts and desires away from all worldly things, and fixed them on
things eternal? Have you banished from your heart every earthly wish,
every earthly hope? Does it not still cling to earth? Judge yourself,
and let not the short time of grace be in vain!"
The candidate bent down lower and lower, and fixed his glaring eyes on
those of the lieutenant, whose violent nervous agitation greatly
increased. His pale hands trembled even to the tips of the fingers, he
raised them with a repelling movement, and pointed to the table, whilst
with difficulty in a feeble voice, he gasped "Water!"
The candidate brought the green fire of his sparkling eyes still closer
to the sick man's face, he stretched his right hand over his head
whilst with the fingers of the left he pointed to his heart, and he
said in a low voice:
"Think of the Water of Life, try to become worthy of the Well-spring of
Grace that alone can cool the torturing flames of eternal damnation.
They are ready for you, if you do not use this short time of grace, and
rend every earthly thought from your heart! The time that remains to
you is brief, and if your soul still clings to the past, it will fall
into the abyss already yawning before you!"
A slight red foam appeared on the wounded man's lips, his eyes opened
widely, and stared unconsciously around. His out-stretched fingers were
stiff, and his whole frame terribly convulsed.
The clergyman bent down closer over him, and in a harsh rough whisper
muttered in his ear:
"The pit opens, the sulphurous flames ascend, you hear the lamentations
of endless torment, the supplications of the damned that can no longer
reach the Ear of Mercy; the light of heaven goes out, and the outcast
soul sinks into the dreadful horror, which no living spirit can
conceive, no living heart can imagine,--sinks, deeper, deeper,--ever
deeper."
A sudden shudder passed through the wounded man's frame, a rattling
breath forced itself from his labouring breast, his lips opened and a
stream of thick black blood flowed from his mouth. His face grew deadly
pale.
The candidate was silent, he rose slowly, his eyes firmly fixed on the
face trembling in its death struggle; he drew back his hands and stood
with a cruel smile, calm and motionless.
The door of the next room was softly opened and a careful footstep was
heard.
The candidate started. With a great effort he compelled his features to
resume their usual expression of pious dignity; he folded his hands on
his breast, and turned his head towards the door.
Fritz Deyke appeared and cautiously popped in his head.
"Ah! you are here, sir?" he said in a whisper, "I was busy in the
stable, but I heard the ladies had gone out, so I thought I would come
and look at my lieutenant. Lord God in heaven!" he cried, suddenly
rushing to the bed, "what is this? my lieutenant is dying!"
He seized the stiff hand of the sick man, and bent over the apparently
lifeless body.
"I fear the worst," said the candidate calmly, in a mild voice, full of
melancholy sympathy. "A violent cramp seized the poor young man, and
the breaking of a blood-vessel seems to have ended our hopes. It was
quick and sudden, whilst I was endeavouring to cheer him by friendly
converse, and spiritual consolation!"
"My God! my God!" cried Fritz, "this is too horrible--what will become
of his poor mother, of Miss Helena?"
And hastening to the door he called loudly, in an accent of grief and
despair,--
"Margaret! Margaret!"
The young girl rushed upstairs; the sound of Fritz's voice as he called
her had alarmed her, and she looked anxiously in at the door of the
sick-room.
"My lieutenant is dying! for God's sake fetch the doctor quickly!"
cried Fritz Deyke as he went to meet her.
Margaret glanced hastily at the bed, saw the pale face and streaming
blood, and wringing her hands together, with a low outcry hastened
away.
Fritz Deyke knelt before the bed, and with a handkerchief wiped away
the blood from the lieutenant's mouth, repeating again and again, "My
God! my God! his poor mother!"
The candidate went into the adjoining room, and seized his hat; then he
suddenly determined to remain; he stood still for a moment, and then
seated himself so that he could see into the sick-room.
Margaret had hastened out; she knew the way that the surgeon had taken
with the ladies, and flew after him. She soon saw him near the first
houses of the little town. He had led the ladies to a shady alley, and
was taking leave of them, as he wished to return to his other patients.
The young maiden was quite breathless when she reached him. The surgeon
looked at her with amazement, Helena's eyes were fixed upon her in
anxious fear.
"For God's sake, sir!" cried Margaret, struggling for breath enough to
bring out her words, "I think--I fear--the poor lieutenant--"
"What has happened?" cried the surgeon, in alarm.
"I fear he is dead," gasped Margaret. "Come, quick! quick!"
Madame von Wendenstein seized the surgeon's arm, as if seeking a
support, but she hastened along in silence, really hurrying the doctor
with her; he was endeavouring to gain from Margaret some particulars of
this unexpected seizure.
Helena rushed on first, and her flying feet scarcely touched the
ground. She uttered one cry when Margaret gave her terrible message,
then she fled with vacant eyes through the streets, until she came to
old Lohmeier's house, and flying up the stairs, reached the
lieutenant's room.
She paused for a moment at the threshold, sighed deeply, and pressed
both her hands against her breast. Then she opened the door, and stood
gazing on the young man's deathlike face. Nothing had changed, and
Fritz Deyke stood before him, carefully removing the blood that
streamed from his lips with a white handkerchief.
Fritz raised his head and turned round. When he saw Helena standing
there an image of silent despair, he comprehended that her sorrow was
greater than his own. He rose slowly, and said, in a low, trembling
voice,--
"I think the good God has called him; come, Miss Helena, if anyone can
awake him, you can!"
And gently seizing her hand he led her to the bed.
She sank upon her knees, and taking the lieutenant's hand pressed it to
her lips, breathing on it with her warm breath; her sad, tearless eyes
were fixed upon his face, and her lips sometimes moved, repeating the
same whispered words, "Oh! my God! let me follow him!"
Thus they continued motionless for some time--Helena crouched beside
the bed, Fritz Deyke standing near her, and regarding her with great
emotion, as he brushed away the tears with the back of his hand. The
candidate sat in the adjoining room, with an expression of deep
sympathy upon his features, his hands folded, and his lips moving as if
in silent prayer.
Then came the surgeon and the two ladies.
Madame von Wendenstein was about to hasten to her son's bedside, but
the surgeon held her back gravely, almost roughly.
"No one can be of any use here but myself," he said energetically; "the
sick belong to me. Ladies must leave the room; if they are wanted, I
will call them."
Fritz gently pushed Madame von Wendenstein and her daughter into the
adjoining room; Helena rose quietly, and seated herself at some
distance.
The surgeon approached the bed; he carefully examined the sick man's
face, looked at the wound, and held his hand for a long time upon his
heart, gazing at his watch at the same time.
The candidate went up to Madame von Wendenstein, who had sunk upon a
chair, her face covered with her hands.
"Compose yourself, much honoured lady," he said in his gentlest voice;
"all hope is not yet over, and if it is the will of Providence to put a
period to your son's life, you must think how many, many parents have
to bear the same, and often even greater sorrow."
Madame von Wendenstein only replied by her sobs.
The old surgeon now returned to the ladies. Scarcely had he left the
bed, when Helena returned to her place, and again taking the hand
strove to warm it with her breath.
"It is a frightful crisis," said the doctor; "I cannot understand its
cause, but alas! it leaves us little hope. We must be prepared for the
worst; but the heart still beats, and as long as there is a spark of
life a physician does not despair. There is really nothing to be done;
if nature does not help herself, our knowledge is powerless. But how,"
he continued, turning to the candidate, "did this alarming crisis come
on? My patient was perfectly quiet when I last saw him."
"He continued so," said the candidate, "for some time after I had taken
my place beside his bed; he awoke from a deep sleep, I gave him some
drink, and he appeared quite well; whilst I was endeavouring to refresh
his soul with spiritual consolation, a convulsive movement came on,
followed by this gush of blood. It was quick and sudden."
"Well, well," said the surgeon, "what I hoped might proceed gently and
gradually has taken place suddenly, from a violent nervous crisis
setting free the blood collected in the vessels. It is scarcely
possible that this can have happened without causing serious mischief,
besides the frightful effect upon the nerves. Did you talk to him
much?" he asked, looking firmly at the candidate.
"I said," he replied, folding his hands, "what my calling requires me
to say to the sick, I hardly know whether he understood me."
"Forgive me, sir," said the surgeon, in a brusque voice, shaking his
head, "I am not one of those who despise religion, and from my heart I
believe that all help comes from God; but in this case it really would
have been better to let him sleep."
"The word of God, with its wondrous power, is never out of place,"
replied the candidate in a cold tone of conviction, raising his eyes
with a pious expression.
"My God! my God!" cried Helena from the next room, in a loud,
half-frightened, half-joyful voice, "he lives, he wakes!"
They all hastened into the room; the physician went to the head of the
bed, whilst Helena still knelt and pressed the lieutenant's hand to her
lips.
He had opened his eyes, and turned a wondering look from one face to
another, as if surprised at the excitement he saw on every countenance.
"What has happened?" he asked in a low, but perfectly clear voice,
whilst a slight flow of blood still came from his lips. "I have had a
bad, bad dream,--I thought I was dying."
His eyes closed again.
The surgeon raised the pillows that supported his head, gently took his
hand from Helena, and examined his pulse.
"A glass of wine," he cried.
Fritz Deyke hurried away, and returned in a moment with a glass of old
dark red wine.
The surgeon held it to his patient's lips. He drank it eagerly to the
last drop.
In trembling anxiety they all awaited the result. Helena's face was as
pale as marble; her soul lay in her eyes.
After a short time a tinge of colour came to von Wendenstein's cheek, a
deep sigh heaved his breast, and he opened his eyes.
They rested on Helena, and a smile passed over his face.
"Draw a deep breath," said the doctor.
He did so immediately.
"Does it hurt you?"
The young officer shook his head slightly, his eyes still fixed on
Helena.
The doctor again felt his pulse, laid his hand on his brow, and
listened attentively to his breathing.
He then went up to Madame von Wendenstein, and said, as he held out his
hand to her with a joyful smile, "Nature has conquered this violent
crisis, now only rest and nourishment are needed; thank God, your son
is saved!"
The old lady approached the bed, pressed an affectionate kiss upon her
son's brow, and gazed long into his eyes.
Then she left the room, and sank upon the sofa in the adjoining
apartment: the frightful excitement and the long, anxious suspense had
so exhausted her strength that her whole soul sought relief in a storm
of tears.
Helena remained sitting near the bed, still holding the hand of her
beloved, still gazing upon him calm and motionless, the brilliancy of
perfect happiness on her pale features.
The candidate remained standing, with folded hands; he retained the
gentle smile unchanged upon his lips, whilst his eyes never moved from
the scene at the lieutenant's bedside.
After a little consideration the doctor wrote a prescription, and,
rising with the paper in his hand, joined the others.
"Our patient must take this every hour," he said. "I hope he may sleep
quietly during the night; to-morrow, or the next day, we can begin a
strengthening diet, and if God continues to help us, we may soon look
for a rapid recovery."
He turned to the Candidate Behrmann.
"Forgive my hasty words," he said gravely. "You were right when you
spoke of the divine power of God's word. God has indeed performed a
wonder; not one case in a hundred would have passed through such a
crisis favourably. I bow before this wonder, and with you I look up
with thankfulness and adoration to the Day-spring who sends down
knowledge and faith to us, as rays of light from an eternal centre."
He spoke warmly and feelingly as he held out his hand to the candidate.
An indescribable expression appeared on Behrmann's face. He cast down
his eyes, bent his head, and was silent.
Then he remembered that many sick friends were wanting him, and he took
leave of Madame von Wendenstein with a few words of sympathy. He went
up to Helena and took her hand.
Why did she withdraw it with a hasty movement of fear? Why did an icy
coldness stream from his fingers to her heart? Did she see the
involuntary look which flashed from his eyes when he approached the
bed, or was it that secret instinct which causes unexplained sympathy
and antipathy, often judging more truly than the longest experience,
the deepest knowledge of mankind, or the most prudent reflection?
The physician and the candidate departed, and the ladies were left
alone with the invalid, who fell into a calm sleep.
Fritz Deyke, whose strong nerves soon recovered from the excitement of
the last hour, gave himself up completely to joy. After he had fetched
the lieutenant's medicine he hastened into the little garden, where
Margaret was watering her flowers, whose drooping heads told of the
excessive heat of the last few days.
He said very little. He hurried to and fro, filling her watering-pot
again and again; and then he made little channels in the ground to the
roots of the plants, that the water might penetrate more quickly. He
admired the quickness and grace with which Margaret watered her plants;
how lightly and cleverly she raised the drooping flowers and tied them
to sticks, and he saw that sometimes she looked kindly at him, and that
she blushed a little when he observed it.
Then he seated himself with old Lohmeier and his daughter at their
simple but excellent supper, and again he admired Margaret's adroitness
and attention to her household duties, and the cheerful comfort she
shed around her.
And he thought to himself how pretty she would look in the rich old
farmhouse at Blechow, and how the elder Deyke would rejoice at having
such a housekeeper and daughter-in-law. What Margaret thought was her
own secret, but she looked supremely happy as she served her father and
his guest, and performed all the duties of an attentive housewife, with
the skill of an experienced hostess and the grace of a lovely girl.
Thus quiet joy and hopeful happiness prevailed throughout the good
burgher house in Langensalza.
The candidate Behrmann visited many of the sick and wounded, and
unweariedly spoke eloquent and impressive words of comfort, and he
refused all thanks with humility. He advised and ordered in the
hospitals; and praises of the pious, gifted, and exemplary young
clergyman resounded from every lip.