DAY IS DAWNING.
In the quiet chamber in the ancient hunting-castle, on the spot
formerly occupied by the little bed, a casket now stood on two chairs
near a wooden crucifix.
Freyer had returned, bringing the body of his child. He had telegraphed
to the countess, but received in reply only a few lines: "She was
compelled to set off on a journey at once, her mind was so much
affected that her physician had advised immediate change of scene to
avert worse consequences."
A check was enclosed to defray the funeral expenses and bestow a sum on
Josepha "as a recognition of her faithful service," sufficient to
enable her to live comfortably in case she wished to rest. Josepha
understood that this was a gracious form of dismissal. But the royal
gift which expressed the countess' gratitude did not avail to subdue
the terrible rancor in her soul, or the harshness of this dismissal.
Morning was dawning. Josepha was changed by illness almost beyond
recognition, yet she had watched through the night with Freyer beside
the coffin. Now she again glanced over the letter which had come the
evening before. "She doesn't venture to send me away openly, and wants
to satisfy me with money, that I may go willingly. Money, always money!
I was forced to give up the child, and now I must lose you, too, the
last thing I have in the world?" she said to Freyer, who was sitting
silently beside the coffin of his son. Tearing the cheque, she threw it
on the floor. "There are the fragments. When the child is buried, I
know where I shall go."
"You will not leave here, Josepha, as long as I remain. Especially now
that you are ill. I have been her servant long enough. But this is the
limit where I cease to yield to her caprices. She cannot ask me to give
you up also, my relative, the only soul in my boundless solitude. If
she did, I would not do it, for--no matter how lowly my birth, I am
still her husband; have I no rights whatever? You will stay with me, I
desire it, and can do so the more positively as my salary is sufficient
to support you. So you need accept no wages from her."
"Yes, tell her so, say that I want nothing--nothing except to stay with
you, near my angel's grave." Sobs stifled her words. After a time, she
continued faintly: "I shall not trouble her long, you can see that."
"Oh, Josepha, don't fancy such things. You are young and will recover!"
said Freyer consolingly, but his eyes rested anxiously upon her.
She shook her head. "The child was younger still, yet he died of
longing for his mother, and I shall die of the yearning for him."
"Then let me send for a doctor--you cannot go on in this way."
"Oh, pray don't make any useless ado--it would only be one person more
to question me about the child, and I shall be on thorns while I am
deceiving him. You know I never could lie in my life. Leave me in
peace, no doctor can help me."
Some one rang. Josepha opened the door. The cabinetmaker was bringing
in a little coffin, which was to take the place of the box containing
the leaden casket. Her black dress and haggard face gave her the
semblance of a mother mourning her own child. Nothing was said during
the performance of the work. Josepha and Freyer lifted the metal casket
from the chest and placed it in the plain oak coffin. The man was paid
and left the room. Freyer hastened out and shook the snow from some
pine branches to adorn the bier. A few icicles which still clung to
them thawed in the warm room, and the drops fell on the coffin--the
tears of the forest! The last scion of the princely House of
Prankenberg lay under frost-covered pine boughs; and a peasant mourned
him as his son, a maid servant prepared him for his eternal rest. This
is the bloodless revolution sometimes accomplished amid the ossified
traditions of rank, which affords the insulted idea of universal human
rights moments of loving satisfaction.
The two mourners were calm and quiet. They seemed to have a premonition
that this moment possessed a significance which raised it far above
personal grief.
An hour later the pastor came--a few men and maid-servants formed the
funeral procession. Not far from the castle, in the wood, stood a
ruinous old chapel. The countess had permitted the child to be buried
there because the churchyard was several leagues away. "It is a great
deal of honor for Josepha's child to be placed in the chapel of a noble
family!" thought the people. "If haughty old Count Wildenau knew it, he
would turn in his grave!" The coffin was raised and borne out of the
castle. Josepha, leaning on Freyer, followed silently with fixed,
tearless eyes and burning cheeks. Yet she succeeded in wading through
the snow and standing on the cold stone floor in the chilly chapel
beside the grave. But when she returned home, the measure of her
strength was exhausted. Her laboring lungs panted for breath; her icy
feet could not be warmed; her heart, throbbing painfully, sent all the
blood to her brain, which burned with fever, while her thoughts grew
confused. The terrible chill completed the work of destruction
commenced by grief. Freyer saw it with unutterable sorrow.
"I must get a doctor!" he said gently. "Come, Josepha, don't stare
steadily at the empty space where the body lay. Come, I will take you
to my room and put you on the bed. Everything there will not remind you
of the boy."
"No, I will stay here," she said, with that cruelty to herself,
peculiar to sick persons who do not fear death. "Just here!" She clung
to the uncomfortable sofa on which she sat as if afraid of being
dragged away by force.
Freyer hastily removed the chairs which had supported the coffin, the
crucifix, and the candles.
"Yes, put them out, you will soon need them for me. Oh, you
kind-hearted man. If only you could have the happiness you deserve. You
merited a better fate. Ah, I will not speak of what she has done to me,
but her sins against you and the child nothing can efface--nothing!" A
fit of coughing almost stifled her. But it seemed as if her eyes
continued to utter the words she had not breath to speak, a feverish
vengeance glittered in their depths which made Freyer fairly shudder.
"Josepha," he said mildly, but firmly. "Sacrifice your hate to God, and
be merciful. If you love me, you must forgive her whom I love and
forgive."
"Never!" gasped Josepha with a violent effort "Joseph--oh! this pain in
my chest--I believe it is inflammation of the lungs!"
"Alas!--and there is no one to send for the doctor. The men are all in
the woods. Go to bed, I beg you, there is not a moment to be lost, I
must get the doctor myself. I will send the house-maid to you. Keep up
your courage, I will be as quick as I can!"
And he hurried off, forgetting his grief for his child in his anxiety
about the last companion of his impoverished life.
The house-maid came in and asked if she could do anything, but Josepha
wanted no assistance. The anxious girl tried to persuade her to go to
bed, but Josepha said that she could not breathe lying down. At last
she consented to eat something. The nourishment did her good, her
weakness diminished and her breathing grew easier. The girl put some
wood in the stove and returned to her work in the kitchen. Josepha
remained lost in thought. To her, death was deliverance--but Freyer,
what would become of him if he lost her also? This alone rendered it
hard to die. The damp wood in the stove sputtered and hissed like the
voices of wrangling women. It was the "fire witch," which always
proclaims the approach of any evil. Josepha shook her head. What could
be worse than the evil which had already befallen her poor cousin and
herself? The fire witch continued to shriek and lament, but Josepha did
not understand her. A pair of crows perched in an old pine tree outside
the window croaked so suddenly that she started in terror.
Ah, it was very lonely up here! What would it be when Freyer lived all
alone in the house and waited months in vain for the heartless woman
who remembered neither her husband nor her child? She had not troubled
herself about the living, why should she seek the little grave where
lay the _dead_?
A loud knock on the door of the house echoed through the silence.
Josepha listened. Surely it could not be the doctor already?
The maid opened it. Heavy footsteps and the voices of men were heard in
the entry, then a dog howled. The stupid servant opened the door of the
room and called: "Jungfer Josepha, here are two hunters, who are so
tired tramping over the snow that they would like to rest awhile. Can
they come in? There is no fire anywhere else!"
Josepha, though so ill, of course could not refuse admittance to the
freezing men, who were already on the threshold. Rising with an effort
from the sofa, she pushed some chairs for the strangers near the stove.
"I am ill," she said in great embarrassment--"but if you wish to rest
and warm yourselves here, I beg--"
"We are very grateful," said one of the hunters, a gentleman with a red
moustache and piercing eyes. "If we do not disturb you, we will gladly
accept your hospitality. We are not familiar with the neighborhood and
have lost our way. We came from beyond the frontier and have been
wading through the snow five hours."
Meanwhile, at a sign from Josepha, the maid-servant had taken the
gentlemen's cloaks and hunting gear.
"See, this is our booty," said the other hunter. "If we might invite
you to dine with us, I should almost venture to ask if this worthy lass
could not roast the hare for us? Our cousin, Countess Wildenau, will
surely forgive us this little trespass upon her preserves."
"Are you relatives of Countess Wildenau?"
"Certainly, her nearest and most faithful ones!"
Josepha, in her mortal weakness felt as if crushed by the presence of
these strangers--with their heavy hunting-boots and loud voices. She
tried to take refuge in the kitchen on the pretense of roasting the
hare herself. But both gentlemen earnestly protested against it.
"No, indeed, that would be fine business to drive you out of your room
when you are ill! In that case, we must leave the house at once."
The red-bearded gentleman--Cousin Wildenau himself--sprang from his
chair and almost forced Josepha to go back to her sofa.
"There, my dear--madam--or miss? Now do me the honor to take your seat
again and allow us to remain a short time unto the roast is ready, then
you must dine with us."
A faint smile hovered around Josepha's parched lips. "I thank you, but
I am too ill to eat."
"You are really very ill"--said the stranger with kindly solicitude.
"You are feverish. I fear we are disturbing you very much. Pray send us
away if we annoy you." Yet he knew perfectly well that she could not
help asking the unbidden guests to stay.
"But my dear--madam--or miss?"--Josepha never answered the
question--"are you doing nothing to relieve your illness, have you had
no physician?"
"No we are in such a secluded place, a physician cannot always be had.
But I am expecting one to-day."
"Why, it is strange to live in this wilderness. And how uncomfortable
you are, you haven't even a stool," said the red-haired cousin putting
his huge hunting-muff, after warming it at the stove, under her feet.
Josepha tried to refuse it, but he would not listen.
"You need not mind us, we are sick nurses ourselves, we commanded a
sanitary battalion in the war. So we understand a little what to do.
You are suffering from asthma, it is difficult for you to breathe, so
you must sit comfortably. There! Now put my cousin's muff at your back.
That's better, isn't it?"
"But pray--"
"Come, come, come--no contradiction. You must be comfortable."
Josepha was ashamed. The gentlemen were so kind, so solicitous about
her--there were good people in the world! The neglected, desolate heart
gratefully appreciated the unusual kindness.
"But I am really astonished to find everything so primitive. Our
honored cousin really ought to have done something more for your
comfort. Not even a sofa-cushion, no carpet! I should have thought she
would have paid more attention to so faithful a--" he courteously
suppressed the word "servant"--and correcting himself, said:
"assistant!"
Josepha made no answer, but her lips curled bitterly, significantly.
Wildenau noted it. "Dissatisfied!" escaped his lips, so low that only
his companion heard it.
"You have been here a long time, I suppose--how many years?
"Have I been with her?" said Josepha frankly. "Since the last Passion
Play. That will be ten years next summer."
"Ah--true--you are a native of Ammergau!" said the baron, with the
manner of one familiar with the facts, whose memory has failed for an
instant. "I suppose you came to the countess at the same time as the
Christus?"
"Yes."
"Is he a relative of yours?"
"Yes, my cousin."
"He is here still, isn't he?"
"Why, of course."
"He is--her--what is his title?"
"Steward."
"Is he at home?"
"No, he has gone to the city for a doctor."
"Oh, I am very sorry. We should have been glad to make his
acquaintance. We have heard so many pleasant things about him. A man in
whom our cousin was so much interested--"
"Then she speaks of him?"
"Oh--to her intimate friends--certainly!" said Wildenau equivocally
gazing intently at Josepha, whose face beamed with joy at the thought
that the countess spoke kindly of Freyer.
"Why is he never seen in the city? He must live like a hermit up here."
"Yes, Heaven knows that."
"He ought to visit my cousin sometimes in the city, everybody would be
glad to know the Ammergau Christus."
"But if she doesn't wish it--!" said Josepha thoughtlessly.
"Why, that would be another matter certainly, but she has never told me
so. Why shouldn't she wish it?" murmured Wildenau with well-feigned
surprise.
"Because she is ashamed of him!"
"Ah!" Wildenau almost caught his breath at the significance of the
word. "But, tell me, why does Herr Freyer--isn't that his name--submit
to it?"
Josepha shrugged her shoulders. "Yes, what can he do about it?"
A pause ensued. Josepha stopped, as if fearing to say too much. The two
gentlemen had become very thoughtful.
At last Wildenau resumed the conversation. "I don't understand how a
man who surely might find a pleasant position anywhere, can be so
dependent on a fine lady's whims. You won't take it amiss, I see that
your kinsman's position troubles you--were I in his place I would give
up the largest salary rather than--"
"Salary?" interrupted Josepha, with flashing eyes. "Do you suppose that
my cousin would do anything for the sake of a salary? Oh, you don't
know him. If the countess described him to you in that way, the shame
is hers!"
Wildenau listened intently. "But, my dear woman, that isn't what I
meant, you would not let me finish! I was just going to add that such a
motive would not affect your kinsman, that it could be nothing but
sincere devotion, which bound him to our cousin--a loyalty which
apparently wins little gratitude."
"Yes, I always tell him so--but he won't admit it--even though his
heart should break."
Two dark interlaced veins in Josepha's sunken, transparent temples
throbbed feverishly.
"But--how do you feel? We are certainly disturbing you!" said the
baron.
"Oh, no! It does not matter!" replied Josepha, courteously.
"Could you not take us into some other room--the countess doubtless
comes here constantly--there must be other apartments which can be
heated."
"Yes, but no fire has been made in them for weeks; the stoves will
smoke."
"Has not the countess been here for so long?"
"No, she scarcely ever comes now."
"But the time must be very long to you and your cousin--you were
doubtless accustomed to the countess' visits."
"Certainly," replied Josepha, lost in thought--"when I think how it
used to be--and how things are now!"
Wildenau glanced around the room, then said softly: "And the little
son--he is dead."
Josepha stared at him in terror. "Do you know that?"
"I know all. My cousin has his picture in her boudoir, a splendid
child."
Josepha's poor feverish brain was growing more and more confused. The
tears she had scarcely conquered flowed again. "Yes, wasn't he--and to
let such a child die without troubling herself about him!"
"It is inexcusable," said Wildenau.
"If the countess ever speaks of it again, tell her that Josepha loved
it far more than she, for she followed it to the grave while the mother
enjoyed her life--she must be ashamed then."
"I will tell her. It is a pity about the beautiful child--was it not
like an Infant Christ?"
"Indeed it was--and now I know what picture you mean. In Jerusalem,
where the child was christened, a copy as they called it of the Infant
Christ hung in the chapel over the baptismal font. The countess
afterwards bought the picture on account of its resemblance to the
boy."
"I suppose it resembles Herr Freyer, too?" the baron remarked
carelessly.
"Somewhat, but the mother more!"
Baron Wildenau began to find the room too warm--and went to the window
a moment to get the air, while his companion, horrified by these
disclosures, shook his head. He would gladly have told the deluded
woman that they had only learned the child's death from a wood-cutter
whom they met in the forest--but he dared not "contradict" his cousin.
After a pause, Wildenau again turned to Josepha. He saw that there was
danger in delay, for at any moment the fever might increase to such a
degree that she would begin to rave and no longer be capable of making
a deposition: The truth must be discovered, now or never! He felt,
however, that Josepha's was no base nature which could be led to betray
her employer by ordinary means. Caution and reflection were necessary.
"I am really touched by your fidelity to my cousin. Any one who can
claim such a nature is fortunate. I thank you in her name."
He held out his hand. But she replied with her usual blunt honesty: "I
don't deserve your thanks, sir. I have not remained here for the sake
of the countess, but on account of the child and my unfortunate cousin.
She has been kind to me--but--if I should see her to-day, I would tell
her openly that I would never forgive her treatment of the child and
Joseph--no matter what she did. The child is dead and my cousin will
die too. Thank Heaven, I shall not live to witness it."
"I understand you perfectly--oh, I know my cousin. And--my poor dear
Fraeulein Josepha--I may call you Fraeulein now, may I not, since you are
no longer obliged to pass for the child's mother?--it was an
unprecedented sacrifice for you--! Alas! My dear Fraeulein, you and your
cousin must be prepared to fare still worse, to be entirely forgotten,
for I can positively assure you that the countess is about to wed the
Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim."
"What?" Josepha shrieked loudly.
Wildenau watched her intently.
"She has just gone to Cannes, where the old duke is staying, and the
announcement of the engagement is daily expected."
"It is impossible--it cannot be!" murmured Josepha, trembling in every
limb.
"But why not? She is free--has a right to dispose of her hand--"
Wildenau persisted.
"No--she is not--she cannot marry," cried Josepha, starting from her
sofa in despair and standing before them with glowing cheeks and red
hair like a flame which blazes up once more before expiring. "For
Heaven's sake--it would be a crime!"
"But who is to prevent it?" asked Wildenau breathlessly.
"I!" groaned Josepha, summoning her last strength.
"You?--My dear woman, what can you do?"
"More than you suppose!"
"Then tell me, that we may unite to prevent the crime ere it is too
late."
"Yes, by Heaven! Before I will allow her to do Joseph this wrong--I
will turn traitor to her."
"But Herr Freyer has no right to ask the countess not to marry again--"
"No right?" she repeated with terrible earnestness, "are you so sure of
that?"
"He is only the countess' lover--"
"Her lover?" sobbed Josepha in mingled wrath and anguish: "Joseph, you
noble upright man--must _this_ be said of you--!"
"I don't understand. If he is not her lover--what is he?"
Josepha could bear no more. "He is her husband--her legally wedded
husband."
The baron almost staggered under this unexpected, unprecedented
revelation. Controlling himself with difficulty, he seized the sick
woman's hand, as if to sustain her lest she should break down, ere he
had extorted the last disclosure from her--the last thing he must know.
"Only tell me where and by whom the marriage ceremony was performed."
As if under the gaze of a serpent the victim yielded to the stronger
will: "At Prankenburg--Martin and I--were witnesses." She slipped from
his hand, her senses grew confused, her eyes became glassy, her chest
heaved convulsively in the struggle for breath, but the one word which
she still had consciousness to utter--was enough for the Wildenaus.
When, a few hours later, Freyer returned with the physician and the
priest, whom he had thoughtfully brought with him, he found Josepha
alone on the sofa, speechless, and in the last agonies of death.
The physician, after examining her, said that an acute inflammation of
the lungs had followed the tuberculosis from which she had long
suffered and hastened her end. The priest gave her the last sacrament
and remained with Freyer, sitting beside the bed in which she had been
laid. The death-struggle was terrible. She seemed to be constantly
trying to tell Freyer something which she was unable to utter. Three
times life appeared to have departed, and three times she rallied
again, as if she could not die without having relieved her heart of its
burden. Vain! It was useless for Freyer to put his ear to her lips, he
could not understand her faltering words. It was a terrible night! At
last, toward morning, she grew calm, and now she could die. Leaning on
his breast, she ceased her struggles to speak, and slowly breathed her
last. _She_ had conquered and she now knew that _he_ would conquer
also. She bowed her head with a smile, and her last glance was fixed on
him, a look of reconciliation rested on her Matures--her soul soared
upward--day was dawning!