Part 35 (2/2)
Freyer had clasped his hands upon his knee and was gazing into vacancy.
Madeleine continued: ”You see, I have so lofty an opinion of you, and of your love, that I do not try to justify myself. I will only remind you of the words you yourself said to-day: 'May you never be forced to weep the tears which Peter shed when the c.o.c.k crowed for the third time.' I will recall what must have induced Christ to forgive Peter: 'He knew the disciple's heart!' Joseph--do you not also know the heart of your Magdalena?”
A tremor ran through the strong man's frame and, unable to utter a word, he threw his arm around her and his head drooped on her breast.
”Joseph, you are ignorant of the world, and the bonds with which it fetters even the freest souls. Therefore you must _believe_ in me! It will often happen that I shall be forced to do something incomprehensible to you. If you did not then have implicit faith in me, we could never live happily together. This very day I had resolved to break with society, strip off all its chains. But no matter how many false and culpable ideas it has--its principles, nevertheless, rest upon a foundation of morality. That is why it can impose its fetters upon the very persons who have nothing in common with its _immoral_ side. Nay, were it merely an _immoral_ power it would be easy, in a moment of pious enthusiasm, to shake off its thrall--but when we are just on the eve of doing so, when we believe ourselves actually free, it throws around our feet the snare of a _duty_ and we are prisoned anew. Such was my experience to-day with my father! I should have been compelled to sunder every tie, had I told him the truth! I was too weak to provoke the terrible catastrophe--and deferred it, by disowning you.”
Freyer quivered with pain.
She stroked his clenched hand caressingly. ”I know what this must be. I know how the proud man must rebel when the woman he loved did _that_.
But I also expect my angel to know what it cost me!”
She gently tried to loose his clenched fingers, which gradually yielded till the open hand lay soft and unresisting in her own. ”Look at me,”
she continued in her sweet, melting tones: ”look at my pallid face, my eyes reddened with weeping--and then answer whether I have suffered during these hours?”
”I do see it!” said Freyer, gently.
”Dear husband! I come to you with my great need, with my great love--and my great guilt. Will you thrust me from you?”
He could hold out no longer, but with loving generosity clasped the pleading woman to his heart.
”I knew it, you are the embodiment of goodness, gentleness--love! You will have patience with your weak, sinful wife--you will enn.o.ble and sanctify her, and not despair if it is a long time ere the work is completed. You promise, do you not?” she murmured fervently amid her kisses, breathing into his inmost life the ardent pleading of her remorse.
And, with a solemn vow, he promised never to be angry with her again, never to desert her until she _herself_ sent him away.
She had conquered--he trusted her once more. And now--she must profit by this childlike confidence.
”I thank you!” she said, after a long silence. ”Now I shall have courage to ask you a serious question. But let us send home the friend who is waiting outside, you can take me back yourself.”
”Certainly, my child,” said Freyer, smiling, and went out to seek Ludwig. ”He was satisfied,” he said returning. ”Now speak--and tell me everything that weighs upon your heart--no one can hear us save G.o.d.”
And he drew her into a loving embrace.
”Joseph,” the countess began in an embarra.s.sed tone. ”The decisive hour has come sooner than I expected and I am compelled to ask, 'Will you be my husband--but only before G.o.d, not men.'”
Freyer drew back a step. ”What do you mean?”
”Will you listen to me quietly, dearest?” she asked, gently.
”Speak, my child.”
”Joseph! I promised to-day to become your wife--and I will keep the pledge, but our marriage must be a secret one.”
”And why?”
”My husband's will disinherits me, as soon as I give up the name of Wildenau. If I marry you, I shall be dependent upon the generosity of my husband's cousins, who succeed me as his heirs, and they are not even obliged to give me an annuity--so I shall be little better than a beggar.”
”Oh, is that all? What does it matter? Am I not able to support my wife--that is, if she can be satisfied with the modest livelihood a poor wood-carver like myself can offer?”
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