Part 75 (2/2)
From that hour Magdalena Freyer never left her husband's bedside.
Though friends came in turn to share the night-watches, she remained with them. After a few days the doctor said that unless an attack of weakness supervened, the danger was over for the present, though he did not conceal from her that the disease was incurable. She clasped her hands and answered: ”I will consider every day that I am permitted to keep him a boon, and submissively accept what G.o.d sends.”
After that time she always showed her husband a smiling face, and he--perfectly aware of his condition--practiced the same loving deception toward her. Thus they continued to live in the salutary school of the most rigid self-control--she, bearing with dignity a sad fate for which she herself was to blame--he in the happiness of that pa.s.sive heroism of Christianity, which goes with a smile to meet death for others! An atmosphere of cheerfulness surrounded this sick-bed, which can be understood only by one who has watched for months beside the couch of incurable disease, and felt the grat.i.tude with which every delay of the catastrophe, every apparent improvement is greeted--the quiet delight afforded by every little relief given the beloved sufferer, every smile which shows us he feels somewhat easier.
This cup of anguish the penitent woman now drained to the dregs. True, a friendly genius always stood beside it to comfort her: the hope that, though not fully recovered, he might still be spared to her. ”How many thousands who have heart disease, with care and nursing live to grow old.” This thought sustained her. Yet the ceaseless anxiety and sleepless nights exhausted her strength. Her cheeks grew hollow, dark circles surrounded her eyes, but she did not heed it.
”I still please my husband!” she said smiling, in reply to all entreaties to spare herself on account of her altered appearance.
”My dove!” Freyer said one evening, when Ludwig came for the night-watch: ”Now I must show a husband's authority and command you to take some rest, you cannot go on in this way.”
”Oh! never mind me--if I should die for you, what would it matter?
Would it not be a just atonement?”
”No--that would be no atonement,” he said tenderly, pus.h.i.+ng back the light fringe of curls that shaded her brow, as if he wished to read her thoughts on it: ”My child, you must _live_ for me--that is your atonement. Do you think you would do anything good if you expiated your fault by death and said: 'There you have my life for yours, now we are quits, you have no farther claim upon me!' Would that be love, my dove?”
He drew her gently toward him: ”Or would you prefer that we should be quits _thus_, and that I should desire no other expiation from you than your death?” She threw her arms around him, clasping him in a closer and closer embrace. There was no need of speech, the happy, blissful throbbing of her heart gave sufficient answer. He kissed her on the forehead: ”Now sleep, beloved wife and rest--do it for my sake, that I may have a fresh, happy wife!”
She rose as obediently as a child, but it was hard for her, and she nodded longingly from the door as if a boundless, hopeless distance already divided them.
”Ludwig!” said Freyer, gazing after her in delight: ”Ludwig, _is_ this love?”
”Yes, by Heaven!” replied his friend, deeply moved: ”Happy man, I would bear all your sorrows--for one hour like this!”
”Have you now forgiven what she did to me?”
”Yes, from my very soul!”
”Magdalena,” cried Freyer. ”Come in again--you must know it before you sleep--Ludwig is reconciled to you.”
”Ludwig,” said the countess: ”my strict, n.o.ble friend, I thank you.”
Leading him to the invalid, she placed their hands together. ”Now we are again united, and everything is just as it was ten years ago--only I have become a different person, and a new and higher life is beginning for me.”
She pressed a kiss upon the brow of her husband and friend, as if to seal a vow, then left them alone.
”Oh, Ludwig, if I could see you so happy!”
”Do not be troubled--whoever has experienced this hour with you, needs nothing for himself,” he answered, an expression of the loftiest, most unselfish joy on his pallid face.
The countess, before retiring, sent for Martin who was still in Oberammergau, awaiting her orders, and went out into the garden that Freyer might not hear them talking in the next room. ”Martin,” she said with quiet dignity, though there was a slight tremor in her voice, ”it is time for me to give some thought to worldly matters. During the last few days I could do nothing but devote myself to the sick bed. Drive home, my good Martin, and give the carriage and horses to the Wildenaus. Tell them what has happened, if they do not yet know it, I cannot write now. Meanwhile, you faithful old servant, tell them to take all I have--my jewels, my palace, my whole private fortune. Only I should like--for the sake of my sick husband--to have them leave me, for humanity's sake, enough to get him what he needs for his recovery!”
here her voice failed.
”Countess--”
”Oh, don't call me that!”
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