On the Cross Part 32

Outside of the building the stars were shining brightly, the road was distinctly visible. The countess unresistingly accompanied him. He turned toward the village and they walked swiftly through the silent streets. At last the church rose, dark and solemn, before them. He led her in. A holy-water font stood at the entrance, and, pausing, he sprinkled her with the water. Then they entered. The church was dark.

No light illumined it save the trembling rays of the ever-burning lamp and two candles flickering low in their sockets before an image of the Madonna in a remote corner. They were obliged to grope their way forward slowly amid the wavering shadows. At the left of the entrance stood a "Pieta." It was a group almost life-size, carved from wood. The crucified Saviour in the Madonna's lap. Mary Magdalene was supporting his left hand, raising it slightly, while John stood at the Saviour's feet. The whole had been created by an artist's hand with touching realism. The expression of anguish in the Saviour's face was very affecting. Before the group stood a priedieu on which lay several withered wreaths.

The countess' heart quivered; he was leading her there! So this was to be the compensation for the living image? Mere dead wood?

Freyer drew her gently down upon the priedieu. "Here, my child, learn to seek him here, and when you have once found Him, you will never lose Him more. Lay your hands devoutly on the apparently lifeless breast and you will feel the heart within throbbing, as in mine--only try."

"Alas, I cannot, it will be a falsehood if I do."

"What, _that_ a falsehood, and I--was _I_ the Christ?"

"I could imagine it!"

"Because I breathed? Ah, the breath of the deity can swell more than a human breast, sister, and you will hear it! Collect your thoughts--and pray!"

His whisper grew fainter, the silence about her more solemn. "I cannot pray; I never have prayed," she lamented, "and surely not to lifeless wood."

"Only try--for my sake," he urged gently, as if addressing a restless child, which ought to go to sleep and will not.

"Yes; but stay with me," she pleaded like a child, clinging to his arm.

"I will stay," he said, kneeling by her side.

"Teach me to pray as you do," she entreated, raising her delicate hands to him. He clasped them in his, and she felt as if the world could do her no further harm, that her soul, her life, lay in his firm hands.

The warmth emanating from him became in her a devout fervor. The pulses of ardent piety throbbing in his finger-tips seemed to communicate a wave-like motion to the surrounding air, which imparted to everything which hitherto had been dead and rigid, an undulating movement that lent it a faint, vibrating life.

Something stirred, breathed, murmured before and above her. There was a rustling among the withered leaves of the garlands at the foot of the Pieta, invisible feet glided through the church and ascended the steps of the high altar; high up the vaulted dome rose a murmur which wandered to the folds of the funeral banner, hanging above, pa.s.sing from pillar to pillar, from arch to arch, in ghostly echoes which the listening ear heard with secret terror, the language of the silence.

And the burning eyes beheld the motionless forms begin to stir. The contours of the figures slowly changed in the uncertain, flickering light, the shadows glided and swung to and fro. The Saviour's lips opened, then slowly closed, the kneeling woman touched the rigid limbs and laid her fevered fingers on the wounded breast. The other hand rested in Freyer's. A chain was thus formed between the three, which thrilled and warmed the wood with the circulating stream of the hot blood. It was no longer a foreign substance--it was the heart, the poor pierced heart of their beloved, divine friend. It throbbed, suffered, bled. More and more distinctly the chest rose and fell with the regular breathing. It was the creative breath of the deity, which works in the conscious and unconscious object, animating even soulless matter. The arm supported by Mary Magdalene swayed to and fro, the fingers of the hand moved gently. The poor pierced hand--it seemed as if it were trying to move toward the countess, as if it were pleading, "Cool my pain."

Urged by an inexplicable impulse, the countess warmed the stiff, slender fingers in her own. She fancied that it was giving relief.

Higher and higher swelled the tide of feeling in her heart until it overflowed--and--she knew not how, she had risen and pressed a kiss upon the wounds in the poor little hand, a kiss of the sweetest, most sacred piety. She felt as if she were standing by a beloved corpse whose mute lips we seek, though they no longer feel.

She could not help it, and bending down again the rosy lips of the young widow rested on the pale half-parted ones of the statue. But the lips breathed, a cool, pure breath issued from them, and the rigid form grew more pliant beneath the sorrowful caress, as though it felt the reconciling pain of the penitent human soul. But the divine fire which was to purify this soul, blazed far beyond its boundaries in this first ardor. Overpowered by a wild fervor, she flung herself on her knees and adjured the G.o.d whose breath she had drunk in that kiss, to hear her.

The friend praying at her side was forgotten, the world had vanished, every law of reason was annihilated, all knowledge was out of her mind--every hard-won conquest of human empiricism was effaced. From the heights and from the depths it came with rustling pinions, bearing the soul away on the flood-tide of mercy. The _miracle_ was approaching--in unimagined majesty.

Thousands of years vanished, eternity dawned in that _one_ moment. All that was and is, _was_ not and _is_ not--past, present, and future, were blended and melted into a single breath beyond the boundaries of the natural life.

"If it is Thou, if Thou dost live, look at me," she had cried with ardent aspiration, and, lo!--was it shadow or imagination?--the eyes opened and two large dark pupils were fixed upon her, then the lids closed for an instant to open again The countess gazed more and more earnestly; it was distinct, unmistakable. A shudder ran through her veins as, in a burning fever, the limbs tremble with a sudden chill.

She tried to meet the look, but spite of the tension in every nerve, the effort was futile. It was too overpowering; it was the gaze of a G.o.d. Dread and rapture were contending for the mastery. Doubtless she said to herself, "It is not _outside_ of you, but within you." Once more she ventured to glance at the mysterious apparition, but the eyes were fixed steadily upon her. Terror overpowered her. The chord of the possible snapped and she sank half senseless on the steps of the altar, while the miracle closed its golden wings above her.

CHAPTER XV.

THE CROWING OF THE c.o.c.k.

A loud step roused the rapt enthusiast from her visions. The sacristan was pa.s.sing through the church, extinguishing the candles which, meanwhile, had burned down in their sockets before the Madonna in the distant corner.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you," he said; "but I wanted to close the church. There is plenty of time, however. Shall I leave a candle?

It will be too dark; the lamp alone does not give sufficient light."

"I thank you," replied Freyer, more thoughtful than the countess, who, unable to control herself, remained on her knees with her face buried in her hands.

"I will lock the church when we leave it and bring you the key," Freyer added, and the sacristan was satisfied. The imperious high priest withdrew silently and modestly, that he might not disturb the prayers of the man whom he sentenced to death every week with such fury.

The lovers were again alone, but the door remained open. The shrill crowing of a c.o.c.k suddenly echoed through the stillness from the yard of the neighboring parsonage. The countess started up. Her eyes were painfully dazzled by the light of the wax candle so close at hand.

Before her, the face smeared with shining varnish, lay the wooden Christ, hard and cold in its carven bareness and rigidity. The pale-blue painted eyes gazed with the traditional mournfulness upon the ground.

"What startled you just now?" asked Freyer.

"I don't know whether it was a miracle or a shadow, which created the illusion, but I would have sworn that the statue moved its lids and looked at me."

"Be it what it might, it was still a miracle," said Freyer. "If the finger of G.o.d can paint the Saviour's eyes to the excited vision from the wave of blood set in motion by the pulsation of our hearts, or from the shadow cast by a smoking candle, is that any less wonderful than if the stiff lids had really moved?"

The countess breathed a long sigh of relief; "Yes, you are right. That is the power which, as you say, can do more than swell a human breast, it can make, for the yearning soul, a heart throb even in a Christ carved from wood. Even if what I have just experienced could have been done by lifeless matter, the power which brought us together was divine, and no one living could have resisted it. Lay aside your crown of thorns trustfully and without remorse, you have accomplished your mission, you have saved the soul for which G.o.d destined you, it was His will, and who among us could resist Him?"

Freyer raised the crown of thorns, which he still held, to his lips, kissed it, and laid it at the feet of the Pieta: "Lord, Thy will be done, in so far as it is Thy will. And if it is not, forgive the error."

"It is no error, I understand G.o.d's purpose better. He has sent me His image in you and given it to me in an attainable human form, that I may learn through it to do my duty to the prototype. To the feeble power of the novice in faith. He graciously adds an earthly guide. Oh, He is good and merciful!"

She raised Freyer from his knees: "Come, thou G.o.d-given one, that I may fulfil the sweetest duty ever imposed on any mortal, that of loving you and making you happy. G.o.d and His holy will be praised."

"And will you no longer grieve for the lost Christ?"

"No, for you were right. He is everywhere!"

"In G.o.d's name then, come and obey the impulse of your heart, even though I perish."

"Can you speak so to-day, Joseph?"

"To-day especially. Would you not just now have sworn to the truth of an illusion conjured up by a shadow? And were you not disappointed when the light came and the spell vanished? The time will come when you will see me, as you now do this wooden figure, in the light of commonplace reality, and then the nimbus will vanish and nothing will remain save the dross as here. Then your soul will turn away disenchanted and follow the vanished G.o.d to loftier heights."

"Or plunge into the depths," murmured the countess.

"I should not fear that, for then my mission would have been vain! No, my child, if I did not believe that I was appointed to save you I should have no excuse in my own eyes for what I am doing. But come, it is late, we must return home or our absence will occasion comment."

It was half-past nine o'clock. An elderly gentleman of distinguished aristocratic bearing was pacing impatiently to and fro.

The two sisters were standing helplessly in the doorway, deeply oppressed by the burden of so haughty a guest.

"If she would only come!" Sephi lamented in the utmost anxiety, for she dreaded the father for the daughter's sake. It was the old Prince von Prankenberg, and his bearing augured nothing good.

It seemed to these loyal souls a democratic impertinence on the part of fate that _such_ a gentleman should be kept waiting, and the prince regarded it in precisely the same light. The good creatures would willingly have lent wings to the daughter for whom _such_ a father was waiting. But what did it avail that the n.o.ble lord constantly quickened his pace as he walked to and fro, time and his unsuspicious daughter did not do the same. Prince Prankenberg had reached Ammergau at noon that day and waited in vain for the countess. On his arrival he had found the whole village in an uproar over the conflagration in the woods, and the countess and Herr Freyer, who had been seen walking together in that direction, were missing. At last the herder reported that they had been in the mountain pasture with him, and Ludwig Gross, on his return from directing the firemen in the futile effort to extinguish the flames, set off to inform the Countess Wildenau of her father's arrival. He had evidently failed to find her, for he ought to have returned long before. So the faithful women had been on coals of fire ever since. Andreas Gross had gone to the village to look for the absent ones, as if that could be of any service! Josepha was gazing sullenly through the window-panes at the prince, who had treated her as scornfully as if she were a common maid-servant, when she offered to show him the way to the countess' room, and answered: "People can't stay in such a hole!" Meanwhile night had closed in.

At last, coming from exactly the opposite direction, a couple approached whose appearance attracted the n.o.bleman's attention. A female figure, bare-headed, with dishevelled hair and tattered, disordered garments, leaning apparently almost fainting on the arm of a tall, bearded man in a peasant's jacket. Could it--no, it was impossible, that _could_ not be his daughter.