Judith Trachtenberg Part 11

By this time he was able to comfortably elaborate the plan in all its details. A queer sensation took possession of him, but in his heart of hearts he was afraid of himself; and yet he experienced a certain delight in thinking what an inventive genius he was. This must have been pictured on his face, for the doctor asked, in astonishment,

"What makes you so cheerful?"

Wroblewski became sober instantly. "I thought--well, what did I think?

I believe it will end well, after all. As regards the girl, I trust to your skill. It would be sad if the pretty creature perished so miserably."

"Yes," was the answer, "it would be sad, and also very disagreeable for you."

"For me? But, my dearest doctor, you surely do not think I am afraid of the complaint made by the girl's father to the government. Little can be done to the count, and nothing to me. _Mon Dieu!_ we are living in a country where the law is respected. The government will surely act according to law and order, and hand over the doc.u.ment to be examined by--"

"Yourself?"

"Not by myself, but by the magistracy here. That is a great difference.

Just see," he continued, pathetically, "what a revengeful people these Jews are. Instead of making his peace with G.o.d, the old man used his last span of life in elaborating and carrying out a plan of revenge on those he supposed were his enemies."

"Although they treated him like Christians!" said the doctor, and his white moustache worked again. "But I believe the case to be otherwise.

Nathaniel Trachtenberg would have died sooner if he had not felt compelled to fulfil this last mandate of conscience. That is also the conviction of my colleague, the town doctor. We watched with surprise and emotion the power of mind over matter; the feeble body sustained by the iron will. I was the first physician with him the morning of his daughter's flight, as my colleague was absent. He got up, it seemed, after the old servant told him her knocking at Judith's door had been useless, and, going to her room, he broke the oaken planks with the weight of his body as if they had been straw. He read the note he found on her table, and fell to the floor. It was a stroke which affected the brain partially, and the whole of the left side. When, an hour after the seizure, I went to the bedside to open a vein, I said to myself, 'You are tormenting a dying man. He won't survive the evening,' he looked inquiringly at me, and babbled something with his paralyzed tongue. As I could not understand, he wrote, 'How long have I?' I was on the point of lying; but when I looked at him I could not, but answered that it rested in G.o.d's hands. He wrote again: 'Have mercy, and give me three weeks;' and the look he gave me I shall never forget.

By that time the elders of the congregation had a.s.sembled, and he began to write his wishes, which were immediately obeyed. One messenger was sent to his relatives, another to his lawyer, and another to Dr.

Romberg, a solicitor in Lemberg. I objected at first; but when I saw how his eye grew brighter and brighter and his writing more and more distinct, I felt, so to say, queer, and allowed it to go on. Then came the most serious difficulty. He longed for his son in Heidelberg, and they calculated it would take five weeks to reach him, if summoned by letter. But in less than ten minutes a young fellow was found who was willing to travel night and day. So, you see, my dear sir, though much can be said against the Jews, they have at least a great regard for the dying and the dead."

"Too great, alas!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Herr von Wroblewski. "I don't wish to throw a stone at the dead man, for he was blinded by hate. But how is it these people, usually so prudent, allow themselves to be incited against me? It will be their own destruction. I know for certain that this Jewish scribbler from Lemberg, the most clever quibbler in Galicia, has drawn up quite an accusation against me; and these people, who generally hardly dare to breathe in my presence, crowded up to sign it. Of course, it was lies, nothing but lies, 'pon my honor! You must acknowledge, doctor, a Christian would never have spent his last breath in hatching plans of revenge."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Possibly it was not merely a desire for revenge that urged him on. My colleague and myself witnessed these exciting daily scenes, of course, at the bedside of the deceased, most unwillingly, and protested against them. But he always replied--" The old gentleman paused.

"Well?" said Wroblewski, "one whose conscience is as clear as mine can listen to anything."

"His answer was: 'It is this duty which keeps me alive. It cries to heaven that such a man should be a judge. I will not go before G.o.d's throne until I have done my utmost to purify the earth from him.'

Pardon me, Herr von Wroblewski!"

In spite of himself, the magistrate had grown pale. "Please, don't mention it. It does not matter in the least. It is too unjust, too foolis.h.!.+ The count elopes with his daughter, and he wishes to punish me. If it grieved him so terribly, he might have employed his last energies in getting her back again. The Jews are such a clever race that it would have been easy for them to have discovered the count's hiding-place."

"Castle Borky?" said the doctor. "Nathaniel and the elders knew that the evening after the elopement. It was superfluous trouble on your part to bind me to secrecy. There were a number of men who wished to bring Judith back by main force, that she might be judged by the congregation, but Nathaniel forbade it. 'No,' he said, 'some one will lose his life, perhaps, or you will be heavily punished by the courts.

It is not worth while to incur danger on account of such an outcast.

And why judge her? G.o.d will do that. For you and me she is a corpse.'

Yet in the secret depths of his heart he must have had some feeling for the unhappy girl, for he fought long against the fearful ceremony customary in such cases, though it is very rarely carried out. It is said this is the first time in two hundred years that a Jewess of this congregation has eloped with a Christian. When he finally agreed, he made one stipulation, which certainly would not have been granted to any one else. But they could not refuse him, their head, her father."

"I don't understand. What ceremony?"

"The funeral!"

"What!" exclaimed the magistrate, in surprise, "have they buried Judith?" He was on the point of laughing, but the expression on his companion's face sobered him.

"It was so ghastly that I shall never forget it. My colleague and I had so arranged it that the last few days one of us was always with him. We relieved each other every six hours. But we knew very well we could not detain the escaping life much longer. He had weakened considerably after the lawyer's visit. There was no fresh stroke, but the tissues were being fast consumed. He lay there as if asleep, stammering his son's name now and then; and, indeed, had he not longed so greatly to see his son he would probably have died sooner. As I entered the room about eleven o'clock, day before yesterday, to relieve my colleague, he whispered to me: 'The end is fast approaching. Stay with him, but do not interfere, no matter what occurs.' Shortly after, the elders entered the room, and with them the rabbi, all clad in their praying-garments. They bowed to him, and asked if they had his consent.

He nodded, the door opened and twelve men belonging to the burial guild came in, wearing white shrouds, carrying a curious burden. It was a large, handsome rose-tree in full bloom, the damp earth still clinging to its roots. Goodness knows where they got it. Perhaps from Count Baranowski's conservatory. They took the bush to the bed, and Nathaniel put out his hand and touched its crown. His lips moved. It may have been a blessing, or it may have been a farewell greeting. While this was being done, the others hid their faces with their praying-cloths, and some sobbed aloud. The bush was then taken into the middle of the room, the rabbi stepped forward--I have never seen a more malignant face--and spoke a few words loud and rough: I think it was a curse. He then seized the bush with both hands, broke it, and threw the pieces on the floor before him. One after another the men went up, s.n.a.t.c.hed a blossom and scattered the leaves, until the bush stood bare as well as broken. I went to the foot of the bed. The old man kept his eyes closed, but he knew what was going on. A feeble groan burst from his lips, and tears coursed down his cheeks. He remained in the same position when the 'soul-lamp' was lighted for her who was from henceforth to be considered dead. Nor did he move when they made the cut in his s.h.i.+rt, which is emblematical of the rent made in the life of the mourner. At last the bier was brought in; the broken bush was placed on it, with the leaves which had been carefully gathered up; a white pall was spread over all, and then they departed. The elders followed, and I was again alone with Nathaniel for about two hours. I held his hand in mine, for I could not speak. At the end of that time the rabbi and elders returned, and the former, stepping up to the couch, said: 'It is finished, and because thou wast a just man all the days of thy life, may the Almighty prolong it! We have done according to thy will--thy daughter's grave is between that of thy wife (may she rest in peace!) and that which thou hast chosen for thyself. And when the Lord shall call her to judgment, and she dies in our own faith, that grave shall be open for her. We swear it to thee!' Nathaniel nodded. His breathing became more and more quiet, but he lasted ten hours, until yesterday noon, when he fell asleep--"

The doctor drew a long breath. "Excuse me, but not just now," he exclaimed, abruptly, as he saw the magistrate about to speak; "when I think of that empty grave and of her to whom I am going--" He pulled the carriage window down and leaned out, as if to breathe more freely, until the rain beat upon his hot forehead.

"Another sentimental fool!" thought the magistrate. "Curious, but most people are sentimental." But he dared not speak. So they drove slowly along. The twilight has given place to night, and as they were nearing the mountains, and the ground was ascending, the tired horses dragged the carriage through the mud at walking pace. At last they came to a standstill.

"What is the matter?" the magistrate asked, leaning out of the window.

"I don't know," was the answer. "Two hors.e.m.e.n with torches, followed by a carriage, are coming to meet us. I must stop so they can pa.s.s on this narrow road."

They proved to be servants of the count. The butler was in the carriage. He opened the door. "At last, sir! Have you brought the doctor with you? Our master is nearly mad, and has sent me out to look for you."

"Is she worse?" inquired the doctor.

"I don't know," said the butler, anxiously; "it was bad enough from the beginning. She is in the most violent fever. Two maids can hardly hold the poor thing on her couch. If the gentlemen would step into my carriage, we should reach the castle in half an hour, the horses being fresher."

Castle Borky was originally only a shooting-box of the Baranowskis, but the last occupant had been a misanthropic bachelor who had added considerably to the building, converting it into a residence. Situated on the lower slope of the mountains, it commanded a splendid view over the plain. This outlook, in fact, was its only attraction, for the garden, though large, was not ornamental. The pond, on whose sh.o.r.e that desperate struggle had taken place, had been artificially excavated in the plateau behind the house.

Beaching the house, they were met by the count. "Dr. Reiser," he cried, taking his hand, "come quickly!"

He led him up the stairs and through a suite of rooms until they stood in the sick-room. There was Judith, her haggard face deathly white, her forehead so covered with perspiration that her auburn hair clung to her temples in disordered locks. Her eyes were shut, and her limbs shook with fever. Two servants, common wenches, with coa.r.s.e faces, cowered at the foot of the bed.

"She is asleep," whispered the count.

The doctor shook his head, went softly to her, and looked at the emaciated features of the girl he had known a few weeks before as a blooming beauty. His heart beat hard as he remembered the rose-bush.

She opened her eyes; the mad light of fever shone in them. "Agenor,"

she whispered. Baranowski bent over her tenderly, answering, "Here I am! What is it?"

"Agenor!" she shrieked, "have pity on me and let me die!"

She attempted to rise, but he pushed her gently back on the pillows.

"Mercy!" she repeated, resisting violently. "You must know I cannot live so any longer. I will not curse you. I will bless you, but let me die. There is the pond."

The count was again obliged to hold her till the paroxysms were past.

"It has been like this for fourteen hours," he whispered to the doctor.

"Chills and fever alternating; and she never ceases repeating those same words. It is heart-breaking."

"Yes, it is heart-breaking," was the reply, quietly given, but the words were as cold and sharp as the stab of a dagger.

Again the doctor bent over the couch. With the exception of some bruises on her hands and a cut on the right cheek, caused probably by the sharp leaf of a water-flag, there were no injuries perceptible. He took the measure of her temperature and felt her pulse. At his touch she opened her eyes and stared at him.

"Dr. Reiser!" she suddenly exclaimed. "You are good. Let me go to the pond. You are a friend of my father, and I must preserve my father from this disgrace."

The doctor covered her up carefully and went into the dressing-room.

Agenor followed.

"What do you think of her?" he inquired, anxiously.

"As a medical man, I have little to say," said the old gentleman, roughly. "The external injuries are not worth mentioning. There seem no indications of any inflammatory condition of the lungs or brain. The fever is violent, but not excessive, and is quite explained by the occurrence this morning. If her mind were at rest, or she had fallen into the water accidentally, she would be able to leave her bed in a day or two."

"But as it is at present?" said the count, nervously.

"It will have a bad ending. I could not swear to it, but it is my conviction. I will put her to sleep with an opiate, and will try to check the fever. I hope by to-morrow her mind will be clear. But what good will that do, since her wish for death has not been created by the fever? She will beg neither you nor me for death to-morrow, but she will find it for herself."