20. XX.
It came too rapidly — that dreadful month.
We need not try, we should fail utterly, to describe
the agony of Rodolph, at its approach. It was a
madness — that subdued sort of madness in which,
while the faculties of mind all struggle in confusion,
there is still a sufficient consciousness of its
own impotence and utter despair, to restrain it
from any vain and idle ebullition. In a few days
the flesh seemed to have fallen from his bones;
his eyes were lustreless, yet full of a feverish glare,
like those of Weickhoff, and seemed shooting out
from their sockets. His very limbs seemed palsied,
and refused their offices. He was incapable
of exertion. All things contributed to this agony
of soul under which he labored. The pregnancy
of Bertha had advanced greatly. A few days,
and he might be a father; and she, as this thought
came to her mind, she clung to her husband with
all the strength of a new-born passion, and, burying
her head in his bosom, dwelt fondly upon the
blessing which was at hand. How more than
sweet was life at that moment! How dreadful
the idea of death, as an appointed prospect in the
vista of time! How much more dreadful the
strong probability of that death, so near, and so
terrible, which the coming anniversary announced!
Wonder not that he thrust the one most beloved
of all from his arms, when these awful images
assailed him. Wonder not that he rushed away
from her embrace to the deepest cell of his castle,
and threw himself in utter abandonment of soul
upon the cold and clammy pavement.
The night came — a night of exceeding beauty.
Rodolph moved through his dwelling like a blind
man. He tottered in his mental incertitude, not
less than in his body's debility. He was about to
visit his wife in her chamber, when he was conscious
that some one stood suddenly beside him.
He looked round, and it was Conrade Weickhoff.
“The hour is late, Rodolph,” said Conrade,
“we have little time to spare. Your horse is
saddled in the court. We must keep our engagements.”
“God of heaven! Conrade,” exclaimed the
youth, “how can you speak of this accursed business
so coolly?”
“Why not? I had long since prepared my
mind for it,” said the other, “and so, I presume,
had you.”
“No — no! — The thought is dreadful!”
“Nor will it be less so by poring over it. But
why should this thought be so dreadful to you
now? You are only in the same situation in which
I found you a year ago, even should it fall to your
lot to perish. Then, only for my hand, you would
have done that, the image of which now so dreadfully
affrights you. I see not the substantial
difference.”
But there was a substantial difference, and Rodolph
saw and felt it. How desolate was he then
— how hopeless — how desperate in love and
fortune — with how little to live for! Now —
what had he not, in possession, calculated to make
him in love with life — what sweet ties — what
ministering affections — what hopes — what joys,
what desires and delights! He reproached his
friend bitterly, as he thought upon these things.
“Would that I had never seen you, Conrade,”
he exclaimed, bitterly.
“I should have been spared this language,
then,” said the other, with a tone of reproach,
which had its effect upon the sensitive mind of the
hearer. Rodolph was too much of a dependant
upon his friend to quarrel with him; and begging
his forgiveness, he inquired into some trifling particulars
connected with the coming proceedings at
the castle of Oberfeldt.
“The chances are no more against you, Rodolph,
than against myself and all the rest. It all
depends on fortune. Your good luck has always
been conspicuous; it will not fail you now.”
“True, true,” said the other, musingly, and
with renewed hope; but a moment after, his brow
became clouded again.
“But it must come some day or other, Conrade
— next year or the next.”
“Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.
Death itself must come some day or other, and
with this greater disadvantage, that you have no
specified time for preparation. The Oberfeldt
contract takes nobody by surprise. But the lot
may never fall to you, Rodolph.”
“How? — it must some day or other.”
“No! our college is never less. For every
man taken from us by lot, we choose another
member to fill his place, from applicants who are
always sufficiently numerous. The new comer
shares the chances with you precisely as did the
old; and as luck's all, it may be that it shall
never fall to you to perish by your own hand;
and you may die, in a ripe old age, after the
fashion of the most quiet abbot, in all the odor of
sanctity, and with all the comfortings of a full
household around you.”
The gamester's hope consoled and strengthened
Rodolph.
“I will be ready in a moment,” said he.
“Where are you going?”
“But for a moment — I would see Bertha.”
“Better not; you will only mingle useless
tears.”
“I must go!” said Rodolph, firmly; “I must
tell her that I am about to ride forth for an hour
or two, or she will be alarmed.”
Conrade chuckled, but did not seek farther to
restrain his friend. The parting between Rodolph
and his wife — he suffering all the agony of his
situation, yet under the necessity of hiding it from
her; and she full of all the tenderness of a wife,
so soon to become a mother — was a trying one
to him, and a sweetly tearful one to her.
“God bless you, dear Rodolph, and return
you soon.”
He hurried away, and the two friends were
soon mounted upon their fierce and coal-black
steeds. They employed neither whip nor spur,
yet they flew over the space between the two
castles, before Rodolph conceived himself to be
fairly on the road.
