Nina Balatka

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XV

  When Souchey left the room with the note, Nina went to the door andlistened. She heard him turn the lock below, and heard his step outin the courtyard, and listened till she knew that he was crossing thesquare. Then she ran quickly up to her own room, put on her hat and herold worn cloak--the cloak which aunt Sophie had given her--and returnedonce more into the parlour. She looked round the room with anxiouseyes, and seeing her desk, she took the key from her pocket and putit into the lock. Then there came a thought into her mind as to thepapers; but she resolved that the thought need not arrest her, andshe left the key in the lock with the papers untouched. Then she wentto the door of her father's room, and stood there for a moment with herhand upon the latch. She tried it ever so gently, but she found thatthe door was bolted. The bolt, she knew, was on her side, and she couldwithdraw it; but she did not do so; seeming to take the impediment asthough it were a sufficient bar against her entrance. Then she ran downthe stairs rapidly, opened the front door, and found herself out in thenight air.

  It was a cold windy night--not so late, indeed, as to have made herfeel that it was night, had she not come from the gloom of the darkparlour, and the glimmer of her one small lamp. It was now somethingbeyond the middle of October, and at present it might be eight o'clock.She knew that there would be moonlight, and she looked up at the sky;but the clouds were all dark, though she could see that they weremoving along with the gusts of wind. It was very cold, and she drew hercloak closer about her as she stepped out into the archway.

  Up above her, almost close to her in the gloom of the night, there wasthe long colonnade of the palace, with the lights glimmering in thewindows as they always glimmered. She allowed herself for a moment tothink who might be there in those rooms--as she had so often thoughtbefore. It was possible that Anton might be there. He had been thereonce before at this time in the evening, as he himself had told her.Wherever he might be, was he thinking of her? But if he thought of her,he was thinking of her as one who had deceived him, who had tried torob him. Ah! the day would soon come in which he would learn that hehad wronged her. When that day should come, would his heart be bitterwithin him? "He will certainly be unhappy for a time," she said; "buthe is hard and will recover, and she will console him. It will bebetter so. A Christian and a Jew should never love each other."

  As she stood the clouds were lifted for a moment from the face of therisen moon, and she could see by the pale clear light the whole facadeof the palace as it ran along the steep hillside above her. She couldcount the arches, as she had so often counted them by the same light.They seemed to be close over her head, and she stood there thinking ofthem, till the clouds had again skurried across the moon's face, andshe could only see the accustomed glimmer in the windows. As her eyefell upon the well-known black buildings around her, she found that itwas very dark. It was well for her that it should be so dark. She neverwanted to see the light again.

  There was a footstep on the other side of the square, and she pausedtill it had passed away beyond the reach of her ears. Then she came outfrom under the archway, and hurried across the square to the streetwhich led to the bridge. It was a dark gloomy lane, narrow, andcomposed of high buildings without entrances, the sides of barracks andold palaces. From the windows above her head on the left, she heardthe voices of soldiers. A song was being sung, and she could hearthe words. How cruel it was that other people should have so much oflight-hearted joy in the world, but that for her everything should havebeen so terribly sad! The wind, as it met her, seemed to penetrate toher bones. She was very cold! But it was useless to regard that. Therewas no place on the face of the earth that would ever be warm for her.

  As she passed along the causeway leading to the bridge, a sound withwhich she was very familiar met her ears. They were singing vespersunder the shadow of one of the great statues which are placed one overeach arch of the bridge. There was a lay friar standing by a littletable, on which there was a white cloth and a lighted lamp and a smallcrucifix; and above the crucifix, supported against the stone-work ofthe bridge, there was a picture of the Virgin with her Child, and therewas a tawdry wreath of paper flowers, so that by the light of the lampyou could see that a little altar had been prepared. And on the tablethere was a plate containing kreutzers, into which the faithful whopassed and took a part in the evening psalm of praise, might put anoffering for the honour of the Virgin, and for the benefit of the poorfriar and his brethren in their poor cloisters at home. Nina knew allabout it well. Scores of times had she stood on the same spot upon thebridge, and sung the vesper hymn, ere she passed on to the Kleinseite.

  And now she paused and sang it once again. Around the table upon thepavement there stood perhaps thirty or forty persons, most of themchildren, and the remainder girls perhaps of Nina's age. And the friarstood close by the table, leaning idly against the bridge, with his eyewandering from the little plate with the kreutzers to the passers-bywho might possibly contribute. And ever and anon he with drawlingvoice would commence some sentence of the hymn, and then the girls andchildren would take it up, well knowing the accustomed words; and theirvoices as they sang would sound sweetly across the waters, the loudgurgling of which, as they ran beneath the arch, would be heard duringthe pauses.

  And Nina stopped and sang. When she was a child she had sung there veryoften, and the friar of those days would put his hand upon her head andbless her, as she brought her small piece of tribute to his plate. Oflate, since she had been at variance with the Church by reason of theJew, she had always passed by rapidly, as though feeling that she hadno longer any right to take a part in such a ceremony. But now she haddone with the Jew, and surely she might sing the vesper song. So shestopped and sang, remembering not the less as she sang, that that whichshe was about to do, if really done, would make all such singingunavailing for her.

  But then, perhaps, even yet it might not be done. Lotta's firstprediction, that the Jew would desert her, had certainly come true;and Lotta's second prediction, that there would be nothing left forher but to drown herself, seemed to her to be true also. She had leftthe house in which her father's dead body was still lying, with thispurpose. Doubly deserted as she now was by lover and father, she couldlive no longer. It might, however, be possible that that saint who wasso powerful over the waters might yet do something for her--might yetinterpose on her behalf, knowing, as he did, of course, that all ideaof marriage between her, a Christian, and her Jew lover had beenabandoned. At any rate she stood and sang the hymn, and when therecame the accustomed lull at the end of the verse, she felt in herpocket for a coin, and, taking a piece of ten kreutzers, she steppedquickly up to the plate and put it in. A day or two ago ten kreutzerswas an important portion of the little sum which she still had left inhand, but now ten kreutzers could do nothing for her. It was at anyrate better that the friar should have it than that her money shouldgo with her down into the blackness of the river. Nevertheless she didnot give the friar all. She saw one girl whispering to another as shestepped up to the table, and she heard her own name. "That is NinaBalatka." And then there was an answer which she did not hear, butwhich she was sure referred to the Jew. The girls looked at her withangry eyes, and she longed to stop and explain to them that she was nolonger betrothed to the Jew. Then, perhaps, they would be gentle withher, and she might yet hear a kind word spoken to her before she went.But she did not speak to them. No; she would never speak to man orwoman again. What was the use of speaking now? No sympathy that shecould receive would go deep enough to give relief to such wounds ashers.

  As she dropped her piece of money into the plate her eyes met those ofthe friar, and she recognised at once a man whom she had known yearsago, at the same spot and engaged in the same work. He was old andhaggard, and thin, and grey, and very dirty; but there came a smileover his face as he also recognised her. He could not speak to her, forhe had to take up a verse in the hymn, and drawl out the words whichwere to set the crowd singing, and Nina had retired back again beforehe was silen
t. But she knew that he had known her, and she almost feltthat she had found a friend who would be kind to her. On the morrow,when inquiry would be made--and aunt Sophie would certainly be loudin her inquiries--this friar would be able to give some testimonyrespecting her.

  She passed on altogether across the bridge, in order that she mightreach the spot she desired without observation--and perhaps also withsome halting idea that she might thus postpone the evil moment. Thefigure of St John Nepomucene rested on the other balustrade of thebridge, and she was minded to stand for a while under its shadow. Now,at Prague it is the custom that they who pass over the bridge shallalways take the right-hand path as they go; and she, therefore, incoming from the Kleinseite, had taken that opposite to the statue ofthe saint. She had thought of this, and had told herself that she wouldcross the roadway in the middle of the bridge; but at that moment themoon was shining brightly: and then, too, the night was long. Why needshe be in a hurry?

  At the further end of the bridge she stood a while in the shade of thewatch-tower, and looked anxiously around her. When last she had beenover in the Old Town, within a short distance of the spot where she nowstood, she had chanced to meet her lover. What if she should see himnow? She was sure that she would not speak to him. And yet she lookedvery anxiously up the dark street, through the glimmer of the dulllamps. First there came one man, and then another, and a third; andshe thought, as her eyes fell upon them, that the figure of each wasthe figure of Anton Trendellsohn. But as they emerged from the darkershadow into the light that was near, she saw that it was not so, andshe told herself that she was glad. If Anton were to come and findher there, it might be that he would disturb her purpose. But yet shelooked again before she left the shadow of the tower. Now there was noone passing in the street. There was no figure there to make her thinkthat her lover was coming either to save her or to disturb her.

  Taking the pathway on the other side, she turned her face again towardsthe Kleinseite, and very slowly crept along under the balustrade ofthe bridge. This bridge over the Moldau is remarkable in many ways,but it is specially remarkable for the largeness of its proportions. Itis very long, taking its spring from the shore a long way before theactual margin of the river; it is of a fine breadth: the side-walks toit are high and massive; and the groups of statues with which it isornamented, though not in themselves of much value as works of art,have a dignity by means of their immense size which they lend to thecauseway, making the whole thing noble, grand, and impressive. Andbelow, the Moldau runs with a fine, silent, dark volume of water--avery sea of waters when the rains have fallen and the little rivershave been full, though in times of drought great patches of ugly dryland are to be seen in its half-empty bed. At the present moment therewere no such patches; and the waters ran by, silent, black, in greatvolumes, and with unchecked rapid course. It was only by pausingspecially to listen to them that the passer-by could hear them as theyglided smoothly round the piers of the bridge. Nina did pause and didhear them. They would have been almost less terrible to her, had thesound been rougher and louder.

  On she went, very slowly. The moon, she thought, had disappearedaltogether before she reached the cross inlaid in the stone on thebridge-side, on which she was accustomed to lay her fingers, in orderthat she might share somewhat of the saint's power over the river. Atthat moment, as she came up to it, the night was very dark. She hadcalculated that by this time the light of the moon would have waned,so that she might climb to the spot which she had marked for herselfwithout observation. She paused, hesitating whether she would put herhand upon the cross. It could not at least do her any harm. It mightbe that the saint would be angry with her, accusing her of hypocrisy;but what would be the saint's anger for so small a thing amidst themultitudes of charges that would be brought against her? For that whichshe was going to do now there could be no absolution given. And perhapsthe saint might perceive that the deed on her part was not altogetherhypocritical--that there was something in it of a true prayer. Hemight see this, and intervene to save her from the waters. So she putthe palm of her little hand full upon the cross, and then kissed itheartily, and after that raised it up again till it rested on the footof the saint. As she stood there she heard the departing voices of thegirls and children singing the last verse of the vesper hymn, as theyfollowed the friar off the causeway of the bridge into the Kleinseite.

  She was determined that she would persevere. She had endured that whichmade it impossible that she should recede, and had sworn to herself athousand times that she would never endure that which would have to beendured if she remained longer in this cruel world. There would be noroof to cover her now but the roof in the Windberg-gasse, beneath whichthere was to her a hell upon earth. No; she would face the anger ofall the saints rather than eat the bitter bread which her aunt wouldprovide for her. And she would face the anger of all the saints ratherthan fall short in her revenge upon her lover. She had given herself tohim altogether--for him she had been half-starved, when, but for him,she might have lived as a favoured daughter in her aunt's house--forhim she had made it impossible to herself to regard any other man witha spark of affection--for his sake she had hated her cousin Ziska--her cousin who was handsome, and young, and rich, and had loved her--feeling that the very idea that she could accept love from anyone butAnton had been an insult to her. She had trusted Anton as though hisword had been gospel to her. She had obeyed him in everything, allowinghim to scold her as though she were already subject to his rule; and,to speak the truth, she had enjoyed such treatment, obtaining from ita certain assurance that she was already his own. She had loved himentirely, had trusted him altogether, had been prepared to bear allthat the world could fling upon her for his sake, wanting nothing inreturn but that he should know that she was true to him.

  This he had not known, nor had he been able to understand such truth.It had not been possible to him to know it. The inborn suspicion ofhis nature had broken out in opposition to his love, forcing her toacknowledge to herself that she had been wrong in loving a Jew. He hadbeen unable not to suspect her of some vile scheme by which she mightpossibly cheat him of his property, if at the last moment she shouldnot become his wife. She told herself that she understood it all now--that she could see into his mind, dark and gloomy as were its recesses.She had wasted all her heart upon a man who had never even believedin her; and would she not be revenged upon him? Yes, she would berevenged, and she would cure the malady of her own love by the onlypossible remedy within her reach.

  The statue of St John Nepomucene is a single figure, standing inmelancholy weeping posture on the balustrade of the bridge, withoutany of that ponderous strength of wide-spread stone which belongs tothe other groups. This St John is always pictured to us as a thin,melancholy, half-starved saint, who has had all the life washed outof him by his long immersion. There are saints to whom a trustingreligious heart can turn, relying on their apparent physicalcapabilities. St Mark, for instance, is always a tower of strength,and St Christopher is very stout, and St Peter carries with him anancient manliness which makes one marvel at his cowardice when hedenied his Master. St Lawrence, too, with his gridiron, and StBartholomew with his flaying-knife and his own skin hanging over hisown arm, look as though they liked their martyrdom, and were proud ofit, and could be useful on an occasion. But this St John of the Bridgeshas no pride in his appearance, and no strength in his look. He is amild, meek saint, teaching one rather by his attitude how to bear withthe malice of the waters, than offering any protection against theirviolence. But now, at this moment, his aid was the only aid to whichNina could look with any hope. She had heard of his rescuing manypersons from death amidst the current of the Moldau. Indeed she thoughtthat she could remember having been told that the river had no power todrown those who could turn their minds to him when they were strugglingin the water. Whether this applied only to those who were in sightof his statue on the bridge of Prague, or whether it was good in allrivers of the world, she did not know. Then she tried to think whethersh
e had ever heard of any case in which the saint had saved one whohad--who had done the thing which she was now about to do. She wasalmost sure that she had never heard of such a case as that. But, then,was there not something special in her own case? Was not her sufferingso great, her condition so piteous, that the saint would be driven tocompassion in spite of the greatness of her sin? Would he not know thatshe was punishing the Jew by the only punishment with which she couldreach him? She looked up into the saint's wan face, and fancied thatno eyes were ever so piteous, no brow ever so laden with the deepsuffering of compassion. But would this punishment reach the heart ofAnton Trendellsohn? Would he care for it? When he should hear that shehad--destroyed her own life because she could not endure the cruelty ofhis suspicion, would the tidings make him unhappy? When last they hadbeen together he had told her, with all that energy which he knew sowell how to put into his words, that her love was necessary to hishappiness. "I will never release you from your promises," he had said,when she offered to give him back his troth because of the ill-will ofhis people. And she still believed him. Yes, he did love her. There wassomething of consolation to her in the assurance that the strings ofhis heart would be wrung when he should hear of this. If his bosom werecapable of agony, he would be agonised.

  It was very dark at this moment, and now was the time for her to climbupon the stone-work and hide herself behind the drapery of the saint'sstatue. More than once, as she had crossed the bridge, she had observedthe spot, and had told herself that if such a deed were to be done,that would be the place for doing it. She had always been conscious,since the idea had entered her mind, that she would lack the power tostep boldly up on to the parapet and go over at once, as the bathers dowhen they tumble headlong into the stream that has no dangers for them.She had known that she must crouch, and pause, and think of it, andlook at it, and nerve herself with the memory of her wrongs. Then,at some moment in which her heart was wrung to the utmost, she wouldgradually slacken her hold, and the dark, black, silent river shouldtake her. She climbed up into the niche, and found that the river wasvery far from her, though death was so near to her and the fall wouldbe so easy. When she became aware that there was nothing between herand the great void space below her, nothing to guard her, nothing leftto her in all the world to protect her, she retreated, and descendedagain to the pavement. And never in her life had she moved with morecare, lest, inadvertently, a foot or a hand might slip, and she mighttumble to her doom against her will.

  When she was again on the pathway she remembered her note to Anton--that note which was already in his hands. What would he think of her ifshe were only to threaten the deed, and then not perform it? And wouldshe allow him to go unpunished? Should he triumph, as he would do ifshe were now to return to the house which she had told him she hadleft? She clasped her hands together tightly, and pressed them firstto her bosom and then to her brow, and then again she returned to theniche from which the fall into the river must be made. Yes, it was veryeasy. The plunge might be taken at any moment. Eternity was before her,and of life there remained to her but the few moments in which shemight cling there and think of what was coming. Surely she need notbegrudge herself a minute or two more of life.

  She was very cold, so cold that she pressed herself against the stonein order that she might save herself from the wind that whistled roundher. But the water would be colder still than the wind, and when oncethere she could never again be warm. The chill of the night, and theblackness of the gulf before her, and the smooth rapid gurgle of thedark moving mass of waters beneath, were together more horrid to herimagination than even death itself. Thrice she released herself fromher backward pressure against the stone, in order that she might fallforward and have done with it, but as often she found herself returninginvoluntarily to the protection which still remained to her. It seemedas though she could not fall. Though she would have thought thatanother must have gone directly to destruction if placed where she wascrouching--though she would have trembled with agony to see anyoneperched in such danger--she appeared to be firm fixed. She must jumpforth boldly, or the river would not take her. Ah! what if it were so--that the saint who stood over her, and whose cross she had so latelykissed, would not let her perish from beneath his feet? In thesemoments her mind wandered in a maze of religious doubts and fears, andshe entertained, unconsciously, enough of doctrinal scepticism to founda school of freethinkers. Could it be that God would punish her witheverlasting torments because in her agony she was driven to this as heronly mode of relief? Would there be no measuring of her sins againsther sorrows, and no account taken of the simplicity of her life? Shelooked up towards heaven, not praying in words, but with a prayer inher heart. For her there could be no absolution, no final blessing. Theact of her going would be an act of terrible sin. But God would knowall, and would surely take some measure of her case. He could save herif He would, despite every priest in Prague. More than one passengerhad walked by while she was crouching in her niche beneath the statue--had passed by and had not seen her. Indeed, the night at present was sodark, that one standing still and looking for her would hardly be ableto define her figure. And yet, dark as it was, she could see somethingof the movement of the waters beneath her, some shimmer produced by thegliding movement of the stream. Ah! she would go now and have done withit. Every moment that she remained was but an added agony.

  Then, at that moment, she heard a voice on the bridge near her, and shecrouched close again, in order that the passenger might pass by withoutnoticing her. She did not wish that anyone should hear the splash ofher plunge, or be called on to make ineffectual efforts to save her. Soshe would wait again. The voice drew nearer to her, and suddenly shebecame aware that it was Souchey's voice. It was Souchey, and he wasnot alone. It must be Anton who had come out with him to seek her,and to save her. But no. He should have no such relief as that fromhis coming sorrow. So she clung fast, waiting till they should pass,but still leaning a little towards the causeway, so that, if it werepossible, she might see the figures as they passed. She heard the voiceof Souchey quite plain, and then she perceived that Souchey's companionwas a woman. Something of the gentleness of a woman's voice reached herear, but she could distinguish no word that was spoken. The steps werenow very close to her, and with terrible anxiety she peeped out to seewho might be Souchey's companion. She saw the figure, and she knew atonce by the hat that it was Rebecca Loth. They were walking fast, andwere close to her now. They would be gone in an instant.

  On a sudden, at the very moment that Souchey and Rebecca were in theact of passing beneath the feet of the saint, the clouds swept by fromoff the disc of the waning moon, and the three faces were looking ateach other in the clear pale light of the night. Souchey started backand screamed. Rebecca leaped forward and put the grasp of her handtight upon the skirt of Nina's dress, first one hand and then theother, and, pressing forward with her body against the parapet, she gota hold also of Nina's foot. She perceived instantly what was the girl'spurpose, but, by God's blessing on her efforts, there should be no coldform found in the river that night; or, if one, then there should betwo. Nina kept her hold against the figure, appalled, dumbfounded,awe-stricken, but still with some inner consciousness of salvation thatcomforted her. Whether her life was due to the saint or to the Jewessshe knew not, but she acknowledged to herself silently that death wasbeyond her reach, and she was grateful.

  "Nina," said Rebecca. Nina still crouched against the stone, with hereyes fixed on the other girl's face; but she was unable to speak. Theclouds had again obscured the moon, and the air was again black, butthe two now could see each other in the darkness, or feel that they didso. "Nina, Nina--why are you here?"

  "I do not know," said Nina, shivering.

  "For the love of God take care of her," said Souchey, "or she will beover into the river."

  "She cannot fall now," said Rebecca. "Nina, will you not come down tome? You are very cold. Come down, and I will warm you."

  "I am very cold," said Nina. Then grad
ually she slid down intoRebecca's arms, and was placed sitting on a little step immediatelybelow the figure of St John. Rebecca knelt by her side, and Nina's headfell upon the shoulder of the Jewess. Then she burst into the violenceof hysterics, but after a moment or two a flood of tears relieved her.

  "Why have you come to me?" she said. "Why have you not left me alone?"

  "Dear Nina, your sorrows have been too heavy for you to bear."

  "Yes; they have been very heavy."

  "We will comfort you, and they shall be softened."

  "I do not want comfort. I only want to--to--to go."

  While Rebecca was chafing Nina's hands and feet, and tying ahandkerchief from off her own shoulders round Nina's neck, Soucheystood over them, not knowing what to propose. "Perhaps we had bettercarry her back to the old house," he said.

  "I will not be carried back," said Nina.

  "No, dear; the house is desolate and cold. You shall not go there. Youshall come to our house, and we will do for you the best we can there,and you shall be comfortable. There is no one there but mother, and sheis kind and gracious. She will understand that your father has died,and that you are alone."

  Nina, as she heard this, pressed her head and shoulders close againstRebecca's body. As it was not to be allowed to her to escape fromall her troubles, as she had thought to do, she would prefer theneighbourhood of the Jews to that of any Christians. There was noChristian now who would say a kind word to her. Rebecca spoke to hervery kindly, and was soft and gentle with her. She could not go whereshe would be alone. Even if left to do so, all physical power wouldfail her. She knew that she was weak as a child is weak, and thatshe must submit to be governed. She thought it would be better to begoverned by Rebecca Loth at the present moment than by anyone else whomshe knew. Rebecca had spoken of her mother, and Nina was conscious ofa faint wish that there had been no such person in her friend's house;but this was a minor trouble, and one which she could afford todisregard amidst all her sorrows. How much more terrible would havebeen her fate had she been carried away to aunt Sophie's house! "Doeshe know?" she said, whispering the question into Rebecca's ear.

  "Yes, he knows. It was he who sent me." Why did he not come himself?That question flashed across Nina's mind, and it was present also toRebecca. She knew that it was the question which Nina, within herheart, would silently ask. "I was there when the note came," saidRebecca, "and he thought that a woman could do more than a man. Iam so glad he sent me--so very glad. Shall we go, dear?"

  Then Nina rose from her seat, and stood up, and began to move slowly.Her limbs were stiff with cold, and at first she could hardly walk; butshe did not feel that she would be unable to make the journey. Soucheycame to her side, but she rejected his arm petulantly. "Do not let himcome," she said to Rebecca. "I will do whatever you tell me; I willindeed." Then the Jewess said a word or two to the old man, and heretreated from Nina's side, but stood looking at her till she was outof sight. Then he returned home to the cold desolate house in theKleinseite, where his only companion was the lifeless body of his oldmaster. But Souchey, as he left his young mistress, made no complaintof her treatment of him. He knew that he had betrayed her, and broughther close upon the step of death's door. He could understand it allnow. Indeed he had understood it all since the first word that AntonTrendellsohn had spoken after reading Nina's note.

  "She will destroy herself," Anton had said.

  "What! Nina, my mistress?" said Souchey. Then, while Anton had calledRebecca to him, Souchey had seen it all. "Master," he said, when theJew returned to him, "it was Lotta Luxa who put the paper in the desk.Nina knew nothing of its being there." Then the Jew's heart sank coldlywithin him, and his conscience became hot within his bosom. He lostnothing of his presence of mind, but simply hurried Rebecca upon hererrand. "I shall see you again to-night," he said to the girl.

  "You must come then to our house," said Rebecca. "It may be that Ishall not be able to leave it."

  Rebecca, as she led Nina back across the bridge, at first said nothingfurther. She pressed the other girl's arm within her own, and therewas much of tenderness and regard in the pressure. She was silent,thinking, perhaps, that any speech might be painful to her companion.But Nina could not restrain herself from a question, "What will theysay of me?"

  "No one, dear, shall say anything."

  "But he knows."

  "I know not what he knows, but his knowledge, whatever it be, is onlyfood for his love. You may be sure of his love, Nina--quite sure, quitesure. You may take my word for that. If that has been your doubt, youhave doubted wrongly."

  Not all the healing medicines of Mercury, not wine from the flasks ofthe gods, could have given Nina life and strength as did those wordsfrom her rival's lips. All her memory of his offences against her hadagain gone in her thought of her own sin. Would he forgive her andstill love her? Yes; she was a weak woman--very weak; but she had thatone strength which is sufficient to atone for all feminine weakness--she could really love; or rather, having loved, she could not ceaseto love. Anger had no effect on her love, or was as water thrown onblazing coal, which makes it burn more fiercely. Ill usage could notcrush her love. Reason, either from herself or others, was unavailingagainst it. Religion had no power over it. Her love had become herreligion to Nina. It took the place of all things both in heaven andearth. Mild as she was by nature, it made her a tigress to those whoopposed it. It was all the world to her. She had tried to die, becauseher love had been wounded; and now she was ready to live again becauseshe was told that her lover--the lover who had used her so cruelly--still loved her. She pressed Rebecca's arm close into her side. "Ishall be better soon," she said. Rebecca did not doubt that Nina wouldsoon be better, but of her own improvement she was by no means socertain.

  They walked on through the narrow crooked streets into the Jews'quarter, and soon stood at the door of Rebecca's house. The latch wasloose, and they entered, and they found a lamp ready for them on thestairs. "Had you not better come to my bed for to-night?" said Rebecca.

  "Only that I should be in your way, I should be so glad."

  "You shall not be in my way. Come, then. But first you must eat anddrink." Though Nina declared that she could not eat a morsel, andwanted no drink but water, Rebecca tended upon her, bringing the foodand wine that were in truth so much needed. "And now, dear, I will helpyou to bed. You are yet cold, and there you will be warm."

  "But when shall I see him?"

  "Nay, how can I tell? But, Nina, I will not keep him from you. He shallcome to you here when he chooses--if you choose it also."

  "I do choose it--I do choose it," said Nina, sobbing in her weakness--conscious of her weakness.

  While Rebecca was yet assisting Nina--the Jewess kneeling as theChristian sat on the bedside--there came a low rap at the door, andRebecca was summoned away. "I shall be but a moment," she said, and sheran down to the front door.

  "Is she here?" said Anton, hoarsely.

  "Yes, she is here."

  "The Lord be thanked! And can I not see her?"

  "You cannot see her now, Anton. She is very weary, and all but in bed."

  "To-morrow I may come?"

  "Yes, to-morrow."

  "And, tell me, how did you find her? Where did you find her?"

  "To-morrow Anton, you shall be told--whatever there is to tell. Forto-night, is it not enough for you to know that she is with me? Shewill share my bed, and I will be as a sister to her."

  Then Anton spoke a word of warm blessing to his friend, and went hisway home.