It was while engaged in the former exercise, that a message
arrived to summon him on the instant home,--the priest left his queen
_en prise_, and hurried into the passage to speak with the messenger. The family of Walberg, with agitation unspeakable, half rose to follow
him. They paused at the door, and then retreated with a mixed feeling of
anxiety for the intelligence, and shame at the attitude in which they
might be discovered. As they retreated, however, they could not help
hearing the words of the messenger,--“He is at his last gasp,--he has
sent for you,--you must not lose a moment.” As the messenger spoke, the
priest and he departed. “The family returned to their apartment, and for some hours sat in
profound silence, interrupted only by the ticking of the clock, which
was distinctly and solely heard, and which seemed too loud to their
quickened ears, amid that deep stillness on which it broke
incessantly,--or by the echoes of Walberg’s hurried step, as he started
from his chair and traversed the apartment. At this sound they turned,
as if expecting a messenger, then, glancing at the silent figure of
Walberg, sunk on their seats again. The family sat up all that long
night of unuttered, and indeed unutterable emotion. The lights burnt
low, and were at length extinguished, but no one noticed them;--the pale
light of the dawn broke feebly into the room, but no one observed it was
morning. “God!--how long he lingers!” exclaimed Walberg involuntarily;
and these words, though uttered under his breath, made all the listeners
start, as at the first sounds of a human voice, which they had not heard
for many hours. “At this moment a knock was heard at the door,--a step trod slowly along
the passage that led to the room,--the door opened, and the priest
appeared. He advanced into the room without speaking, or being spoken
to. And the contrast of strong emotion and unbroken silence,--this
conflict of speech that strangled thought in the utterance, and of
thought that in vain asked aid of speech,--the agony and the
muteness,--formed a terrible momentary association. It was but
momentary,--the priest, as he stood, uttered the words--“All is over!”
Walberg clasped his hands over his forehead, and in ecstatic agony
exclaimed,--“Thank God!” and wildly catching at the object nearest him,
as if imagining it one of his children, he clasped and hugged it to his
breast. His wife wept for a moment at the thought of her brother’s
death, but roused herself for her children’s sake to hear all that was
to be told. The Priest could tell no more but that Guzman was
dead,--seals had been put on every chest, drawer, and coffer in the
house,--not a cabinet had escaped the diligence of the persons
employed,--and the will was to be read the following day. “For the following day the family remained in that intensity of
expectation that precluded all thought. The servants prepared the usual
meal, but it remained untasted. The family pressed each other to partake
of it; but as the importunity was not enforced by the inviter setting
any example of the lesson he tried to teach, the meal remained untasted. About noon a grave person, in the habit of a notary, was announced, and
summoned Walberg to be present at the opening of Guzman’s will. As
Walberg prepared to obey the summons, one of his children officiously
offered him his hat, another his cloke, both of which he had forgot in
the trepidation of his anxiety; and these instances of reminiscence and
attention in his children, contrasted with his own abstraction,
completely overcame him, and he sunk down on a seat to recover himself. “You had better not go, my love,” said his wife mildly. “I believe I
shall--I _must_ take your advice,” said Walberg, relapsing on the seat
from which he had half risen. The notary, with a formal bow, was
retiring. “I _will_ go!” said Walberg, swearing a German oath, whose
guttural sound made the notary start,--“I _will_ go!” and as he spoke he
fell on the floor, exhausted by fatigue and want of refreshment, and
emotion indescribable but to a father. The notary retired, and a few
hours more were exhausted in torturing conjecture, expressed on the
mother’s part only by clasped hands and smothered sighs,--on the
father’s by profound silence, averted countenance, and hands that seemed
to feel for those of his children, and then shrink from the touch,--and
on the children’s by rapidly varying auguries of hope and of
disappointment. The aged pair sat motionless among their family;--they
knew not what was going on, but they knew if it was good they must
partake of it,--and in the perception or expectation of the approach of
evil, their faculties had latterly become very obtuse. “The day was far advanced,--it was noon. The servants, with whom the
munificence of the deceased had amply supplied their establishment,
announced that dinner was prepared; and Ines, who retained more presence
of mind than the rest, gently suggested to her husband the necessity of
not betraying their emotions to their servants. He obeyed her hint
mechanically, and walked into the dining-hall, forgetting for the first
time to offer his arm to his infirm father. His family followed, but,
when seated at the table, they seemed not to know for what purpose they
were collected there. Walberg, consumed by that _thirst of anxiety_
which nothing seems sufficient to quench, called repeatedly for wine;
and his wife, who found even the attempt to eat impossible in the
presence of the gazing and unmoved attendants, dismissed them by a
signal, but did not feel the desire of food restored by their absence. The old couple eat as usual, and sometimes looked up with an expression
of vague and vacant wonder, and a kind of sluggish reluctance to admit
the fear or belief of approaching calamity. Towards the end of their
cheerless meal, Walberg was called out; he returned in a few minutes,
and there was no appearance of change in his countenance. He seated
himself, and only his wife perceived the traces of a wild smile stealing
over the trembling lines of his face, as he filled a large glass of
wine, and raised it to his lips, pronouncing--“A health to the heirs of
Guzman.” But instead of drinking the wine, he dashed the glass to the
floor, and burying his head in the drapery of the table on which he
flung himself, he exclaimed, “Not a ducat,--not a ducat,--all left to
the church!--Not a ducat!” * * * * *

“In the evening the priest called, and found the family much more
composed. The certainty of evil had given them a kind of courage. Suspence is the only evil against which it is impossible to set up a
defence,--and, like young mariners in an untried sea, they almost felt
ready to welcome the storm, as a relief from the deadly and loathsome
sickness of anxiety. The honest resentment, and encouraging manner of
the priest, were a cordial to their ears and hearts.