CHAPTER III.
The door closed behind the retreating figures, and Cilli was left alone in the studio. She sat down on a low stool, holding in her lap the paper which Ferdinanda had given her, and supporting her head upon her hand.
"He will not understand it," she murmured; "he will be very angry; no one will understand it, not even Reinhold himself; even he could not feel with me as I feel. Oh! my poor heart, why do you throb so wildly! Can you not bear it a little longer, only a little longer! Let me fulfil this, it may be your last service!"
She had pressed her two hands against her bosom, as with stoical fortitude she bore the fearful pain, the agonising breathlessness caused by her palpitating heart, as had so often happened in the last few days. The terrible attack passed off, but the exhaustion which followed was so great, that she made several vain efforts to rise. She succeeded at last, and feeling for the table on which she knew a jug of water and glasses always stood, drank some water.
"I can do it now," she murmured. And yet she often thought she must break down, as she languidly put one weary foot before the other, and slowly, slowly groped her way from the studio, and through the narrow path between the house and garden. As she passed the door of her own dwelling, she stood still and listened at the foot of the stairs which led to their rooms above. All was still, and her father was sleeping under good Aunt Rikchen's care. He would not miss her; her poor father did not even know that her dearest wish, that she might die after him, and so remain with him till he breathed his last, and spare him the pain of seeing his child die, could hardly now be fulfilled. Her poor father! and yet not so poor as the proud lonely man to whom she was going.
She had reached the house and got as far as the carpeted marble stairs. A step came down towards her, and she stood still, leaning against the balustrade and smiling up at the new comer.
"Dear Grollmann!"
"Good gracious, Fräulein Cilli! How came you here? And how ill you look! Dear me! you ought to go to bed at once!"
"I have no time for that, dear Grollmann, but I do feel very weak; will you help me up the stairs?"
"Why, where do you want to go?"
"To him--to Herr Schmidt."
Grollmann shook his head.
"Dear Fräulein Cilli, you know that I would do anything in the world to please you, and particularly to-day, when you are in such trouble about your good father; but you really cannot possibly go to Herr Schmidt. If you want anything for your good father--and he has been asking after him already, although he has so many things on his mind--I will take an opportunity of saying it--"
"It is not about my father," said Cilli, "nor about myself, but I have such difficulty in speaking, dear Grollmann."
The old servant was awestruck as she raised her blind eyes to him. He did not venture another word of reply, not even to ask her what was that paper which she had slipped inside her dress, and led her silently and carefully up the remaining steps to the master's door.
"Shall I announce you, Fräulein?" he whispered.
"Only open the door, dear Grollmann."
The old man hesitated for a moment, and then opened the door boldly, guided the blind girl across the threshold with outstretched arm, without himself entering, closed the door behind her, and dropped into a chair close by, resting his chin upon his hands.
"I must take the poor child downstairs again," he muttered; "she will not stay long."
Uncle Ernst, who was walking up and down the room with his hands behind his back, lost in sullen meditation, had not heard the gentle opening of the door. Now, having reached the farther end of the room, he turned and started.
"Cilli!" he exclaimed with a long-drawn breath.
"Cilli," he repeated, as he went up to her, where she silently awaited him.
He was standing before her, strangely moved by the contrast between the dark and dismal thoughts in which he had been plunged, and the angelic, radiant face into which he now looked; and his hand, which had taken hers, trembled, and his voice shook, as he led her to a chair and said: "What brings you to me, my child? Is your father worse?"
"I think not," answered Cilli, "although I know that he cannot last long."
"That is all stuff and nonsense," said Uncle Ernst, the gentleness of his tone contrasting oddly with the rough words. "Those three hundred pounds would not have made you happy. And what have I done to him that he should be afraid that I would not take care of him and you if it came to the worst?--his Socialism--pooh! He will always remain for me what he is--one of the few honest men in a world of rogues."
"I know how kind you are," answered Cilli, "and I had meant to come to you this morning to thank you from the bottom of my heart for all that you have done for us, and will do for my poor father when I am gone."
"I will not hear anything about that," said Uncle Ernst.
The ghost of a smile flitted over Cilli's pale face.
"Death has an eloquent voice," said she; "I trusted to that when I dragged myself to you, and hoped that my voice, which comes from a heart where Death has taken up his abode, might penetrate to your heart, which, stern as it often seems, is so good and kind to the poor and desolate, to the helpless and the unhappy."
Her voice was so low that Uncle Ernst had some difficulty in understanding her. What did the poor child want? she had evidently something still upon her mind.
"Tell me what it is, Cilli," said he; "you know that I can refuse you nothing, however difficult it might be to me to grant it."
"You ought not to refuse me this, although it will be difficult to you; for you are very proud, and the noblest of the angels fell through pride, and your pride is bleeding already today from a deep wound--forgive me if I touch it--I know it must be painful, but our Lord upon the cross forgave His persecutors, forgave all men, and all who sin, however wise they may be in worldly wisdom, they know not what they do. But he who sins in men's eyes because he loves, not himself but another, to whom his whole heart and soul belong, so that he no longer feels his own pangs but suffers a hundredfold from those of another--for such a poor loving soul every good man feels divine compassion; how should not a father then, who ought to stand in the place of the Father in heaven to His children on earth, and should be perfect even as the Father in heaven is perfect! Oh! have compassion upon Ferdinanda!"
She had slipped from her chair on to her knees, her hands crossed upon her breast, her sightless eyes turned to him who had always moved about in the darkness that surrounded her like a demon in his height and stateliness, but fearful also as a demon. Had her feeble voice reached the unattainable height where he was enthroned? or reached it only to unloose the storm, the thunder of his wrath, which she had so often heard rolling and raging above her head? Would he stoop down to her and raise her up, as he had raised so many from the dust, with his strong helpful hands? Then she heard--by his long-drawn breathing--that he was bending over her, and she felt the strong hands raise her and replace her carefully in her chair. She took his powerful hands in her own weak trembling ones, and guided them to her quivering lips.
"No, no, my child! You have spoken the truth, but I am not angry with you--not in the least. And that paper there, did she give you that!"
"I do not know what she has written," said Cilli, taking the paper from her bosom, "You ought not to look at the words; they are wild, perhaps bad words! but how can a poor human creature know at such a moment what she does or says?"
He had hastily run his eye over the lines. "Ferdinanda has eloped--when?"
"About half an hour ago--perhaps more; I do not know exactly."
"Did he carry her off?"
Cilli, from whom Ferdinanda had long had no secrets, mentioned Bertalda's name and residence.
"So even this time it was not himself!" murmured Uncle Ernst with a bitter smile. "Thank you, my dear child, thank you for your honesty. I have always thought highly of you, I see that I did not think nearly highly enough. And now let me call my sister to take you back and see you into bed; I am sure you ought to be there."
"She is sitting at my father's bedside," said Cilli; "she has been there these two hours. I can go very well alone."
"Then I will take you."
"If you are really grateful to me, if I am not to think that I have been here in vain, you have something else to do now; pray let me go alone."
She rose from her chair and folded her hands again upon her bosom.
"Go alone then, if you really wish it."
She moved slowly to the door, there stood still, and turning round raised both hands with an imploring gesture to him, as he gazed sadly and gloomily after her, then felt for the handle. The door opened from the outside. Grollmann, as before, stretched out his arm without crossing the threshold, received Cilli's groping hand in his, and shut the door behind her.
"They are all leagued together against me for good or evil," murmured Uncle Ernst; "Reinhold, Rike, that old man, all, all! And she, good child, who is probably worth more than all of us, she brings me this with her pure innocent hands--this!"
He stared fixedly at the paper which he held in his hand.
"I bid you farewell--for ever! You do not need my love, and yours I have sufficiently experienced! You have crushed my heart and broken my spirit; you have ruthlessly sacrificed my heart, my soul, my love to your pride, as a fanatical priest slaughters the lamb at the altar of his gods. And that other--his father! Truly when the spirit has been killed, it is an act of mercy to kill the body! Wrap yourself then in your pharisaic virtues, enjoy your arrogant pride! For us, welcome disgrace! welcome shame! welcome death!"
"So be it then--death!"
He tore the paper in half, and tore the pieces again and again, flung the fragments on the floor, put his hands behind his back, and began once more to pace up and down the room as he had been doing when Cilli came in.
As he thus moved, with burning downcast eyes, he set his foot upon one of the fragments which were fluttering about here and there. He tried to put it aside, but only ground it deeper into the soft carpet. "Bah!" said he.
But yet he turned and took another direction through the room. At that moment an insecurely fastened window was blown open by the storm, and the fragments fluttered round about him like snow-flakes.
"They want to drive me mad," he cried out loud; "but I will not go mad! Oh Lord, my God! what have I done that Thou shouldst so persecute me! What more can we unfortunate men do than act according to our knowledge and conscience! Have not I done so, so long as I can remember? If our knowledge and our wisdom are imperfect, is that our fault? Why dost Thou punish us for that of which we are not guilty? Surely Thou art pledged to help us in time of need! If Thou hast spoken to me by the mouth of this poor blind girl, I will sacrifice my conviction, my understanding, I will be blindly obedient as a child--if Thou hast spoken to me by her!"
He pressed his hands against his throbbing temples; everything grew dim before his eyes; he staggered to the open window, offering to the storm which raged against him his burning forehead and his breast, from which he had torn open his shirt.
And through the raging storm he heard a voice crying: "Help! help!"
Did he only hear without, the echo of the cry within him?
But there--in the courtyard--was not that Grollmann rushing with uplifted hands from the open door of Justus's studio towards the house? while "Help! help!" sounded clearly in his ear!
"That poor girl! Is it Cilli?" he cried.
But Grollmann did not hear him, and ran into the house; Uncle Ernst hastened out of his room.
"Lean well upon my arm, Fräulein," said Grollmann, as he took charge of Cilli at the door. He would have given anything to know what she had been talking about so long with his master, but she was so fearfully pale, and her breathing was so quick and hurried, that he had not the heart to ask her any questions, even if the answer could have been given in one word. As they reached the top step she was obliged to stop, however; but she pressed his hand almost imperceptibly, it was all she could do, and smiled at him.
"That is as good as an answer," thought the old man, and aloud he said:
"Now, don't you speak another word, Fräulein Cilli; but if you would like me to carry you, just nod. I am an old fellow, and you might be my granddaughter."
She smiled again, and shook her head; but he did almost carry her down the stairs and across the corner of the courtyard, into the narrow passage between the garden and the neighbouring house, till they came to the little back door leading into Herr Anders' studio.
"Here," said Cilli.
"Only a few steps more," said Grollmann.
"I have already taken leave of my father," said Cilli.
The old man did not know what she meant, and thought the poor child's mind was wandering at last; but still he had not the courage to make any further objection as she pointed, with an imploring gesture, to the little door, as though wanting him to open it. He did so, and, extending her hand to him, she said:
"You may leave me now, and may God bless you!"
"And you, Fräulein!" said Grollmann.
But he hardly knew what he said, as, unable to tear himself from the doorway, he followed with his eyes the slender figure as, sometimes raising her arms for a moment, like a bird about to take wing, thought Grollmann, she moved amongst all the casts and models and the thousand and one things which crowded the studio, as if she really could see, thought Grollmann.
Near one of the two high windows, in the place where Herr Anders himself generally worked, stood a white marble bust upon a small pedestal. It was a portrait of Herr Anders' betrothed, and Grollmann, who had lived so long among artists that he was something of a connoisseur himself, had been delighted with the portrait, as it grew more and more like every day--really a speaking likeness, Grollmann had said.
She went up to the bust, and remained standing there, Grollmann at first thought because she could go no farther, and must rest herself there, for she was leaning against it as if she could not stand alone. Then she raised her hands and stroked the face--her hands were as white as the marble--and nodded to it just as if she were talking to the bust, and kissed it as if it had been a living creature, and sat down upon the stool which stood near, and on which Herr Anders used to stand when he could not reach up to his figures, and leant her head upon the pedestal, and did not move again.
"Poor child," said Grollmann, "she will fall asleep there and catch her death of cold; it is quite cold now, and there will be no more fire made up till the gentlemen come back at two o'clock. I must take her upstairs."
So he came into the studio, and went up to her very gently--not that that was necessary, for he was quite determined to wake her if she had fallen asleep, but the nearer he came the more gently he moved.
And now he was standing by her.
"Poor thing," he thought to himself, "she really is asleep already, with half-shut eyes, and how sweetly she is smiling! It really would be a pity to wake her. If I had a cloak or--there is a rug lying there!"
Grollmann moved a step forward, and struck against a board, which made a sudden noise. The old man turned round much annoyed--he had certainly awoke her. But her eyes were still half shut, and she was smiling as before.
"It is very odd," thought Grollmann, and stooped nearer to the sleeper, and then raised himself, trembling in every limb, and ran as fast as his old legs would carry him out of the studio into the house after Aunt Rikchen, whom he had just seen going in, crying in wild terror, "Fräulein Rikchen, Fräulein Rikchen! help, help!" while yet he was saying to himself that no help could avail now.
But before he could get up to the good lady and communicate his terrible news, Justus and Meta had entered the studio from the other side.