"Yes, dear Theodore!" replied Madame von Herbart, quietly; "to-day, in a few hours. It seems strange to you, because you have seen how seldom I leave the house; and I only go now because I cannot avoid it. But," she added, smiling, "the whole journey will only last three days; on Thursday evening I shall be again at home, and will be very glad to find you much better than I leave you."
Theodore made no answer; he laid his hand upon his heart, as if he felt a sharp pain, then slowly turned away, and left the room.
He did not appear at dinner, immediately after which the carriage was announced, and Madame von Carly hastened her friend's departure. Ella most tenderly embraced her old grandfather. "Will you think of me, grandfather?" she asked, lovingly. "You must often think of me whilst I am away; but do not be sad, for I will soon return, and bring you something very pretty.—But where is Theodore?" she cried, looking round in surprise; "I almost believe he would let us depart without saying 'Farewell.' Naughty Theodore! I will not love him any more."
Apparently to prove the truth of her last words, she ran to the door of the young man's room, opened it a little, and called in, softly: "Theodore! dear Theodore! are you asleep? O do come out! We are going now."
"Already!" was the answer; "so soon!" A moment after, the door was thrown open, and the young man stood before the startled child, pale as death, and so agitated that Ella drew back half in fear. "Ella! Ella!" he cried, in a voice of the deepest anguish. He then bent down to the little one, and pressed her so tightly to his beating heart that she uttered a faint scream. Not heeding, or indeed seeming to hear this, he led her into the adjoining apartment, placed her on the sofa, knelt at her feet, and, stroking back the curls from her brow, looked long and earnestly into her dark eyes. They seemed to possess for him a magnetic power, so fixed and immovable was his gaze. The life appeared to be gradually leaving his frame, and he remained thus bowed and motionless until he was aroused from his lethargy by a loud call of "Ella! Ella!"
"I must go!" cried the child, springing up. "Did you not hear my mother calling me?"
"O, only one minute longer!" begged Theodore. He seized a knife, cut off one of Ella's long silken curls, and, hastily concealing his prize, embraced her again, and held her so fast that she could not escape. He kissed her hands repeatedly; great tears streamed slowly down his cheeks, and a few broken words escaped his lips. Again was heard the voice of Madame von Herbart. "Ella!" she said, in a tone of gentle reproach, "did you not hear me call you?"
"Ah! indeed I could not come," replied the child, raising her eyes, as if imploring pardon, to her mother's face, "Theodore held me so fast!"
The arm which had so tightly held her relaxed, and she was again free. The young Russian's eyes were fixed, as if on vacancy; he turned towards Madame von Herbart, knelt at her feet, and laid her hand upon his burning brow.
"What does all this mean, Theodore?" she asked, surprised and alarmed; "your head burns, and you are fearfully excited. You are certainly more unwell than you have permitted us to think you. Speak, I pray you, and relieve our anxiety. Is it bodily illness alone which has thus overcome you?"