He found the one of whom he was in quest seated at her easel, perhaps a trifle nearer the wall than before, and with the same expression on her face which had so ravished his heart the first time he lighted upon her. She seemed not to notice his approach, and when at length Conrad ventured to ask if the copy she was making were for sale, Walburga replied, apparently with indifference, and without taking her eyes off the canvas: “Yes, sir, it is.” Yet how his question set her heart a-throbbing! For the sale of the picture would enable the girl to pay several bills that were due, as well as take a trip to Nuremberg, which for years she had been longing to visit; for Nuremberg was the birthplace of Albert Dürer.
“How differently Miss Hofer would have answered me!” thought Conrad, observing Walburga with close attention. “She would have looked me full in the face and completed a bargain forthwith; ay, and persuaded me, too, to offer a high price for the picture.” Then aloud, and addressing Walburga in courtly German style: “Well, if the gracious lady will allow me to possess her beautiful copy, I shall be delighted. For I have just bought an old castle in the Tyrol, which I mean to restore, as far as money may, to its former state of grandeur, and I promise you your painting shall adorn the fairest chamber in it.”
“An old castle, indeed!” murmured Walburga, still without glancing at him. She wondered whether it might be Loewenstein. Then presently, unable to contain her eager desire to know if it was or not, she said: “May I ask, sir, in what part of the Tyrol your castle is?”
“In the Innthal, not far from Innspruck; and it once belonged to the noble house of Von Loewenstein.”
At these words a flush crimsoned the girl’s cheek for a moment, then disappeared, leaving her paler than before; while her brush, always so steady, now tremblingly touched the canvas. At length, after vainly endeavoring to master her feelings, she let the brush drop and buried her face in her hands.
Conrad’s curiosity was here raised to a high pitch; for although Ulrich had not told him that he had a sister an artist, yet he was quick-witted, and since he had seen the miniature in the old curiosity-shop—and Moida, we remember, had informed him that it came from Loewenstein—Conrad had been hoping that the young lady whom he called his Dream might prove to be one of the Loewenstein family, a near relative of Ulrich’s—his sister, perhaps.
“And why not?” he asked himself. “A likeness may be handed down through many generations; it may vanish for a space, like a lost stream, then reappear in the person of a far-off descendant. And verily, this charming girl is the living image of Walburga, the bride of Hugo von Loewenstein. And, oh! if I am right, what a treasure she will be. True, I am not highborn, and she may not view me at first with favor. But I’ll go through fire to win her!”
Presently Walburga uncovered her face, and for the first time stole a furtive glance at the one who stood beside her. Then quick her eyes were fastened on the canvas again; and while Conrad was wondering at her shyness a tear rolled down her cheek. His curiosity to know who she was now increased tenfold, and he said, in a voice the tenderness of which he did not care to conceal:
“Gracious lady, pray be not offended if I ask whether you have ever been to Loewenstein?”
“I was there once; I never wish to lay eyes on it again,” answered Walburga, trying to conceal her emotion.