CHAPTER XIII.

OLD-WORLD TALES.

Supper is just over in the Burgomaster’s house. The table is not yet cleared, and the ruddy wine lying low in the silver flagon gleams in the soft firelight, while the jaws of the great larded boar’s head seem absolutely agrin with delight at the marks of havoc which have been made into his cervicular region. Master Niklaus von Steinbach is just going for a little quarter-of-an-hour or so longer back to his counting-house, to look through some memoranda concerning a consignment of precious stones for which he is in treaty for the new cathedral Horologe. Conrad Dasipodius has himself called in about this matter on Niklaus, and the Burgomaster, although, as he told himself, matters were a little awkward just then, could but invite his visitor to share their evening meal, and Conrad accepted Niklaus’ invitation with a well-contented smile. “That was all reasonable enough,” Niklaus thought, “as far as it went”; but when, after supper, he found that negotiations could only be brought to a successful issue by consulting some documents locked up in his strong-room, he began to feel much put about at the notion of leaving the two young people together. “It is dangerous,” he grumbled to himself, “most dangerous!” and then he made something of an attempt to induce Dasipodius to go to the strong-room too, and look over the documents with him. The mathematician said, however, there would be no use whatever in his going, and he would, with Master Niklaus’ good leave, much prefer staying where he was. And so, without referring to details which perhaps were best left alone, Niklaus could not see how he could gainsay him. “I can’t afford to quarrel with Dasipodius,” he said to himself, as he crossed the flagstones of his courtyard; “and it’s just as likely that these two have forgotten all their fancies by now, and even supposing——A murrain seize this lock! has the Ice King got into it?” and in a vigorous tussle with the stubborn bolts of his counting-house door, the Burgomaster forgot all about that dangerous _tête-à-tête_ in the dining-hall.

Meantime, Sabina had seated herself by the fireside and begun to spin; the light of the lamp hanging from the middle boss of the carven ceiling was put to shame by the dazzling blaze of the flames roaring up the spacious chimney, and throwing the stately shadow of the mathematician on to the oak-panelled wall behind him, as he stood facing the young mistress of the house. Stealing a shy glance up at him, Sabina thought that never had his beautiful eyes looked more beautiful than now.

“Do you remember the puppet that so pleased you the last time you were at our studio?” he asked presently.

“Which do you mean. Old Father Time and his scythe?”

“No, the beautiful youth, Cupid.”

“Ah, yes,” and Sabina blushed, though she hardly knew why.

“It is finished. Kaspar placed the bow and shaft in his hands this very noon.”

“That is capital,” said Sabina, with sparkling eyes.

“It is the last of the figures. They are finished now.”

“Why, then, the Horologe is done!” delightedly exclaimed she.

“Nay, not quite that,” answered Dasipodius with a sigh; “much of the machinery lacks completion as yet; and some of what is done is not as good as I would have it.”

“Ah, but you are too particular—you are indeed,” she said, looking up at him; “the Bishop was talking with my father only this morning, and he told him that he thought the Horologe simply perfect, and my lord must know, for he can talk Hebrew and Greek, and——”

Dasipodius smiling and shaking his head, fixed his eyes wistfully on the fire. “There was once a mouse——” he said.

“Once a mouse,” echoed Sabina, swiftly but very noiselessly turning her wheel-handle, for she dearly loved a story. “Go on.”

“And this mouse had lived all his life in an old oak chest in the sacristy of a church.”

“Ah, I know!” interrupted Sabina, “like the St. Thomas’ Church, or even perhaps like our glorious cathedral itself?”

“No, I think not; it was only a poor little country church, and the sacristy was of course a very small place indeed.”

“Well,” said Sabina, in rather disappointed tones.

“But then the mouse thought his wooden chest a splendid apartment. ‘How large it is!’ he always said to himself, as he ran round and round in it.”

“Dear little thing.”

“Well, one day it happened that the curate, who was looking for some old parchments, opened the lid of the chest, and out popped the mouse.”

“Oh!” said Sabina anxiously, “did the good father see him?”

“Not a bit of it, he was far too busy to worry his head about a scrap of a mouse; and so the little thing got safely away and hid himself in a hole in the sacristy wall, until everything was still again, then he summoned courage to put his head out: ‘Ah,’ he said to himself, ‘but this is a fine large place if you like’.”

“And did he live happy there for ever after?” asked Sabina.

“Dear child, no; for after he had run round and round it for a day or two, he chanced to catch sight of a line of daylight shining under the door, and he contrived to squeeze himself through into the church.”

“Ah!” said Sabina softly, “with the blessed Christ Child and His dear Mother, and all the holy angels!—the beautiful church itself! And he was happy then, Conrad, quite, quite content?”

“Alas, no!” and then the mathematician paused. “It is true our mouse said just what you say, my Sabina: ‘Ah, one can be—must be happy in this great beautiful place!’ and for a long time he stayed there, and grew into a steady and most respectable mouse. And he grew fat, as church mice now and again do, dear child. I am afraid he ate too much of the bread that used to be in the church for giving to the poor. At all events he stayed there for a long time, feeling himself very comfortable. Somehow at last, however, he began to grow restless, and when he used to hear the sweet choir music, it seemed to him that after it had filled every corner of that vast place, some of it still floated away—away, out beyond those beautiful walls and fair windows, and he wanted to discover where the music went, and one day he followed it, and found himself outside the sheltering walls of that brave old church.”

“Oh, the silly, silly mouse!” regretfully cried Sabina.

“Outside, amid broad green fields, with the free air playing round him, and telling him a thousand things he had never heard before—and the blue sky overhead; but when he looked well up all round, he saw several black clouds——”

“And just served him right!” said Sabina, with a majestic nod; “how he must have wished himself safe back inside the dear old church.”

“No, I don’t believe the clouds frightened him; he had such a great deal to think about besides; and when he had looked all round with his bright eyes as wide open as ever they could be, he was amazed to think what a very little he could see after all. ‘Oh, now I know,’ he said, ‘that it is limitless. I cannot run all round and round here. I positively believe it has no walls!’”

“Well, and so what became of him?” asked Sabina, for the mathematician seemed to have come to his story’s end.

“That is more than I know,” said Conrad.

“What a stupid story,” said Sabina; “I hate stories that don’t finish off nicely. Tell me, Master Dasipodius, do you think those terrible thunder clouds killed him?”

“I think not, dear little one, the good God of all is so great and merciful——”

“Yes,” said Sabina, “that’s true, and it might be made a nice story if—if——”

“If what? thou dearest of all little mice,” asked Conrad, quitting his post, and preparing to seat himself beside Sabina, when an appalling sound, beginning with a savage growl and ending in an agonized screech, made him start back in alarm: “_Himmelsdonnerwetter!_” he exclaimed.

“Ah, get away! you’ve trodden on the cat,” cried Sabina, stooping down, and tenderly taking the aggrieved Mitte up in her arms, she began to cuddle the creature back to its normal quiescence. Meantime the unhappy Conrad stood afar off; an indignity offered to Sabina’s cat was, in her eyes, all the deadly sins rolled into one.

“Poor Mitte,” he ventured to say at last, groping for the creature under the table on hands and knees, “but I am so sorry; I would not have hurt you for the world. Here, Mitte, Mitte!”

“She is here. Don’t you see, safe in my lap. But it really was very awkward of you, you know, Conrad, when the poor thing was right under your eyes—staring you in the face.”

“Was she?” said Dasipodius absently.

“Of course she was,” indignantly said Sabina. “What has come to you? I do believe you are as blind as a mole.”

Conrad’s cheeks flushed, and he laughed uneasily as he said, “Mitte’s eyes are certainly very charming——”

“Yes, are not they?” and Sabina’s frown grew less terrible.

“But somehow I don’t care for them, when Mitte’s mistress’s eyes are shining on me.”

“That is nonsense,” said Sabina, laughing a low, happy little laugh; then Conrad took undisputed possession of a seat beside her.

“Yes, rub her head so, that will make her good-tempered again,” and Conrad continued the rubbing process, till at any rate Mitte’s mistress grew good-tempered again, and Mitte purred enough for all three, singing on her comfortable music, even after Conrad’s hand had strayed from her tabby crown, and possessed itself instead of Sabina’s little hand; and Sabina let her hand be, but, like happy people sometimes are, the two were very silent; the old clock was able to say, “Wait-tic! wait-tac!” over and over again before either spoke. At last Conrad said, “Dear child, you love me still?”

“Yes, Conrad.”

“And you are trusting me? You do not repent of your promise?”

“I will not answer you, Master Dasipodius.”

“Conrad—say Conrad, Sabina.”

“I will not, until you have promised to ask no more foolish questions. Is it not enough that I have already told you I love you, and how should I be weary?”

“But it is I who weary for thee, my darling. It is only half-living, Sabina, when you are not by.”

“We must wait, Conrad; things will come right.” And while the old clock endorsed this announcement, Sabina’s little hand stole up and stroked the student’s thin cheek.

“But I cannot bear to see you so pale and anxious,” she said.

“It is nothing, little one,” he answered, “but what must be.”

“Nay, it need not be; it comes of sitting up so late, and toiling so closely over your work, and your eyes look so—so——”

“So what?” demanded Conrad; “tell me!”

“Nay,” she answered, “I cannot tell. I think it is so bright that I mean, and yet so strangely tired.”

“Yes, I suppose they were—I mean they do grow tired. A little dim even now and then; but press these dear lips on them, my little love, and it will make them well,—quite well again,” and the mathematician stooped his stately head, and Sabina kissed those poor sightless eyes, and then she laughed merrily, and said he took such odd fancies into his head; and altogether that was quite a half-hour of Paradise, while Niklaus the goldsmith still tarried in his strong room, and there was only Mitte, the mother of a hundred kittens, to play propriety—and she dropped asleep, as chaperons sometimes do.

“When you are my wife,” said Conrad presently, “I mean to—hush! What is that?”

“Nothing,” said Sabina.

“I mean to——. I tell you, child, I hear a footstep in the courtyard.”

“Nonsense,” said Sabina.

“Is it your father coming back?”

“No, it cannot be; there is no stick.”

Niklaus sometimes had a gout-fiend in his left leg, and wherever that leg went, the stick, like a familiar spirit, had to go too; and all Strassburg knew the sound of the Burgomaster’s stick.

“How fanciful you are!” said Sabina, pushing aside her wheel, and going to the lattice, she opened a movable pane, and listened.

“Look out,” she said, turning to her lover, who had followed her, “and satisfy yourself;—there is not a creature there.”

The mathematician put his head out, and listened intently; what his eyes might not see, he thought his ears might hear, for they had become preternaturally keen; but there was utter silence in the spacious quadrangle, now illumined by the bright clear moonlight, and save the broad flight of steps, with its heavy stone balustrade, leading up to the dwelling part of the house, there was no object to cast any shadow. When earlier in the evening, Dasipodius had come in through the little door built into the massive wooden entrance gates, he had carefully bolted it behind him, for he knew that the goldsmith was very particular about having his household all safe under lock and key by sunset. “There never was such a place as Strassburg,” he always said, “for rogues. And he had pretty maids and precious jewels to answer for.” And so, if people wanted to be let in after dark, they had to announce themselves by the great house-bell; therefore it must have been, as Sabina said, the mathematician’s fancy, and Dasipodius began to think she was right, and secretly hoped that his blindness was not making him nervous. Then the lovers turned from the window, and came back to the cheery fire. “How bitter cold it is to-night,” said Sabina, kneeling down in front of the blaze, and spreading her hands over it.

“You have chilled yourself at that open window, dear child,” said Dasipodius, chafing the cold little fingers in his own hands, and kissing back the warmth into them.

“Nay,” she answered, “but all the evening it has seemed so chilly, as if some lattice must be open. There! There it comes again! Some one is walking over my grave,” she said, shuddering, just as old wives will say.

“Now it is you who are fanciful,” smiled Dasipodius; but Sabina’s face did not reflect his smile, her eyes were fixed on the blaze, and some bright tears welled slowly up into them, and brimmed over. She was trying to gaze into futurity, and the brain-pictures she made saddened her. Such a strange mood as this the Burgomaster’s sunny-tempered little daughter rarely fell into; how doubly strange, then, that she should fall into it now! When her arms actually rested on her lover’s knee, and he was whispering to her words that sounded sweet and blessed as the whisperings of her guardian angel,—indeed they were one and the same, for Sabina’s guardian angel just as often wore a black doublet as white flowing robes and spotless wings, and its face was spiritualised with thoughtful intellectual beauty, glorified by the halo of her love. How then should there now come this shadow of some unknown dread to mar the feast of happiness overflowing in her heart? It seemed so hard to be reminded just now that her Paradise was not an eternal one, and that her guardian angel was, after all, but a mortal man; and yet of those saddening thoughts were born words which were blessed to her lover’s ears, and which, even when that time came when he did his best to silence their echoings, still lived on in his memory. Very simple they were. “Conrad,” she said, “whatever is to happen, you will know that I love you.”

“My own little darling one.”

“Nay,” she said, “but you are to say—Yes, Sabina!”

“Yes, Sabina.”

“That is right,” she said with a relieved air, “and now we will talk of other things.” But the other things just resolved themselves into the old, old story, and Conrad began to tell her of his plans for the future, and was just about to begin again that interrupted sentence of his, “When you are my wife”—and all her fancies quite forgotten, Sabina was blushing rosily, when there came across the courtyard an unmistakable sound of footsteps, and Sabina said, “There is the stick,” and Niklaus clattered up the steps, and paused for a moment, ere he entered, to contemplate the scene before him. There sat Sabina, like the loveliest little housewife in the world, spinning ever so diligently at her wheel, and the tall figure of the mathematician leaning against the lintel of the fireplace, with that face of his, which none could choose but look at twice, turned towards the fair girl.

“They are a goodly couple,” nodded the Burgomaster to himself, “and make quite a picture there. They don’t seem to have budged an inch since I left them more than half-an-hour ago, but I wouldn’t be on my oath about that.” Then Niklaus’ brow knitted itself into a terrific frown, but the blue eyes beneath twinkled merrily enough; and had he not owned a soft corner in his heart for Conrad Dasipodius, he would hardly have taken it into his head to have left him so long in the old dining-hall alone with his Pearl of pearls.

“Here are the documents, Master Dasipodius,” he said, coming forward into the light, and placing some parchments in the mathematician’s hand. “They only need your signature; but you had best read them through first.”

“Will you read them?” said Dasipodius, handing them back to Niklaus.

“By our Lady—no!” said the Burgomaster. “That is a strange request for young eyes to make of old ones.”

“Young eyes are not always what they should be, Master Niklaus. Mine see but badly by lamplight,” acknowledged Conrad.

“Hey?” said the Burgomaster. “What’s that? Overstrained them, eh? It is shameful, scandalous, how you young folks gamble away God’s gifts now-a-days. It’s the fiddle-ma-gee clock has done that piece of mischief for you, I suppose, hey?”

“Possibly,” said Conrad.

“Possibly! I say of course it is. I tell you what, Master Dasipodius, you young folks live too fast now-a-days. Make money, make money! that’s the beginning and end of your motto. In my time we made love, and let the money go hang.”

“And jeopardised the love?” asked Conrad.

“That’s as it might be,” grunted Niklaus; “but you must take care of those eyes of yours, or there’ll be neither love nor money.” Then he took up the parchments again, and read them through aloud to the mathematician, who put his signature to them in such a clear firm hand, that the Burgomaster said, “There can’t be much amiss with your eyes after all, Master Conrad,” and then Dasipodius turned to take his leave.

“Nay,” said Niklaus, “if you don’t object to an old man’s company, I’ll walk part of the way home with you. I’ve been so busy all day, I haven’t had time to stretch my legs; and it’s a glorious night.” Then turning to his daughter, the Burgomaster said he should be back in half-an-hour or so, and bade her go to bed, or have one of the women-servants to sit with her if she was afraid of the ghosts; but Sabina laughing merrily said, “Spinning-wheels always laid the ghosts,” and when they were gone, she meant to be busy a little while longer.

“Well, it’s plain anyhow she wants to be rid of us,” laughed Niklaus, “so come, Master Dasipodius.”

Then the Burgomaster and the mathematician sallied forth.