CHAPTER XVII.

FAREWELL.

The house in the Dom Platz inhabited by Radegund von Steinbach and her brother Otto, was no modern sixteenth century edifice. It had been built more than two hundred years earlier by Erwin von Steinbach himself, for his son Johan, and from him it had descended through generations to the present possessors.

A grand old house, full within and without of magnificent architectural beauties; light, however, clear, full, white daylight, was not one of its strong points; and on this account, Radegund had had her difficulties in the choice of a studio from among its many chambers. Ultimately, however, she had fixed on one whose fair-sized windows, looking out upon the Platz, afforded her the best chance of tempering her lights and shadows. Tradition declared this chamber to have been the sanctum of Erwin’s daughter, who had followed in it the study of Painting’s twin-sister art. This circumstance duly taken into account, what more natural than to hold the place for haunted? But Mistress Radegund had little fear of the ghosts; she dreaded much more those familiar lion-hunting, sight-seeing spirits, who would seek admission to her studio, to get a glimpse of herself perhaps, or to see the rich carving of the famous oaken ceiling, and the huge chimney-piece, with its quaint scroll-work, and life-size figures; and stand in admiring wonder before the curious tapestry hangings, somewhat ragged and faded now, which, it was said, had been designed and wrought by the world-famous architect’s daughter.

It might very naturally be argued that Radegund had it in her own hands to deny the sightseers admittance, but her pride of ancestry—and she would rather have been old Erwin’s descendant than the Emperor’s own daughter—outweighed personal considerations, and it pleased her well that everything appertaining to the memory of her illustrious progenitor should be kept in remembrance. The place, therefore, was accessible to those who sought the privilege, save on occasions sufficiently rare, when one of her exclusive fits chanced to be upon her. Such a fit had possessed itself of her ever since her stolen interview with her Cousin Sabina two days since. During this time she had denied herself to her most intimate acquaintance; and now on the third day she was by no means pleased when she heard a voice without, asking admittance in gentle pleading tones.

She made no response, but fiercely continued her sketching in. Nevertheless, when the knocking grew importunate and seemed in no way inclined to give over until some kind of answer had been vouchsafed, Radegund, in self-defence, opened the door. “How is it that I may not——?” she angrily began; then she paused, for it was Sabina.

“May I come in, Cousin Radegund?” asked the girl. “I want to speak with you.”

“Come in then, child,” replied the artist, ungraciously enough, and leaving Sabina to find a seat as she might, Radegund resumed her labours at the newly-sketched canvas on her easel, with her face well turned away from her cousin.

“But see now, dear Radegund,” said the girl, “I want you to lay down your pencil, and take up your pen in my behalf.”

All the way from her own house, Sabina had been concocting this little speech. It is true the nature of her errand was tearing her heart in two, but she had persuaded herself that it was best to pitch this confabulation with Radegund in a cheerful and even jesting key, and this pleasant little conceit of words she had devised would, she thought, possibly help to conciliate her somewhat difficult cousin into doing for her the favour she had to ask. Just that vexatious Nemesis, however, overtook Sabina, which inevitably does overtake sore-hearted folks when unreal stoicism strives to conquer old Dame Nature, and she burst out crying, and that in no decorous flow of tears, but a stream of bitter sobs.

Time was when in that warm, sheltering way which was truly hers, Radegund would have comforted and caressed the girl back to calmness; but that was all changed now.

“Upon my word,” she said, “I never imagined you were such a silly cry-baby, my dear. What is the matter?”

And at last she laid down her pencil, and gazed at Sabina with cold, hard eyes, until the sobs had subsided.

Possibly this lack of sympathy stayed Sabina’s weeping more effectually than all attempts at consolation, for the Burgomaster’s daughter dried her tears quickly, and said, “Yes, that is quite true, Radegund, for there can, of course, be no more foolish thing than to cry for——” and then, despite her bravest efforts, Sabina was near breaking down again.

“Cry for what?” demanded the impatient Radegund.

“For what one has never had,” desperately concluded Sabina.

“Who has been teaching you to speak in riddles?” asked Radegund, lifting her brush again.

“It’s no riddle,” answered Sabina; “it’s the very simplest, plainest thing in the world. You say Conrad does not love me.”

“I say so?” demanded Radegund, arching her handsome brows.

“Certainly you said so, and you are right. If he had loved me, don’t you suppose he would have told me of his trouble.”

“But——” interposed the artist.

“No. I know all you’d say, Radegund; but you won’t alter it, though you are always so clever and kind, and I’m ve—very much obliged to you for what you came and told me the other night, and if——forgive me, Radegund, if I had any doubt at all that it was not true, I know now that it is, because I’ve asked Doctor Bruno Wolkenberg, and he says it is.”

“What—what have you done?” more shrieked than said Radegund, throwing down her pencil, and turning on Sabina.

“Now don’t be angry with me, Cousin Radegund. It was not in the least, I tell you, that I doubted your word, because you know, everybody knows you are just truth itself—always. Why, father often says, ‘My niece Radegund,’—don’t be angry now,” deprecated Sabina,—“‘has her faults—but she’s sterling gold’.”

Radegund shivered, and her pale cheek grew aflame.

“And so, of course,” continued Sabina, “it would not be that I did not believe you,—that is, at last; but when things have to do with—with this sort of thing, it’s the same as life and death, isn’t it?”

“Go on,” muttered Radegund.

“And so, to make sure—I mean, of course,” continued Sabina, floundering lamentably over her choice of words, for there could be no question but that she had secretly fled to Bruno Wolkenberg that night with some faint glimmer of hope that her cousin Radegund was labouring under some delusion—“for she looked fearfully odd and wild”—Sabina had many a time since thought to herself, “fearfully odd and wild”—to make sure.

“It was a seemly thing surely, for Mistress Sabina von Steinbach to make Bruno Wolkenberg father-confessor of her love affairs,” said Radegund, with seething anger.

“I did nothing of the kind,” answered Sabina, her white brow flushing crimson. “I simply asked Dr. Bruno how it was that Con—Master Dasipodius had become blind.”

“It was a secret.”

“One which, before all other people, concerned me.”

“And—you found I had told you no lies?”

“Don’t speak like that, Radegund,” entreated the girl. “It is so cruel—so unlike you. Listen, I found only that it was all too true. But we won’t talk about that. It never is to be talked about any more, when once—— See, Radegund, I came to ask you to write a letter for me to—him—to the Professor Dasipodius. And you will—say you will, because it must be written, and whom dare I ask but you? because, as you say, it is such a secret—such a terrible, terrible secret!”

In the past happy careless years, had it once crossed this girl’s dreams that there would come to her the necessity for writing such a letter, she would, in spite of all objection, have had herself taught to write; then she could have written her own letter, and perhaps would have worded it differently from the one she would have dictated to any third person whatsoever, and might have materially changed the aspect affairs were assuming; but this world has always been full of ‘ifs’ and ‘might have beens,’ and, doubtless, Eternal Providence cared for this uncultured little lady every whit as much as it cares for the girls of our period, whose unthorough scrappy notions of everything under the sun from Sanskrit to sewing, render them unfit—at least for man; so events in Sabina’s life found their balance. Still, when it came to setting down in staring actual black and white, a farewell of the man she loved, she had to summon all her fortitude to enable her to dictate the cruel words. And Radegund, seated there, pen in hand, with her sphinx face, would not help her by so much as a syllable. She was, she said, but the instrument, and would, of course, put down just what—Heaven save the mark!—Sabina liked; and thereupon Sabina proceeded to dictate what, out of that unselfish faithful love of hers, she imagined was the one thing left for her to say—and the missive, in its completeness, ran thus:

“_TO THE HERR PROFESSOR DASIPODIUS._

“_Since we last met, I have come to know of you something which you have kept hidden from me. You are blind. Why did you not tell me so? You might have trusted me with your secret. It would have been so far, far better that I should have known all. But now, I will ask no questions, because it does not matter. I desire no answer. Your own heart knows that it will be best for you and for me, that there should be no answer, for what you have called love between us must end. Farewell—good, dear friend._”

“That won’t do at all,” snapped Radegund, lifting her pen—“that ending.”

“Why not?” demanded Sabina, opening her blue eyes wide.

“It is too affectionate.”

“Not at all,” sturdily returned Sabina. “Go on please, Radegund.” And Radegund gloomily dipped her pen into the ink.—“Well?”

“_I shall always think of you_——”

“That is ridiculous!” and Radegund flung down the pen, and half rose from her seat. “It will make—everything a thousand times worse than ever. He will not understand a bit that you——”

“Oh, yes, yes, he will indeed. You don’t know Master Dasipodius so well as I do, Radegund dear,” said Sabina proudly. “I want him, you see, so thoroughly to understand that I am not—not a bit vexed with him,”—her voice faltered a little. “You see now, don’t you?”

“I hate half measures,” muttered Radegund, taking up the pen once more.

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” humbly returned Sabina, “unless you want to say that his not loving me is one half, and my loving him, for I——”

“Ah! For pity’s sake, don’t talk such nonsense. What more?”

“Just an instant, dear, let me think. Stay, yes, write—‘_and may God and Our Lady protect you always. Farewell_,

“‘_Your true friend._’

Don’t put any name.”

“How foolish you are, child. Why not?”

“Because I don’t wish,” came the feminine answer. “He’ll know without that.”

“But the handwriting is mine.”

“That is of no consequence,” returned Sabina. “I mean, you are of no consequence, you know, and so—ah dear! what do I mean?” she blundered on, for her tear-bedimmed eyes were still able to mark the frown gathering on her cousin’s brow. “I mean that when he reads it, he will understand that—oh me!—when Master Christian reads it to him—of course, that it is I, and no one else. I am sure he will, Radegund.”

“Then put your mark,” said Radegund, forcing the pen into her cousin’s ice-cold hand, and slowly and reluctantly Sabina marked a little cross, but the scratchy sign was quite unworthy of those cleft fingers. When, however, the task was accomplished, Sabina stooped down over Radegund, and was about to kiss her farewell.

“Don’t, child! You stifle me,” said the artist, roughly pushing her aside. “Say, how do you wish this letter to reach Conrad Dasipodius?”

“I thought, perhaps, my Cousin Otto would take it to Master Christian’s house, to the Silver Dial, you know, as if it had come from you, Radegund.”

“From me!”

“Some business letter, you know, about the Horologe.”

“You don’t forget, I suppose, that Master Christian is not aware of his son’s blindness.”

“Oh, yes. I did! I did,” wailed her visitor. “I—I—it all confuses me so. No, of course, Radegund, it must not be taken there in case——”

“Otto shall give it to Master Dasipodius himself at the studio. Make your mind easy on that score,” interrupted Radegund.

“And seal it now at once before I go. Will you, Radegund?” asked the girl anxiously; but scarcely had the words left her lips, than the Burgomaster’s stick rapped a loud tattoo on the door.

“Art ready to come home with me, little one?” he asked, peeping in.

Niklaus had been down to the Chancellery on business affairs, and on leaving had chanced, as he frequently did, to look in on his niece, and learning from one of the servants that Sabina was with her, he had come up in search of them both.

“Ah, ha!” he laughed. “There you are then! Two women putting their heads together—that always means mischief—miching mallecho, eh? So come away, baggage; do you know it’s growing pitch dark, and hours too late for you to be out alone. It’s well I came! Come now, those two tongues would be wagging all night, I’ll wager, about furbelows and farthingales and—and what not.”

If Niklaus bungled a trifle over the end of his little speech, it was, perhaps, because he had been going to say “sweethearting,” but he recollected just in time that something was not quite all ship-shape with Sabina on the tender subject, and as to Radegund, she invariably frowned if ever he hazarded one of the small pleasantries he deemed himself privileged to indulge in at the expense of any one of Sabina’s girl friends, who chanced to be favoured with a special admirer, or whom he thought might be in quest of such an indispensability. “And what maiden was not? Isn’t it all right and proper? Why, I wouldn’t give you five batzen for a woman who’d say no to a good honest fellow who wants her to say yes. And my niece there has her notions too, depend upon it, for all it suits her to ride the high horse, and make believe she’s above that sort of thing. Above, forsooth! she may think herself in luck for all those big black eyes of hers, if—well, well, each to his tastes, and if a man likes the bay mare to be the better horse, he might get her along fairly, if he keeps her well on the curb; but I don’t care for her tricks myself. They may be vices, or tackle them the right way they may be good points. There’s no doubt that women, the very best of them, are odd creatures; and Radegund, the oddest of all. Made of good stuff though, mind you. All the von Steinbachs are.”

Now, however, the Burgomaster, prudently refraining from any playful allusions which might have entered his head, rolled Sabina warmly up in her furred cloak, and tucked her little hand under his arm, and the poor child had barely time to glance wistfully at the still unsealed letter, and to say to Radegund: “You’ll do it for me at once, Radegund?”

“Ay—of course she’ll do it—be it what it may. Whoever refuses thee anything, little one, eh? Good-night, niece Radegund. Sleep well.”

And then without more ado, the Burgomaster hurried his daughter away.

END OF VOL. I.

* * * * *

[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 154: least to last—“at last he was to be won over”.]