CHAPTER V.

FATHER CHRETEI’S BEQUEST.

It was marvellous what sterling advice that lumbering old piece of middle-aged machinery gave Sabina von Steinbach, for it actually anticipated the very words of her lover himself when they met again; not this time in the shadowy, stately old dining-hall, but down at the favourite holiday trysting-place by the river, where in summer time it was always so bright and pleasant, but now dreary and chill enough. Sabina had wandered down there all alone to think her thoughts. Had you told her she had done so in some undefined hope of catching a glimpse of the beloved face, she would have been quite indignant; and indeed, she had no reason for supposing that Conrad would be anywhere but in Father Chretei’s studio at that particular midday hour; nevertheless, fate did bring them face to face. When that which she had certainly longed for did actually occur, and her lover stood by her side, her heart beat tumultuously, and looking round, she would have escaped, but Conrad caught her by her trembling hand. “Is it to end like this, Sabina?” he asked.

“My father has forbidden it,” she said.

“Sabina, your heart is not changed—you love me?” and he hung very breathlessly on her answer.

“I love you—now and for ever, Conrad!”

“Ah, dear little one! then all is well, and you will wait till I grow rich for your sake? I know your father would not deny you to me then. You will let no other stand between us, Sabina?”

“Who can stand between us, since I love you, and you love me?” asked the girl, lifting her eyes proudly to his.

“God bless thee, my own!—but listen, little one. There will be rich suitors who can give you now—to-day—to-morrow, fine clothes, jewels, all that ’tis said women love best; whilst I—I can but bid you wait, and so—what then, child?”

“Then!” murmured she smiling. “I will wait! Now let me go.”

“No, no; I have something more. Tell me, what if unkind, jealous tongues spoke ill of me to you—what then?”

“Now, Conrad, how could such a thing be? You who do none wrong,” chided she.

“Dear child, I strive to do none wrong; but the world is very cruel. Still I think it is but my own jealous love for you, which put such thoughts into my heart; I should forget them, should I not?” Then he took her in his arms and gazed intently on her. “It seems to me so good that Heaven has given you to me, darling; I think I could work miracles for your sake. And you? You will be brave for mine?”

Sabina took the slender, nervous hand in hers, and softly caressed it. Suddenly the mathematician snatched it from her, and passed it hurriedly across his brow, as if in pain. Sabina looked up at him in startled enquiry; he smiled and drew her closer to him, but silently; and for a while he seemed lost in thought. At last he said: “Tell me this one thing before we part, child: supposing—supposing all these bright dreams—I dream for you—fade out—supposing any trouble, any affliction, for instance, should come on me——”

“Now what do you mean, Conrad?” interrupted the poor child, gazing up with eyes full of bewilderment into her lover’s eyes, which were looking down at her with an almost mournful eagerness; though they brightened again as she spoke. “How should I know what I mean?” he said—“unless, dear little one, it was that I meant to try you. Forgive me, Sabina.”

“But it is wicked!” pouted she; “you have no right to talk so. Our Mother Odille would say you were tempting the good Providence, and she would give you ten Paters to recite for your sin.”

“And the Mother Odille would be right. It is wicked to meet troubles half way,” acknowledged Conrad humbly; but Sabina, still knitting her brows, said: “It is growing dark, and my father will be wanting me. Farewell, Conrad.”

“Nay, but you have not forgiven me, you sage little woman—nor kissed me,” pleaded the mathematician, with a smile so bright that it reflected itself in Sabina’s face.

“I shall tell my father I met you,” she said, as the last cloud cleared off.

“Do as thy pure heart bids thee, dear one.”

So they parted, and when that evening Sabina sat down with her father for their indispensable game of draughts, she did tell Niklaus of the meeting down by the river, and the Burgomaster said: “Humph—is it your move first, then?” and the wooden clock said: “Wait-tic, wait-tac!” and Sabina was content.

Meantime, the new Horologe was making progress. Chretei Herlin’s pupils had each been assigned some portion of the task. One had the wheels to fashion, another the measuring of the weights, another the damascening of the case, another, whose home lay away in the depths of the Black Forest, was employed on the carving of the figures which were to adorn the wonderful piece of machinery. To Otto von Steinbach was apportioned the work of cleaning and renovating what was fit to be used again of the original clock; and sorely he grumbled at the task. “Look here now,” he said, “who ever set eyes on such abominable clumsiness? What fools people must all have been two hundred years ago! It is enough to make a cat laugh, if only one had not to cry with vexation.” To Conrad Dasipodius, Herlin entrusted the delicate coils and spring-wheels—in short, all that which constitutes the soul and life of a clock.

As for the old man himself, he was obliged to be content with looking on, and directing the labour of the others; for somehow, each day his fingers seemed to grow more stiff and nerveless, and consequently less capable of delicate manipulation, so that at last the superintending of the work actually fell into the hands of Conrad Dasipodius, his senior and favourite pupil; and one day the old monk, laying his hand on Conrad’s shoulder, said to the other young men: “Listen, my children; I feel that death is very near to me, and yet our Horologe is but just begun. Now I have consulted with the Council, and they consent to my desire that Conrad Dasipodius shall succeed me in the carrying out of this great undertaking. Here are the deeds and documents formally making over to Conrad Dasipodius the task assigned to me. The reward goes with it; and the sum I should have received will now, on the completion of the Horologe, be his. Say, do you agree to look upon Conrad Dasipodius as your future master? Are you willing to obey him, as hitherto you have obeyed me; and will you, under his supervision, complete, to the utmost of your ability, the work of the Horologe?”

“We will!” unanimously replied the students and workmen. It went very much against the grain with Otto von Steinbach to say “We will,” and he would readily enough have raised a dissentient voice, but he knew very well that not only his companions one and all, but also the whole town was in favour of Dasipodius being Herlin’s successor, and it was consequently more than useless for him to demur, so he contented himself with explaining to his friends, that as usual, favour and prejudice were prevalent in Strassburg.

So the work went bravely on. Father Chretei, still in his old seat by the monastery casement, would watch his children, as he always called them, at their work; and his eyes would rest proudly on Dasipodius, and a smile would lighten up his worn face as, from time to time, the student would turn to consult him on some intricate detail, for the old monk’s brain was as active as ever it had been, and only the tired-out, fragile body refused to work any more.

One morning, as usual, a lay-brother entered the studio to call the monk to early mass. Chretei sat alone in the silent chamber; the casement had blown open, and the snowflakes drifting in, had softly enshrouded the old man’s hand as it rested on the parchment outspread before him. His dusky cowl had fallen slightly back, and the lamp at his side had gone out, but the pale wintry dawn, now peering up almost into the crevices of the vaulted roof, dimly illumined his pale features; yet, as that lay-brother came closer, he could see a bright light there, so unearthly, so rapt, that he fancied some grand new thought must have suddenly thrilled through his brain, and he paused; but Chretei moved not.

“It is time for Holy Mass. Come, Father Chretei,” said he, in a low, awe-stricken tone, and gently touched the old man’s hand; but he started back, for it was ice-cold. One greater than that poor lay-brother had been there before him, and said: “Come!” and obedient to that summons, the mathematician’s meek spirit had gone to rest for evermore in the Eternal Presence.