CHAPTER IX.
A WOMAN’S GUILE.
Radegund stood for a while gazing silently down on the man at her feet, and in her eyes was such a strange gleam of mingled love and hate and triumph, that it was hard to determine which passion predominated there.
“Oh, Conrad!” at last she murmured, kneeling down beside him on the chill snow; “Conrad, look up. It is such agony to see you like this. Do not turn from me—from Radegund, your—your friend—Conrad!”
The artist’s voice grew strangely gentle as she bent over him and laid her hand caressingly on his shoulder; but the mathematician shivered at her touch, and clutching for support at the beam of a tall grave cross beside him, he raised himself to his full height and turned on Radegund. His eyes seemed to confront hers now, and they looked as ever they had looked, so clear, so gravely intent, that Radegund’s bold gaze quailed beneath them, and she thought that indeed it must have been he who had jested with her; but alas! although not totally—not stone blind—there only floated poor dim shadows before Conrad’s eyes now; chapel and grave-cross, the clouds overhead, the snow under foot, Radegund’s pale face,—were veiled for him in one confused distracting haze.
“Radegund,” he cried, “it is false—I am not blind, by Heaven no, I am not blind. I see you—as you stand there! Look, I am touching your mantle,” and stretching out a wavering, uncertain hand, Dasipodius raised the border of Radegund’s cloak; but she only laughed scornfully, and taking from her breast a small illuminated missal, opened it haphazard, and thrust it before his eyes.
“Not blind? not blind?” cried she; “then tell me what is written there. Read—you cannot. No, Conrad Dasipodius, you may delude the poor fools down yonder; but none ever yet deceived Radegund von Steinbach.”
“And Bruno—has Bruno indeed dared to betray this to you—you?” exclaimed the mathematician, again turning on her like some wild despairing animal at bay; and in that last word was a contemptuous echo, which grated on Radegund’s ear. “There is but one in all Strassburg knows of this—Bruno Wolkenberg. No, no,” he added, as though speaking to himself, “it is not possible.”
“Oh, yes!” softly murmured Radegund; “’tis possible, Master Dasipodius, quite possible. For love, crimes have been committed.”
“And what is this but a crime?” burst forth Dasipodius in bitter wrath. “By Heaven! for a physician to babble of secrets entrusted to his keeping, is every whit as foul as for one to betray the secrets of his confessional! For such-like deeds, priests have been unfrocked, and I will have this treachery of Wolkenberg’s nailed to the pillory door, that all Strassburg may read. And to think that he should have told it to you, mistress—you.”
“Ay, even to me, Radegund, who am no more to you than the snow under your feet. It is so strange, is it not, Master Dasipodius, that Bruno Wolkenberg should have chosen me—me, from whom you turn so disgustfully away.”
“Ay, it is strange, and I would have trusted Bruno with untold gold,” said the mathematician, musingly. “And now, mistress,” he said, turning coldly on Radegund, “what use are you going to make of this miserable secret? It is a fine piece of woman’s gossip, no doubt. A rich by-word to echo through the city! By all that is sacred, I will have you pilloried for this dishonourable thing, you and your paramour. Shame—shame!”
Radegund writhed, and her pale face grew bloodless and grey, but controlling her voice, she said, in calm unruffled tones: “I forgive you that speech, Conrad Dasipodius, because you know—you must know—that this Bruno Wolkenberg is nothing to me, nothing beyond a good friend, a faithful spaniel——”
“The spaniel shall be flogged——”
“And let all Strassburg know what you would keep hidden? No; I will save you from yourself. Listen, my friend, you are so mistaken; you are unjust to Bruno Wolkenberg, and to me.”
Dasipodius turned impatiently away, but Radegund spoke on: “Listen, I tell you, I suspected something of this blindness. Bruno—nay, do not start; you would never be really angered with him, your friend, poor Bruno; why, Bruno would die to serve you, and think his life well given, and so should I,” she added, dropping her voice softly; “and yet, Bruno——”
“Go on,” interrupted Dasipodius sternly, “you were saying you suspected that my sight was failing me.”
“I did,” she answered, “and I merely said as much to Bruno. Nothing more, on my woman’s honour.”
“Honour! ’tis well, indeed, for you to talk of honour, who have stolen Bruno’s like this,” retorted Conrad with heaving breast.
“Nay, but for your sake it was, indeed. ’Twas all for your sake,” murmured Radegund; “I loved you, Conrad——”
A hot burning flush suffused the young man’s brow.
“Oh, do not mistake me,” continued she, narrowly watching the play of his countenance. “I loved you, of course, as a maiden should; as a sister might love a brother. I should be but a poor romantic fool to love you after any other fashion? Should I not now—Conrad?” And with bated breath she waited his answer.
“Nay, do not mock yourself and me, Mistress von Steinbach,” stammered the mathematician; “it is unseemly.”
Again the artist’s cheek blanched to a sickly whiteness. “I say I had a friend’s sympathy for you, and I have been thinking so much, too, of Cousin Sabina.”
“And what of Sabina?” he said.
“Well, your little Sabina—she is yours. Is it not so?—confess now.”
“Mine!” groaned the mathematician. “Oh, misery! misery!”
A shade of colour returned to Radegund’s cheeks; and lifting her dark eyes she tried again to read that troubled face. “Do you indeed love Sabina von Steinbach?” she asked.
“As the light loves the sun.”
Radegund shrank back, and once again the faint flush forsook her cheeks, and left her face deathlike. “Could none be to you as she is?”
But the mathematician did not seem to hear her voice, and it was to himself he cried out bitterly, “Sabina, my own, my darling, must I lose thee for ever?”
“And why for ever?”
“Because you, woman,” he cried fiercely, “have blazoned my affliction abroad; and henceforth the world will deem me little better than an idiot—a blind idiot. I thought to have kept this terrible secret to myself, until the Clock should be finished.”
“To what end?” asked Radegund.
“Then I should have been rich, comparatively rich; the reward is high for the making of this Clock, as you know well; and even if a man be blind, and deaf and dumb to boot, so only he be rich, the world thinks him perfect enough,” said Conrad, with a hollow mocking laugh.
“And Sabina, what of her? What would she think?”
“Hold your peace about her! Are there fiends abroad in woman’s shape, that I am to be tortured like this?” said Conrad, nervously clenching his slender hands. “I had not thought—I had not foreseen, I say—it seemed to me that this visitation of mine might perhaps remain always what it has so long been—a mere dimness of sight, which I have taught myself to bear patiently—ay, almost even to forget; and had not you crossed my path, I would have died ere this secret should have been noised abroad.”
“And you would have hidden it—how? Tell me that. How was it possible?”
“Because the good God has been with me,” answered the mathematician, reverently baring his head; “because, while my sense of sight has been gradually forsaking me, my sense of touch has been so sharpened, that I can do without my eyes; nay, I have become so skilful, that not one has detected this growing dimness of sight; blindness it has not been. None would have detected it but for you, mistress,” and then the mathematician turned on his heel, but Radegund caught him by the cloak. “Oh, Conrad, stay one moment—have some pity; listen, listen! I call the blessed Saints to witness, that your secret has never passed my lips.”
Dasipodius paused. “Do you swear this?” he said.
Casting herself on her knees beside the grave-cross, she laid her hand on it, and again solemnly swore that she had not betrayed him.
“So, that is well,” and Dasipodius uttered a sigh of relief.
“Do you forgive?” murmured Radegund. “Say you forgive me, Conrad.”
“Ay,” he said, “I forgive you. Your Eve’s curiosity tempted you to this, you poor woman; but for him who calls himself a man, for Bruno Wolkenberg——”
“And what of Bruno Wolkenberg,” demanded Radegund. “Touch but one hair of his head, and this very night your secret shall be in every mouth in Strassburg.”
“And is it so that Radegund von Steinbach keeps her vows? What did you swear anon?”
“I swore I had not told it. I did not swear I would not tell it.”
“There is no match for a woman’s guile,” said Conrad, his lip curling with a scornful smile. “And the price of your future reticence, mistress?” he asked.
“Pardon for Bruno Wolkenberg. And for me, a few moments’ space to hear me to the end.”
“Say what you will, but say it quickly,” answered Conrad dreamily, beginning to wrap himself up in his own thoughts once more. “I would fain be at my work again,” and he pointed down towards the city. “There is much to be done.”
“Ay,” repeated Radegund, “there is much to be done, and how are you to do it?”
“Oh, Radegund, has it become your mission to torment me. Have I not told you that my affliction was not too heavy to bear? and for this—this deeper shadow which Heaven has but now cast over me, well, it will pass away again; it is perhaps but temporary—the effect of this cold, and of long watching. Bruno has often said it might be so; he has told you thus much, Radegund?” asked the mathematician wistfully, and forgetting for the moment all his indignation.
“Bruno says that any undue agitation would render you the more incurably blind; but it is all the same,” she continued, in hard, cruel tones, “he holds out no hope for you in the end, Conrad Dasipodius.”
A heavy sigh escaped Dasipodius, and then, with a sad smile, he turned to the artist, and held out his hand.
“I know,” he said, “I understand it all now; and Bruno has been too gentle-hearted to tell me this himself. Poor old Bruno—but he was wrong, quite wrong, if only that he caused me to be angered with you, Mistress Radegund, I would not have had this. I pray you forgive me,” said Dasipodius humbly.
As Radegund laid her hand in Conrad’s, her stern, pale face softened, and flushed with a rare glory.
“So then,” he said, “you will help me to guard my secret?”
“I would help you more than that,” she said, with her hand still in his; “I would help your work. My eyes shall be your eyes.”
“You are very good, Mistress Radegund,” he said.
“But you do not accept my aid? You are too proud to be dependent on a woman?”
“Thanks to the good God, I need be dependent on woman nor man neither; but I shall not forget your goodness,” and he raised her hand to his lips.
“Goodness,” sighed Radegund, “goodness plays a sorry part in this; but we will not quarrel about words. You and I are fellow-workers, Master Dasipodius, and my poor aid is at your service, and then, when our Horologe is done, there will be bright things in store for you and—and Cousin Sabina, will there not?”
“We dare not ever look too far into the future,” said Conrad gravely, and in tones of deep sadness.
“The Scripture says: ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’” said Radegund, in a mocking voice. “Do you mean that, Master Dasipodius?”
“I meant no such thing,” he answered coldly; “and now, mistress, since as you say our paths are not the same, I will bid you farewell, and God speed.”
“Till we meet again,” and Radegund, gathering her hood about her head, glided away through the now deepening shadows.
“Give you good evening, Master Dasipodius,” said a voice at Conrad’s side, and it was the voice of Niklaus von Steinbach. “How is it you did not see me? better employed, hey? but this is a dreary spot for a _rendezvous_ with fair damozels, hey?”
“There has been no _rendezvous_, Master Niklaus,” answered Conrad.
“By the blessed St. Laurence, I could have sworn I saw a kirtle at this very spot. Yes, there it goes now, down yonder among the gravestones.”
“That is your niece Radegund, Burgomaster. She and I have been speaking together; we met by chance.”
“Oh, ha, h’m!—I see. Good night to you, Master Dasipodius,” and the Burgomaster passed on in the wake of his niece, whistling softly to himself, and knitting his brows in a puzzled way. He did not know whether to be more well-pleased or nettled that that little affair between Conrad and Sabina was seeming to vanish “quite like smoke,” as he put it to himself. “But this niece of mine—ah, there’ll be no playing fast and loose with her. Well, well, I suppose they’ll suit each other. Radegund’s a splendid genius, no doubt, she only wants keeping straight; and Dasipodius will be making his way in the world one of these fine days.” Niklaus paused and sighed. “Well, well, perhaps it’s best as it is, and yet I’d have sworn——” The Burgomaster was fitting his big key into the door of his house now, and his cogitations were interrupted; but when the draught-board was laid out, and Sabina and Niklaus were arranging their pieces, he told her how he had seen Radegund and Conrad Dasipodius together in the churchyard; and Sabina only said, “Yes, Väterchen? I think it is your move first to-night,” then she played so badly that she put her father quite out of patience.