“SWEET IS TRUE LOVE, THO’ GIVEN IN VAIN, IN VAIN.”
Eleven o’clock; and Burgomaster von Steinbach not come home. Somewhere
about sundown it was, he explained that he was going to sup with
Christian Dasipodius to meet a mutual friend or two, and help drink
success to the Horologe. Therefore he might be home late, he said.
“I have the postern key here,” added he, patting his pocket, “and can
let myself in.” Then, like some ungracious pastors do, “who reck not
their own rede,” the Burgomaster strongly exhorted his household to
go betimes to bed, so that next morning they might all rise fresh as
larks, for the impending festivities.
“And you, heart’s treasure,” he had said, kissing his daughter, “go
now, and get as large a stock of beauty sleep as you can, for—well,
for your old father’s sake. That is, if you still love him a little
bit. Yes?”
“Dear Väterle!” and twining her arms round his neck, Sabina sealed her
promise of obedience with a kiss.
“And I’ll warrant,” continued Niklaus, with that air of elasticity and
content which does possess itself of a man who is going to indulge in
a little harmless dissipation with congenial souls, “I’ll warrant me,
my lily flower, fairest of the fair in that pleasaunce of fair dames we
are to see to-morrow. Nay, never shake your head, though beshrew me if
I can quarrel with those blushes, that give the one thing lacking. But
hark! Tell me now. I want to know a secret, a grand secret.”
“A secret, Väterle?”
“Ay, bless my soul! Yes!” laughed Niklaus, in vast enjoyment of
Sabina’s mystified air. “How the new dress fits, that was sent home
yesterday, all spick and span, and ready to be jumped into. Now—well?”
“I—I——”
“Ha! ha! ha! How many times now has it been tried on? Come, tell true,
tell true. And does it fit daintily, ha? And the passementerie, is it
quite to your ladyship’s taste? Yes?”
“It is magnificent, father dear. Far too beautiful for me. Fit for a
queen.”
“But have you tried it on?” insisted Niklaus, somewhat mistrusting her
enthusiasm.
“N—n—not yet, Väterle. I am going to do so presently,” she added
hurriedly, when he looked vexed.
“Ay,” nodded he, swallowing his chagrin. “So do. I want you to look
perfection in it. By the mass! you’re a strange girl, Sabina. I had an
idea all young maids rehearsed this sort of thing before their mirrors,
half-a-dozen times at least.”
“Oh, Väterle!” ejaculated the scandalized Sabina.
“Oh, by my faith, yes. And they do too. Didn’t your mother do it?
Heaven rest her soul. And after she’d married me too, but you—you’re as
steady as old Time. Odds life! must I begin to bid you be fly away like
other maidens?”
“Where should I fly to, from you?” laughed she, stroking his face, “you
dear ridiculous old Väterle. And if I did fly ever so far, I think it
is to you I should come back again at last, like some bad heller piece.”
“Or the dove to the Ark, sweetheart,” and with his equanimity restored,
the Burgomaster took his stick and sallied forth; first with his own
hand bolting the great gate, and then locking behind him the little
postern, he put the key in his pocket.
Half-an-hour later, and not a sound is to be heard in the old
house, for the servants, willingly obedient to the master’s behest,
are gone to bed, and snoring the slumbers of comfortably housed,
well-fed dependents. Antinous has gathered up himself and his finery
into a cool nook of the ivied balustrade. Mitte, careless of those
oft-repeated warnings that some day she will get sat upon, and not a
bit inconvenienced by the heat, which is vexing the world in general
out of all patience, is curled up on the downy crimson cushion of the
Burgomaster’s easy chair. Preternaturally loud through the intense
silence ticks out the old clock in the dining-hall, dark and still as
Dornröschen’s own palace. Only in one window, giving on to the street,
a light still burns. An exquisitely carven oriel, whose corbel springs
from the enfolded wings of an angel with clasped hands, almost resting
on the broad top of the wall immediately beneath.
A marvellous careful chatelain Burgomaster Niklaus, yet no more than
ofttimes have proved since that mythic long ago, when Thetis dipping
her young Achilles into the magical river flood by the heel, left a
vulnerable point, is a fortress stronger than its weakest part.
That window with its painted glass, where now the soft light streams
through, flecking with fair colour the twining creepers and the great
spreading apple tree, whose branches kiss its panes, is quite within
reach of moderately expert climbers, by means of the deep zig-zag
ornament and big stone bosses in the wall; and so much achieved, the
artificial and natural foliage of the window itself would have afforded
excellent grip for attaining to the level of its lozenged casemates
aglow with cross and sacred symbol. But then, did not Argus-eyed Hunx
patrol that street every hour of the night when not otherwise engaged,
that is, in wrestling with the sleepy god; and even when Morpheus did
conquer, the Ill, and the Rhine to boot, would likelier run dry than
that any creature, though he were bold as Barbarossa, should dream of
attempting any such feat; for did not that window light the oratory of
Burgomaster von Steinbach’s daughter? And beyond, on the inner side,
lay her sleeping chamber.
And there, seductively outspread on the bed’s crimson coverlet,
lies to-night that wonderful gala gown. If ever beautiful clothes
delighted heart of woman, then that thing should have driven Sabina
frantic with delight over the grace and rich simplicity breathing
through its every fold. An adept indeed, with boundless mastery of
the _Ars celare Artem_, must have been its creatrix; for while it was
of the latest mode, there was a toning down about it of all stiff and
extravagant ruffings and plaitings, which made it a thing for all time,
present, past, or to come. No incongruity would it have been amid
the gleaming marbles of Diana’s own shrine, yet fitted to sweep the
gothic cathedral’s hoary stones, and shine a delight to the eyes, amid
mediævally carven saints and devil monsters.
Yet the thing brings no light of pleasure into the girl’s eyes, as,
her lamp held high aloft, she stands contemplating it. If outward
trappings should accord with what the heart feels, it seemed to her
that sackcloth would best have been her festive raiment. Still, no
doubt, the gown was rarely beautiful; and as she looked, she could but
remember the generous love which took a pride in giving her the best
his wealth could afford, and with the instinctive feminine desire to
look well, which rarely slumbers long together in a woman, came the
yet stronger ambition to do so for her father’s sake. And she began to
think of trying how the dress fitted, as she had given her promise to
do; but still so sadly and listlessly; ten times more sadly for that
persistent memory of how once in the old days, she had lain nestled in
Conrad’s arms, conjuring up with him visions of this day, far off then,
to-morrow now. And she must live it through—alone?
Setting down her lamp in front of the great ebony and silver-framed
mirror, and doffing the light summer wrap she wore, Sabina fastened the
gown about her lissome young figure.
Once on, what sort of Eve’s daughter would she have been if she had
not stood for some minutes contemplating her own gracious reflection,
and narrowly criticising the setting of seam and sleeve, and minutely
examining the texture of the soft ivory white satin damask, with its
cloth of gold bordering worked in real pearls and sapphire stones of
the deep sea’s own blue; while ruffs of soft Flemish lace were gathered
up about her white throat, and finished the dainty wrists of the
gold-slashed sleeves, caught down at intervals by narrow jewelled bands?
It fitted like a glove. No woman, though far more fastidious than
its wearer, could have found a stitch of fault in it; _Finis coronat
opus_; and turning to a velvet casket on her dressing-table, Sabina
took from it a golden tiara-shaped band, set with pearls and three
large sapphires, her father’s gift that morning, and fastened it among
the rippling coils of her bright hair. For a moment or two longer, the
transient light of interest and excitement lingered in her eyes, but
with the finishing touch, it faded; and her gaze fell to wandering
listlessly over the picture before her; seeing through the mist dimming
all its glitter, no reflection of herself, but a tall, slender,
slightly bending figure in a scholar’s dark fur-bordered gown, with
pale thoughtful features and luminous dreamy eyes, which seemed fixed
on hers, with a gentle smile upon the grave lips, all attent, as if
to catch some strain of sweet far-off music. But with the tears she
strove to press away, the vision faded, resolving itself into some
semblance indeed of that gracious figure, but, oh me! how changed!
how grievously changed! There indeed is all the beauty, all the calm
dignity, but pale and lightless now as sculptured marble; and no trace
of a smile transfiguring the features to their old indescribable glory.
With a low wail of agony, the girl strove to shut out her brain’s
imagery. Yet no, stern or gentle, it abides with her still. All the
spiritual being of the man, crushing down self, dominates and pervades
hers. In him alone is her life. Silently and from afar she has watched
day by day his contest in life’s battle, all his endurance, all his
courage. She marks his triumph now, and rejoices in it; a sad enough,
desolate rejoicing, but still a deep and infinite delight.
Then once more, like stars at dawning, the gems on her rich gown
glimmer out from the mirror’s chiaroscuro, and, like living things,
they begin to grow dear and lovely to her, for the sake of him in whose
honour they are to shine. To bear witness of what this man is among his
fellow-men it is that to-morrow she will stand attired in this costly
garb, these almost priceless gems, fit for a bride—ah me! yes, fit
for a bride. Then a proud flush of pleasure dyes brow and cheek of the
lonely-hearted girl, and fading as quickly as it came, leaves her face
pale as the flower her father loves to liken her to, but infinitely
sweet, and soft, and steadfast. And so turning from the mirror to the
threshold of her oratory, she crosses its inlaid marble floor, and
falling on her knees before the little shrine, where the pitying Christ
looks down from His tree of suffering, pours out all her heart there,
in the shadows cast by the tiny lamp hanging from the star-gilded roof.
But such dim light is enough and to spare for Sabina, who needs no
printed book to pray from. The supplications she has to make are all
graven deep, deep in her heart, and—but shall such sacred, fast-sealed
things be laid open? What if that little believer in kind saints, and
pitying angels, and marvellously extravagant miracles, did pray that
there might be brought about some mending of the cruelly snapped golden
thread, at least all unselfishly, all conditionally she made her plea.
If so be that it was well for him. Not else—oh Heaven! no, not else.
And if it were not for his best happiness, why then, only God bless
him, and keep him, and lighten for him that sad, sad, darkened life,
as He alone might do, and shed on him all her own allotted measure
of love and of worldly content, every life’s good which should have
been hers. Here to the Blessed Christ’s own dear feet she brought
her willing sacrifice, holding her affection for this man to be no
idolatrous one, but full of sad, deep gladness in the priceless love
she felt.
It seemed to her then, as many a time it had before, what happiness
hers would have been, if she might have been let lay down her life for
him, if she might suffer for his sake some great, sharp terrible pain,
so that in the years to come, when she lay cold and world-forgotten, he
might now and again spare her a thought, and say in that voice of his,
than which in her ears no music was half so sweet: “I think the child
loved me!”
Yet how could such a lot be hers? Rather to the end what could it be,
but one of mute endurance? The life-long, weary, humdrum striving to
be just one more respectable, even natured feminine creature, with
whom life rumbles on, more or less smoothly or uncomfortably, as the
ruts on the road to the churchyard admit of? Well then, one day at
least the slow torture would reach its ending. Sooner or later, the
time must come. One day—and so at last the silent tears well up to
overflowing, and trickle down upon the rich, velvet-bound, illuminated
book of Hours beneath her convulsively clasped hands. The brave heart,
ready to endure to the end, as hitherto it had unmurmuringly borne, was
yet very, very human; and in the solitude and silence of those night
hours would pause and turn to dwell on what had been—and—perhaps—in
Heaven—who could tell?—might be again. Perhaps——