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”.]