“Well, really!” remarked Aunt Mary meditatively, “sentences like ‘Thou shalt not murder,’ ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself,’ ‘Forgive thine enemies’—”
“Go for nothing,” repeated Tilling; “and those, whose calling it is to teach these sentences, are the first to bless our arms and call down Heaven’s blessing on our murderous work.”
“And rightly so,” said my father. “The God of the Bible was of old time the God of battles, the Lord of armies. He it is who commands us to draw the sword. He it is—”
“Men always,” interrupted Tilling, “decree that what they themselves want to see done is His will; and they attribute to Him the enactment of eternal laws of love, which, whenever His children begin the great game of hatred, He suspends by His divine ‘Goes for nothing.’ Just as rough, just as inconsistent, just as childish as man is the God whom man has set before us. And now, countess,” he added, getting up, “forgive me for having inflicted such a tedious discussion on you, and allow me to take leave.”
Stormy feelings were thrilling through me. All that he had just said had rendered the beloved man yet dearer to me. And must I now part from him, perhaps never to see him again? To exchange thus a cold farewell with him before other people and let all end so? It was not possible. I should have been obliged, if the door had closed on him, to burst out in sobs. That must not be: I rose up.
“One moment, Baron Tilling,” I said; “I must at any rate show you that photograph I spoke to you about a little while ago.”
He looked at me in amazement, for no talk about a photograph had ever passed between us. However he followed me to the other corner of the drawing-room, where some albums were lying on a table, and where we were out of hearing of the others.
I opened an album, and Tilling stooped over it. Meanwhile I spoke to him in a low voice and all in a tremble.
“I cannot let you go in this way. I will, I must speak to you.”
“As you will, countess; I am listening.”
“No, not now; you must come again—tomorrow, at this hour.”
He seemed to hesitate.
“I command it. By the memory of your mother, for whom I wept with you!”
“Oh, Martha!”
My name so pronounced thrilled through me like a flash of joy.
“Tomorrow then,” I repeated, and looked into his eyes, “at the same hour.”
We had settled it. I returned back to the others, and Tilling, after he had put my hand to his lips again and saluted the others with a bow, went out of the door.
“A singular person,” remarked my father, shaking his head. “What he has been saying just now would find little favour in the higher circles.”
When the appointed hour struck next day I gave orders, as on the occasion of his first visit, to admit no one else except Tilling.
I looked forward to the coming visit with a mixture of feelings—passionate anxiety, sweet impatience, and some degree of embarrassment. I did not quite know the precise things I should say to him; on that subject I would not reflect at all. If Tilling asked me some such question as “Now then, countess, what have you to communicate to me—what do you wish with me?” I could not surely answer him with the truth: “I have to communicate to you that I love you; my wish is that you should stay here.” But he would not surely cross-examine me in so bald a way, and we should readily understand each other without such categoric questions and answers. The main point was to see him once more; and not to part, if parting must come, without having spoken one heartfelt word and exchanged one fervent farewell. But even in thinking the word “farewell” my eyes filled with tears.
At this moment the appointed visitor came.
“I obey your command, countess, and—but what is the matter with you?” said he, interrupting himself. “You have been weeping? You are weeping still?”
“I? No, it was the smoke, the chimney in the next room. Sit down, Tilling. I am glad you have come.”
“And I happy that you ordered me to come, do you recollect, in the name of my mother. On that I determined to tell you all that is in my heart. I—”
“Well, why do you stop?”
“To speak is even harder to me than I thought.”
“You showed so much confidence in me on that night of pain when you were watching by the deathbed. How comes it that you have now lost all confidence again?”
“In those solemn hours I had gone out of myself: since then my usual shyness has again seized me. I perceive that on that occasion I had overstepped my right, and I have avoided your neighbourhood that I might not overstep it again.”
“Yes, indeed, you seem to avoid me—why?”
“Why? Because—because I adore you!”
I answered nothing, and to hide my emotion I turned my head away. Tilling also was struck dumb. At last I collected myself and broke the silence.
“And
