“How did the General receive your work?”
Reinhold looked up in astonishment; there was nothing surprising indeed in the question. He had mentioned the subject, as he had nearly all, excepting one, the most important—often enough at the tea-table here; but the tone in which Cilli had asked was peculiar.
“How do you mean, dear Cilli?” he asked in return.
“I only wanted to remind you that you had not been idle even here,” said Cilli. She was standing opposite to him at the other side of the tea-table, and the light of the lamp fell full upon her pure features, on which was expressed some uneasiness. She seemed to be listening for the step of her father or Justus on the stairs. Then, as everything remained still, she felt her way round the table, sat down on the edge of the sofa, and said, while a deep colour suffused her whole face: “I did not tell you the truth; it was for another reason that I asked you. I have something else to ask you—a very great, very bold request—which you will perhaps grant me, if you are sure, as you ought to be, that it is not idle curiosity that prompts me, but heartfelt sympathy in your weal and woe.”
“Tell me, Cilli; I believe there is nothing in the world that I would deny you.”
“Well then, is it Elsa von Werben?”
“Yes, dear Cilli.”
“Thank God!”
Cilli sat still, with her hands in her lap; and Reinhold was silent too; he felt that he could not have spoken at the moment without tears. Cilli knew that he was not ashamed of his confession, but she had to a certain degree forced it from him, and as if in apology, she said: “You must not be angry with me. Good as Justus is, one cannot confide such things in him. I think he would hardly understand it. And you have no one else here excepting me; and I thought perhaps it would not be so hard for you if you could speak openly of your feelings even to blind Cilli.”
Reinhold took her hand, and carried it to his lips.
“I am as grateful to you, dear Cilli, as a wounded man is when balm is poured upon his wounds, and I know no one in whom I would rather confide than in you, purest, kindest, best!”
“I know that you like me and trust me,” said Cilli, warmly returning the pressure of Reinhold’s hand; “and I am well punished for my cowardice in having, notwithstanding, kept silence so long; for, only think, Reinhold, I believed at first—”
“What did you believe, dear Cilli?”
“I believed at first that it was Ferdinanda; and I was very, very unhappy about it, for Ferdinanda may be as beautiful as you all say, and as talented, but you would never have been happy with her. You are so kind and so good-tempered, and she is—I will not say ill-tempered, but haughty. Believe me, Reinhold, I feel it, as a beggar feels whether what is given him is from kindness or only to get rid of him. I have never put myself in her way, God knows; but He knows also that she has never gone a step out of her way to say one of those kind words to me which fall so readily from your lips, because your heart is overflowing with them. For some time, too, I trembled for Justus, till I learned to understand his nature, and saw that an artist—inasmuch as he is unlike other men—cannot love either like other men. But you, with your tender, loving heart, how should you not love—and love immeasurably—and be immeasurably unhappy if your love is misplaced! I have said this often to Justus when we were talking about you—at first; now I do not do so any more, for he chatters about everything that comes into his head, and I have observed how carefully you have guarded your secret.”
“That I have indeed!” cried Reinhold. “I might almost say from myself; and I cannot think how you have discovered it.”
“It seems almost a miracle, does it not?” said Cilli; “and yet it is not one, if you seeing people knew how well the blind hear, how they pay attention to every trifle, and to the tone in which you mention a particular name, as you bring it in at first shamefacedly, and then a little more boldly, as soon as you feel secure, till at last all your conversation is full of the music of the loved name, as in the East the dawn is filled with the name of Allah, cried by the Muezzins from the roof of the minaret. And ah! what sadness there often was in the tone in which you spoke it! What trembling hope of joy breathed in it, when you told me the other day that you were going to spend the evening with her, to pass hours in her company at that large party! They were your only happy hours, my poor Reinhold, for the very next day fell the frost upon the young green shoots, and since then the beloved name has never passed your lips. Are you then quite in despair now?”
“No, dear Cilli,” answered Reinhold; “I only see a happiness which I thought I might grasp with my hand, as a child thinks it may grasp a star, vanish from me in grey distance.”
And Reinhold related everything from the beginning, and how he was certain, though she had never spoken a word of love to him, not even on that delightful evening, that she understood him; and that so noble and high-minded a creature could never trifle with a man’s silent, respectful devotion, and therefore the favour with which she distinguished him—her kind words and friendly looks—could not be mere trifling, and if not love was yet a feeling that under happier circumstances might have blossomed into true, perfect love. But circumstances could hardly be
