“Come,” cried Bertalda impatiently; “come, we have lost only too much time already! Whatever you want besides I can supply you with.”
Ferdinanda was forced to tear herself away from Cilli. In her own passionate way she had learned within the last few weeks to love, and honour, and even worship the fair being who had come to her, as the good Samaritan came to the wounded man in the burning desert sand. An inward foreboding warned her that this was a farewell forever, that she should never again behold these angelic features. And today the face in its transparent clearness seemed hardly that of an earthborn creature.
Was she who seemed fragile as a breath, who was like a ray of light from a better world upon this dark sinful earth, to take this earthly burden upon her slender shoulders, to touch with her pure hands these dark sorrows.
“I will go to my father myself!” cried Ferdinanda.
“Then you may just as well stay here altogether,” said Bertalda.
“Go, go!” said Cilli.
And now again it was Ferdinanda who thought that Bertalda could not quickly enough put on the cloak which she had thrown off in the hot studio, or find the bonnet which she had flung down anywhere.
“I called a cab as I came,” said Bertalda; “it is waiting at the door; we shall be at my house in five minutes.” At the house door there were two cabs waiting.
Bertalda helped Ferdinanda to get into the first, and was in the act of following her, when the driver of the second carriage asked whether the gentleman was not coming.
“What gentleman?”
“The one who called me. Doesn’t he belong to you?”
“I know nothing about him,” said Bertalda, getting in and shutting the door behind her.
The vehicle was hardly in motion before Antonio came out of the house, with a broad-brimmed hat upon his black hair, and a large cloak over his shoulders—he had brought them both from Italy, and they were the first things which he had laid his hands upon—and with a small travelling-bag under his cloak into which he had thrust a change of linen. He rushed up to the driver of the second cab:
“I told you to wait at the corner!”
“I thought as there was another one at the door, and I had seen you run in here—”
“No matter—follow that cab—at the same distance that we are now, not a step nearer, and when the other stops, pull up!”
“All right,” said the driver, “I understand.”
III
The door closed behind the retreating figures, and Cilli was left alone in the studio. She sat down on a low stool, holding in her lap the paper which Ferdinanda had given her, and supporting her head upon her hand.
“He will not understand it,” she murmured; “he will be very angry; no one will understand it, not even Reinhold himself; even he could not feel with me as I feel. Oh! my poor heart, why do you throb so wildly! Can you not bear it a little longer, only a little longer! Let me fulfil this, it may be your last service!”
She had pressed her two hands against her bosom, as with stoical fortitude she bore the fearful pain, the agonising breathlessness caused by her palpitating heart, as had so often happened in the last few days. The terrible attack passed off, but the exhaustion which followed was so great, that she made several vain efforts to rise. She succeeded at last, and feeling for the table on which she knew a jug of water and glasses always stood, drank some water.
“I can do it now,” she murmured. And yet she often thought she must break down, as she languidly put one weary foot before the other, and slowly, slowly groped her way from the studio, and through the narrow path between the house and garden. As she passed the door of her own dwelling, she stood still and listened at the foot of the stairs which led to their rooms above. All was still, and her father was sleeping under good Aunt Rikchen’s care. He would not miss her; her poor father did not even know that her dearest wish, that she might die after him, and so remain with him till he breathed his last, and spare him the pain of seeing his child die, could hardly now be fulfilled. Her poor father! and yet not so poor as the proud lonely man to whom she was going.
She had reached the house and got as far as the carpeted marble stairs. A step came down towards her, and she stood still, leaning against the balustrade and smiling up at the newcomer.
“Dear Grollmann!”
“Good gracious, Fräulein Cilli! How came you here? And how ill you look! Dear me! you ought to go to bed at once!”
“I have no time for that, dear Grollmann, but I do feel very weak; will you help me up the stairs?”
“Why, where do you want to go?”
“To him—to Herr Schmidt.”
Grollmann shook his head.
“Dear Fräulein Cilli, you know that I would do anything in the world to please you, and particularly today, when you are in such trouble about your good father; but you really cannot possibly go to Herr Schmidt. If you want anything for your good father—and he has been asking after him already, although he has so many things on his mind—I will take an opportunity of saying it—”
“It is not about my father,” said Cilli, “nor about myself, but I have such difficulty in speaking, dear Grollmann.”
The old servant was awestruck as she raised her blind eyes to him. He did not venture another word of reply, not even to ask her what was that paper which she had slipped inside her dress, and led her silently and carefully up the remaining steps to the master’s door.
“Shall I announce you, Fräulein?” he whispered.
“Only open the door, dear Grollmann.”
The old man hesitated for a moment, and then opened the door boldly, guided the blind
