“I must take the poor child downstairs again,” he muttered; “she will not stay long.”
Uncle Ernst, who was walking up and down the room with his hands behind his back, lost in sullen meditation, had not heard the gentle opening of the door. Now, having reached the farther end of the room, he turned and started.
“Cilli!” he exclaimed with a long-drawn breath.
“Cilli,” he repeated, as he went up to her, where she silently awaited him.
He was standing before her, strangely moved by the contrast between the dark and dismal thoughts in which he had been plunged, and the angelic, radiant face into which he now looked; and his hand, which had taken hers, trembled, and his voice shook, as he led her to a chair and said: “What brings you to me, my child? Is your father worse?”
“I think not,” answered Cilli, “although I know that he cannot last long.”
“That is all stuff and nonsense,” said Uncle Ernst, the gentleness of his tone contrasting oddly with the rough words. “Those three hundred pounds would not have made you happy. And what have I done to him that he should be afraid that I would not take care of him and you if it came to the worst?—his Socialism—pooh! He will always remain for me what he is—one of the few honest men in a world of rogues.”
“I know how kind you are,” answered Cilli, “and I had meant to come to you this morning to thank you from the bottom of my heart for all that you have done for us, and will do for my poor father when I am gone.”
“I will not hear anything about that,” said Uncle Ernst.
The ghost of a smile flitted over Cilli’s pale face.
“Death has an eloquent voice,” said she; “I trusted to that when I dragged myself to you, and hoped that my voice, which comes from a heart where Death has taken up his abode, might penetrate to your heart, which, stern as it often seems, is so good and kind to the poor and desolate, to the helpless and the unhappy.”
Her voice was so low that Uncle Ernst had some difficulty in understanding her. What did the poor child want? she had evidently something still upon her mind.
“Tell me what it is, Cilli,” said he; “you know that I can refuse you nothing, however difficult it might be to me to grant it.”
“You ought not to refuse me this, although it will be difficult to you; for you are very proud, and the noblest of the angels fell through pride, and your pride is bleeding already today from a deep wound—forgive me if I touch it—I know it must be painful, but our Lord upon the cross forgave His persecutors, forgave all men, and all who sin, however wise they may be in worldly wisdom, they know not what they do. But he who sins in men’s eyes because he loves, not himself but another, to whom his whole heart and soul belong, so that he no longer feels his own pangs but suffers a hundredfold from those of another—for such a poor loving soul every good man feels divine compassion; how should not a father then, who ought to stand in the place of the Father in heaven to His children on earth, and should be perfect even as the Father in heaven is perfect! Oh! have compassion upon Ferdinanda!”
She had slipped from her chair on to her knees, her hands crossed upon her breast, her sightless eyes turned to him who had always moved about in the darkness that surrounded her like a demon in his height and stateliness, but fearful also as a demon. Had her feeble voice reached the unattainable height where he was enthroned? or reached it only to unloose the storm, the thunder of his wrath, which she had so often heard rolling and raging above her head? Would he stoop down to her and raise her up, as he had raised so many from the dust, with his strong helpful hands? Then she heard—by his long-drawn breathing—that he was bending over her, and she felt the strong hands raise her and replace her carefully in her chair. She took his powerful hands in her own weak trembling ones, and guided them to her quivering lips.
“No, no, my child! You have spoken the truth, but I am not angry with you—not in the least. And that paper there, did she give you that!”
“I do not know what she has written,” said Cilli, taking the paper from her bosom, “You ought not to look at the words; they are wild, perhaps bad words! but how can a poor human creature know at such a moment what she does or says?”
He had hastily run his eye over the lines. “Ferdinanda has eloped—when?”
“About half an hour ago—perhaps more; I do not know exactly.”
“Did he carry her off?”
Cilli, from whom Ferdinanda had long had no secrets, mentioned Bertalda’s name and residence.
“So even this time it was not himself!” murmured Uncle Ernst with a bitter smile. “Thank you, my dear child, thank you for your honesty. I have always thought highly of you, I see that I did not think nearly highly enough. And now let me call my sister to take you back and see you into bed; I am sure you ought to be there.”
“She is sitting at my father’s bedside,” said Cilli; “she has been there these two hours. I can go very well alone.”
“Then I will take you.”
“If you are really grateful to me, if I am not to think that I have been here in vain, you have something else to do now; pray let me go alone.”
She rose from her chair and folded her hands again upon her bosom.
“Go alone then, if you really wish it.”
She moved
