Part 19

"You have watched me with the eyes of love, and formed a tolerably clear idea of the true state of affairs. It would be useless to deny your guess, you would still believe it. In such matters one can deceive the world, but not the instinct of a clever woman. What shall I say to you?--spare me further particulars concerning things which are not my secret. I will freely confess that, with the exception of yourself, she was my only friend,--that I owe her much and shall always pity her."

"Poor lady!" said Cornelia, softly. "If she loves you, she is greatly to be pitied, for she can never forget you,--never be happy again!"

"Does your own heart tell you that, Cornelia?"

"Yes. Whoever has once felt the magic of your nature can never love another, and is bound to you for life; the whole world contains nothing nobler than yourself."

_Heinrich_ took her hands and pressed them to his breast. "Dearest, you are my happiness and my salvation! Cornelia, I love you. I would fain breathe forth my life in those few words: 'I love you!" Cornelia felt that tears were dimming her eyes, and tried to conceal them. "Oh, do not be ashamed of these tears! Happy is the human being who can weep. Teach me the lesson too, and you will have accomplished what not even God could do!"

"And if I should succeed, _Heinrich_, it would still be only by the help of God, who blessed my efforts. He will let me find means to do so, if he wishes to raise you by my hand. Do not smile. I cannot help calling the power to which you give a thousand titles by the name of God; cannot intentionally fail in my duty to him. I cannot live without this God,--may not deny him. When I was a child he stood beside my bed and I could talk to him. I associated with him all my thoughts of my father; my mother appeared to me beautiful and radiant in his heavenly majesty, I have so often folded my little hands reverently and thought he heard me; and am I now to believe the soulless air wafted my fervent prayer away,--that so much love, so much devotion, was lavished an a phantom? Oh, my childish faith has increased with my growth!--it has somewhere become part of my nature; for if I try to separate from it, a pang passes through my soul, and I feel that some spiritual nerve, the connecting link between God and myself, is wounded."

"You are a woman, Cornelia, and it would be wicked to cast a word of doubt into the sanctuary of your pious heart. We have already spoken of this matter once, and you almost made me an enthusiast."

"Is it really so?" interrupted Cornelia. "Oh, if you confess that, much is gained, and I shall henceforth work upon your 'enthusiasm'! You know, _Heinrich_, that natures like ours are always set apart from the rest of mankind. Life often becomes unendurable; reverses of fortune may occur which even philosophy can no longer help us to bear, and we can nowhere find a home. Then it is fortunate if we can flee from earth to that wonderland of fancy, our inalienable home. There are sorrows, too, _Heinrich_, which cannot endure the classical training of an empty doctrine, and which, destroying everything in their course, dash wildly over us. Then the soul grasps for some support, and in its agony shrieks for a God; and if there were none, it would create him for itself, that its cry for help might not echo back from an empty void. But such a self-created God gives no comfort, but jeers at you mockingly, like the spectre of your own agony, and melts away before your eyes, while the true God cannot approach to comfort you, for you do not believe in him, and only by faith does he work his miracles." Cornelia paused; for _Heinrich_ was on his knees before her with his face buried in her lap.

"If in such an hour I still have you, I need no God!" he exclaimed, fairly beside himself.

"Do not blaspheme!" pleaded Cornelia "And suppose you did not have me? Suppose it should be God's will to separate us, and you were alone,--entirely alone?"

"Cornelia, how can you think of such a thing while you clasp me in your arms? If we should lose each other, what should I become? An embodied negation, separated from all connection with mankind, withered in mind and body,--a living corpse, to which the world is only a grave."

"_Heinrich_, dear, dear _Heinrich_! you inspire me with both compassion and horror! Oh, banish these gloomy spirits from your mind, and become light-hearted and gentle! Fate is not subdued by threats and blasphemies; the ground on which happiness willingly builds its nest must be firm and peaceful, not trembling with volcanic shocks and rumbling with peals of thunder. Come, be gentle; such wicked words suit your delicate mouth. Smile again; Veronica will soon wake up, and then we can no longer express our love in fond caresses."

"Yes, that is true!" cried _Heinrich_; "let us enjoy the moment while we may." And it was _Henri_ who now threw himself upon the sofa beside Cornelia and drew her closely to him.

Cornelia looked at him in astonishment. His eyes were beaming with ardent feeling; a warmer color tinged his cheeks; his mouth, half-pouted for a kiss was irresistibly alluring. "It often seems as if you changed places with some one, and in an instant became an entirely different man. I never saw such sudden alterations of mood."

"Ah, do not speak! kiss me!" pleaded _Henri_. "Darling, how I have longed for those lips! Many a night have I tossed as if in a fever, thirsting, yearning for you. Did you think of me when you went to rest?"

"Yes, a thousand times. I have never fallen asleep without calling 'Good-night, _Heinrich_!' and the words became my nightly prayer. I shall never forget it."

"How beautiful! What time do you say it?"

"At eleven: when I am in bed."

"In future I shall always say, 'Pleasant dreams, Cornelia!' You will remember it, won't you, my darling?"

"Of course I shall," she whispered, pressing her cheek close to his.

Light, scarcely audible footsteps approached. Cornelia started up. "Veronica is coming!"

The door slowly opened, and she entered, kindly as ever, but pale, as if there was not a drop of blood in her sunken features. Her slender figure seemed still more shrunken, and there was not a tinge of color about the ghostly apparition except the light-blue ribbon upon her white cap. The lovely eyes were more hollow, more lustreless, than in former days; the silvery curls drooped more negligently about her face. _Henri_ perceived a change in her, and as it soon became evident that there was no alteration in her intellectual powers it must be a bodily one. In such delicate equable natures all secret changes give very faint external tokens of their existence, and it requires a watchful, practiced eye to detect them. Cornelia was too mach preoccupied with her own feelings, the slight, gradual alterations in Veronica's appearance did not attract her attention; but _Henri_, who had not seen her for a long time, noticed them at once.

"My dear count, I did not know you were here, or I should not have yielded to the heavy slumber which always overpowers me now. I must beg you to excuse me, but I have no doubt Cornelia has entertained you so well that you have not missed me. Besides, age no longer harmonizes with youth. It is too dull for the sympathy and susceptibility required to enter into the rapidly changing details of a conversation."

"Oh, do not say that!" pleaded _Henri_. "With your fresh intellect one can accommodate one's self to every form of change; but it would be uncourteous to Fraeulein Cornelia, if I did not say that I am indebted to her for a most delightful hour." He smilingly took her hand and pressed it warmly.

Veronica looked earnestly at them both, and _Henri_ noticed it.

"Are you satisfied with my influence over your Cornelia? Is she not once more as blooming as a rose?"

"Oh, I am very grateful to you for your friendship, my dear count! But, Cornelia, you are not only blooming, you are fairly glowing to-day. You must have been talking very earnestly."

Cornelia's blushes grew still deeper at this remark. She glanced at _Henri_; he was apparently gazing irresolutely into vacancy.

"What is the matter, my child? Does your head ache? You really make me uneasy."

Cornelia started up and threw herself at Veronica's feet. "No, I cannot bear it; I could keep silent, but I cannot lie. Veronica, forgive my past reserve,--it was painful enough to me but now you question me, I will tell you the truth. Veronica, must I speak plainly? Yes, yes, it is as you think."

_Henri_ was in a state of painful embarrassment, and thought to himself, "Who can teach a woman to be silent?"

Veronica sat speechless and clasped her trembling hands. After a pause _Henri_ approached and touched Cornelia's head. "Here is all the happiness that earth contains. You will not refuse it to me, my motherly friend?"

"I have wished and thought that this might be, but now it has happened I am so greatly startled that I can scarcely speak!" Overpowered by her emotion, she clasped Cornelia in her arms. "My child, my only one, my all, whom I have so faithfully cherished, I confide you to the protection of this noble man, and am perfectly assured that he will make you happy. Come, my son, and receive my blessing." She laid her clasped hands upon his brow. "May God be merciful unto you and bless you, and show you the light of his countenance and be merciful unto you!"

The last words died upon her lips; the emotion was too great. She sank back, while _Henri_ and Cornelia affectionately supported her. The latter was deeply agitated. She now perceived, for the first time, in what a frail shell this beloved life was contained, by what feeble threads it was still bound to earth, and hot tears rolled down her cheeks. _Henri_ himself was not wholly destitute of sympathy. He esteemed Veronica, and understood Cornelia's feeling. At last she regained her consciousness, and gazed at them with her loving eyes. "Have I alarmed you? I most sincerely regret it; but my life has long flowed an so calmly and equably that I am unaccustomed to all emotion. But, dear Cornelia, you must remember the possibility of my leaving you. Do not weep; let the consciousness that you have never cost me a single sorrowful hour console you. You have developed a lofty, free, and noble nature, and yet always given me the submissive heart of a child; have spared my weaknesses, and never permitted me to feel how far you had risen above me. God will reward you for it. And now that my last wish is fulfilled, and I know you are safe in the arms of your betrothed, I can cheerfully depart to my sainted lover."

"Oh, do not talk so, Veronica!" pleaded Cornelia. "You are strewing wormwood over this blissful hour."

"Why, my child? You do not grudge me the peace contained in the thought of death, and I feel that the time which separates me from my betrothed is drawing to a close. If you only knew how I rejoice over it! We have been obliged to wait for long years,--he there and I here; but a human life is but a short span compared to eternity. We shall meet again, and our temporary separation will only be an interruption, not the destruction of our intercourse."

Cornelia gazed silently into vacancy. The grave conversation had brought _Heinrich_ into _Henri's_ place. "It is a beautiful and enviable faith," said he.

"Which you do not share, because you are a man, and still young; but, I assure you, the older we grow the thinner becomes the partition our earthly bodies form between our immortal souls and eternity, and single rays from the other shore often fall through. This gives to us old people the religious trust at which you young philosophers smile."

"I do not laugh at it, Veronica," said _Heinrich_; "but I think you have yet many years to enjoy life and our happiness."

"Well, it is as God wills. I will gladly live and gladly die,--both are welcome to me."

_Heinrich_ looked at her in astonishment. "Fortunate is the person who can say that, and contemplate with equal serenity the day and night of existence."

"Enough of this grave subject; tell me, my son, how soon you wish to take Cornelia away? I shall miss her so terribly that I dread the thought of losing her, and really do not know how I am to live without her."

_Heinrich_ bit his lips. "Calm yourself; unfortunately, I cannot call her mine as soon as I would gladly do, and must even request you to keep our engagement a secret for the present. My position at the court is just now in a very important crisis. This must first be decided before I can establish a home here. There are a thousand things to be considered, a thousand little difficulties to remove, and six months may elapse before my affairs are settled. So you will have Cornelia longer than I like, for if it depended only upon myself I would take her in my arms to-morrow, and show her to the envious world as my dearest possession."

"I understand, dear Ottmar," said Veronica; "but I only wonder that you, who have stood so firmly in your office, should suddenly find yourself in a crisis."

"Unfortunately it is so. The ministry is now engaged upon new laws, which, if unapproved, will lead to a change of ministers, and perhaps I may also fall a victim. This is an important time in my life, which claims all my activity and attention."

"Thank God that I am permitted to keep my angel so long! You are very sensible, my son, to wish to wait until after this epoch. Besides, a marriage made outside the limits of the most aristocratic circles will not be very favorably received at court, and it is, therefore, best to keep the matter secret until your position has been confirmed anew."

The conversation was beginning to be painful to _Heinrich_, and the striking of the great clock afforded him a welcome pretext for rising and pleading the necessity of attending a court soiree. He bade Veronica farewell, and begged Cornelia to accompany him to the door. The young girl was grave and quiet.

"Do not grieve about Veronica, my child," he said, in the antechamber; "it is the way of all old people, to talk continually about dying,--she may live a long time still."

"I think so too," replied Cornelia; "but I feel oppressed. It is like the plants whose leaves droop after being exposed to too much sunlight. I was too happy just now,--there must be a reaction."

"But what troubles you, my angel?"

"Oh, it is nothing that can be changed. The thought of being so much your inferior that such strict secrecy is needful grieves me. To conceal from the world the beautiful emotion that fills my breast, perhaps even often be compelled to profane it by a falsehood, is painful; but do not let it grieve you,--I shall soon conquer this mood."

_Heinrich_ drew her to his breast, and stroked her luxuriant hair. "My own sweet love, I understand you. But consider that this burdensome constraint is only imposed upon us for a _short_ time, and that it also has its good side. I can say no more than I wrote in my letter. As regards making the affair public, you see, by what Veronica says, the necessity of the precautions I am compelled to take. Come, love, smile upon me again; do not let me go with the knowledge that you are sorrowful." He took her hand and placed it on his heart. "Do you feel that its every throb is yours?"

Cornelia threw her arm around his neck, and gazed intently into his face; but he closed her eyes with kisses, and left the house. She went to the window and watched her lover's tall figure as he strode away. No one could bear himself more proudly, no one could hold his head more haughtily erect. Now he met an acquaintance, removed his hat slowly and condescendingly, and continued his way without glancing up, for he seemed to have noticed that the gentleman was looking after him. It wounded Cornelia, and when the latter raised his eyes to the window she blushed with a strange feeling of shame and retreated. She would not go to Veronica; something in her mood demanded solitude, so she leaned back on one of the ancient carved chairs and gazed thoughtfully at the dark oak wainscoting on the walls. Twilight spread its shadows over her,--twilight also brooded over her soul, and she knew not whether it would change into night or day. Why should she feel ashamed because that stranger looked after Ottmar and then glanced at her? why should it cause her pain because Ottmar passed on without looking? Secrecy made this caution necessary. It required that he should deny her in the presence of the first chance-comer, that she should steal a glance at her lover like a thief in the night, and blush if surprised in the act, as if she were doing wrong. How painful! how humiliating! But was this secrecy really needful? Were the reasons he alleged sufficient and strong enough not to be vanquished by the strength of a genuine, manly love? Ought he not to sacrifice everything to spare her such a humiliation? How far would his marriage with her, with their mutual fortunes, be dependent upon a crisis in office? What induced the ardent lover to consent to this patient waiting? Could his private relations exert a disturbing influence upon his position as a servant of the government? What made him so timid, if it was not the fear of forfeiting his place at court by a mesalliance with a plebeian, the daughter of a republican? But what would the delay of a few months avail?--would not the marriage be precisely the same at whatever time it occurred? If he feared that, he would _never_ dare to wed her. She fell into a deep reverie. Suddenly her eyes flashed, and she held her breath as if the very air was poisoned. Suppose he should be false?--suppose the dread of prejudicing himself should be stronger than his integrity? She could not doubt his love, for his ardor had already made her tremble. Suppose he wished to plunge her into the same abyss that had engulfed so many others? suppose the reports concerning him were true, and he should prove false, terribly, fiendishly false? Yet scarcely was the suspicion born ere her whole nature rose against it in all its strength. What a monster you are to have the thought of such baseness arise in your young brain! Is your imagination so corrupt that the most sacred thing is not too holy to be thus sullied? Her horror was now not of him, but of herself. He was not the traitor, but she,--she who could cherish so disgraceful a doubt, whose love was not strong enough to crush it in the bud; she had betrayed him in her own heart.

She started up, rushed into her room, and lighted a lamp; then in the anguish of her soul threw herself on the floor before his picture,--the same one she had received from Fraeulein Hedwig. Her eyes wandered over the sketch and strove to animate the mute features and unravel their mystery; in vain, the solution was concealed in her own breast, and everything there was confused and gloomy. Thus, tortured by doubts of him and of herself, she was at last attracted towards the pure, faithful heart of her foster-mother. She entered the tea-room and found Veronica sitting with her clasped hands resting in her lap, absorbed in sorrowful thought.

"Are you come at last, my darling? You have left your old Veronica alone a long time. But I understand it. In this solemn hour you must first be at peace with yourself. You happy, fortunate child!"

Cornelia threw herself upon a stool at Veronica's feet, and asked, cautiously, for she did not wish this unprejudiced mind to catch a glimpse of her troubled soul, "Do you believe in _Heinrich_ as firmly as I do?"

"Certainly," replied Veronica. "I think he has given us sufficient proof that he is a man of honor."

The old servant brought a lamp and the musical urn into the room; Veronica took out her knitting-work, and as they sat so quietly together with the sweet melodies circling round them with the rising steam, the memory of the evening of their first unseen meeting rose gently before Cornelia's mind with all its magic and blessedness. Her excited nerves grew calm, her mood dissolved in tears. She remembered so many lofty words, so many glances full of true nobility of feeling. All those fair moments passed before her. With what joyful affection he had met her that day! Can one who has any evil design be so frank, so confident? Oh, if he should suspect how she had doubted him!

"Do you think it necessary to keep our love a secret?" she asked, at last.

"Oh, yes, my child," said Veronica, calmly.

"To me it is only very painful," murmured Cornelia.

"That may be; but it is something that happens a thousand times. You must be reasonable. We cannot know that he is not in the act of obtaining a higher position, and in that case his engagement with you would be an obstacle in his way. Therefore he must deny it until the expected promotion is secured; then only he can venture to defy all the prejudices of his circle and take you for his wife."

"I do not see what his private relations should have to do with it."

"Why, Cornelia, you speak as if you knew nothing of the world! Are you not yet aware how much personal matters are taken into consideration in these circles? Besides, we cannot conceal from ourselves that you bear a name with which the most unfortunate political associations are connected. Perhaps he also hopes that in the course of time our noble princess may exert a softening influence upon our strict aristocracy, and wishes to await this favorable opportunity. There are a thousand things to be considered, and it is very delicate in him to conceal them from us. You are a young, enthusiastic hot-head, and always want to fight your way through to your ideal; he a steady, experienced man who takes things as they are, and yields to them with prudent self-control. I would far rather trust you to such a character than a fanatical reformer, like your unhappy father."

Cornelia listened with delight to this argument in favor of what she herself most ardently desired. Veronica was so calm, so confident, and she was not blinded by love; should not this restore all the peace of confidence? Oh, if her deeply injured lover were only here, that she might implore his pardon for the wrong she had done him! How she would embrace him if he came to-morrow! how happy she would be with him!

Veronica's voice roused her from these thoughts and dreams. "Let us take tea, Cornelia; I am very tired and would like to get up early to-morrow morning to go to church. I long to raise my heart to God."

Cornelia silently obeyed. When tea was over Veronica went to bed, and Cornelia, who had helped her undress, knelt before her. "I thank you, dear Veronica, for having been so kind to me and _Heinrich_; I thank you also, at this turning-point of my life, for all the love with which you have treated me as a daughter, and made me a good and happy creature. I can never repay you for it, but your clear eyes look into my heart and see what no words can express." Overpowered by her emotion, she pressed Veronica's hand to her lips.

"Oh, my child! my dear, dear child! God knows how fully, how richly, this hour repays me for all I have done! What better things can one purchase than a hand to close one's eyes, and a warm tear to fall upon one's grave? This is a happiness which comprehends the joys of a whole life,--and for this I thank you. Good-night, my child."

Cornelia embraced her and went to her own room with tearful eyes. As she reached it she heard Veronica call, and went back. The latter held out her arms. "Let me press you to my heart once more. God bless you, joy of my old age! Good-night. Wake me to-morrow."

Cornelia remained awake for a long time. Veronica's manner had roused a feeling of subdued melancholy. Besides, the wonderful day must be lived over anew, its discords harmonized, its joys and sorrows interwoven with her inner nature, ere dreams could be permitted to lead her into another kingdom.