Part 32 (2/2)
Cornelia stood with her hands pressed upon her bosom, struggling for breath.
”Have you no longer a word, a glance, for me? can you see the head you have so often cradled an your bosom at your feet, and not bend and raise it forgivingly to your heart? will you not look smilingly into my eyes, and say, 'Enough of punishment, I am appeased'? Draw your arm from that stranger's and place it around my neck, and I will bear you through the world as lovingly, as watchfully, as a G.o.d. See, I kiss the spot where your heart is beating, and it does not burst; its blood does not gush forth upon my breast with infinite sorrow at the thought of a separation. You do not stir; you let me plead, let me extend my arms despairingly to you, and will not throw yourself into them,--say no word of compa.s.sion to the man whom you have called a thousand times by every fond name love could utter.”
”Heinrich! Heinrich!” cried Cornelia, throwing her arms around him and pressing her lips to his, ”this is more than human nature can bear!”
”Oh, my Cornelia! Do you then feel you are mine?--that all your purposes are false?--that nothing is true and eternal except our love?”
”My daughter,” said Severinus, gently, ”be steadfast as you were just now.”
Cornelia looked up and brushed the tears from her face. ”I thank you; I am steadfast,” she replied, with firm resolution. ”Good-night, Heinrich, _for the last time_.”
She turned to leave the church with Severinus.
_Henri_ started up like a wounded tiger; all tenderness was transformed into fury. ”Go, then!” he shouted, trembling with rage; ”you are no woman,--you are a fiend! You have deserted _me_, not I _you_; now we are quits.”
The young girl tottered out of the church with Severinus without casting another glance behind.
Both reached Cornelia's house in silence. Severinus paused. ”Command me, Fraulein. Shall I leave you alone, or can I be of any further service to you? A young girl doubtless needs protection against such a man as Ottmar.”
”Do you know him?” asked Cornelia.
”I do.”
”May I ask you to come in with me?”
”Most joyfully.”
The servants, on their return, had found the house open, and were in the greatest anxiety about Cornelia. Her maid came to meet her, crying, ”Oh, heavens, how you look!”
They entered the drawing-room, the apartment so short a time ago the scene of peace and joy; whose atmosphere was still pervaded with _Henri's_ glowing breath. There lay the gloves he had forgotten in his haste. Her tears burst forth afresh. It seemed as if she had just come from his funeral, and could not part from these last sad tokens of his life. She mutely motioned Severinus to be seated; she could not speak,--could not express her emotions in words. Severinus understood her thoroughly, and watched her in silence. She sat with bowed bead, speechless and pale; her hands resting on her lap; her loosened tresses falling around her, wet with tears. She still saw the impression made on the soft carpet where he had knelt before her; there lay a velvet ribbon he had torn from her arm; with a deep blush she looked up at the priest, as if he could read her thoughts. Now, for the first time, she noticed his delicate features, the melancholy expression of his large dark eyes, and gazed at him more earnestly. With an involuntary motion he pushed the hair from his brow, and a broad scar became visible.
”You are Severinus!” she exclaimed, starting up and seizing both his hands.
”Did you not know it?” he asked, in astonishment.
”No, I did not hear your name just now; but I think I once saw you in a brighter hour than this.”
”In the churchyard a few months ago.”
”Yes. Ah, it was a fleeting happiness!” she murmured. ”It is strange that we should meet. Oh, I salute you: the only person of whom Heinrich always spoke with reverence, whom G.o.d has sent to be my preserver!”
”May the Almighty grant that I shall prove so! But what can I do for you? Will you raise me to the rank of your friend, that as such I may console you, since I am not permitted to bestow the blessings of my ecclesiastical office upon a Protestant?”
”How do you know I am of the Lutheran faith?”
”Because I have long known you, long watched your quiet labors in the prison; and of late, since the report of your relations with Ottmar went abroad, prayed that the Almighty might save the honor of a being whom he had created or his glory, if at any time she was in danger.”
”A report? Oh, G.o.d! had matters already gone so far with me? Ah, this despicable world!”
”Calm yourself, my daughter. Do not accuse the world: you yourself are not wholly blameless. Had you submitted more to the laws of womanly custom, everything might now be very different.”
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