Part 35 (2/2)

”Certainly, I love it; but I am realizing each day, more and more, with how much that is hard and bitter I have to contend. My teacher, Professor Marani, says 'one must mount with the wings of an eagle, then he leaves all the dross far beneath him.' I think he is right, but I am not an eagle, I am only what my dear grandfather has often called me, 'a singing bird,' with nothing but my voice, and no strength to mount to dizzy heights. The critics have said before now that my acting lacked fire and strength, and I feel myself that I have little dramatic talent.

I can only sing, and I'd much rather do that at home in our own green woods, than here in a golden cage.”

The girl's voice had a worn, discouraged ring, very unusual in one so full of vivacity. The recent occurrence had brought her unprotected position before her most forcibly, and unconsciously she opened her heart to the man who had s.h.i.+elded her so bravely. He listened in astonishment to her sad words, but instead of showing any pity, his face and eyes fairly beamed with happiness and joy at her sad admission. He asked abruptly, almost roughly:

”You long to get away from here? You will leave the stage?”

Despite her troubles, Marietta laughed out at this question.

”No, indeed, I have no such thought. What would I turn to then? My dear grandfather has sc.r.a.ped and saved for years in order that I might receive a musical education, and it would be but a poor return for me to go back to him now, a burden for his few remaining years. He shall never know that his 'singing bird' longs for her woodland nest, or that she has hards.h.i.+ps and insults to encounter here. I have more courage than that. I mean to fight it out, no matter how heavy the odds. So do not let them hear anything about my murmurings at Furstenstein. How soon are you going there?”

A shadow fell across the young heir's happy face, and his eyes sank to the floor.

”I am going at two this afternoon,” he answered in a strange, depressed tone.

”O, then grant me one favor. Tell Toni everything--everything--you hear?

She has cause to blame us both. I shall write to her to-day, at once, and tell her about this unfortunate affair, and you will explain just how it happened, too, will you not?”

Willibald raised his eyes slowly from the ground and looked at the speaker.

”You are right, Fraulein, Toni must hear all, the whole truth. I had decided on that before I came here--but it will be a trying hour for me.”

”Oh, no indeed, it will not,” Marietta said hastily. ”Toni is good and full of confidence; she will know that what we tell her is the exact truth, and that we were both quite guiltless in the matter.”

”But I am not guiltless, at least toward Toni,” said Willibald very earnestly. ”Do not look so frightened, you would hear all later, so it is, perhaps, as well to hear it from my lips. I am going to Furstenstein to ask Toni”--he hesitated and sighed deeply--”to give me back my freedom.”

”Heaven help us! and why?” cried the young maiden, seriously alarmed at this declaration.

”Why? Because, feeling as I do, knowing that Toni has no place in my heart, it would be wrong to lead her to the altar. Because I know now what is the one thing needful to make a happy marriage, because,” he stopped and looked at Marietta so steadily and so expressively that she could not fail to understand him. Her face flushed painfully; she drew back and made a hasty motion as if to prevent further speech.

”Herr von Eschenhagen, tell me no more.”

”I cannot help it,” Willibald continued, almost defiantly. ”I fought it over and over in my own mind when I was alone at Burgsdorf, and honestly tried to keep my word. I thought it might be possible; then I came here and saw you again--the other evening in 'Arivana'--and then I realized that all my struggling had been in vain. I had not forgotten you, Fraulein Marietta, no, not for an hour, even while I was trying to persuade myself you must be forgotten, and I should not have forgotten you my whole life long. I will tell Toni all this frankly, and my mother, too, when I see her again.”

It was all out at last. The man who could not stand alone at Furstenstein, and for whom his mother had done all the talking and planning, spoke now, warmly and earnestly, from his very heart, as only a man can speak in such an hour. He had learned what liberty meant when his affections were aroused, and with this knowledge he had forever cast aside the dependence of habit and indifference.

He crossed the room to Marietta, who had gone back to the window.

”And now one question. You were very pale when you opened the door for me, and had been crying. Of course this affair was very painful to you.

I can understand that, but--but were you the least bit anxious--on my account?”

He received no answer. There was only a low, stifled sob.

”Were you anxious about me? Only a little 'yes;' you cannot know, Marietta, how happy it will make me.”

He bent over the maiden whose head had sunk so low, but he could not see the gleam of happiness which lighted up her face as she said softly: ”I have been so anxious that life has hardly been endurable the past two days.”

Willibald gave a laugh of exultation, and tried to draw her into his arms; she gave him one long look, and then released herself.

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