Albert appeared at dinner and vanished immediately after that. He
scarcely spoke a word during the meal. But this was not unusual. Dinner
in this household was served with such elaborate ceremony—waiters and
butlers and many courses—that the stiffness of it all robbed him of
speech. Aunt Betty noticed his glance in Hilda’s direction once or twice
but her daughter ignored her cousin entirely. The mother heaved a sigh
of relief. She had been unduly alarmed.
What the watchful mother failed to observe was that as they rose from
the table and were passing to the adjoining room Albert dashed across to
Hilda and mumbled something in a panting voice and left abruptly. She
paled but did not turn to see whither he had gone.
She joined her family but after a while chose a secluded place,
apparently reading. She turned the pages of her book as if she were
perusing them without seeing a word before her. She seemed vexed and
perplexed and now and then jerked her head as if shaking off an
intruding thought. Finally she walked up to her room and closed the door
resolutely as if she had made a decision and given emphatic expression
to it. She then threw herself on her bed and lay for a time, staring at
the ceiling.
“Seven o’clock near Klopstock’s grave,” she murmured to herself.
Shortly after that she walked down stairs and remained standing in the
doorway over the veranda and walked slowly, deliberately, down the broad
stone steps, pausing and lingering a while on every step, like a playful
child, and looking at her feet as she moved them. When she reached the
pebbled path of the winding walk she played with the little stones with
the tip of her dainty slipper as if there were not a single thought
passing through her mind. Presently she was standing before the
marble-walled well in the centre of the garden and looked curiously at
the carved figures on the outside as if she had never seen them before.
Dimly she remembered that Albert had spoken of them the other day—they
were mythological figures and he had explained them to her. She recalled
his face and the manner in which he looked at her as he spoke of the
beautiful goddesses of Greece.
She was soon out of sight of the beautiful mansion on the hill,
sauntering down the slope that led to the seashore. Along the Elbe was a
cliff-walk that led to a promontory on which was the grave of him who
sang of The Messiah.
The sun was going down but it was still long before sunset in this
northern clime. There was a golden haze in the air, with hoards of
mosquitoes and tiny insects in column formation flitting about like a
dancing procession. Klopstock’s grave was west of the Zorn villa, where
the sun was sliding down the curving horizon and making the
many-branched linden tree over the tomb look like a burnished bush.
There was tumult in her brain and her heart was beating irregularly. A
number of limes she halted and half-turned, as if she were attempting to
twist herself loose from the embrace of some invisible being, but soon
again she proceeded on her way.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” he said as he came running toward her.
His teeth were almost chattering, his voice was strained.
“I shouldn’t have come—I know I shouldn’t,” she was saying, scarcely
glancing at him.
“Why do you despise me so?—”
He touched her hand which she withdrew quickly and put it back of her
like an angered child.
“You don’t know how miserable I feel—Hilda—.” His voice was plaintive,
pleading. “I know you detest me—You don’t even care for my poems, the
echoes of my heart. Oh, Hilda—just a word—”
“You make me so unhappy,” she interrupted him. He thought he saw anger
in her eyes.
“I am so sorry if my love makes you unhappy.” His voice was now
penitent, humble, beseeching. “But I can’t help it, Hilda. We don’t will
love—love wills us. I understand. I am not blaming you—you can’t help
hating me as I can’t help loving you. I am not as dull as you think. I
understand—Some girl might love me and I mightn’t care for her—”
Her eyes dilated; a pallor crept over her cheeks.
“Is that girl in Hamburg?” There was naiveté in her tone.
“There is no other girl. No one is in love with me. I was only
explaining how nature works. One loves and the beloved loves another—”
“I am sure you have a girl in mind. Who is she?”
“I swear to you there is no one—”
“I am sure from the way you said it there is someone—anyhow, you
wouldn’t tell me even if there were—”
“I would tell you the truth—I wouldn’t be ashamed to tell you if
someone were in love with me. Oh, a long time ago—I was a youngster
then.”
“Is she still in love with you?”
He waved his arms in despair.
“Oh, no, she is dead—But I am not thinking of anyone but you—”
“What did the other girl look like? Was she light or dark?”
“Oh, why speak of her—she is dead, I tell you—” he spoke impatiently.
“You must still be thinking of her or you wouldn’t remember her now. I
am sure you are in love with her still—was she pretty?”
He was beside himself.
“I tell you she is dead—” There was exasperation in his tone.
“And you mean to tell me you never had a love affair since then?”
She was drawing an 8 on the ground with the tip of her slipper.
“Of course I have never loved anyone as I love you.”
“Then you did love her!”
“I might have had a boyish fancy—I wrote a poem about her—”
“And some day you’ll write a poem about me and all will be ended.”
“Hilda, why do you torture me so?—”
He clasped her hand and kissed it. She withdrew her hand and said he
must not do this.
“I know I shouldn’t have come here—I know I shouldn’t—some one might
have seen us—”
“And what if they did?”
“Oh, Albert, you don’t understand—”
He was about to seize her hand again but she ran down the path.