About an hour and a half after Ferdinand's song had ceased, the door
of the chapel, which had been closed, opened, and two figures came
forth under the green shadow of the forest leaves. The first was that
of Adelaide of Ehrenstein, and her face bore tokens of recent
agitation. By her side appeared good Father George, with his head
uncovered, and no staff in his hand. He was speaking with the lady,
earnestly but gently, and he still continued to walk on with her for
some yards up the hill. More than once, as they went, Adelaide's eyes
were turned to either side of the path, as if she feared or expected
some interruption, and though she said not a word to indicate what was
passing in her heart, the good Father marked the sort of anxiety she
seemed to feel, and at length paused, saying, "Well, my child, I will
go with you no farther. You will be quite safe on your way back; and
if you attend to my voice, and follow my counsel, you might be happy
yourself, and save others worlds of pain."
He did not pause for a reply, but turned, and re-entered the chapel,
leaving Adelaide to pursue her way through the wood, with almost every
path of which she had been familiar from infancy. Nevertheless, as she
went, she still continued to look timidly round. She did not go far
alone, however, for just as she passed the first turning, which hid
the chapel from the eye, there was a step near, and Ferdinand was by
her side.
"Oh, Ferdinand!" she said, "I am terrified. What is it you want to
say? If any one were to find me here with you alone, what would they
think?--and my father, if he heard it, it would bring destruction on
your head too."
"Fear not, fear not," replied her lover; "turn into this path with me,
dear Adelaide, it will bring you as quickly to the castle as the
other, and we can speak there more freely."
His fair companion hesitated; but taking her hand in his, he led her
gently forward, though not without a glowing cheek and eyes cast down.
It was a small footway, which horses could not travel, and wound with
many a turn up to the top of the high hill on which the castle stood.
The short green mountain turf, the broken masses of rock here and
there, the straggling boughs reaching across, and the wild flowers
springing uncrushed, even in the midst of the path, showed that it was
trodden by no very frequent feet. The green branches crossing on high
shaded it from the sun; except when, about the hour of noon, his
searching rays poured down, slept on a mossy bank here and there, or
chequered the grass with dancing light and shade. The dove and the
wood-pigeon murmured overhead, the breeze sighed faintly through the
leaves, and the nightingale--still in song--trilled his rich notes
upon many a bough above. There was a tenderness and yet a freshness in
the air; there was a calming and softening light upon the way; there
was a loveliness and a promise, and a wooing gentleness in the whole
scene, that fitted it well for lovers and for love. The voice of
nature seemed counselling affection; the aspect of all things
harmonized with the passion in each of those two young hearts; and
though Ferdinand was not skilled enough in the mystery of association
to have chosen that scene as one likely to melt and touch the heart he
sought to make his own, yet he could not have found one on the whole
earth better adapted for the tale he had to tell. He lost no time ere
he told it; and though his words were ardent--ay, and even
impassioned--yet there was a gentleness in his whole tone, a soft and
deprecating look upon his countenance, a tenderness as well as a
warmth in all he said, which prevented the young and timid woman's
heart from feeling much of that sort of apprehension with which it
often shrinks from the first touch of love. Brought up with him almost
from her childhood, unlearned in the ways of the world, left nearly to
solitude since her mother's death, with no other companion in her
girlhood but him who walked beside her, and loving him with a love
that had still increased, Adelaide felt it less strange to listen to
such words from him, than she would have done with any other human
being. She felt it less difficult, too, to reply to him, timidly, yet
frankly, not concealing what she felt, even when she did not speak it.
He told her how long he had loved,--for a few short years, or even
months, were long in their short lives. He told her how the affection
of the boy had grown into the passion of the man; how the fraternal
tenderness of early life had warmed into the ardent affection of
maturity. He told her, too, how hope had been first illumined in his
heart by light that seemed to shine forth from hers; how words that
she had spoken without feeling their full import, had bid him not
despair; how smiles from her lips, and rays from her eyes, had
nourished and expanded the flower of love in his bosom. He went on to
relate how he had trembled, and feared, and doubted, and hesitated,
when he first became conscious of the full strength of all his
sensations; how he had put a guard upon himself; how he had refrained
from seeing her alone; how he had resisted many a temptation; but how
the power of the passion within had overcome all prudent care, and had
made him more than once speak words of tenderness, in spite of every
effort to restrain them. With the rich, wild imagery of a warm and
glowing imagination, and of a heart full of eager affection, he
depicted the pangs he had endured, the struggles he had undergone, the
cares and anxieties which had been his companions during the day, the
bitter and despairing thoughts which had haunted him through the
night. But at length he explained how hope had dawned upon him; how
assurance and comfort had been given him the night before; and how
one, upon whom they could both depend, had encouraged him to
persevere, and held out mysterious hopes of fortune and success.
He did not, indeed, pursue his tale evenly to the close; for more than
once his fair companion murmured a few words of compassion for what he
had suffered, of anxiety for his safety, of doubt regarding the
future; all of which were very sweet, for all showed him too happily,
too brightly, that he was loved in return; and when at length he
referred to his conversation with the priest, and to the expectations
which had been held out, she looked eagerly up in his face, replying
without disguise, "So he said to me, Ferdinand. He spoke of strange
and mysterious things; of my fate and that of my house being linked to
yours by an unseen tie; which, if it were broken, would bring ruin on
us all. I could not understand him. I doubted, for I could scarcely
believe such happy tidings true."
She paused and coloured, as soon as the words were spoken; and blushed
more deeply still when he asked, "Then they were happy, dear
Adelaide?"
"You do not doubt it," she murmured, after a moment's silence. "But at
all events," she continued--suddenly turning from the question--"my
mother told me, the very last time she held me in her arms, to trust
to what he might say; and now he bids me give myself to you, without
fear or doubt. I know not what to think."
"Think that he directs you right, dear Adelaide," replied her lover
eagerly; "and oh! follow his guidance, and the guidance of your own
heart."
She was silent for some minutes, walking on by his side, till at
length he asked, "Will you not promise, Adelaide, will you not promise
to be mine?"
"How can I--how dare I?" she answered. "Without my father's will, what
good were my promise, Ferdinand?"
"All, everything to me," answered her lover; "for that promise once
given you would not break it, dear one. Who can tell what your father
may design? Who can tell that he may not some day seek to drive you to
a marriage with one you hate; or, at best, can never love? But that
promise once given to me, would be strength to you, my beloved, as
well as comfort and assurance to myself. It would be the rainbow of my
life; a pledge that there would be no more destruction of all hopes.
Oh! dear girl, do not refuse me; give me back comfort and joy; give me
back light and sunshine; give me that security against all I dread;
give we that support in danger, that consolation in affliction, that
object of endeavour and of hope. Were it but the voice of a lover,
Adelaide, you might well hesitate, you might well doubt; but one who
has no passion to serve, who is calmer, alas! than I can be; who knows
more than we know, and judges more wisely than we can judge--one for
whom your dear mother bespoke your confidence; one whom you promised
her to trust and to rely on he urges you as strongly even as I do, and
bids you follow the course in which love would lead, not for my sake
alone, but for your own also."
They had reached a spot, by this time, where the wood fell back a
little from the path on one side, and a low, rocky bank appeared on
the other, crowned with old beeches. A spring of bright, clear water
welled from the stone, filling a basin that some careful hand had
carved below; while above, in a little niche, was placed a figure of
the Virgin, with the infant Saviour in her arms; and Ferdinand,
extending his hand towards the well, added earnestly, "Here I, at
least, Adelaide, saw that dear lady for the last time; here she taught
us to kneel down and pray together, not many days before she laid that
injunction upon you. And now, dear Adelaide, now you will not refuse
me now you will follow the counsel to which she pointed--and promise
to be mine."
There was love in her heart, there was a voice in her own bosom spoke
more eloquently than his; she wavered--she yielded. He saw the colour
come and go; he saw the bright eyes full of tears; he saw the lip
quiver, and he cried, "Oh! promise, promise, Adelaide!"
"Well, I do," she murmured; and at the same instant a voice near
seemed to say, "Promised, promised!"
Both started and looked round, but nothing was to be seen. The clear
light streamed through the trees on the top of the bank, suffering the
eye to see for some way between their trunks; the open space behind
was considerable, and no place of concealment appeared to be near.
"It was but the echo, dearest," said Ferdinand; and pronouncing a word
or two sharply, there was a slight return of the sound. Adelaide was
not satisfied, however, and laying her hand upon his arm, she said in
a low tone, "Come away, come away. Oh, Heaven! if any one should have
discovered us!"
"No fear, no fear, dearest," replied her lover, walking on by her
side. "But to guard against discovery for the future, Adelaide, we
must devise some means of communication. Is there any one near you,
whom you can trust, my beloved?"
"No one but Bertha," answered the lady: "I can trust her, I am sure,
for she is good and true; but yet I do not think I could ever make up
my mind to speak to her on the subject first."
Ferdinand mused for a moment or two, with a smile upon his lips; and
then replied, "I almost suspect, Adelaide, that Bertha will not
require much information. If I might judge by her look to-day, she's
already aware of more than you suspect."
"Oh, no, no!" exclaimed Adelaide, "do not say so. If she is, my
conduct must have been very imprudent."
"Her eye may have been very keen," replied her companion; "but if
you think you can trust her, I will speak to her upon the subject
myself--cautiously and carefully, you know, dear one, so as not to
tell her more than is necessary at once; but, indeed, I can foresee
many circumstances in which we shall have absolute need of some one to
aid us--of some one who can give tidings of each to the other, when
all opportunity of private intercourse may be denied us."
"You must judge, Ferdinand, you must judge," answered Adelaide; "but,
indeed, I fear I have done wrong already, and tremble to look forward
to the coming time. And now, leave me, dear Ferdinand. We are near the
castle, and you ought not to go with me further. Every step agitates
and terrifies me, and I would fain seek my own chamber, and think."
Still Ferdinand lingered, however, for some time longer; still he
detained his fair companion; nor would he part with her till love's
first caress was given, and the bond between them sealed upon her
lips. But at length Adelaide withdrew her hand, half smiling, half
chiding, and hurried away, leaving him to follow some time after. When
she reached the castle, she passed the room where she had before been
sitting, catching with a glowing cheek a gay, arch look that Bertha
directed towards her; and entering her bed-room, cast herself upon her
knees and prayed, while tears of agitation and alarm, both at her own
sensations, and at what she had promised, rolled over the dark lashes
of her eyes, and trickled down her cheek. Young love is ever timid;
but in her case there were other feelings which moved her strongly and
painfully. She was not satisfied with her own conduct; she feared she
had done wrong; and for that one day she acted the part of a severe
censor on herself. True, her father's demeanour little invited
confidence; true, he was often harsh and severe, even to her; true,
from him she could expect no consideration for her wishes or for her
feelings; but yet he was her father, the one whom she was bound to
love and to obey; and her own heart would not altogether acquit her,
even though love pleaded eloquently on her behalf. I have said that
she thus felt and suffered for that one day; for, as will be seen
hereafter, a strange and sudden change came over her, and with no
apparent reason, she soon gave herself up unboundedly to the full
influence of, her attachment. The human heart is a strange thing; but
very often, for visible effects which seem unaccountable, there are
secret causes sufficient for all. In our dealings with the world, and
with each of our fellow-men, we are too often unjust, not so much from
judging wrongly, as from judging at all. "Man can but judge from what
he knows," is the common cry of those who find themselves fearfully
wrong when all is explained; but the question which each should ask
himself is, "Am I called upon to judge at all?" and too often the
reply would be, "Judge not, and thou shalt not be judged; condemn not,
and thou shalt not be condemned." Sufficient, surely, is the awful
responsibility of judging, when duty or self-defence forces it upon
us; how terrible, then, the weight when we undertake to decide
unnecessarily upon the conduct of others, without seeing the
circumstances, without hearing the evidence, without knowing the
motives,--and yet we do it every day, and every hour, in our deeds, in
our words, and in our thoughts, lacking that true charity of the heart
that thinketh no evil. But man has become a beast of prey: the laws
prevent him from tearing his fellows with his teeth, and the human
tiger preys upon them in his thoughts.