There are men who rise from a low station to a throne; and it
certainly must be a grand and triumphant sensation which they
experience when first they sit in the seat of sovereignty, and feel
their brows pressed by the golden circlet of command, with the great
objects of ambition all attained, the struggle up the steep ascent to
power accomplished, and the end reached for which they have fought,
and laboured, and watched through many a weary day and night. But the
exultation of that moment, great as it may be, is nothing to that
which fills the heart of youth in the first moment of successful love.
The new-throned usurper must be well-nigh weary of repeated triumphs;
for the step to the throne is but the last of many a fatiguing
footfall in the path of ambition. He, too, must foresee innumerable
dangers and difficulties round; for the experience of the past must
teach him that in his race there is no goal, that the prize is never
really won, that he may have distanced all others, but that he must
still run on. Not so with the lover in the early hours of his success;
his is the first step in the course of joy, and the brightest, because
the first. Fresh from all the dreams of youth, it is to him the
sweetest of realities; unwearied with the bitter task of experience,
he has the capability of enjoyment as well as the expectation of
repose. The brightness of the present spreads a veil of misty light
over all that is threatening in the future; and the well of sweet
waters in the heart seems inexhaustible.
With what a different step Ferdinand of Altenburg trod the halls of
the castle on his return; with what a different view he looked on all
things round him! The gloomy towers, the shadowy chambers, the long,
cheerless corridors, seemed full of light; and there was a gay and
laughing spirit in his heart which had not been there since love first
became its tenant. He could have jested, he could have sported like a
child; but, alas! there was no one to jest or sport with, for not more
than five or six men were left in the castle after the train of the
Count and the little band of Seckendorf had departed. Adelaide, too,
remained in her own apartments, whither he dared not venture; and none
of the two or three girls who attended upon her, and who, with an
elderly dame, whose principal function appeared to be to quarrel with
the chief butler, formed all the female inmates of Ehrenstein,
ventured forth for nearly two hours after his return. Bertha, indeed,
looked at him once, as he paced the battlements below the windows of
the room in which she sat, but maliciously kept the casement closed,
suspecting, perhaps, that he had had enough enjoyment for one day.
Anxious to speak with her, and to carry out his plan for making her
the means of communicating with her mistress, Ferdinand, as he turned
back again, ventured to make her a sign to join him; but Bertha took
no notice, and plied her busy hands on the embroidery frame where she
sat, without seeming even to see him.
The poor lover's first happy day promised but a dull passing. Those
were not days of many books; and perhaps, in the whole extent of the
castle, not more than four or five were to be found. But Ferdinand
could not have read, even had they been to be procured, for his whole
thoughts were in that busy and excited state, in which it was
impossible to fix his mind with attention upon anything but his own
fate and projects. He went the whole round of the castle; then he saw
that everything was in order; he spoke to the men who were in the
execution of their daily duties; and often as he went, he fell into a
fit of thought, where fancy rapt him far away, wandering in bright
sunny lands, side by side with her he loved. At length, returning to
the corridor above, through which he knew that both Adelaide and
Bertha must pass, if either came forth from the ladies' apartments, he
stationed himself at one of the windows, and continued to gaze out
over the wide extent of forest, and hill, and dale, which the prospect
presented. All was silent and quiet. A dreamy stillness hung over the
whole place; the sunshine itself seemed to sleep quietly over the
motionless masses of the trees, and never was there an hour or a scene
in which a young lover might indulge the glittering visions of
imagination, with less to distract or interrupt his thoughts.
The last four-and-twenty hours had been busy ones in Ferdinand's
life--busy in emotions, if not in action; and they had been varied too
by many a change of sensation, by much despondency, by awe and by
fear, and by hope and joy. But if the truth must be told, it was only
on the hope and joy that his mind dwelt. The strange and fearful
scenes through which he had passed the night before were forgotten, or
at least not thought of; the sorrows that were past gave but a sort of
shadowy relief to the bright aspect of the present; difficulties,
impediments, dangers, were unheeded or unseen.
For not more than half an hour, however, was he suffered thus to
dream; for, at the end of that time, the door at which he had looked
up as he passed on the preceding night was opened and closed; and
turning quickly round he saw Bertha gliding down the corridor towards
the top of the staircase. She laid her finger on her lips as she
passed him; and, without speaking, he followed were she led.
The gay girl took her way to the battlements on the shady side of the
castle, to which few of the rooms of the building were turned; there
she paused, and looked gaily at Ferdinand, with her dark eyes
sparkling, and her pretty little lip curling with fun and malice.
"Impudent young man," she said, as he joined her, "how can you do such
things? first singing a love song under my window, and then making me
a sign to come and join you. I'm a great deal too good-natured, and
too tender thus to indulge you. If our lady were to find out that we
were lovers, she would tell her father and then we should soon both be
sent out of the castle."
She spoke as gravely as she could; and though her gay look might eye
some indication of what was passing within, yet Bertha's eyes were
always such merry ones, that Ferdinand felt not a little embarrassed
how to answer what perhaps might be a jest, but which might yet be
serious also. She enjoyed his perplexity for a moment or two, and then
asked in a sharp tone, "Well, Sir, why don't you speak if you have
anything to say? If you don't, I must give you something to talk
about. Tell me, Sir, what is it has made my mistress so sad since she
went out and met you in the wood?"
"Sad is she?" exclaimed Ferdinand, alarmed; "I know nought that should
make her sad."
"Well, she is," replied Bertha; "for she's shut up in her own room,
and Theresa compassionately looked through the keyhole, and told us
she was weeping."
"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Ferdinand, still hesitating whether he should
acknowledge that he had met Adelaide or not. "Nothing I have ever done
could give her pain."
"Well, don't look so terrified, Sir lover," answered Bertha; "there
are a thousand other things beside pain that make women weep;
sometimes joy, sometimes fright; and perhaps it is the last in this
case."
"But why should she fear?" asked Ferdinand.
"Nay, that you know best," replied Bertha. "You've neither of you
thought fit to tell me anything about it; but you had a great deal
better; for, if you don't, depend upon it you'll get yourselves into
all manner of difficulties and dangers. You are both of you as
imprudent and as ignorant of such matters as if you were twelve years
old; and I should not wonder if you were to have yourself strangled
for making love to your lord's daughter, and to get her either shut up
in a convent, or married in haste to some fierce old baron, who may
maltreat her, as my good and noble lord, the Count, used his poor
wife."
"Nay, now you are trying to tease me, pretty Bertha," replied
Ferdinand of Altenburg. "As I see you know a great deal, I may as well
tell you all; and I will, if you can be serious; but if you go on in
jest with me, I will jest with you, and may find means to tease you
too."
"Nay, am not jesting at all," answered Bertha, more gravely; "all I
have said is true enough: and I can tell you I have been in a great
fright for you both for some time. For during the last month I have
been terrified every day lest others should see what was plain enough
to my eyes. Do you consider what it is you are doing, and what sort of
a man our lord is--that he would no more hesitate to put you to death
in the castle-ditch than to eat his breakfast?"
"He dare not," answered Ferdinand, boldly. "He may do that with a serf
or a vassal, perhaps; but I am neither the one nor the other, and as
noble as he is."
All women love daring, and the youth's answer pleased his companion
well; yet she could not help jesting him a little upon what she called
his pride. "Oh, yes, you're a gentleman born!" she said; "you have
made us all know that. But now, Ferdinand, talk a little reason, and
don't pretend to say what our lord dare do, or dare not do. He dare do
many a thing, and has before now, which perhaps neither I nor you
dream of. But in a word, young gentleman--for I must not stop long--I
have seen for some time all that is going on here, and would have
given a great deal to stop it, but I did not know how; and now it is
too late. The only thing to be thought of at present is, what is to
come of all this? On my life! my knees shake when I think of it; and I
am not apt to be afraid of a little adventure either. What is it that
you two propose to do?"
To say the truth, this was a question for which Ferdinand was not at
all prepared with an answer. He had laid out, indeed, no distinct plan
of action. Youth and love are strange reliers upon circumstances, and
he replied simply, "To go on loving, I suppose."
"Oh, that plan will never do," answered Bertha, laughing. "You can't
stop there. In the first place, you would neither of you be content to
go on loving like a couple of turtles in two separate cages all your
lives; and besides, things would soon happen to drive you out of such
idleness of love. Any day of the week, any lord may think fit to marry
his daughter; and what would she and you do then? I must think of some
plan for you, poor things; for I see you are not fit to devise any for
yourselves."
"The only plan, my pretty Bertha; to be followed at present," answered
Ferdinand, after a moment's thought, "is for you to befriend us, and
give us help as far as you can, in whatever circumstances may occur;
to let me know everything that happens to your lady that I do not see;
and I will take care that you shall know everything that occurs to me,
in order that it may be communicated to her. I am sure it is your wish
to serve her, Bertha; she loves you dearly, and has such confidence in
you that she told me I might confide in you implicitly."
"I would serve her with my heart's blood," replied the girl, warmly;
"though Heaven forbid that I should have to do so," she added,
laughing; "for I would a great deal rather have that heart's blood
where it is, and see her happy too, poor girl. But, heigho! I don't
know how that's to be done, and if I am to be the messenger between
you, Master Ferdinand, there will be nothing for it but for you to
make love to me; or, at least, to get the people of the castle to
think you are so doing."
"Oh, that won't be a very difficult task, Bertha," replied the young
man, with a gallant look. "And all we can do is to watch events, and
to take advantage of them as they arise--at least till we have further
counsel from Father George as to how we ought to act."
"Oh, is Father George in the secret?" cried Bertha, clapping her hands
joyfully; "then there is hope. The lord of the abbey against the lord
of the castle will always beat in the end. But what says the good
Father?"
"He says everything to encourage us," answered Ferdinand, "and, unlike
you, fair Bertha, nothing to discourage."
"He knows more than I do," replied Bertha, "more than any of us; and
he has some reason, I'll warrant. I wish to Heaven I could see him;
but I dare not go down so far, for fear I should be missed. He was
with our poor lady in her last hours, and doubtless could tell a tale
if he would--well, well, men are strange creatures. I wonder women are
such fools as to make themselves their slaves--I'll never marry--not
I; for I never yet saw the man that was not as soft as a dormouse
while he was courting, and as hard as a hyena when he was married. But
there comes old Seckendorf riding up through the wood--I must away,
for he's the greatest old tell-tale in the world, with the gossiping
tongue of a grandmother, the spite of a monkey, and the heart of a
wolf."
"Stay, stay, Bertha," cried the young gentleman. "If we are to seem
lovers, you know, it is as well that the old man should see us; and if
he catches sight of you walking here with me, without perceiving who
it is distinctly, he may fancy it is Adelaide, and make mischief
there."
"Ah, you treacherous boy!" cried the gay girl, "that is a true
specimen of all men. To shield yourself and your love of the hour you
would have all the risk and the blame fall upon me, though Heaven
knows I am hazarding enough to serve you. The more faith and truth we
poor things have, the more ready are you to sacrifice us. It seems
quite natural and right, does it not, that I should, just as an honour
and a pleasure, fall into blame with my lord, and seem your light of
love to blind him to your mad passion for his daughter."
"But you yourself proposed, I should make the people think that you,
Bertha, are the object I am seeking," replied Ferdinand; "and now when
I propose to follow that very plan you accuse me of ingratitude,
wavering to and fro like an aspen leaf."
"Am I not a woman?" cried Bertha, laughing; "have I not a right to
waver? If you are to make love to me, I tell you, I will change fifty
times a day; when I pout, you shall call my lips budding roses; when I
smile, you shall call my brow, heaven; when I cry, you shall say my
eyes are like the April sky. Now, I am not in the humour for being
made love to, so I have more than a mind to run away and leave you as
a morsel for old Seckendorf's grinders--at least, those he has left."
"Nay, nay, dear Bertha," cried Ferdinand, pressing to her side as he
saw the horsemen coming near; "if not for mine, for your sweet
mistress's sake, play out the part you have undertaken."
"The mystery must not be a long one, then, Master Ferdinand," answered
Bertha; "and, for modesty, keep a little farther off, for although I
do not very much mind that people should say I listened to a love
story--there being no great harm in that--I would rather they did not
think it too warm a one, for women have a character to lose, though
men have none worth keeping."
"But then, dear Bertha, it is understood that you will befriend us,"
said her companion, "and will keep our secret, and give us all sorts
of information and advice."
"Aye, aye," answered Bertha, "I must risk putting my hand into the
bee-hive and being stung to death, to get you to the honey. I am older
than either of you, and ought to know better, but you are two such
poor imprudent things, that if I did not help you, one would die of a
broken heart, and the other of a broken neck, very soon, so I must
even run the risk. But I will have some talk with Father George, very
soon, for if he does not give me some assurance and comfort, I shall
dream of nothing but being strangled every night. Here they come, here
they come; Seckendorf and his gang. Heaven and earth! what have they
got all those horses loaded with? they must have been plundering
Neustadt. Now, cannot you make me a fine speech, Master Ferdinand,
swearing love and eternal constancy, such as you men tickle poor
girls' ears with, just to let old Seckendorf see you in the act of
protestation?"
"I would give you a kiss, pretty Bertha," replied Ferdinand, gaily,
"and that would do better, only you told me not to come near."
"Oh, that would be too close, a great deal," answered Bertha,
laughing. "There, he sees us--hark! he is calling out to us I will run
away as if in a fright, and let him see my face as I go."
She did as she proposed, and in a moment after the old knight came
riding along under the battlements calling up to Ferdinand with a loud
laugh, "Ha, ha, you young dog, that's what you staid at home for, to
chat with pretty Bertha on the walls!"
"No great harm in that, Seckendorf," replied Ferdinand, leaning over
to speak to him. "I dare say you have done such a thing before now,
yourself; and will do it again many a time. Both she and I like a walk
in the free air, better than being stifled in the castle all day long.
And why shouldn't we take it together?"
"If that were all, why didn't you go on the side, where folks could
see you?" replied the old man, still merry. "No, no, youngster, I am
too old a campaigner for that. However, it's no business of mine.
We've made a glorious forage. The rogues did not expect to be called
upon in such a hurry, so that all the capons were strutting before the
door; aye, and geese too. How many geese have we got, Martin?"
"Nineteen, Sir," answered the man; and the old knight was riding on,
when Ferdinand called after him, laughing, "Why, that's the number of
your troop, Seckendorf!"
The other shook his fist at him good-humouredly enough; for his heart
was expanded by the success of his expedition, and to say the truth,
Bertha had done him but scanty justice. He was a thorough old German
knight of the times--a character which had generally more or less of
the reiter in it--as ignorant as a boor of everything but war, brave
as a lion, superstitious in a high degree, bloody when enraged or
opposed, rapacious as any beast of prey, and holding fast by the old
maxim, that anything is justifiable in love or war. Far from thinking
the worse, therefore, of Ferdinand, if he had made love to all
Adelaide's maids together, he would only have considered it a very
laudable method of employing his idle hours, and would never have
thought of reporting it to the Count as a matter of blame. He looked
upon deceiving a poor girl with tales of love, or beating a boor
nearly to death who resisted any unjust demand, as one of the
privileges of a soldier and a gentleman, which it was not only just
but expedient to exercise from time to time, to keep such rights from
falling into desuetude; and after he entered the castle, turning his
thoughts to other affairs, he gave no more attention to the
proceedings of Bertha and Ferdinand, only jesting the young man for a
moment upon his love-making; and declaring that he had shown bad
taste, for that Theresa was by far the prettier girl of the two.
"That's because you are as black yourself as one of the andirons,"
answered Ferdinand, "and therefore you think every fair-faced girl
with flaxen hair a perfect beauty. I dare say you've said sweet things
enough to Theresa, and, therefore, I wouldn't for the world try to
spoil your game, if you won't spoil mine."
"Pooh, nonsense; I've given up love these twenty years," said
Seckendorf, "but I won't meddle with your affairs. I wouldn't mar a
nice little plot of love for half the lands of Ehrenstein--so go on
your own way, I'll not interfere."
"Upon your honour?" asked Ferdinand.
"Upon my knighthood," replied the old man. "So long as you do your
duty as a soldier, I not meddle with your love affairs. But on my
life, I'm mighty hungry, for I've had nothing but a flagon of wine
since I went, and I can never wait till supper-time."
"Do not be afraid," answered Ferdinand, "I made the cook put by for
you at dinner, the whole of a roast chine of roebuck, though Metzler
and Herman looked at it as if their very eyes would have eaten it. I
knew you would come home like a wolf."
"That's a good boy, that's a good boy," answered the old knight, "I
won't forget you for that. You shall have the skinning of a fat
village some day all to yourself; but I'll go and get the
_Reh-braten_, for I could eat my fingers." And away he went, to
satisfy his appetite, which was at all times one of the best.