Ferdinand was busy at his work about a quarter of an hour after the
Count of Ehrenstein had ridden forth with his train. The castle was
left even more empty than the day before, for Seckendorf and his party
had gone with their lord, and none of the feudal retainers of the
house had yet arrived. Some grooms and horse-boys in the stables, and
eight or ten men on the walls, or in the courts, were all that
remained behind, besides the young gentleman himself; and they were
not at all disposed to aid or interrupt him by their presence in a
place which they all viewed with dread, even when they passed it at a
distance. Many were their comments, indeed, upon his daring; and
several of those comments were by no means favourable to their young
lady's lover, for while some of the men wondered how Master Ferdinand
was getting on, without venturing to go and see, others went the
length of supposing that he must have either some amulet from the Holy
Land, which was a charm against spirits, or a plain compact with the
evil one, which gave him the command over them for a time.
In the mean while, Ferdinand worked away at his unaccustomed
occupation, perhaps not quite so dexterously as if he had been an
armourer's man, or a groom of the chambers to some great lord; but he
did it cheerfully, and without apprehension; for the gay sunbeams
shone through the dim casements and chequered the old mouldy pavement
with a bright fretwork of light and shade. His heart, too, felt very
summery, for there was hope within, and the expectation of love.
Everything was done quickly, too, for he fancied that he might not be
long without the presence of one he loved, and thought that every
moment thus busily employed might well purchase one of sweeter
occupation.
His first task was to raise the different suits of armour from the
ground, and fix them in their places again. Nor was this an easy
undertaking, for, in many cases, the thongs and buckles had given way
in the fall, and the several pieces were scattered about, and had to
be re-united. Nevertheless, he worked on zealously, stooping over the
quaint old garments of steel, lifting their ponderous masses, and ever
and anon casting back from his face the thick, glossy curls of his
hair, as they fell over his brow and eyes. He showed no signs of fear,
notwithstanding the strange sights which he had seen on the two
preceding nights; he never started at the sound of the wind; he never
turned to give the timid glance over his shoulder towards the door
leading to the vaults; but more than once he looked towards the other
entrance of the hall, and listened for any sound from the vestibule.
At length, as he was raising one of the suits of harness, where the
rusty gauntlet and vantbrace were still stretched out, as he had seen
them on his previous visit, some white spots upon the steel, seemed to
catch his eye, and to awaken a train of new and interesting ideas, for
he paused in his work, and with his hand to his brow, remained in deep
thought for several minutes, with a smile upon his lips.
As he thus stood, the sound of voices speaking near the door was
heard, and it was gently pushed open, while the well-known tones of
Bertha exclaimed,--"I would not go in for Neustadt, and you do not
want me, either, dear lady,--you know you do not; but I'll stay here
and watch against any ghosts on this side. I'll open that other door,
however, and have more light; for spirits don't like the daylight, and
I don't like the dark."
"Well, stay there,--stay there, then," answered Adelaide; "I can carry
in the wreaths myself."
Ere she concluded, Ferdinand was by her side, and, raising up the
flowers and young branches which Bertha and her mistress had brought
thither, he carried them in and laid them down upon the pavement of
the hall. Bertha's merry eye was first turned, with a somewhat timid
and apprehensive glance, towards the interior of the chamber, and
then, with a meaning smile, to Ferdinand's countenance. As soon,
however, as the lady had followed her lover in, the discreet damsel
closed the door, murmuring to herself--"Well, love's the best charm
against evil spirits, after all! Heigho!--I wish I had somebody to
love!".
By this time, Ferdinand's hand clasped that of Adelaide; but I have
noticed before that a strange change had come over the fair girl since
their meeting on the preceding day; and that change was more apparent
now than ever. All doubt, all timidity seemed to be banished. There
was no boldness, it is true, for modest gentleness seemed an inherent
part of her nature; but the fear, the anxiety, the hesitation of
unconfirmed and perilous love, no longer had any influence over her.
When Ferdinand's hand clasped hers, she laid the other upon it, gazing
in his eyes with a warm and affectionate light beaming in her own, and
saying with a thoughtful, if not absent air, as if the question she
put was as much to her own heart as to him,--"You love me, dear
Ferdinand,--is it not so? And you will ever love me, and never do
aught to grieve me, nor let others grieve me, if you can help it?"
"Can you doubt it, beloved?" cried Ferdinand, drawing her to him; "is
not my whole heart and being only love for you?"
"Nay, I do not doubt it," answered Adelaide; "I will not doubt
it.--Yet I have heard tales of men vowing deep vows, and breaking
them; of their looking upon woman, and woman's love, but as a flower
to be gathered and cast away: but I will not believe it. No, no!--we
have known and loved in childhood, and we will love still. I will
trust you, dear Ferdinand,--I will trust you; only promise me that if
the time should ever come when deep grief and pain menaces your
Adelaide, and it is in your power, by any act, to avert it, you will
do so, whatever be the consequences."
"Can you suppose I would hesitate?" exclaimed Ferdinand, eagerly; "but
I do promise, dear one!--I vow by all I hold sacred,--by all that is
dearest to me, that you shall never ask me aught that can remove a
grief from you, without my doing it at once."
"Thank you,--thank you," answered Adelaide, resting her face upon his
shoulder, while he kissed her soft cheek; "then I am happy!--then I am
all yours! I have longed for this moment to come, Ferdinand, for I
wished to say all that might be said; and to tell the truth, it was
for this opportunity I undertook so readily the task we have here to
perform."
"And are you really not afraid, dear Adelaide?" asked her lover. "For,
certainly, here I have seen fearful sights, though I think it must be
a demon, indeed, that could harm you. Have you no fears?"
"None, none, in the world," she answered, gaily; "I set all spirits at
defiance, Ferdinand, but the spirit of love; and it would have needed
somewhat more than imaginary terrors to keep me away from you to-day,
when we have so fair an opportunity of saying all that we could wish
to each other."
"Nay, not all," answered Ferdinand; "there is no day, no hour, when I
shall not have something more to say to you; if it be but to tell you,
again and again, how I love you, how I thank you.--But there may be
more, much more, to be said, dear Adelaide; there may be difficulties,
dangers, unforeseen circumstances; and even with Bertha's aid, it may
be impossible to communicate them to you fully and freely, without
seeing you and speaking to you myself."
"Well, then, I will come to you," replied Adelaide, with a beaming
smile, as if to banish all his apprehensions, like mist before the
sun; "or if not, you shall come to me. I have no hesitation, I have no
doubt now. All yesterday, after we parted, I was full of gloomy
thoughts and dark apprehensions. I was like one wandering by night in
a wood, and losing his way, to whichever side he turns. I was doubtful
of myself, doubtful of you, doubtful of the past, doubtful of the
future; but that has vanished away, and I am all your own."
"And what dispelled it?" asked Ferdinand.
"One word," answered Adelaide; "but you must not question me farther.
I say I will come to you, or you shall come to me, at any hour, at any
season that it may be needful.--I know I can trust you," she
continued, gazing at him with a look grave and yet tender, and then
raising her eyes towards the sky, "I do believe, Ferdinand, that for
the best gift under Heaven's sun, you would not wrong your Adelaide in
word, or thought, or deed, and it is that trust, as well as some
necessity, that makes me promise you thus boldly to find means of
seeing you whenever you desire it. Should there be danger to either of
us, but especially to you, let me know it at once. Even if it be in
the dead of the night, I should not be frightened, Ferdinand, if I saw
you standing beside me,--ay, in the very spirit-walking time, when all
mortal eyes are closed in sleep. I am very sure--quite sure, that you
would not come without some real need, that no light motive would
bring you, to my risk and to yours, and therefore I am thus bold, for
love and confidence makes me so."
"Thank you, thank you, Adelaide. From my very heart I thank you,"
replied her lover, "not alone for the dear privilege you grant me; but
from the trust that gives birth to the grant. You but judge me
rightly, dear one. Your fair form, beyond all mortal beauty, may well
charm my eyes; the touch of that dear hand, of that dear lip, may well
be prized before all that earth can give; but not for the joy of
heaven, my love, would I do aught that could tarnish the bright gem
within that lovely casket. Your very confidence is a bond upon me, far
stronger than your own reserve could be; and in your happiness, if I
could sow one regret, I should curse myself for ever."
"But why should regret mingle with happiness?" asked Adelaide, half
gaily, half thoughtfully; "there must be some very wicked and some
very discontented people in the world, to make it so. It seems to me,
Ferdinand, that God has provided us with so many pleasures that can
produce no regret, that we should show ourselves unworthy of his
bounty did we seek others. Fields, gardens, mountains, forests,
streams, these flowers, the singing of the birds, the sunshine and the
sky, the very dreamlike clouds and their soft showers, the changes of
the seasons, music, thought,--calm, tranquil thought, the music of the
mind--and every form of meditation, whether it be upon our own strange
nature and mysterious destiny, or on God's mercy to his creatures, or
his great power and infinite wisdom--all these, ay Ferdinand, and
innocent love, too, are surely full of joy, unsoiled and imperishable.
They are like the notes of some tuneful instrument, each sweet in
itself, but doubly sweet by those that go before, and follow and
mingle with it in the harmony; and infinite, too, in change and in
variety. What needs man more, that he should sully with his evil what
God made pure and beautiful?"
"Ay, dear girl, and from one joy you have named, all others receive a
tenfold brightness," answered Ferdinand; "innocent love has its own
light to add to all the rest."
"I know it, Ferdinand; I feel it," answered Adelaide, "and I scruple
not to tell you that I do; for once having said 'I love,' I have said
all--though I one time thought I could never bring my lips to utter
those two words."
"And I must ask no questions," said Ferdinand, "for your thoughts are
changed, indeed, dear one."
"None, none;" answered Adelaide, with a gay laugh. "And now we must to
our task, Ferdinand; for if they come and find it unperformed, they
may inquire in their own thoughts, how we have loitered so. Aid me to
hang up these garlands, and to fix the green branches on the walls,
and then I will go and seek the wreaths that Theresa is still
weaving."
He did as she desired him, moving the great chair of state for her
tiny feet to climb and hang the flowers on every prominent place that
would hold them; and often he mounted thither too, and supported her,
lest she should fall, with the arm cast lightly round her waist, and
the hands, as they came in contact, when stretched out to reach the
projecting beam, or cast the garland over the wood-work, often clasped
together with the gentle pressure of warm love; and if, from time to
time, they paused for a moment or two to speak of the things of their
own hearts, their pleasant toil was resumed the instant after, and
proceeded the more quickly, from the happy spirit that was in both.
It was a dream of love and joy, and the flowers which Adelaide had
brought were nearly all expended, when a rough voice was heard talking
to Bertha, without, and Ferdinand sprang down lightly from the chair,
and looked towards the door. It opened as he did so, and a man
entered, on whose appearance I must pause for a moment, as we may see
more of him hereafter.