"Your steps totter, poor child," said the woman who opened the gate to
Adelaide; "here, lean upon my arm; but first let me make fast the
door. We live in strange bad times; but here you will be safe, if
there is safety to be found; for no one will venture to assail the
Convent of the Holy Cross, or those who live beneath its walls."
Adelaide made no reply; for there are moments when the motives for
exertion having ceased, the very relief from terror and anxiety is in
itself overpowering, and the corporeal frame yields at the instant of
deliverance to the weight it had borne up under during the period of
peril. She perceived by a faint light, which streamed from the half
open door of the house, that the person who spoke to her was not
habited in the garb of a nun, although she mentioned the convent as
her assurance of security; but Adelaide could ask no question, make no
reply. Everything seemed indistinct and misty; the gardens, with the
rays from the windows and the door pouring in long lines through the
green leaves of the vine, swam before her eyes; her limbs lost their
power, her tongue clove to her mouth, and it was with difficulty that,
aided even by the woman's arm, she reached the threshold of the house.
Her companion pushed the door further open; and supported her up the
little step, but at the top the poor girl leaned more heavily still
upon her guide's arm, and the next instant sank gradually, and even
slowly, down to the ground; while the old woman held her up as well as
she could, calling to some one within for assistance.
In an instant two other figures were added to the group, one coming
from a room on the right hand, and another from the back of the house.
The former was that of a lady, perhaps forty years of age, though she
looked somewhat older; for her dress was not one calculated to conceal
the effects of time, or to set off the lingering beauties that years
had spared, to the greatest advantage. It was all of black, except the
head gear, which was snowy white, and brought far down over the broad
fair brow, almost entirely hiding the hair. The colours were those
common to many orders of nuns; and there was something in the form of
the dress itself which was in a degree conventual, so that, at first
sight, one might have taken her for a recluse; but at the second
glance one detected many differences from the garb of any established
sisterhood. There was no actual veil, a small portion of the hair was
seen; there were rings upon the fingers, and though a cross and rosary
were hanging at the girdle, there was a locket round the neck, hanging
by a gold chain. The other person seemed a superior servant; but poor
Adelaide saw none of those things, and when first she opened her eyes
again, she found herself in a small chamber furnished with much taste
and some luxury. There was tapestry on the walls, not representing
figures, as was so frequently the case; but divided into panels by
tall columns worked in the web and covered with arabesques, while in
the centre of each panel appeared an exquisitely executed group of
flowers. All the moveable furniture was formed of some dark wood
beautifully carved, and the sombre hue of the material was relieved by
rich crimson velvet here and there, while a fine mirror, and two small
but beautiful pictures of the very early school, which began, or
perhaps I may almost say preceded, the revival of the arts, were
sustained against the walls by poles of iron gilt thrust through the
tapestry. As the poor girl recovered more fully, she saw an elderly
woman-servant kneeling at the end of the bed on which she was laid,
assiduously rubbing her feet, while over her bent a face which seemed
to her almost that of an angel, and a soft hand bathed her temple with
some fine essences.
"Thank you. Oh, thank you," she said, as soon as she could speak; "how
kind you are."
"Hush!" said the lady of the house; "not a word at present, my dear
child. You will soon be well again, and then you shall speak. Bring a
little wine, Biancha, and some dry garments, for these are still wet."
Adelaide took her hand and pressed it in her own; and the servant
hastened away for the things she had been ordered to procure. The
nun's gown which Adelaide had worn throughout the day had been already
taken off, and she now lay in the ordinary dress of a woman of high
rank, which was more distinctly marked from the garments of the lower
orders in those days than at present. Her station, therefore, could
not be doubted; but yet in the look of deep interest with which the
lady gazed upon her, there seemed something more than the mere
compassion which might well be felt for one accustomed to every
comfort and refinement, exposed suddenly to hardships, dangers, and
fatigues, and sinking under them. It was a long, thoughtful, wistful
look that she fixed upon her. It seemed to scan her face, and ask deep
questions of her heart and mind. It was rather, as if it said, what is
beneath that lovely countenance? what spirit is within that graceful
form? than merely, what are you? what is your name and place in the
cold order of this world's classes? But when the poor girl pressed her
hand, and looked up with eyes full of petition as well as thanks, the
lady smiled sweetly; and yet some drops gathered in her eyes, and one
or two rolled over and bedewed her cheek. Then, bending down her
head--perhaps in some degree to hide the tears--she kissed the marble
forehead that lay beneath her eyes, and whispered, "You will soon be
better.--Hush!--Be patient for a while; we will talk more anon."
The voice was very musical, soft, low, and sweet, with a slight
foreign accent; but still so expressive of kindness and tenderness,
that had it even used an unknown language, Adelaide would have
understood right well its tones of sympathy.
"I am well, now, indeed," she murmured; "and I must thank you from my
heart, dear lady, for your kindness."
"Fie!" said her companion; "if you would thank me really, lie still
till you have taken some nourishment. Then you shall speak, and tell
me all that has befallen you. Oh! here is Biancha--Now take a little
wine. Dip a morsel of bread in it first, and swallow that. Then sip
the rest. It will not do you harm."
Adelaide followed her directions, shaking her head, however, with a
smile, and saying, "It was not food I wanted, but rest and peace."
"Peace!" said the lady, with a melancholy look; "is there such a thing
on earth? Alas! my child--"
But she did not finish the sentence; and after her fair guest had
taken the wine, she aided the maid to change the wet garments, and put
on some loose clothing for her, which, if it fitted not quite well, at
least felt warm and comforting.
"Now lie and rest," said the lady, "and tell me how this has been. The
girl who let you in says, that you were travelling under the guard of
some men from the abbey--What abbey did she mean?--that near
Ehrenstein?"
"The same," answered Adelaide; but she paused there and hesitated,
looking at the maid.
The lady seemed to comprehend her hesitation at once, and said, "Leave
us, Biancha;" and when she was gone, she added, "You might trust her,
my child. She is faithful and true--ay, and discreet, as she has
proved herself through many a year. And so you separated from your
guides, and lost your way in the foul day we have had? How did that
happen?"
"At the edge of the wood, hard by," answered Adelaide, not anxious to
be questioned too closely upon other subjects, "they saw a party of
armed men, who seemed about to attack them; and they told me, with the
maid, to ride back and wait at a woodman's shed, where we had found
shelter some time before from the storm. I rode away in terror,
thinking that Bertha followed; but--how or why, I know not--she never
came. I fear the men of the abbey were attacked and discomfited, for I
heard horses galloping furiously past, as if in flight and pursuit;
and soon after they came up towards the place where I was, and I fled
amongst the trees, on foot, and watched them from behind the bushes.
They did not seek for me far; but took away my horse, which I had left
standing, weary, there. Thus it was that I was forced to find my way
onward alone, with night coming on."
"And whither were you going, my child?" asked the lady, gazing at her
face somewhat earnestly.
Adelaide hesitated, but she could not well evade the question; and she
answered at length, in a low tone, "To Heiligenstein, lady."
"And who sent you thither?" was the next question.
"One of the good Fathers of the abbey," replied Adelaide, "who has
been very kind to me and mine. His name is Father George."
The lady instantly cast her arms around her, and kissed her tenderly.
"You are at Heiligenstein, my child," she whispered; "and it was to me
that George of Altenburg sent you. Rest in peace, dear Adelaide; rest
in peace. You are with a mother."
Adelaide returned her embrace gratefully; but then raised her eyes,
and gazed inquiringly in the lady's face. Strange, mingled emotions
thrilled through her bosom, not to be told, not to be separated. She
saw a likeness to features that she knew and loved; she saw a likeness
in the expression; she saw it in the peculiar light of the eyes: The
tones of that lady's voice, too, were like his; and she had said to
her, his bride, "You are with a mother." "But yet how could that be?"
she asked herself. Ferdinand's mother had been long dead, she had been
told; he himself believed that it was so. Even Father George, when
revealing to her much of his history (more, indeed, than her lover
knew himself), had never mentioned the existence of that parent; and
yet there was something which made Adelaide still believe that she was
indeed with the mother of him she loved. To hear the lady call Father
George by the name which he had long ceased to use, did not surprise
her at all; for both from words which he had himself spoken, and from
the contemptuous epithet which her father had applied to Ferdinand,
she was already aware that the monk was a member of that high house;
but all her thoughts turned to the one question, Who was the kind and
gentle being that sat beside her?
What is like thought? Nothing that ever was created or devised. Rapid
as the lightning, but yet not like it; not one broad glare
extinguished as soon as seen, but full of combinations, rushing
through innumerable channels, working out a thousand permanent
results. Though in its process and celerity of operation, it has been
well called "the lightning of the mind," it can, in all its
attributes, be compared to nothing that earth has seen. All that I
have related, and much more, passed through Adelaide's mind, and yet
it required but the short interval occupied by the return of the
caress which the lady gave her, for her thus to commune with herself.
The pause was but momentary, and then the lady added, as if she had
hardly stopped, "I will be to you as a mother, dear child."
Those few words rendered all the poor girl's conclusions once more
vague and undefined. It might be but a form of speech she had used,
Adelaide thought; and Adelaide mused.
"And are you like your father?" asked the lady at length; after having
gazed for a minute or two on the countenance of the fair creature
before her, while the long, dark lashes of the downcast eyes rested on
her cheek as she meditated.
"I do not know," answered Adelaide, looking suddenly up. "You do not
know him, then?"
"I never saw him," replied the lady, thoughtfully, and even gravely;
but after a moment she went on--"We will ask each other no more
questions, dear girl. Here you can stay in safety and peace. That is
enough for the present; all the rest will soon be explained; and
between two agitated and apprehensive hearts, like Yours and mine, it
is better only to speak of things that may tranquillize and reassure
us."
"And are you, too, agitated and apprehensive?" asked Adelaide. "How,
then, can I rest here in peace?"
"Agitated! ay, and full of fears, I am, indeed," answered the lady;
"but they are not such as affect you, my child. If it is for Ferdinand
you fear, doubt not that he is safe, for I have had assurance of it;
if for yourself, set your mind at rest, for though this house may seem
but an insecure asylum against the pursuit of those who would take you
hence, yet, first, they know not where you are; and next, by the side
of the very bed on which you lie, is a door that leads at once within
the convent walls. That place is holy, and those walls are strong. If
there be men daring enough to try to force them, there is power at
hand to resist. Now, my child, I will leave you to repose; for it is
that which you most need. Sleep--and Heaven's best benison be upon
you!"
Carefully and kindly the lady shaded the lamp, but left it still
burning, placed a little silver bell by Adelaide's side, and assuring
her that if she needed aught, she had but to ring, and it would be
instantly brought to her, she kissed her with motherly tenderness, and
left her.
Adelaide leaned her head upon her hand; but her thoughts were all
bewildered with the events just passed. There are moments when the
mind is too busy for sleep to still its wild activity, but when the
agitation of the heart renders thought vain and fruitless. She could
not think,--she could not sleep: she could only feel. She was then,
for the first time, absent from her father's dwelling. She was the
bride of a single day, with her bridegroom absent she knew not where.
She was a fugitive among strangers, who were kind and gentle to her;
but who they were she knew not. She had passed through dangers and
fatigues such as she had never endured before; and who could say when
they might be renewed? How could she either sleep or think when such
impressions were all fresh upon her? and there she lay till hour after
hour had passed by,--till the convent bell sounded midnight, and all
seemed still and at rest but the heavy marker of the passing time.
Just then, however, she heard a dull sound like the trampling of
horses, and terror began to take possession of her again. The sound
came nearer and more near, and she stretched out her hand to ring the
bell which had been left by her side, when suddenly rose up a strain
of rich harmony in the midst of the darkness and stillness of the
night. Adelaide heard but little of the lay, but thus sang a number of
wild but fine voices, as the cavalcade passed by:--
SONG.
"The world's all at peace, and the sunshiny earth
Is teeming with riches and joy;
And each passing minute to pleasure gives birth,
And manhood's as gay as the boy.
"Now hark to the sound
Of the horn and the hound,
As they waken the valley and wood:--
Hide your head, hide your head,
From the march of the dead!
'Tis the giant Black Huntsman is riding afar;
'Tis the blast of the trumpet,--the grim dogs of war;
And the land shall be deluged in blood:
Hide your head!"