SECULARISED CLOISTERS.
WHEN Hamilton returned to Seon he found there an addition to the guests
he had left, in the person of Count Zedwitz’s son, a young officer who
had come to spend part of his leave of absence with his family. His
appearance was prepossessing, notwithstanding his very decided ugliness;
for his yellow hair, impertinently degenerating into red in his bushy
mustachios, nearly concealed a mouth of enormous proportions, and
heightened the whiteness of his teeth of faultless purity, but unusually
large and of irregular form. The almost flaxen eyebrows protruded far
beyond eyes which were small and light-coloured, but full of
intelligence; the nose thick, of indefinite form, and a forehead which
would have delighted Gall, Spurzheim, or Combe, but from which a
painter’s eye would have turned away to seek some more pleasing object.
His figure was tall and well-proportioned, but, notwithstanding his
youth, already denoted an inclination to stoutness.
Hamilton found him an agreeable companion; indeed, everyone seemed to
like him, especially Mademoiselle Hildegarde, who, Hamilton imagined,
received his unobtrusive attentions with undisguised satisfaction; nor
was it long before he discovered a sort of avoidance of his society on
the part of both sisters. Crescenz, indeed, looked at him sometimes, but
the moment her eye caught his it was averted, and a blush was sure to
follow. Hildegarde never looked at him at all. They whispered together
continually, took long walks alone, and became every day more
melancholy. In short, there was something mysterious in their manner
which excited Hamilton’s curiosity, and he determined to see Crescenz,
if possible, alone for half an hour, and question her on the subject;
but this was not easily managed, for Hildegarde seldom left her side,
and were she present there was no chance of hearing anything. He
commenced a system of watching, which Crescenz unfortunately
misinterpreted, while Hildegarde remained perfectly unconscious of it;
he did not apparently interest her sufficiently to make her observe his
movements; but Crescenz’s blushes increased daily, and even her sister’s
presence could not prevent her from sometimes entering into conversation
with him. He asked her once if Seon had disappointed her—if she were
tired of it; and then, in a low voice, why she looked so sorrowful. A
blush, a reproachful look, and eyes suddenly full of tears was the only
reply he received. Hildegarde, who had partly heard the questions, drew
her sister’s arm within hers and left him alone to think over all
possible causes, but in vain; he then turned his observations towards
her step-mother, but there he was completely at fault. She was very kind
in her manner to Crescenz, while to Hildegarde she seemed to have
increased in severity.
One day Crescenz descended to dinner with eyelids so swelled from crying
that her eyes were almost closed, her sister so pale that Hamilton
expected every moment she would faint; after a few ineffectual efforts
to swallow, they rose suddenly and left the room together. Madame
Rosenberg, who was sitting beside Major Stultz, made some hasty remark,
and followed them. She had not, however, been absent more than a few
minutes when she returned with Hildegarde, and pointing angrily to her
place at the table desired her “to sit down there, and leave her sister
in peace.” She obeyed, but made no attempt whatever to eat. Young
Zedwitz, who had established a sort of right to sit beside her,
endeavoured to begin a conversation; without raising her eyes, she said
a few words in a low voice which at once made him desist, and he
scarcely looked at her again during the time she remained at table.
It was a magnificent afternoon, and Hamilton was burning with curiosity
which he had determined to satisfy by some desperate effort during the
course of it; his dismay was, therefore, great, when he found himself
seized upon by old Count Zedwitz and carried off to his room for a
dissertation on the water-cure! As a reward, or rather punishment, for
the exaggerated expressions of interest lavished upon cold water on a
former occasion, a manuscript was confidentially produced, written by
himself, intended for publication, and of which he proposed Hamilton’s
making a translation for the benefit of his countrymen! He commenced
slowly reading aloud, occasionally stopping to make alterations and
corrections, while Hamilton gazed wistfully out of the open window at
the sunny landscape, his thoughts wandering unrestrainedly to Crescenz
and her sister. They would have gone out to walk, and he should probably
not see them until supper-time. Zedwitz would, of course, contrive to
join their party, as he was evidently getting up a serious flirtation
with Hildegarde; he, for his part, rather preferred Crescenz, who he was
sure he could persuade to give him a rendezvous—perhaps even in the
cloisters! Five minutes—only five minutes without her sister—he composed
the most appropriate speeches, and the running accompaniment to his
thoughts, formed by Count Zedwitz’s manuscript, almost made him laugh in
spite of himself and his annoyance.
At length the sound of gay voices in the garden beneath brought his
impatience to a crisis; he sprang from his chair, placed his head in his
hands, and declared he had such a violent headache that he must beg to
defer the conclusion of the manuscript until the next day.
“Headache! My dear sir, if you would not think me unfeeling, I should
say that I rejoice to hear it! I shall now be able to make a convert of
you at once. Headache, be it nervous or rheumatic, can be cured by
placing the feet in a tub of cold water, and rolling wet cloths round
the head.”
“I think a quick walk would set me to rights in a very short time; and
as I hear your son singing in the garden, perhaps I shall be able to
persuade him to join me.”
“If you don’t like the foot-bath, try a little sweating in
cloths—indeed, it will cure you—pray, try it.”
“My dear Count—my headache is of a very peculiar kind; I am subject to
it, and have given it the name of ‘bored headache.’ I know from
experience that nothing but a walk can cure me.”
“Bored headache! To bore—to penetrate—to pierce—to bore with a gimlet!
You feel, perhaps, as if some one had been boring at your head,” and he
suited the action to the words.
“Precisely—exactly. In such cases I require violent exercise——”
“But, I assure you,” he persisted, “the cold stupes would have the same
effect; I should still, merely to convince you, recommend sweating in——”
“Excuse me this time,” said Hamilton, hurriedly, “and to-morrow, if you
will have the kindness to read me your manuscript, I shall be able to
appreciate its merits as it deserves.”
While the Count was taking off his spectacles, Hamilton, with his hand
pressed on his forehead, left the room as if he were suffering tortures.
It was fortunate that the old man’s rheumatism prevented his looking
after him, as he ran along the corridor and bounded down the staircase
into the garden! Young Zedwitz was gone, and his mother and sister were
standing so near the door that, in the eagerness of flight, Hamilton
stumbled against them. He apologised, and then asked for Count Max, whom
he said he expected to have found in the garden.
“He was here a minute ago,” answered she, “but is gone to look for
somebody or something; I did not quite understand what he said.”
“It is very unkind of Max not to walk with us,” observed the young lady,
with some irritation; “he knows how dreadfully afraid I am of cows and
dogs.”
Hamilton thought she looked at him as if she expected that he should
offer to accompany her in the character of protector. This, however, he
resolved not to do, and was in the act of retiring when the old Countess
exclaimed: “Oh, Mr. Hamilton, if you are not otherwise engaged, perhaps
you will accompany us in our walk? My daughter is so easily frightened
that she cannot go any distance without someone to chase away the
cattle.”
Hamilton felt doomed. The request had not been made in the most
flattering terms, it is true, but he could not do otherwise than
acquiesce. The thought that young Zedwitz was at that moment, perhaps,
walking with the sisters, did not make him feel amiably disposed, and he
was considerably out of temper when he commenced his walk. This could
not, however, continue, for both his companions were agreeable; and
though the old Countess suffered considerably from asthma in ascending
the hills, she contrived, nevertheless to commence a conversation, as it
appeared to Hamilton at first, in order to learn something of him or his
family. Not, however, finding him disposed to be communicative, she
desisted from anything but indirect observations, which rather amused
him than otherwise, and then spoke unreservedly of her own affairs.
“They lived on one of their estates, in the neighbourhood of Munich, but
they had spent the last two winters in the latter place, on account of
their daughter. It had not agreed with the Count, and as her daughter
was now braut (a bride), that is, engaged to be married, they should in
future live altogether in the country. They had another residence in the
mountains, near Baron Z—, which she would greatly prefer, but the Count
fancied the mountain air increased his rheumatism. She supposed her son
had told him all this, however.”
“Our conversation has been principally about Munich, and he has
persuaded me to spend next winter there.”
“Were your movements so uncertain? Do your parents leave you completely
at liberty?”
“Completely. I can spend the winter at Vienna, Berlin, Dresden, or
Munich.”
The conversation was changed, and Hamilton was so pleased with both his
companions that he was actually sorry when they reached Seon, though the
walk had been long, and it was so late that the guests were assembling
for supper.
“Where are my girls? Are they not yet returned?” asked Madame Rosenberg.
No one had seen them.
“They were with me the whole morning,” she continued, “and only went out
half an hour ago to the church on the other side of the water. Perhaps
Mr. Hamilton will be so kind as to call them to supper.”
“Let me go with you,” cried young Zedwitz, starting from his chair.
“Thank you—I can find them without your assistance,” he replied; and
then added, maliciously laughing, “I know you have been lounging about
this little lake all day, my good fellow, and must be as tired of it as
a sentinel of his post.”
Zedwitz laughed too, but he was not so easily put off—he took Hamilton’s
arm, and they sallied forth together.
“You were long on guard to-day, Zedwitz, from dinner-time until now!”
“How did _you_ like being caught to drive away the cows? I saw you being
led off.”
“At first I did not like it at all—afterwards, very much. I have taken a
great fancy to your mother—still more to your sister.”
“My sister is the dearest little soul in the world. If you but knew her
as well as I do! I am very sorry she is to be married so soon—her loss
will to me be irreparable, and our house so intolerably dull without
her, that I shall be under the necessity of choosing a wife with as
little delay as possible.”
“Your mother told me she expects you will make a most desirable
marriage.”
“With my ugly face?—that is not probable.”
“I understand from the Countess, that you, as well as your sister, were
already engaged.”
“By no means—certainly not,” cried Zedwitz, with a vehemence
incomprehensible to Hamilton; “joining hands for the purpose of joining
estates is not at all to my taste.”
“I should suppose not,” observed Hamilton, carelessly; and a long pause
ensued. At length Zedwitz observed, abruptly: “My parents are anxious
for me to quit the army, and marry; and, yet, I am convinced, that when
I propose doing so they will object to the person I have chosen. In
spite of my ugliness, or rather, perhaps, on account of it, personal
beauty has a value in my eyes beyond what it deserves. I could not marry
an ugly woman—could you?”
“I have never thought much on the subject,” replied Hamilton, laughing.
“My parents have strictly forbidden all such thoughts on my part for the
next ten years at least.”
They now began to cross the shallow part of Seon Lake, on a narrow,
wooden bridge, so narrow that it was inconvenient for more than two
persons to walk abreast. When they had reached the slope leading up to
the church on the other side, Hamilton suddenly stopped and asked Count
Zedwitz what “Hildegarde had said to him at dinner which had so
effectually silenced him?”
“She told me not to speak to her, as she could not answer me.”
“Was that all?”
“But she gave me some hope that she would tell me why on some future
occasion, and I was satisfied.”
“There is some mystery in the family! Don’t you think so?” asked
Hamilton.
“I am quite convinced of it. Those poor girls seem very unhappily
situated. I really pity them.”
“I both pity and admire them,” cried Hamilton; “and moreover, I am
exceedingly anxious to find out this same mystery. Let us start fair and
see who will first obtain information.”
“Agreed.”
“My chances are but small,” observed Hamilton; “with me both the young
ladies are shy, and I myself am still more so.”
“You shy!” exclaimed Zedwitz, laughing.
“What! You don’t believe me! You must have observed how I blush for the
merest trifle.”
“Oh, yes—you blush, but it seems to be constitutional, however, for I
never saw anyone of your age so self-possessed.”
“My dear Count, you quite mistake my character, I assure you—it is a
sort of—anomaly; a mixture of modesty and assurance——”
“Assurance, perhaps—sometimes—the modesty I have never observed.” He
stopped and pointed to the two sisters, who were sitting on the trunk of
a prostrate tree in a neighbouring field, their hands clasped firmly
together, and each separately exhibiting a picture of grief which,
independent of the youth and beauty of the mourners, was interesting
from the difference of its expression. Crescenz seemed quite subdued
from excessive sorrow, her whole form drooped, and she wept in silence,
the tears coursing each other over her youthful cheeks unrestrainedly.
Hildegarde held a letter tightly pressed in her hand, and looked
upwards. She might have been praying; but it seemed to Hamilton as if
the eyes remained upturned to prevent the falling of the tears which had
gathered in the underlids—an occasional almost imperceptible movement of
the corners of the mouth, and an evident difficulty of swallowing,
confirmed this idea.
“Beautiful creature!” exclaimed Zedwitz, enthusiastically.
Hildegarde stooped towards her sister, and, it seemed, whispered some
words of comfort, for the other looked up and attempted to smile.
“Hamilton, let us return towards the lake; it would be cruel to take
them by surprise. We must talk loud, or in some way give them notice of
our approach.” He turned away as he spoke, and so effectually did he put
his intentions in practice, that when they again approached the sisters,
they were walking apparently unconcernedly towards the church, and on
hearing that they were expected to supper, quietly led the way to the
wooden-bridge. Zedwitz and Hamilton now commenced maneuvring; but as
their intentions were similar, and the object not to engage the same
person, they were almost immediately successful. Zedwitz seemed, indeed,
at first determined that Hamilton should lead the way with Crescenz; but
the latter soon gave him to understand that that would never answer, and
after a few frowns, and shrugs, and shoves, he followed Hildegarde, who
was already on the bridge.
Hamilton approached Crescenz and whispered hurriedly: “What is the
matter? Why are you so unhappy? What on earth has occurred during my
absence from Seon?”
“Nothing, nothing! Nothing has occurred which can in any way interest
you,” she replied, walking quickly on.
“You are unkind, mademoiselle,” said Hamilton, slowly and
reproachfully—“unnecessarily unkind. From the commencement of our
acquaintance, short as it has been, I have felt the greatest interest in
all that concerns you. I see you unhappy—wish to offer any consolation
in my power—and am treated with disdain.”
“I did not mean to treat you with disdain,” said Crescenz, softening,
and walking more slowly.
“Your sister is not so cruel to Count Zedwitz.” In fact, they were just
then speaking rather earnestly. This had great effect.
“What do you wish to know?” she asked, gently.
“I wish to know the cause of your unhappiness. I wish to know why you
avoid me.”
“That I cannot tell you so easily! You will hear, perhaps—but you will
not understand what—that is—how—I mean to say why I could not refuse.
I—I cannot tell you,” she cried, bursting into tears, and walking on so
quickly that she had nearly reached her sister before Hamilton could say
in a whisper, “To-night, at the foot of the broad staircase leading to
the cloisters—may I expect you?”
“No, no, no!”
“There will be moonlight; at nine o’clock I shall be there.”
“Oh, no—not for the world!”
“The staircase is quite close to your room; grant me but five minutes
only.”
Her sister looked round, and, to prevent further discussion, he added
urgently, but looking at the same time with affected unconcern across
the lake—
“You _must_ come, or I shall spend the whole night in the cloisters
waiting for you.”
It was in vain she now endeavoured to refuse; he was deaf to all
excuses, and walked purposely so near her sister that she was obliged to
give up the attempt.
Before they entered the house, Zedwitz whispered triumphantly: “I shall
know _all_ to-morrow morning.”
“And I to-night,” replied Hamilton.
“What? when? how? where?”
“That is my affair, not yours.”
“I shall find out, you may depend upon it.”
“I defy you,” cried Hamilton, laughing; but the next moment, heartily
regretting his foolish boast, he thought for a moment of telling him his
purpose, but the fear of compromising Crescenz deterred him, and soon
afterwards perceiving him earnestly engaged in conversation with
Hildegarde, he hoped he would forget all about the matter.
After supper, Madame Rosenberg, as usual, produced her knitting, and
Hamilton began a listless sort of conversation with her, which lasted
until her daughter had left the room; it suddenly, however, took a turn
which rendered it to Hamilton interesting in the extreme. She had,
according to her own account, a most particular fancy for all
Englishmen. They were such agreeable companions; gave no trouble at all;
she had now reason to know, for she had had Englishmen lodging in her
house for the last three years. She had two furnished rooms, which she
always let, and from experience she now knew that Englishmen were in
every respect desirable lodgers. Need it be said that “on this hint”
Hamilton had spoken, and that in a very short time an arrangement for
board and lodging was concluded to their mutual satisfaction. It was
then that she launched into praises of his nation, ending with the
remark that nothing would induce her, now that her step-daughters were
at home, to receive any but Englishmen under her roof. “They were
accustomed to domestic life, to female society, and did not think it
necessary to talk nonsense to every girl with whom they happened to be
five minutes alone. Did he know Mr. Smith?”
Hamilton believed he knew two or three Smiths.
“I mean a Mr. Howard Seymour Smyth.”
“No;” Hamilton knew more Howards and Seymours than Smiths, he was happy
in the consciousness.
“Perhaps you know Captain Black?”
“I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance.”
“He was a most delightful person; lodged with us last year; dined,
however, at Havard’s _table d’hôte_. You will be the first who has
actually become a member of the family, as I may say. I wonder what
Rosenberg will think of the arrangement?”
“May I beg of you to write to him to-morrow on the subject, as I have
already given a sort of commission to the Baroness Z— and——”
“Oh, dear! there’s no necessity for writing; I always arrange these
things alone; you have nothing whatever to do with him!”
“In that case I may consider the affair as arranged,” said Hamilton,
rising and going towards the side-table for his candle. She rose, too,
and they ascended the stairs together.
“I shall do everything in my power to make you comfortable and at home
in our house,” she said, when wishing him good-night.
As he entered his room, the great clock struck nine. He placed, with
some natural trepidation, his candle behind the stove, and locked his
door carefully, to prevent Zedwitz, should he come, from ascertaining
whether he were there or not. “He will think, perhaps, that I am in bed
and asleep if he get no answer,” was his wise reflection, as he dropped
the key into his pocket, and commenced walking on tiptoe towards the
place of appointment. A few moments’ thought convinced him that there
was no necessity, whatever, for concealment, until he had reached the
lower passages, where there were flower-stands, gardening tools, old
doors, casks, and all sorts of lumber heaped up, as if on purpose to
make places of retreat for gentlemen in his situation. He ensconced
himself behind a spacious beer-barrel and waited patiently until he
heard a step on the stairs. Keeping carefully in the dark, he whispered,
“I am here, give me your hand.” But no hand was given; on the contrary,
a scampering up stairs, three or four steps at a time, ensued, which was
at first perfectly incomprehensible. Hamilton afterwards supposed that
Crescenz had heard some noise in the corridor, and must wait for a
better opportunity. Again he placed himself behind the friendly cask,
and waited upwards of a half an hour. At the end of that time an odd,
rustling noise among the lumber made him start; but muttering the word
“rats,” he flung an old rake in the direction from whence it came, and
all was still again. It had become so much darker that he now took up
his post near the staircase, and soon after Crescenz appeared, looking
timidly down into the obscurity. “I am here, do not be afraid; there is
no one near,” cried Hamilton, softly advancing towards her.
“I have only come—to say—that—that I cannot come.”
Hamilton in vain endeavoured to repress a smile. “Well, come down the
stairs, and at least tell me why!”
She descended a few steps.
“Well! why?”
“Because I have not courage; I am always afraid in the dark.”
“But it is not dark in the cloisters; there is the most beautiful
moonlight imaginable! Come.”
“Would not to-morrow at six o’clock, in the garden, do as well?”
“I cannot hear you,” answered Hamilton, becoming suddenly deaf; “and you
had better not speak too distinctly, as you may be heard by some one
crossing the passage.”
“To-morrow morning in the garden,” she softly repeated, descending close
to where he stood.
“I have been waiting nearly an hour!” was the answer which he gave, in
order to change her thoughts.
“I could not help it; Hildegarde has only just fallen asleep.”
“We must not remain here, or we shall certainly be overheard. Come,” he
whispered, drawing her arm within his.
“I cannot—I cannot—to-morrow before breakfast, or when you will; but not
now. Let me go! oh, let me go!”
And he would have let her go; but the thoughts of Zedwitz’s raillery
made him resolute. His first thought was to carry her off; but that
appearing too strong a measure, he contented himself with holding her
hand fast while pouring forth a volley of reproaches.
“And now,” he concluded with an affectation of reasoning, “now that you
are so far, why retreat? Everyone is in bed; no human being in the
cloisters. I ask but five minutes, but I would speak with you
alone—unrestrained.”
And while he was speaking he had contrived to make her move along the
passage. A moment after, they had reached the quadrangle, and stood in
silent admiration of the calm seclusion of the spot. The echo of their
footsteps was the only sound they heard; and the bright moonbeams not
only lighted the monuments erected against the wall, but rendered almost
legible the epitaphs of those whose tombstones composed the pavement.
He led Crescenz to a seat near the monument to the founder of the
monastery, Count Aribo, and waited for her to speak; she had, however,
no inclination to begin, but sat in a deep revery, looking fixedly on
the ground; and, as it seemed, more inclined to be sentimental than
communicative.
Hamilton, more conscious than she was of the impropriety of her
situation, and fearing that they might be seen by some of the servants,
at length exclaimed, with some impatience:
“Do not let us lose these precious moments, but tell me at once what has
occurred.”
Crescenz became agitated, covered her face with her hands, but remained
silent.
“For heaven’s sake tell me what is the matter?”
“I am very, very unhappy!” sobbed the poor girl.
“But why—why are you unhappy?”
“Because I—I am going to be married!”
“Married!—To whom are you going to be married?”
“To—to Major Stultz.”
“Major Stultz!—Why, this must be a very sudden business, indeed. Before
I left Seon he seemed much more inclined to marry your sister than you!”
“Oh, of course he would rather have Hildegarde, because she is so much
cleverer and handsomer than I am; but she would not listen to him, and
called him an old fool!”
“I admire her candour,” said Hamilton.
“And then she got into a passion when he persevered, and slapped him on
the mouth!”
“Slapped him on the mouth!”
“Yes, when he attempted to kiss her hand; at least he says so; and
Hildegarde thinks it may be true, as she was angry and struggled very
hard to release her hand. He told mamma that he would not marry her now
if she were ten times handsomer, and a princess into the bargain!”
“She seems of rather a passionate temperament.”
“Passionate! yes, she sometimes gets into a passion, but it is soon
over, and then she can be so kind to those she loves! No one knows her
so well as I do, excepting, perhaps, papa, and he says, if she were not
passionate, she would be faultless; with me she is never in a passion.”
“Perhaps because you yield implicit obedience to all her commands? But
tell me why did not you follow her example, and refuse Major Stultz, if
you did not like him?”
“He did not ask me, he spoke to mamma, and wrote to papa; and when all
was arranged, I had not courage to refuse; and he is forty-six years
old, and I shall not be sixteen until next year!”
“That is a considerable disparity, certainly.”
“I should not mind the thirty years so much if his face were not so red
and his figure so stout. I hate red-faced, stout men!”
“If he could change his appearance to please you, I have no doubt he
would do so,” observed Hamilton, smiling.
“Hildegarde also dislikes red-faced men,” she added, pettishly.
“Whatever Hildegarde says must be right, of course,” said Hamilton,
ironically; “but I have not discovered that she dislikes Count Zedwitz,
and he rather comes under the denomination red-faced.”
“Hildegarde says Count Zedwitz is very agreeable, and not in the least
presuming.”
“And who does she say is presuming, if I may ask?”
“She says you are—or would be, if you were allowed.”
“I think she is wrong. And were she to meet Zedwitz here alone——”
“Hildegarde would never do such a thing—never! And I ought not to have
come, either,” she cried, starting from her seat and looking anxiously
round. Then, laying her hand heavily on his arm, and straining her eyes
as if to see something more distinctly, she asked, in a scarcely audible
voice, “What is that?”
“What?—I see nothing.”
“There—there—in the corner! The moon’s shining on it now—that figure.”
“Oh, that is a stone figure—a monument, or something of that sort. Let
us go and look at it.”
“Not for the universe—I saw it move.”
“You fancied it moved; one can imagine all sorts of things by moonlight.
Will you remain here and let me examine it?”
“Oh, no—you must not leave me! I—I think it may be something unearthly.
Oh, why did I come here?—why did I come here?”
“Don’t be unnecessarily alarmed; I am convinced it is nothing but——”
“There, there—it moved again!” She grasped his arm and hid her face on
his shoulder.
“Come,” said Hamilton, encouragingly; “let me take you to your room—to
your sister.”
She trembled violently, but endeavoured to walk. The figure, however,
seemed to possess the power of fascination—she would or could not remove
her eyes from it; and though Hamilton assured her he remembered having
seen it by daylight, and at first really thought so, he was soon
unpleasantly convinced of his error. They saw the outline more and more
distinctly every moment—could even distinguish the large folds of the
drapery in the moonlight. Hamilton tried to hurry her forward; but at
that moment the figure, slowly and stiffly raising an arm, pointed
threateningly towards them. This was the _acme_. Crescenz clung to him
in an agony of terror, and while Hamilton whispered to her, “For
heaven’s sake, not to scream—to think of the consequences were she to be
discovered,” she writhed as if in strong convulsions, gasped frightfully
once or twice for breath, and then sank on his arm perfectly insensible.
Shocked beyond measure, but now convinced that someone had been amusing
himself at their expense, Hamilton called out angrily, “Cease your
mummeries, whoever you are—and see what you have done!”
The moonlight fell on Crescenz’s lifeless form while he spoke, and in a
moment Count Zedwitz stood beside him. He endeavoured to exculpate
himself by avowing that he had no idea of playing ghost when he had
followed them.
“I don’t care what you intended,” cried Hamilton, still more angrily;
“but I wish, at least, you had spared this poor girl such unnecessary
terror.”
“I did not think of the consequences. It was very foolish—it was very
wrong, if you will. But you must not think I was a listener; I declare
most solemnly I did not hear one word of your conversation.”
“The whole world might have heard it!” cried Hamilton, impatiently
shaking off the hand which Zedwitz had placed on his shoulder; “the
whole world might have heard it. But what is to be done now? She shows
no sign of life, and is as cold as a stone. Perhaps you have killed
her!”
“Oh, no, she has only fainted; let me go for a glass of water.”
“Are you mad?” cried Hamilton, detaining him forcibly; “no one must ever
know that she has been here with me—with us——”
“Oh, I thought I could——”
“I wish you would think rationally, and repair the mischief you have
done.”
“Let us take her to her sister; she will never betray her, and will know
best what means to employ for her recovery.”
And between them they carried Crescenz along the passage and up the
stairs. Fortunately, the first door led to her room, and Hamilton
desired Zedwitz to knock gently, lest other people in the neighbouring
rooms might be awakened. But it was in vain he knocked; Hildegarde
seemed to be enjoying what is called a “wholesome sleep”; and at length,
finding their efforts fruitless, Zedwitz volunteered to go in and waken
her.
Hamilton heard the sleepy voice change into a tone of alarm, the anxious
questions, and finally a request that he would leave the room. He did
so, and in less than a minute Hildegarde opened the door in a state of
great agitation. While Hamilton laid Crescenz on the bed, Zedwitz struck
a light, and Hildegarde then asked him earnestly to tell her what had
happened.
“My odious cloak has been the cause of all,” he answered, evasively;
“she saw me standing in the moonlight, and thought I was a ghost.”
“Saw you standing in the moonlight?—when?—where? Oh, go away, both of
you,” she cried, vehemently, as the candle lighted her sister’s pale
features; “go away, and leave me alone with Crescenz.”
They left the room, and walked towards one of the windows looking into
the quadrangle. After some delay, Hildegarde appeared, and a dialogue
ensued which Hamilton thought unnecessarily long, as he was not able to
hear what was said. The moment, however, that he approached the
speakers, the door was closed, and he was left to make his inquiries of
Zedwitz.
“How is she?”
“Better, or quite well, I forget which; she fancied at first that she
had been dreaming, but now she knows the contrary.”
“Hum! No doubt you exaggerated splendidly when explaining to Hildegarde
just now!”
“Not I! I was thinking the whole time of that bewitching little
nightcap, and how lovely she looked in it.”
“Pshaw! if you have any fancy for such caps, I recommend you to go to
London. In any street you please, and at any hour, you can see half a
dozen such caps on as many Bavarian girls, whose employment is to scream
‘buy a broom,’ and who are just the most good-for-nothing creatures in
the world.”
“And how do you know they are Bavarians? I think it much more probable
that they are Dutch girls.”
“In London people call them Bavarians; and I must confess they never
interested me sufficiently to induce me to make inquiries.”
“Very likely; but when I tell you that Bavarians do not lightly forsake
their country, that they are seldom so poor as not to have enough to
live upon—our marriage-laws provide against that; that London is a long
way from Bavaria, and the steam-packets make it an easy matter for Dutch
girls to transport themselves there, you will also think with me that
they are more probably Dutch than Bavarian.”
“How warmly you defend your countrywomen and their hideous caps,” cried
Hamilton, laughing. “But, really,” he added, opening the door of his
room, before which they stood, “really, the matter is not worth a
dispute. The girls are Dutch, if you will have it so, but the caps are
ugly, say what you will.”
“It depends so entirely on the wearer of the cap! For instance, to-night
I thought that cap the most becoming thing I ever saw!”
“Perhaps you also prefer one foot in a slipper and the other bare.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the fair Hildegarde could only find one slipper in the
dark, and pattered about with her bare foot, as if it were the most
comfortable thing possible!”
“I did not look at her feet; but even if I had, I should only have
admired her forgetfulness of self in her anxiety about her sister.”
“You are right, Zedwitz,” cried Hamilton, with unusual warmth; “quite
right. And though I will not, cannot, say that I think the nightcap
pretty, I must acknowledge that I admired Hildegarde to-night more than
anyone I ever saw. She is superlatively handsome, and it is the greater
pity that she is such a devil.”
“A devil! Are you raving?”
“Not a bit of it. I advise you to take care how you make advances to
her; she will slap you on the mouth for the slightest misdemeanour.”
“Slap me on the mouth!”
“Not the smallest doubt of it. She buffeted poor Major Stultz when he
innocently made her a proposal of marriage, until his face, from deep
red, turned to the richest purple.”
“Nay, now I know you are inventing—joking.”
“Not so much as you think, I assure you. Her sister is my authority. She
softened the recital in some degree, it is true, by saying that
Hildegarde was not often in a passion, and never with _her_.”
Zedwitz seated himself at the table, drummed on it with his fingers, and
looked at Hamilton as if he expected to hear more.
“Perhaps, after all,” said Hamilton, “she is only a little hot-tempered.
I have heard it asserted that passionate people were always
good-hearted—in fact, most amiable, when not actually in a passion!”
“Who would have imagined that?” said Zedwitz, thoughtfully; “and with
such an angel’s face!”
“Never trust an angel’s face!” cried Hamilton, laughing. “My brother
John, who understands such things, says that angelic-looking women are
very often devils, and, if not, they are bores; and of the two I prefer
a devil to a bore, any day—even for a wife.”
Zedwitz rubbed his hand across his forehead, and looked dissatisfied.
“So you think her ill-tempered?” he observed.
“I cannot exactly say ill-tempered; but I have already seen her in
something very nearly approaching to a passion.”
“You!—where?”
“No matter. But she called me a fool, and stamped with her foot, until I
ran away for very fright.”
“I dare say you had provoked her past endurance; and I have now had an
opportunity of judging how shy and modest you are. Not that I mean to
blame you for supporting Crescenz, as you did to-night, in the
cloisters. You saved her, no doubt, from a severe fall, but you took
very remarkable good care of her.”
“It was very natural that Crescenz should cling to me when she was
frightened,” said Hamilton, seriously; “and equally natural that I
should endeavour to protect her.”
“Oh, it was altogether extremely natural; only don’t talk any more
nonsense about being shy. You were anything but shy at the foot of the
staircase——”
“Were you there, too?”
“Not very distant from you, disguised as a rat.”
“If I had managed to hit you with the rake, all this scene would have
been avoided.”
“Perhaps; but do you know that you invited me yourself to come? I did
not know where you were until you said, in the most insinuating manner,
‘I am here—give me your hand.’”
“So you were the person who scampered up the stairs?”
“Yes, and scampered down at the other side, and found another way into
the passage.”
“Well, I hope I shall not remain long in your debt, that’s all.”
“Oh, your anger is over for this time, I hope. Rather let us now swear
an eternal friendship. The thing is possible, as we are not rivals.”
“Perhaps we may be, though—I rather took a fancy to Hildegarde to-night.
Crescenz is almost too childish.”
“You are not serious, I hope,” cried Zedwitz, with what Hamilton
imagined an affectation of alarm.
“I really don’t know whether I am or not. I am only trying to get up a
sort of flirtation to make the time pass agreeably while I am studying
German; for that purpose, in fact, one sister is as good as the other;
indeed, Crescenz suits me, perhaps, better, because the affair will have
a respectable termination when she marries Major Stultz.”
“Is she to marry Major Stultz?”
“So Hildegarde has not even told you that?”
“Not a word.”
“Well, let us open the window and smoke a couple of cigars in the
moonlight, and you shall hear all about it, and have a full and true
account of the boxing-match between Hildegarde and the gallant Major.”
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