AN ALPINE PARTY.
THE next evening Madame Rosenberg invited Major Stultz and Crescenz to
join her in a walk to meet her husband. Hildegarde was desired to remain
behind, and take care of the children. Poor girl! she was not yet
forgiven the atrocious crime of having refused Major Stultz; and this
punishment she seemed to feel more than Hamilton could comprehend; for,
as the trio walked off together, and left her alone, her eyes filled
with tears, and she seated herself on the stone steps of the entrance to
the church with an air of such utter despondency that he turned towards
the lake in order not to annoy her by his presence, and even played with
the two elder boys, to prevent them from tormenting her, until he heard
the sound of wheels and horses’ feet, when, looking towards the road, he
saw, at no very great distance, a carriage, which stopped as it reached
the pedestrians, and out of which sprang a man apparently much too young
to be the father of either Hildegarde or Crescenz. The children,
however, cried “Papa! papa!” and rushed towards him. Hildegarde—(pardon
the horrible idea)—Hildegarde moved backwards and forwards like a chafed
tigress in a menagerie, not daring to disobey her step-mother by
quitting the place assigned her, and yet exhibiting anger and impatience
in every limb.
As the party drew nearer, Hamilton observed that Mr. Rosenberg was
indeed extremely youthful looking, and must have been eminently
handsome. That he was a kind father was evident at a glance, for the
children clung to his knees so that he could scarcely walk, and Crescenz
had taken complete possession of one of his arms. Just as he reached the
place where Hamilton stood, and after being introduced to him as “our
English friend,” his eyes turned towards the spot where Hildegarde was
so uneasily perambulating. Releasing himself at once from his
companions, he advanced hastily a few steps, calling out, “Why, how’s
this, Hildegarde? Why don’t you come to meet me?” With a cry of joy she
rushed into his arms, and whispered in a voice almost suffocated with
emotion, “I dared not—I dared not.”
“You feel that you deserve to be scolded? Is it not so? Naughty girl!”
“But you have forgiven me—I know you have.”
Another embrace, and a look of evident forgiveness, not unmixed with
pride and admiration, was the answer.
Madame Rosenberg bit her lip, and observed, angrily—
“You really encourage Hildegarde to give way to her violence of temper,
instead of pointing out to her the impropriety of her conduct, as I
expected.”
“What is past, is past,” he answered; “and Major Stultz is satisfied.”
“Satisfied! I am the happiest man in the world!” exclaimed Major Stultz.
Crescenz smiled and blushed.
“Well, then, we are all happy. You take Crescenz, who is, if anything,
too good and gentle, and I must for the present retain this passionate,
good-for-nothing girl!”
He played with her hand as he spoke, and the dullest looker-on must have
observed that she was his favourite child.
“You will very probably retain her all your life,” observed Madame
Rosenberg.
“I don’t think I shall. Somebody will be sure to find out that she is as
good-hearted as she is passionate—ill-tempered she is not—the darling!”
“Oh, she is very good-tempered when she has every thing her own way. And
papa to spoil her! I don’t envy the man who may get her.”
“I shall not pity him,” said her father, gently pressing her hand; and
then turning to his wife and Major Stultz, seemed determined to change
the conversation.
Hamilton left them, and when he found himself alone in the garden,
unconsciously began to consider—was or was not Hildegarde amiable? or
was she merely a spoiled child, whose father, dazzled by her extreme
beauty, thought her faultless? Her sister certainly loved her, and the
children, although they preferred Crescenz, assuredly did not dislike
her—in fact, her step-mother alone seemed to think her ill-tempered, and
he felt strongly inclined to come to the conclusion that her father’s
evident partiality had provoked the jealousy of that apparently little
indulgent person.
On the ensuing day, Zedwitz and Hamilton had agreed that they would not
give the Rosenbergs so much of their society as usual, but, knowing that
they could make up for lost time afterwards, leave them to discuss their
family affairs during the sojourn of Mr. Rosenberg. They prepared, with
a very good grace, to spend the morning with Zedwitz’s mother and sister
in the garden, and to the infinite surprise of both ladies, they seated
themselves at the table in the arbour which they were in the habit of
occupying. Agnes, who continued working with unnecessary assiduity,
submitted for some minutes to be tormented, in a boyish manner, by her
brother. He wrote upon the table with the point of her scissors,
entangled her coloured wool and silk, upset her needle case, and finally
attempted to twitch her work out of her hand.
“You overpower me with your attentions to-day, Max,” she at length
observed, with heightened colour; “I am no longer used to them.”
“You do not mean that you are annoyed at my playing with this trumpery?”
he cried, moving from her with affected anxiety.
She pushed aside her work with a contemptuous shake of the head, and
then, leaning her little fresh-coloured face in the palm of her hand,
she gently but seriously reproached him for his long neglect of her, and
his totally changed manner since he had come to Seon. He assured her,
laughingly, that he had been only trying to wean himself from her
society, as he was about so soon to lose her altogether. His mother said
that moderation should be observed in all things, and though she did not
require from him the attentions he had been in the habit of lavishing on
his sister, yet she must say the contrast between his former and present
manner was too striking not to be most painful to poor Agnes; and, for
her part, she thought there must be some secret reason for such conduct.
Here she moved uneasily on her chair and coughed.
“Secret reason!” he exclaimed; “what can you mean? I am utterly at a
loss to——”
“Come, Max, you must greatly underrate my intellect or powers of
observation, if you imagine that I have not seen what has been going on
for the last three weeks.”
“Going on?” he repeated.
“Yes, going on. You have been paying the most marked attentions to one
of those Rosenbergs——”
“Which of them?” he asked, with an effort to look unconcerned.
His sister laughed and said, “Confess honestly, Max, for if you really
are in love, I think I must forgive your neglect.”
“Thank you, dear. You know I once forgave you the same offence when
proceeding from the same cause.”
“It is unnecessary,” she said, glancing towards Hamilton, and growing
perceptibly paler; “it is unkind to remind me so lightly of the most
painful event of my life.”
She was about to leave them, when her brother seized her hand, saying
eagerly, “Stay, you dear good creature, and forgive me. I quite forgot
that Hamilton was present, but never mind him—pray stay. I confess that
I am desperately in love with Hildegarde Rosenberg, and I want you to
tell my mother, and ask her to give me her assistance and advice.”
His mother, of course, had heard what he had said, and now answered,
quickly, “Assistance, Max, you cannot expect from me; my advice is, that
you return to Munich to-morrow.”
“I am engaged to ascend an alp with the Rosenbergs; indeed, I have
promised to make an excursion with them which will last three days.”
“You will not find us here on your return,” said his mother, resolutely;
“I totally disapprove of your conduct in every respect, and will not
afford you the excuse of passing your time with us, in order to continue
it.”
“But, my dear mother——”
“I thought you were too honourable,” she continued, “to pay attentions
which could lead to nothing. You know your father will never consent to
such a connection!”
“I hoped—through your influence—in time, perhaps——”
“Hope nothing, in this case, from me; much as I desire to see you
happily married, such a daughter-in-law——”
“I defy any one to point out a single fault,” cried Zedwitz, eagerly;
“she is beautiful—Agnes, you, who understand so well what beauty is,
tell me—is she not beautiful?”
“She is the most beautiful person I ever saw,” answered Agnes, warmly;
“indeed, mamma, there is some excuse for Max’s admiration.”
“I don’t blame him or any one for admiring her; but Max spoke just now
of more than admiration. He must not forget that she is _not noble_, and
that her family are odiously vulgar.”
“But she is not vulgar,” observed Agnes, kindly; “I have spoken to her
two or three times, and think her a very nice person.”
“Max knows that his father will never consent to such match,” answered
the mother; “therefore there is no use in talking more about the
matter.” She rose and prepared to leave them. “Want of fortune I could
have overlooked, and you might have been sure of my assistance, although
my hopes have long been fixed on another object; but—such a connection
as this—I never can—I never will sanction.”
Zedwitz waited until his mother was out of hearing, and then, drawing
nearer his sister, said:
“Well, Agnes, what is to be done now? Do you think she will tell my
father?”
“I think not directly; she knows you can do nothing without his
consent.”
“Agnes, I have a right to your assistance, and claim it; your reproaches
led to this premature discovery——”
“Not at all; mamma has been watching you the last three weeks.”
“And pray, why did you not tell me so?”
“I did not know it until a few days ago; and as you never come near me,
or even look at me now, I had no opportunity of speaking to you on that,
or indeed on any other subject.”
“How well you women know how to mix up reproach and excuse together. If
you had only just called me aside——”
“If I had, you would have given me the answer which I have so often
received from you lately.”
“And what may that be?”
Agnes rose playfully from her seat, with an appearance of extreme
impatience, and exclaimed, while she looked around her, as if seeking
someone else—
“My dear creature! any other time; but you see—just now, in fact, I am
particularly engaged!”
Hamilton and Zedwitz laughed.
“You little actress!” exclaimed the latter, drawing her towards him, and
making her again sit down on the bench beside him. “I acknowledge that I
have neglected you unpardonably, Agnes; but you have promised to forgive
me, and I now require your assistance—come, tell me, what shall I do?”
“You really wish to marry this Hildegarde?”
“Most undoubtedly, if I can; but you know I am wholly in my father’s
power, and she has no fortune whatever.”
“The case seems rather hopeless at present,” said Agnes, seriously.
“Have you spoken to her? Would she wait a few years?”
“I have not spoken to her,” he answered, impatiently; “and as to waiting
two or three years, I would rather give up the idea at once.”
“That would indeed be the wisest thing you could do,” cried his sister,
eagerly; “for you may expect the strongest opposition both from papa and
mamma. Do not join this alp party; you can easily find some excuse; and
let us all go to Hohenfels together before these Rosenbergs return
here.”
“How lightly you talk, Agnes! just as if it only required a visit to the
Z—s at Hohenfels to make me forget the last four weeks! I tell you I can
never love another as I do Hildegarde; so you must propose something
else.”
“Are you quite determined to go with them to-morrow?”
“Quite.”
“Suppose when you are gone I speak to papa; mamma will at all events
tell him when she finds that you are actually off; but you know I can
generally make papa do whatever I please, and if I explain to him that
you are very unhappy, absolutely miserable——”
“Tell him that I am in the depths of despair, or in a state to commit
any kind of excess! Say that I talked of emigrating to America with
Hildegarde; tell him whatever you like, you dear little mediatrix! if
you can only obtain his consent.”
“Suppose I succeed with papa, and mamma remains inexorable?”
“Oh, leave me to manage my mother; I have no fear of serious opposition
from her.”
“There I fear you are quite mistaken,” said Agnes; “but,” she added
gaily, “let us hope the best.”
“Yes; and let us now take a walk, and you shall hear all my plans for
the future.”
As they sauntered away together, Hamilton heard Zedwitz say, “I shall,
of course, quit the army. My father will, probably, give me Castle
Wolfstein, as he dislikes the mountains as much as I like them. We shall
be near Hohenfels and Z—s, which will be agreeable. As a married man,
the father of a family, and all that sort of thing, I don’t know any
people I should like so much for neighbours.”
At a very early hour in the morning they all assembled to drink coffee.
Mr. Rosenberg left at the same time for Munich. Hamilton concluded that
he was satisfied with his wife’s arrangement respecting him, as he shook
his hand warmly at parting, and hoped to see him again in the course of
the ensuing week. Madame Rosenberg gave various parting directions and
commissions, which Hamilton did not quite understand; neither did Mr.
Rosenberg, he suspected, though he listened to his wife’s orders with a
patience which made it evident that he resembled Job in more respects
than in having daughters, than whom “no women in all the land were found
so fair.”
The _char-à-banc_ which they were so fortunate as to obtain in
Traunstein had five seats, and accommodated the whole party.
At the first respectably steep hill, both young men sprang out of the
carriage, and when it halted to take them up again, Hamilton had no
difficulty in ceding his place beside Hildegarde to Zedwitz, who looked
the personification of gratitude; and well he might, for poor Hamilton
had got a most riotous companion, and was so placed that he could
scarcely avoid overhearing the whispered plans of future happiness which
were made, revised, and corrected behind him; while before, he could
observe the tactics of Zedwitz, who, with no inconsiderable skill, was
reconnoitring the ground previous to the grand attack which he was
meditating.
The afternoon was far advanced before they reached the peasant’s house,
where the coachman and his horses were to pass the night, while they
pursued their way on foot. The ascent was steeper and longer than they
had expected, and the heat intense. Hildegarde, Crescenz, and the two
boys proved excellent pedestrians; Major Stultz toiled wearily after
them—his effort to appear vigorous deserved more success—but alas! after
having wiped the drops of perspiration from his crimson face at least
twenty times, and even removed his stiff, black stock, in order to
breathe more freely, he sank exhausted on a fragment of rock, declaring
that since his Russian campaign of 1812, he had never been able to
recover the right use of his feet. Madame Rosenberg looked for a moment
undecided what she should do; she wished to be civil, and offered, after
some hesitation, to remain with him until after he had rested, but on
his declining, she said at once that she would go on before, and prepare
the supper. Poor man! he looked wistfully towards Crescenz. Madame
Rosenberg understood him, but shook her head disapprovingly, said she
would leave him one of the guides, and begged he would not hurry himself
in the least. Crescenz, who had been amusing herself with her two
brothers, gathering flowers and picking wild raspberries, now turned to
Hamilton, and giving him a handful of the latter, told him she would
show him where to get more. The invitation was irresistible, and after
telling her mother that they intended to overtake Hildegarde, who was
still in sight, they hurried off together.
The conversation was at first desultory, interrupted by the scrambling
through the bushes, and mutually offering the largest raspberries; by
degrees, however, the fragrant fruit was neglected, and the flowers—even
the beautiful pyrolas and sweet-scented cyclamen, gathered for and given
to Major Stultz—were thoughtlessly picked to pieces, and thrown away,
while she listened to Hamilton’s remarks, or answered his numerous
questions. She spoke without reserve of her mode of life at school;
attached a girlish importance to her former companion’s opinions and
most trifling acts; complained of not having been allowed to speak
during school-hours, and of being obliged to run and jump about at
recreation-time, when she would rather have sat in a corner to talk to
her friend Lina; of having to listen to reading when at dinner; but most
of all, of having had all her long hair cut off the day of her entrance,
“I was quite inconsolable about it,” she said, laughing, “and cried for
several days, but Hildegarde did not care in the least; perhaps,” she
added, “because she was a year older.”
Hamilton thought there might be another reason—the absence of personal
vanity—but, of course, he did not say so. They had been ten years at
school, without ever having been allowed to spend a day at home.
“So,” she continued, “we knew nothing at all of my step-mother, and very
little of papa, though he used to come and see us often, and talk to
Mademoiselle Hortense about us. At the examinations they generally both
came, and mamma used to bring us an iced tart; but Hildegarde would
rather she had stayed away, as she was ashamed of her.”
“And why was she ashamed of her?”
“Oh, because all the other girls had such nice mothers and aunts, and
Hildegarde thinks mamma so very vulgar.”
“She seems, however, a good kind of person.”
“Oh, I dare say—but Hildegarde does not like good kind of persons.”
“Indeed! Pray, what kind of persons does she like then?”
“I don’t know whether she would like me to tell you or not.”
“And I don’t think you are obliged to ask her.”
“That is true; and, besides, it is no harm to like counts and barons
better than other people!”
“Not at all. You rather said that you had a fancy of the same kind
yourself, a few days ago.”
“Yes—I confess I should like to be a _von_, or a baroness, or a
countess—but still there is a difference, for _I_ am afraid of fine
people, and Hildegarde likes them; I saw her getting books from Baroness
Z—, and speaking to those proud Zedwitzes, the other day.”
“You think it, then, probable that she rather likes the attention of
Count Zedwitz?”
“I—don’t—know. Hildegarde never speaks about such things when they
concern herself, though she expects me to tell her everything! I saw
that old Countess Zedwitz talking to her in the garden yesterday—the
Countess looked very red, and kept nodding her head continually, and
Hildegarde was very pale and haughty. I asked her what they had been
speaking about, but she did not choose to tell me. I dare say it was
something disagreeable.”
“That is not impossible,” said Hamilton, musingly; “in fact, rather
probable. So you don’t know whether or not your sister likes Zedwitz?”
“No. She only observed once, when we were speaking of beauty, that she
did not think it necessary for a man to be handsome.”
“That was rather applicable to him; but he is so devoted that I should
imagine him irresistible.”
“I don’t think that is the way to please Hildegarde.”
“I should have thought devotion must have been pleasing to every woman.”
“But Hildegarde has such odd ideas! I remember hearing her say to
Mademoiselle Hortense, just before we left school, that she rather
thought she should like a man of whom she could be afraid.”
“Strange girl,” said Hamilton.
“Strange girl, indeed!” repeated Crescenz; “and others think so
differently! I should not like to be afraid of anyone I loved, and that
is one of the reasons why I think that only people of nearly the same
age should marry!”
Hamilton turned quickly to his companion, whose deep blush gave a
special meaning to her last observation.
Hildegarde, Zedwitz, and Fritz were far before them; Madame Rosenberg,
with Gustle, and two guides, loaded with provisions, equally far behind.
They became sentimental, often looked back to admire the view, which
every moment increased in beauty and extent. She wished to be the
inhabitant of one of the peaceful, pretty peasant-houses which were
scattered in the valley beneath them. Hamilton, of course, wished to
bear her company. She sighed and murmured something about his
understanding her, but fearing that Major Stultz never would. Hamilton
declared, with unusual warmth, that it was dreadful to think of such a
marriage! Such a sacrifice! And he was sincere, too, for the moment, for
thought of the Major as he had last seen him, while he looked on the
blooming, youthful face before him; and never had Crescenz looked so
pretty! A few commonplace expressions of admiration were received with
such evident pleasure, that Hamilton found the temptation more than he
could withstand, and from admiration glided almost imperceptibly into a
most absurd, but rather indefinite, declaration of love. The words,
however, had scarcely passed his limps before he became conscious of his
folly. His dismay is not to be described, when Crescenz, cover with
blushes, confessed that she had loved him from the commencement of their
acquaintance, and added, that she was willing, for his sake, to brave
both her father and mother’s anger by dismissing Major Schultz!
Hamilton was perfectly thunderstruck, and for some moments quite
incapable of uttering a syllable; as soon, however, as he could collect
this thoughts, he began, in a constrained voice, and with a manner as
agitated as her own, to explain that he was a younger son, totally
dependent on his father, and that he could not, by any possible chance,
think of marrying for at least then or twelve years.
Crescenz looked at him for a moment reproachfully, and then, covering
her face with her hands, burst into tears.
Hamilton had never been so angry with himself as at that moment; his
fault was, indeed, unpardonable, and he felt that Crescenz was right
when she pushed him from her, and refused to listen to his excuses. The
fact was, he had never thought she cared more for him than for any other
person willing to pay her attention; and she had appeared so perfectly
happy the day before—nay, that very day—that he had naturally imagined
her now quite satisfied with her future prospects, and had expected her
to understand what he had said more as a tribute to her youth and beauty
than as a serious proposal, the more so, as he had not made the most
distant allusion to marriage in all that he had said. He now walked
sorrowfully after the weeping girl, whose secret he had learned by such
unwarrantable thoughtlessness. It was in vain that he tried to exculpate
himself, by thinking she was an arrant flirt, and would soon forget him;
he began seriously to doubt her being one; everything in her manner that
had led to that conclusion could now be interpreted otherwise; her
receiving Major Stultz’s presents, and her apparent contentment, might
have been affected to provoke his jealousy; her sister’s words in the
cloisters confirmed this idea. He did not give her credit for sufficient
intellect to feel annoyed at having “told her love,” but even that
consolation was denied him; for on distantly hinting that it was
unnecessary any person should ever be made acquainted with their late
conversation, she wrung her hands, and exclaimed bitterly:
“Oh, how could I be such a fool as to betray myself so?”
They walked on long in silence; but Crescenz was too good and gentle to
be inexorable, and before the end of their walk he had obtained pardon
and a promise of secrecy—the latter without difficulty, as she
innocently confessed she was equally afraid of her mother’s anger and
her sister’s contempt.
They reached the alp, both totally out of spirits. Crescenz’s melancholy
face was a sort of reproach from which Hamilton would gladly have
escaped; and he now heartily repented his having made an engagement with
Madame Rosenberg. Until Crescenz’s marriage had taken place he saw no
chance of peace of mind or enjoyment of any kind, and many were the vows
he internally made to be more circumspect in future.
“Come, Hamilton, you must look at the sunset,” cried Zedwitz, seizing
his arm and leading him away. He was in oppressively high spirits, and
talked on without waiting for an answer, or even perceiving that his
companion paid no sort of attention to what he said. They stood on the
top of the alp; behind, and on each side of them, forming a sort of
crescent, were mountains of every possible form, from the gigantic rocky
peaks on which the snow lay, to the richly wooded mountain and green
alp; with mountains, valleys, forests, rivers, lakes, towns, villages,
in view; more than it was possible for the eye at once to enclose or the
mind to comprehend.
Hildegarde and Crescenz joined them as the evening-prayer bell tolled.
At Seon this bell had generally been tolled while they had been at
supper. The clatter of knives and forks and tongues had instantly
ceased, and an awful stillness had taken place, which had not been
broken by word or movement until the last sound of the bell had died
away; when, as if a spell had been broken, each person had wished his
neighbour a good evening, and renewed, with increased vigour, the
interrupted occupation. It had always struck Hamilton as something very
Mohammedan-like, this praying to the sound of a bell, especially when it
occurred in the midst of conversation, where the difficulty of
commanding the thoughts must be tenfold increased. Not so did it appear
to him this evening; as village after village and every church-spire far
and near sent their tranquil chimes over the plain, a feeling of
enthusiastic devotion was irrepressible; it seemed as if the solemn
tones, on reaching the mountains, paused to vibrate in the air while
they collected the prayers which they were about to bear to heaven on a
thousand echoes. Zedwitz stood with his head uncovered and arms folded;
Crescenz clasped her hands and moved her lips in prayer. Hildegarde’s
eyes were fixed so steadfastly on the golden clouds above her, that it
was impossible not to think that at the moment she wished for the “wings
of a dove to flee away and be at rest.” A messenger from the _châlet_
waited respectfully for the last sound to die away in the distance
before he summoned them to supper. The interruption was unwelcome to
them all; but before they descended it was agreed that they should
return again with the guides and make a bonfire. They found Madame
Rosenberg, as usual, bustling about, ordering and directing everybody
and everything; Fritz and Gustle stealing cake and sugar; and Major
Stultz, who seemed to have but lately arrived, was sitting in his
shirt-sleeves, wistfully eyeing a glass of beer which he was afraid to
drink in his state of heat, while to hurry the operation of cooling, he
was fanning himself with a red and yellow pocket-handkerchief. Hamilton
glanced towards Crescenz, but as their eyes met he regretted that he had
done so, and determined that nothing should induce him to look either at
her or Major Stultz for a long time again. Something, however, he must
seek to interest him, and he turned towards Hildegarde. A more dangerous
study he could scarcely have found. She was seated on the grass, outside
the door of the wooden pavilion, beside her brothers, and, for the first
time since he had known her, seemed occupied with them. There was a
quiet avoidance of Zedwitz on her part, which, in contrast to the
coquetry of her sister, particularly interested Hamilton. This scarcely
perceptible avoidance was, however, unnoticed. Zedwitz was too
completely wrapt up in admiration, and had eyes and ears for her alone.
Weariness prolonged the meal, and twilight was deepening into night
before they thought of moving. Madame Rosenberg and Major Stultz said at
length that it was time to retire to rest; the others remembered that
they intended to make a fire on the top of the hill, and insisted on
putting their plan into execution. Major Stultz, afraid to oppose,
followed Crescenz; the guides were put in requisition, and in a short
time everyone was collecting wood and piling it in a heap.
The fire burned brightly, and coloured picturesquely the different
members of the party, as they lay dispersed around, some seated on the
stumps of trees, others extended on the grass; all weary, yet all
interested in their novel situation. Hamilton, apart from the others,
looked on without mixing in the careless conversation which was kept up.
It was to him like a scene in a play; he understood the double plot, and
had decided on making Hildegarde the heroine; but was Zedwitz the hero
who, at the end, was to obtain her fair hand? No—unaccountably enough,
he found that to suit his plan the old count must be perfectly obdurate.
Zedwitz was to give up the affair as hopeless; and Hildegarde!
Hildegarde was to—to—remain at home; yes, that would do—an inmate still
of her father’s house; and now, unconsciously, Hamilton, from supposing
himself a spectator, became, in thought, an actor. He was also in that
house. Hildegarde was to become insensibly aware of his good qualities
and good looks—was, in fact, to become desperately in love with him! he,
all the while, stoically indifferent. A feeling of honour was to make
him explain to her, in a most interesting scene, the impossibility of
a—she—Crescenz—Zedwitz. Here the party round the fire broke up. The boys
had fallen asleep, and were now being carried by the guides to the
_châlet_. Madame Rosenberg, Hildegarde, and Crescenz followed; Major
Stultz remained to finish his pipe, and the two young men commenced
fresh cigars. They did not exchange a word until their companion had
left them, when Zedwitz, pitching his cigar into the still glowing
embers, asked abruptly,—
“Do you know where you are to sleep to-night?”
“Not I,” answered Hamilton. “But I do not expect the accommodation to be
even tolerable.”
“We are to sleep together in a hay-loft.”
“I have done that before; and for one night it does not signify; but
Major Stultz?”
“Sleeps also in the hay-loft.”
“And the boys?”
“In the hay-loft.”
“And the ladies?”
“In the hay-loft?”
“Nonsense, Zedwitz—you are joking.”
“I am perfectly serious; there is but one bed in the house, and it is so
little inviting that no one has courage to make use of it. We are all to
sleep together in the hay-loft. I rather enjoy the idea. Shall we go?”
“By all means.”
“This,” thought Hamilton, as they descended the hill together, “is
something quite out of the common course of things. I wonder what sort
of a loft it is?”
The only light in the house proceeded from the kitchen fire, which still
burned on the high, open hearth; beside it were seated one of the guides
and a peasant girl, who had come from one of the houses in the valley,
and so wrapt up were they in the evidently confidential discourse, that
they were unconscious of the presence of strangers until Zedwitz
laughingly asked the way to the hay-loft.
“This way, if you please,” said the man, looking a little embarrassed.
“Take care you don’t stumble, it is so dark.”
He was followed closely by Hamilton, and they both quietly and
cautiously mounted the somewhat rickety ladder which led to the loft,
and entered it by a trap-door. It was very full of hay, and by the light
which was sparingly admitted through the solitary gable-window, they
could see several figures stretched in different positions around them;
but they could not tell whether or not they were sleepers. Major Stultz
was alone communicative on that point—he lay with his mouth wide open,
and was snoring profoundly.
“I suppose, Hamilton, we ought to take the places near the entrance?”
whispered Zedwitz.
“I cannot bear a draught,” replied the other, moving towards the end of
the loft, where Madame Rosenberg and the children were lying. At his
approach, two figures began slowly to roll away from him; a stifled
laugh and an angry hush betrayed at once the sisters; and no sooner had
he and Zedwitz chosen their places, than they perceived a partition-wall
of hay was being built in their neighbourhood. Soon convinced that
Madame Rosenberg and the children slept, Hamilton felt greatly inclined
to commence a conversation with the two girls; but which of them should
he address? From Hildegarde he had little hope of an answer—from
Crescenz he felt that he deserved none. It was in vain he urged Zedwitz
to begin, telling him that he could not sleep; that the hay was too hot,
and the loft too cold and too uncomfortable; that he could not remain
quiet, etc., etc., etc.; his companion moved away from him, saying, in a
low voice, that he knew Hildegarde would not speak, and that he had
nothing to say to her sister. In a few minutes he, too, was fast asleep,
leaving Hamilton to compose himself as he best could. After having tried
all possible positions, he at length resigned himself to his fate, and
determined not to move again.
After half an hour’s silence, Hildegarde and her sister began to whisper
to each other.
“Is not that man’s snoring dreadful, Hildegarde? Confess he looked
odious this evening at supper, sitting in his shirt-sleeves like a
shoemaker or tailor?”
“You see him to great disadvantage in a party of this kind, dear; at
home I am sure he is quite different—and as to his snoring, you know
even papa snores sometimes.”
“I know you are determined not to see any thing that does not place him
in an advantageous light, and I only regret you did not discover his
perfections sooner—it would have saved me a world of misery!”
To this speech no answer was made, and a long pause ensued.
“Hildegarde, are you angry?” asked Crescenz, timidly.
“No; I am only tired of always hearing the same thing.”
“Forgive me, dearest, and I promise you have heard it for the last time;
but now I expect that you will give me an answer to a plain question.
You cannot pretend any longer to be blind to Count Zedwitz’s
attentions—what answer do you intend to——”
The whisperers had hitherto spoken inaudibly, but this question, from a
change of position in the speaker, distinctly reached Hamilton’s ears.
Great was his curiosity to know the answer, but without a moment’s delay
he moved and coughed. Not a sound more was heard, not a whisper even
attempted, during the whole two long hours that he still lay awake and
motionless, waiting for morning.
And when the morning came, Hamilton slept soundly; he saw not the
sisters as they passed his couch on tiptoe; he heard not the proposal of
Fritz to cover him with hay, or of Gustle to tickle him, or the
admonitions of Madame Rosenberg, and her threats of leaving them always
at home in future, should they dare now to make a noise. When he awoke
he found himself the sole occupant of the loft, and had at first some
difficulty in recollecting how he had got there. It was still very
early, and in the hope of seeing the sun rise from the top of the alp,
he hurried out into the fresh morning air. The sun was, however, beyond
the horizon, and bright day-beams already tinted the mountain-tops. A
few minutes brought him to the spot where they had all sat round the
fire the preceding evening; the charred wood marked the spot, and had
Hamilton found there the society he expected, he would probably have
taken time to have once more admired the prospect which had so delighted
him a few hours before, and which was now even more beautiful in the
distinctness of early morning; but he was a gregarious animal, and
finding himself unexpectedly alone, a hasty glance of admiration was all
he now bestowed on the diversified plain which lay beneath him, and
then, with hasty steps, he retraced his way to the _châlet_. One of the
guides met him at the door, and informed him that Madame Rosenberg and
the others had been gone some time, and were to dress and breakfast at
the farm-house where they had left the carriage. A short time sufficed
to enable him to overtake the last detachment, consisting of Madame
Rosenberg, Crescenz, and Major Stultz, and they pursued their way
leisurely together. Hildegarde had been sent on before to order
breakfast, and on finding that Zedwitz intended to accompany her, had
taken her two brothers. On reaching the farm-house, they found her
busily occupied at a table placed under the trees, preparing bread and
milk for the children—Zedwitz officiously assisting her.
“What! are you already dressed for Salzburg, Hildegarde?” cried Madame
Rosenberg. “You must have walked very quickly; I hope the boys are not
overheated!” and she carefully placed her hand on their foreheads to
ascertain the fact.
“Oh, mamma,” cried Fritz, boastingly, “we could have walked much faster!
We could have been down the mountain in half the time! It was Zedwitz
who was tired; he wanted us twice to rest on the way.”
“It would have been better than running the risk of giving the children
colds,” observed Madame Rosenberg, glancing towards Hildegarde.
“Oh, we did not wish to rest, or Hildegarde, either, though Zedwitz said
he had ever so much to say to her.”
“Indeed!” cried his mother, looking inquisitively from one to the other;
“indeed!” She turned to Hamilton, who stood beside her, and whispered,
“I shall not be five minutes dressing; you will greatly oblige me by
remaining here until I return.”
Hamilton made no answer; waited, however, only until she was fairly out
of sight, and then, nodding good-humouredly to Zedwitz, walked into the
house. Madame Rosenberg’s ideas of five minutes for dressing were not
very defined. She was one of those persons who, at home the most
incorrigible of slatterns, when they go out make it a point to be almost
overdressed. Hamilton, Crescenz, and Major Stultz had long been waiting
for her before she appeared, and to begin breakfast without her would
have been an unpardonable offence. The delays seemed to have no end,
for, as she approached the table, Zedwitz, who had been standing apart,
went towards her and requested to speak a few words to her alone. Major
Stultz proposed waiting until after breakfast, but Zedwitz persisted in
his request with a seriousness which scarcely admitted of a refusal, and
the audience was accordingly granted. Hamilton wished to look at
Hildegarde, but he refrained: had he done so, his conjectures might have
taken another turn, for surely had Hildegarde imagined herself the
subject of conversation, she could not have leaned so calmly on her
elbow without exhibiting the slightest particle of emotion! Crescenz did
not seem to think her sister’s imperturbability a conclusive
argument—her eyes anxiously followed her step-mother’s form, and nothing
but the shortness of the conference and ocular demonstration that they
were simply arranging accounts, could have convinced her that she had
been mistaken in her supposition that Zedwitz was formally asking
permission to pay his addresses to her sister. She had dressed in a room
at the front of the house, and from the window had seen them standing at
the spring together. Zedwitz had spoken long and eagerly, and Hildegarde
had apparently listened very calmly, but with evident interest, to what
he had said. Her answer was short and decided, and she had left him
abruptly to interfere between her brothers, who were flinging the
remains of their bread and milk at each other. It had cost both sisters
considerable trouble to purify their garments before their mother saw
them.
A small carriage was now drawn up to the front of the house, and a
youthful peasant led out a young, strong-built gray horse, and began to
arrange the harness. Zedwitz advanced quietly towards the party, and
surprised them not a little by saying that he was about to take leave of
them—he did not feel well, and would return to Seon.
“You are ill!” cried Hamilton, starting up from the bench where he had
been reclining; “you are ill, and think of returning alone!—that must
not be allowed. I am quite ready to accompany you.”
“It is not necessary,” replied Zedwitz, laying his hand heavily on his
arm, while he continued to take leave of the others, and hoped their
tour might prove in every respect agreeable. “The fact is,” he said,
drawing Hamilton towards the little carriage, which it appeared had been
got ready for him; “the fact is, I am ill in mind, but not in body.
Hildegarde has refused my suit so decidedly that I dare not renew it.
The best thing I can now do is to return to Seon, and perhaps I may
arrive in time to prevent my sister from speaking to my father. My rash
haste may have injured my cause. How could I expect her to get
accustomed to my ugliness and to care for me in so short a time?”
“I think,” said Hamilton, “it is more than probable that her fear of the
opposition of your family may have caused her refusal.”
“Not a bit of it; she never referred to my family, nor, indeed, had I
time to mention them. She said she liked me very well as an
acquaintance, but nothing more; she was sorry if her manner had led me
to think otherwise. Now I was obliged, in justice, to exonerate her from
even a shadow of coquetry, which in this case was disagreeable, as it
was tantamount to charging myself with egregious vanity; but the most
annoying and disheartening thing in the whole business was her coolness
and decision of manner; it led me at once to form the conclusion that I
was not the first person who had spoken to her on the same subject. Do
you think it possible that her affections are already engaged?”
“I neither think it possible nor even probable. Why, she has not left
school more than two months.”
“Her sister left school at the same time, is a year younger, and yet has
contrived to fall in love with you, and to promise to marry another in
exactly half the time,” said Zedwitz, bitterly.
“Pray do not imagine anything of that kind,” said Hamilton, colouring
deeply; “she is merely one of those soft, yielding sort of beings, who,
with a more than sufficiency of vanity and coquetry in their nature, are
ready to fancy themselves and others in love without rightly knowing
what the feeling is. This Hildegarde is worth a hundred such. I like her
decision of character, and she is certainly very handsome.”
“Handsome! she is perfectly beautiful!” cried Zedwitz; “and I am
convinced she is as amiable as beautiful!”
“If you are convinced of _that_, you are very wrong to give her up as
you are doing. Try what time and perseverance will do.”
“My dear Hamilton, if you had spoken to her, if you had even seen her
when I pleaded my cause, you would think differently. When we meet
again, it will be as common acquaintances. But every moment is precious,
and I must now be off. I shall take post-horses at the next town, and
hope to reach Seon in the afternoon. I hope most sincerely that my
sister has had no opportunity of speaking to my father. I shall scarcely
be at Seon when you return; but you know my address in Munich, and I
shall expect to see you directly you arrive there. Adieu!”
He sprang into the carriage, bowed to the occupants of the
breakfast-table, and drove off, while Hamilton, leaning against the door
of the house, looked after him. “So,” he thought, “this is the man I
fancied full of German romance and enthusiasm! Why, my brother John
could not have resigned himself to his fate more easily; but then he
would have made a parade of his indifference. Englishmen are fond of
doing so, while Germans, I suspect, are disposed to pretend to more
feeling than they possess. Yet, after all, what could he have done?
Shoot himself, like Werter? Absurd? What should I have done? I have not
the most remote idea; but, then, I have never got beyond temporary
admiration for anyone. Very odd, too. Jack says he was in love before he
was twelve years old. Precocious fellow! Zedwitz was right the other day
when he said that my feelings and ideas were not those of a man of my
time of life. However, I flatter myself that what I have lost in what he
calls freshness of feeling, I have gained in other respects, and can
now, in spite of my youth, calmly contemplate what is going on about me,
while Zedwitz, so many years my senior, has been acting with all the
rash impetuosity of a boy.”
In all the proud consciousness of premature knowledge of the world,
Hamilton seated himself at the breakfast-table, and allowed Madame
Rosenberg to pour out his coffee, and wonder without interruption what
could be the matter with the Count, who, she insisted, had been quite
well all the morning. His eyes glanced mischievously towards Hildegarde,
but she apparently did not observe it. Madame Rosenberg now began
deliberately to pack up the remaining sugar in her reticule. Half an
hour later they were seated in the _char-à-banc_ on their way to
Salzburg. Zedwitz’s absence was greatly felt, for he was cheerful and
good-natured. Hamilton had determined not even to look at Crescenz,
while Hildegarde appeared to have formed the same resolution with regard
to him. A sort of discontent seemed to pervade the whole party for some
time, but by degrees it yielded to the beauty of the scenery. Madame
Rosenberg, having once spent some months at Salzburg, was now able to
name each mountain as it appeared in the fore-ground, or made itself
remarkable by its form in the distance. But the Untersberg interested
her two sons more than anything else. This mountain, which here rises
abruptly out of Walser fields, and is of enormous extent, was, she told
them, the prison and tomb of Frederick Barbarossa, or, as the peasants
said, of Charlemagne. The questions and answers on this fruitful subject
lasted until they reached Salzburg.
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