THE JOURNEY HOME COMMENCES.
HAMILTON left Munich the next day in the mail for Frankfort; he had
secured the place beside the conductor in the front part of the coach,
which formed a kind of open carriage, and where he intended to smoke,
and think, and sleep undisturbed. His late conversation with Crescenz
had made a deep impression on him; it had again filled his mind with
doubts and fears, which deprived him of his habitual cheerfulness, while
his usual source of amusement when travelling—studying the characters or
foibles of his companions—had lost all interest for him. He did not ask
the name or condition of any one of the persons with whom he moved under
the same roof a whole night and two days, and no one contradicted the
young student, who, on leaving at Wurtzburg, observed with a glance
towards Hamilton, “As unsociable a fellow as ever I met! A thorough
Englishman!”
He wandered about the streets until the coach was again ready to start,
and then, although the weather had completely cleared up, and the
country, refreshed by the rain, was by no means uninteresting, he sunk
back into his corner, and overpowered by weariness, fell fast asleep.
When he awoke it was quite dark, and as he raised himself slowly from
his slumbers, the conductor called out, “Halt!—who is booked for
Aschaffenburg? Who gets out here?”
Some passenger from the inside of the coach spoke, and Hamilton asked,
“Is there a good hotel here?”
“Very good.”
“Then let me out—my legs are cramped, and my head and shoulders battered
and bruised. I say, Hans, you can go on to Frankfort, and bespeak rooms
for me at the Hotel d’Angleterre. Give me my carpet-bag and
dressing-case, as fast as you can,” and Hamilton was stamping his feet
on the ground with a feeling of relief amounting to pleasure, when a man
with a lantern came up to him and demanded his passport.
“My passport?—directly—I shall be in Frankfort about twelve o’clock
to-morrow, Hans,” cried Hamilton, as the coach drove off; and having
delivered up his passport, he watched the man with the lantern enter an
adjacent house, saw the light pass from one window to the other, until
it finally disappeared, and all was dark.
“This is pleasant,” he said, looking around him, “and I don’t know the
way to the hotel, or even the name of it!”
“I am here sir, with a wheelbarrow for the luggage,” said a voice near
him, and Hamilton’s eyes now becoming accustomed to the darkness, he
perceived a man standing close to him, and a dark figure at a little
distance sitting among some trunks and boxes.
“Can you show me the way to the best hotel?” asked Hamilton.
“To be sure I can—for what else am I here every night, wet or dry!”
answered the man, good-humouredly, as he placed Hamilton’s luggage in
the wheelbarrow. “If you have no objection, sir, I’ll take the lady’s
things too.”
“By all means,” said Hamilton, looking towards the dark figure, which
now rose and endeavoured to assist the man to move a rather large trunk.
“Allow me,” said Hamilton, instantly taking her place; and everything
was soon arranged.
“Thank you a thousand times,” whispered the lady, placing her arm within
his almost familiarly; and Hamilton, half surprised, half amused, looked
somewhat curiously at his companion as she afterwards unreservedly drew
closer to him, and at last clasped her small well-gloved hands over his
arm. They followed for some minutes in silence the man with the
wheelbarrow, who trudged on before them whistling; but as they drew near
to one of the miserable street lamps Hamilton leant forward and
endeavoured rather unceremoniously to peer under his companion’s bonnet;
a thick veil rendered the effort fruitless.
“You wish to see my face,” she said, in a voice that made him stop
suddenly, with an exclamation of astonishment; and when she pushed aside
her veil the flickering light played dimly over the well-known features
of Hildegarde.
And where were Hamilton’s doubts and fears at that
moment?—removed?—dispersed? No; but they were dormant—sleeping as
soundly, perhaps as uneasily, as he had been doing about an hour before.
He scarcely understood Hildegarde, as with repeated assurances that she
was very, very glad to see him again, she incoherently related that she
had travelled to Wurtzburg with some friends of Mademoiselle Hortense’s;
they had been very kind, and had insisted on her remaining with them a
couple of days, to recover from the fatigue of her night journey; that
they had accompanied her to the coach, and advised her to sleep at
Aschaffenburg; that she had recognised Hamilton’s voice when speaking to
Hans, had seen his face when the man demanded his passport, “And then,”
she added, “I knew that all my difficulties about travelling were at an
end; so I sat down on my trunk and waited to see when you would
recognise me!”
“How could I recognise your voice when you whispered, or your face, when
covered with that impervious veil? Indeed, it is impossible to see
anything at a few feet distance from these lamps, which seem but
intended to make the ‘darkness visible.’ The moment you spoke I knew
you.”
“That I expected,” said Hildegarde; “otherwise I should have been
tempted to preserve my incognito a little longer.”
“I am very glad you did not—but where is the man with our bags and
boxes?” he cried, looking round. He was no longer visible, though they
could still indistinctly hear the sound of the jogging of the
wheelbarrow over the rough paving-stones in the distance. With a merry
laugh they ran together down the street, and overtook him just as he
rolled his clumsy little vehicle under an archway, lighted by two
handsome lamps, and where their arrival was immediately announced by the
ringing of a large bell.
They reached Frankfort the next day, just in time to dine at the _table
d’hôte_; but Hildegarde’s appearance caused so many inquiries, that
Hamilton followed her to her room to advise her not dining there in
future.
“I shall scarcely be here to-morrow,” she said, pushing back her bonnet,
while she rummaged a little writing-desk for some paper. “Oh! here it
is,” she added, “Hortense’s letter of introduction. I am sure you will
be so kind as to go with me to find out the house of this lady—this
Baroness Waldorf!”
“Who?” cried Hamilton.
“Baroness Waldorf.”
“Why did you not tell me it was to her you were going?”
“Because I did not think it could interest you in any way—I never heard
you speak of her. Have you seen her? Do you know anything about her?”
“I met her at Edelhof—Zedwitz is guardian to her daughter.”
“Oh, tell me something about her,” cried Hildegarde, eagerly, to
Hamilton’s surprise quite indifferent to the latter part of his speech.
“Tell me all you know about her. Is she a person to whom I am likely to
become attached?”
“I don’t know—I rather think not. Oh, Hildegarde, let me advise you, as
a friend, to give up this plan altogether, and go back to your
step-mother—If you would only listen to me patiently for ten minutes——”
“I cannot listen to you,” said Hildegarde, interrupting him, “for I have
made an engagement—a promise to remain a whole year, under all
circumstances, with the Baroness Waldorf. She would not make any other
sort of agreement, as she is going to Florence for the winter. She alone
can release me from this promise—but I cannot say I wish it, as I rather
enjoy the idea of going to Italy.”
“Under other circumstances I could easily imagine it.”
“And under what other circumstances am I likely to see Italy—or even the
Rhine, near as it now is to me?”
Hamilton was silent.
“Let us go,” said Hildegarde, taking up her gloves. “You will not, I am
sure, try to dissuade me any longer, when I tell you that I cannot
endure the life I should have to lead at the Iron Works; my habits and
education have unfortunately made me totally unfit for it. I have made
the trial, and must now with regret confess that the details of domestic
life are not only tiresome, but absolutely disgusting to me.”
“So, then,” said Hamilton, “you have discovered that riches are
necessary to your happiness?”
“Not exactly riches,” replied Hildegarde, little aware of the importance
attached to her answer, “but something beyond the actual means of
subsistence—enough at least to insure me from the vulgar cares of life,
and to enable me to associate with people whose habits and manners are
similar to mine.”
“And how much would be necessary for this?” asked Hamilton, gravely.
“Oh, indeed I don’t know,” she answered carelessly, laughing, “nor is it
necessary to calculate. That I have it not is certain; and in being a
governess I see the only means of satisfying my wishes at present, and
securing a competence hereafter. If I remain ten years with the Baroness
Waldorf, I shall receive a pension for the rest of my life.”
“And do you think you could not endure these vulgar cares of life, as
you call them, even with a person you loved?” asked Hamilton, still more
earnestly.
“I shall never be tried in that way,” answered Hildegarde firmly, and
while she walked on, wholly occupied with her immediate concerns,
Hamilton altogether misunderstanding the meaning of her words, concluded
she referred to a marriage with Zedwitz at some future period. Thus
unconsciously tormenting each other, they reached the Baroness Waldorf’s
house, and finding a burly porter lounging outside the door, they asked
if she was at home.
“No—she was not—she had gone to Mayence.”
“And when is she expected to return?” asked Hildegarde, anxiously.
“We do not in the least know, Mademoiselle, she left very suddenly, in
consequence of a letter which she received. She is sometimes not more
than a few days absent, and most of the carriages and horses are still
here. Who shall I say——?”
“It is of no consequence,” said Hamilton, “we merely wished to know if a
young lady from Munich was not expected about this time?”
The man said he would inquire, entered the house, but returned almost
directly, saying, that no one was expected, excepting perhaps Count
Zedwitz on his way home.
Hamilton and Hildegarde walked on together for some minutes in silence;
at length the latter observed, half inquiringly, “I suppose I have no
right to be offended with this Baroness Waldorf? It must have been
urgent business which could make her leave Frankfort just when she
appointed me to be here?”
“I should think so,” said Hamilton, “but she might have made some
arrangement for your reception during her absence. This thoughtlessness
about you will scarcely prepossess you in her favour.”
“Rich people are seldom considerate,” began Hildegarde, as if she
intended to moralise; but suddenly stopping, she added: “You are
right—she has placed me in a very unpleasant position—if she do not
return in a day or two, I shall neither have the means of remaining here
nor returning home.”
“Our fortunate meeting at Aschaffenburg,” said Hamilton, “will save you
from all annoyances of that description, as you know I can arrange
everything with your mother. At all events, I shall not leave you now
until you are either at home again or residing with this—to say the
least—very thoughtless person.”
“But will not delay inconvenience you?” asked Hildegarde.
“Not in the least. As far as I am concerned I should be glad that the
Baroness would not return for six weeks! All places are alike to me
where you are; and much as we were together at the Iron Works, you have
more time to bestow on me here; and therefore I am proportionably
happier.”
This kind of speech she never answered; and after a short pause Hamilton
proposed showing her the gardens which surrounded the town, and in their
shady walks they wandered until evening.
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