WHAT OCCURRED AT THE HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE FRANKFORT.
THE next day after dinner, while Hamilton went to his banker’s,
Hildegarde looked out of her window, and watched, with a sort of quiet
indifference, the arrival of two travelling carriages at the hotel. Out
of the first sprang a tall large man, who, merely raising two fingers to
his travelling cap by way of salutation, instantly disappeared—and even
while the heated and tired horses were still being led up and down the
yard others were brought out, and the servant, after great bustling and
hurrying, followed his master into the hotel. Again the cracking of the
whips and ringing of bells became audible, and another and larger
carriage arrived—decidedly English. The well-built vehicle swung easily
with all its weight of imperials and servants’ seats behind, and out of
it stepped a tall, thin gentleman, with a grey hat, a grey coat, grey
trousers, grey gaiters, and grey whiskers! An elderly lady followed, her
face half concealed by her pendent lace veil, and two young and pretty
girls stopped for a moment to inspect the building they were about to
enter. Hildegarde looked at her watch, it was the hour that Hamilton
told her he would return, so she locked her door, and began slowly to
walk along the corridor and descend the stairs. The English family were
just turning into a large suite of rooms on the first floor as she
passed—the gentleman in grey had stopped at the door, his hat fast on
his head; he turned to his wife, who was entering, and observed, quite
loud enough for Hildegarde to hear, “By Jove, that’s the handsomest girl
I have seen for a long time!” The lady turned round and deliberately
raised her _lorgnette_ to her eye, while their two daughters, after a
hasty glance, exclaimed, “Oh, papa, I really do think she understood
you.” Hildegarde walked quickly on, but met so many servants and
strangers that she took refuge at last in the large dining-room, which
at that hour was generally quite unoccupied.
One solitary individual sat at the enormous table. He seemed to have
been dining, and Hildegarde walked to one of the windows without looking
at him. Soon after she heard him striding up and down the room, and as
the waiter entered with some fruit and _confitures_, he asked rather
impatiently, “Has my servant not yet dined? Tell him to make haste—he
knows we have no time to lose.”
The voice was familiar to Hildegarde, she unconsciously turned round to
look at the speaker, and was instantly recognised by Count Zedwitz, who,
with a look of astonishment, hurried toward her, exclaiming,
“Mademoiselle Rosenberg! What on earth has brought you to Frankfort?”
“I came here intending to go to a Baroness Waldorf as governess to her
daughter—she has gone to Mayence, I hear, and——”
“And you are here alone, unprotected, and I cannot offer to stay with
you—I do not know if you have heard that my father is dying—no hope
whatever of his recovery; I only received the intelligence yesterday,
and am now travelling night and day to reach home in time to see him
once more!”
At this moment the servant entered to say that the carriage was ready.
“Very well: you may go—and—shut the door—Hildegarde, I mean Mademoiselle
Rosenberg—do not remain here. Give up this idea of going to Ida Waldorf;
it will never answer—believe me you will be most unhappy!”
“It must answer,” said Hildegarde, “and I shall not be unhappy, for the
idea of being a governess is familiar to me from my infancy, and has
therefore lost all its terrors.”
“Excuse my questioning you,” cried Zedwitz quickly, “but may I ask how
you happen to become acquainted with the Baroness Waldorf?”
“I do not know her at all—I never saw her—it was all arranged by
Mademoiselle Hortense, one of the governesses of our school.”
“Did the Baroness Waldorf know your name?” asked Zedwitz, eagerly.
“At first, perhaps not,” answered Hildegarde, with a look of surprise,
“but in the letter which told her that I had left Munich, Mademoiselle
Hortense must have mentioned it—I should think my name a matter of very
little importance!”
“In this instance, you are mistaken—I—I fear the Baroness is not likely
to return for some time—I——”
“Her servant said she would not be long absent—that her leaving was
quite a sudden thing,” observed Hildegarde.
“Her leaving when she expected you was unpardonable, cruel, ungenerous!”
exclaimed Zedwitz, vehemently.
“I was rather shocked at first myself, but I afterwards thought she had
not perhaps received the letter in time——”
“She did receive it, I am sure she did—it was the letter which—Oh,
Mademoiselle Rosenberg, do not remain here any longer—return to your
relations, return with me now—at once.”
Hildegarde blushed intensely.
“I shall send my servant with the carriage,” he added quickly, “and we
can travel in the diligence, or in any way you please.”
“You are very kind,” said Hildegarde, “but I consider myself engaged to
this Baroness Waldorf, and until I hear from her——”
“You will not hear from her, you will never hear from her!” he cried,
impatiently, “and I must leave you; I cannot, dare not delay my return
home now!”
Again Hildegarde blushed, she endeavoured to name Hamilton, but the
words died on her lips, and her confusion increased every moment. Some
people began to stray into the room, and Zedwitz added in an agitated
whisper: “God forgive me for thinking of anything but my father when he
is lying on his death-bed; the peculiarity of our position must be my
excuse for telling you at such a time, that my feelings toward you are
unchanged, unchangeable. Return to your family, and let me hope that
time may so far overcome your dislike, or indifference, whichever it
be——”
“Oh, Count Zedwitz, it is neither,” said Hildegarde, with evident
effort. “I should be unworthy of such regard as you feel for me, were I
not now to tell you that—I have—long—loved another.”
“Hamilton of course—I always feared it.”
Hildegarde was silent.
“If you are engaged to him, tell me so; it is the only means of
effectually crushing all my hopes at once!”
“We have no engagement, he cannot enter into any; he does not even know
that I regard him otherwise than as a friend!”
“Then listen to me, Hildegarde: notwithstanding all the admiration, all
the love which he undoubtedly feels for you now—when he has been some
time at home among the friends and companions of his youth—he will
forget you!”
“I think he will,” said Hildegarde with a deep sigh.
“And you too will forget this youthful fancy,” continued Zedwitz.
“Youthful fancy!” she repeated slowly, “I fear I have neither youthful
fancies nor youthful feelings; I have had no youth!”
“It will come like a late spring, and bestow on you at once those
blessings which others receive so gradually, that they are insensible to
them.”
Hildegarde shook her head and turned to the window. Zedwitz seemed to
wish to say something which embarrassed him. “In case you should find
this hotel more expensive than you expected,” he began in an hesitating
manner.
“Oh, not at all expensive,” said Hildegarde. “I had no idea one could
live so cheaply at such a place!”
Zedwitz looked surprised; he would have been more so if he had seen the
bill which she had paid Hamilton with such childish satisfaction a
couple of hours before. It is needless to say that it had been written
by him, as soon as he had discovered that she had not the most remote
idea of the expenses of travelling, that he had taken advantage of her
ignorance to prevent her feeling any annoyance or uneasiness.
“I cannot tell you how unwilling I am to leave you,” said Zedwitz, after
a pause; “but go I must. Until we meet again, let me indulge the hope
that a time may come——”
Just at that moment the hotel-keeper entered the room and approached the
window where they were standing. Zedwitz turned round, and Hildegarde in
her anxiety to undeceive him, and fearing he was leaving her under a
false impression, stretched out her hand to detain him; the action was
misunderstood, he caught it between both his, and while she endeavoured
in vain to stammer a few words of explanation, he whispered, “Thank you
a thousand times, you do not know how even this faint ray of hope will
lighten the gloominess of my present journey!”
He then took the innkeeper aside, and spoke long and earnestly to him
about her, said he knew her family—requested him to let her know every
opportunity that might offer for a return to Munich in respectable
society—gave him his address, the name of his banker, and unlimited
credit on her account; and just as the innkeeper, with an only half
suppressed smile of amusement, was about to explain to him that he need
not be so uneasy about the lady, as she was already under the protection
of a young Englishman, Zedwitz, reproaching himself for the delay which
had occurred, sprang into the carriage, and a moment after it rolled
from under the archway past the window where Hildegarde still stood, a
prey to the most distressing and contending emotions.
After waiting more than half an hour longer, and Hamilton not appearing,
she retired to her room, supposing some unexpected business had detained
him; but when several hours elapsed, and he was still absent, she became
uneasy. A feeling of delicacy prevented her from making any inquiries,
and she sat at her window, long after dusk, trying to discover him in
every tall dark figure she saw moving near the entrance or in the court
below. A sensation of utter loneliness came over her, thoughts of the
most melancholy description chased each other through her mind; when,
from a reverie of this kind, she recognised the well-known quick step,
and a low knock at the door made her conscious that Hamilton was near;
all the painful reminiscences—uncertainties—Zedwitz—everything, was in a
moment forgotten; and she rose quickly and joyously from her chair to
meet him. It was too dark for Hamilton to see the tears which still
lingered in her long eyelashes, and too dark for her to observe the
flushed and irritated expression of his whole countenance.
“Shall I light the candles?” she asked cheerfully.
“If you wish it, but I prefer the room as it is.”
She sat down near him, and after a pause observed, “You were long
absent; was there any difficulty at the banker’s?”
“None whatever.” Another pause—then suddenly turning towards her, he
said quickly, “I have been thinking that as the Baroness Waldorf has a
house at Mayence, she may be longer absent than her servants supposed. A
few hours would take you to Mayence.”
“Do you think it necessary to follow her there?”
“Not exactly necessary, but why not? You have often wished to see the
Rhine.”
“Oh, it would be too delightful!” exclaimed Hildegarde.
“If you think so,” said Hamilton, every trace of annoyance disappearing
from his face, “why, the sooner we go the better.”
“But the expense,” said Hildegarde, hesitatingly.
“Will not be greater than remaining here; do not let that weigh with you
for a moment.”
“Perhaps I ought to write to my mother, or Hortense?”
“You cannot have an answer for several days, and it is better to wait
until you have seen the Baroness Waldorf; I should think whether you
were here or at Mayence must be a matter of indifference to them, and I
am sure your mother would be quite satisfied if she knew that you were
under my care!”
“That I think too,” said Hildegarde, “and I should like to put an end to
my present state of uncertainty as soon as possible. I do not,” she
continued, half laughing, “I do not feel any sort of scruples about
travelling with you; I suppose, because we have lived so long in the
same house, and I know you so well; but when Count Zedwitz to-day
proposed my returning home with him——”
“Zedwitz! To-day!” repeated Hamilton, amazed.
“Yes. In passing through Frankfort to-day, he dined and changed horses
here. I saw him for a few minutes when I was waiting for your return; he
strongly advised me not to go to the Baroness Waldorf, and seemed, oddly
enough, to think she had gone away on purpose.”
“Not impossible—not improbable. Did he explain, in any way, the cause of
his suspicions?”
“No, he had not time, his father is dying, and he is, of course, most
anxious to get home. He—he went away just as I was going to tell him
that you was here——” she stopped, embarrassed.
“Hildegarde, let us go to Mayence,” cried Hamilton, abruptly.
“As early as you please to-morrow morning,” she answered, cheerfully.
“Not to-morrow morning—this evening—in an hour—in half an hour!”
“But—but it is night—almost dark already.”
“Well, what difference does that make?”
“They told me never to travel at night; it was to avoid doing so that I
stopped at Aschaffenburg.”
“That was when you were alone, and travelling in a public carriage.”
“I do not, however, see any necessity for such haste,” she said quietly,
“and, therefore, if you have no objections, I should greatly prefer
waiting until morning.”
“But I have an objection, and you will greatly oblige me by leaving
to-night.”
“I suppose you have some very good reason for what appears to me a most
unnecessary exercise of the power which chance has given you over me?”
“I _have_ a reason,” began Hamilton, and there he stopped. How could he
tell her that he had recognised his own coat-of-arms on a carriage in
the yard—that he had questioned the _courier_, who was unpacking it, and
discovered that the same uncle who had been in Salzburg the year before,
was now on his way to Baden-Baden with his wife and daughters; that he
dreaded their discovering Hildegarde’s being with him, feared the
ungenerous conclusions they might draw from her present position; and
that, to avoid a chance meeting, he had wandered about the least
frequented streets, until the shades of evening, and the certainty of
their being engaged at the tea-table, had enabled him to pass their
apartments, with the hope of not being discovered. To attempt an
explanation with Hildegarde would be sufficient to make her insist on
his leaving her instantly; his only chance was to use his personal
influence and try to persuade her to leave Frankfort that night, before
they had been seen—before the “strangers’ book” had given rise to any
inquiries about them.
“Well,” said Hildegarde, “I have surely a right to hear your reason?”
“Right! Oh, if we talk of rights, it is you alone who should name the
day and hour of departure—you alone who have a right to dictate; but I
was asking a favour, I wish most particularly to be in Mayence at a very
early hour to-morrow.”
“And if we leave at three or four o’clock in the morning, will not that
be early enough?”
Hamilton looked only half satisfied.
“I do not like the appearance of going off at night in so sudden and
mysterious a manner—not even—with you,” said Hildegarde, candidly.
“Perhaps you are right—but at three o’clock in the morning if the
exertion be not too great.”
“Oh,” said Hildegarde, laughing, “you will find it more difficult to be
ready than I shall.”
“Not to-morrow,” said Hamilton; “I shall be at your door waiting for
you, even before the clock strikes.” And in the morning, when she opened
her door, there he stood. He unconsciously stepped lighter as he passed
the rooms containing his sleeping relations. Hildegarde pointed to them,
and said they were occupied by English people; she had seen them arrive
the day before, had passed them on her way down stairs, and, while still
talking of the grey man and the veiled lady, Hamilton hurried her into
the carriage and they drove off.
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