A German Pompadour. Hon. Marie Hay
can but obey your command to depart,' and with a profoundly respectful bow to Wilhelmine, he quitted the apartment with quiet dignity.
Frau von Grävenitz continued her fierce monologue for some time, without interruption. Wilhelmine stood watching her, till an involuntary breathless pause in her mother's torrent of words gave her the opportunity of speech. 'You have always been unjust to me, mother,' she said, in a hard, cold voice; 'and to-day you have insulted me, in the presence of one you called a stranger. Yes; Friedrich wrote, proposing that I should go and seek a more prosperous life in Wirtemberg. Yes; I told Monsieur Gabriel. Yes; he said he would give me the money for my journey. I warn you that I shall go, and it will be of no avail if you attempt to hinder me.'
'You will not go,' said Frau von Grävenitz harshly. 'The money you have earned by your dishonour I shall give to the poor.'
'It is not yours to give,' answered Wilhelmine coldly.
'We shall see,' replied her mother grimly, and commenced an undignified scramble beneath the table, as she gathered up the scattered gold pieces. When she had found all, and carefully counted it out, she placed it in an oaken cupboard, double locked the door thereof, and placed the key in her pocket, Wilhelmine watching her the while.
The evening meal was eaten in utter silence. Frau von Grävenitz superintended the washing up of the plates, knives, and forks; then going to the house door she fastened it securely, taking the key with her. While the old woman was occupied at the house door, Wilhelmine slipped up the stairs, with the noiseless tread of a cat, and abstracted the key from her mother's bedroom door, then passing to her attic she undressed, and, wrapping her bedgown round her, lay down on her bed. The stolen key she tied firmly in a knot of her hair, close to her head, well hidden by her thick curls. Having accomplished this, she feigned sleep. As she expected, her mother soon discovered the absence of the key, and after a fruitless search in her own room she stormed into Wilhelmine's attic, and accused her of having removed it. The girl looked at her from sleepy eyes, and denied all knowledge of the missing article. Frau von Grävenitz searched the room, and then bidding her daughter rise, she felt beneath her mattress and pillow. Then she ran her hand over her daughter's body, but she never thought of examining the waves of hair, under which the key was safely hidden. At length, she was satisfied that it was not in her daughter's keeping, and she retired to bed grumbling.
Wilhelmine listened attentively for some half-hour, then gently pushed aside the covering and noiselessly unlatched the door. She crept towards her mother's door and listened. For some time she heard nothing, but at length her patience was rewarded by the sound of a long, even breath, and she knew her mother was asleep. Wilhelmine returned to her apartment. Slowly and silently she resumed her clothes. Fortunately there was a moon, and the room was flooded with pale light. She did not put on boots, skirt, or cloak, but deposited these in a heap on the corridor floor. Then she approached her mother's door, and listened once more; the regular breaths were quite audible now. Softly she lifted the latch, and passed into the room. The moon was hidden for a moment, and the room was in utter darkness. She crouched, and carefully drew the door to behind her; it creaked, and Frau von Grävenitz moved in her sleep. Wilhelmine crouched lower, and taking a kerchief from her breast pushed it beneath the door, to steady it. She waited motionless till her mother's breathing told her that she was really asleep, and then, with noiseless tread, she approached the sleeper. The clouds shifted and the moon shone in, showing Frau von Grävenitz's face livid and deathlike in the luminous moonshine. The girl shuddered; it was like robbing a corpse, she thought. But her hesitation was momentary; she pushed her flexible hand beneath her mother's pillow, and her fingers closed on the cold iron of a key. She drew it out, but she felt rather than saw that it was not the one wanted. She was stretching out her hand to seek for the other key, when the sleeper stirred uneasily, murmuring some incomprehensible word, and Wilhelmine cowered down once more. The old woman turned round in bed, so that she faced the crouching girl; her face was now in shadow, and Wilhelmine could not see whether the eyes were open or shut. She waited for what seemed hours in that hunched-up position. After some time, the even breathing recommenced, and Wilhelmine ventured to kneel up beside the bed, but now a fresh difficulty confronted her: to reach the other key, provided it lay beneath the pillow, she must pass her hand under that portion of the pillow upon which Frau von Grävenitz's head rested. She wriggled her hand in, and the point of her fingers touched the key; but it was too far away for her to grasp it, and her efforts only pushed it further. She withdrew her hand, and waited till the clouds floated over the moon. When the welcome darkness came, she bent over her mother, and lifting the further edge of the pillow quickly found the key. Then she crept noiselessly to the threshold, took her kerchief, and shut the door silently. Safe in the corridor, she caught up her bundle of garments and groped her way down the stairs, which creaked under her, but she heard no movement in the house, though she listened attentively at the foot of the stairs. Swiftly she gained the dwelling-room, fitted the key into the oaken press, unlocked it, and took out the rolls of gold. In another moment she stood in the snow-covered street, the money for her journey safe in her hand.
Wilhelmine von Grävenitz had taken the first step of an extraordinary career.
CHAPTER IV
THE JOURNEY
'When the meadow glows, and the orchard snows,
And the air's with love notes teeming,
When fancies break, and the senses wake,
O, life's a dream worth dreaming.'
W. E. Henley.
A heavy, leaden sky hung over the small town of Cannstatt, and the people looked with foreboding at the lowering black clouds, and the weather-wise foretold a furious thunder-storm. For many weeks the heavens had smiled as though summer had come, though in truth the spring was but just begun, and May counted but few days. The trees of the forest were donning their leafy garments, the orchards were white and pink with apple, pear, and cherry blossom, and the young grass stood tall and feathery in an unusually early maturity. Of course the peasants grumbled, as peasants always do; they complained of the heat and shook their heads over a belated frost, which they declared must come to chastise the forwardness of the growing things; they demanded rain from the smiling blue heavens, and contemplated gloomily the tender, green shoots of the vines. But when, in answer to their prayers for rain, the sky lowered and the sun vanished, they grumbled again and spoke of the hailstones, which would come to dash the blossoms of the fruit-trees and break the young vines. All day the thunder had menaced but had not fulfilled the threat, and when evening fell the air was still heavily oppressive. A rumbling sound caused the people to run to their lattice windows and look up at the sky, wondering if the storm had come at last; but it was only the echo of carriage-wheels rolling through the mediæval archway, which led to the fields beyond the town. The diligence drew up ponderously at the door of the Hotel Zur Post, and the driver descended equally ponderously, demanding loudly a drink of good Wirtemberg wine. Meanwhile an imperious voice from the conveyance could be heard inquiring whether they had arrived at Stuttgart, and if not, where they were. No one answering this query, a hand was visible thrust out of the clumsy diligence, in an attempt to unfasten the catch which held the door firm. A bystander came forward and undid the door, and a tall woman stood on the step of the coach looking around her. As she put her foot to the ground in her further descent, a brilliant flash of forked lightning, followed immediately by a tremendous detonation of thunder, announced the storm's advent.
Rain began to fall in torrents, as though the clouds were rent asunder and poured long pent-up anger upon the world. The lady hastened to the porch of the Gasthof to seek shelter, and the driver of the coach led his tired horses under cover of a shed in the courtyard. The chief room of the inn was a cheerless apartment, long and dark, with narrow, rough wooden tables fitted round the walls. A strong, stale smell greeted the nose disagreeably. One or two peasants sat at the far end