The Initials. Baroness Jemima Montgomery Tautphoeus
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,