The Initials. Baroness Jemima Montgomery Tautphoeus
now that her step-daughters were at home, to receive any but Englishmen under her roof. “They were accustomed to domestic life, to female society, and did not think it necessary to talk nonsense to every girl with whom they happened to be five minutes alone. Did he know Mr. Smith?”
Hamilton believed he knew two or three Smiths.
“I mean a Mr. Howard Seymour Smyth.”
“No;” Hamilton knew more Howards and Seymours than Smiths, he was happy in the consciousness.
“Perhaps you know Captain Black?”
“I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance.”
“He was a most delightful person; lodged with us last year; dined, however, at Havard’s table d’hôte. You will be the first who has actually become a member of the family, as I may say. I wonder what Rosenberg will think of the arrangement?”
“May I beg of you to write to him to-morrow on the subject, as I have already given a sort of commission to the Baroness Z—and——”
“Oh, dear! there’s no necessity for writing; I always arrange these things alone; you have nothing whatever to do with him!”
“In that case I may consider the affair as arranged,” said Hamilton, rising and going towards the side-table for his candle. She rose, too, and they ascended the stairs together.
“I shall do everything in my power to make you comfortable and at home in our house,” she said, when wishing him good-night.
As he entered his room, the great clock struck nine. He placed, with some natural trepidation, his candle behind the stove, and locked his door carefully, to prevent Zedwitz, should he come, from ascertaining whether he were there or not. “He will think, perhaps, that I am in bed and asleep if he get no answer,” was his wise reflection, as he dropped the key into his pocket, and commenced walking on tiptoe towards the place of appointment. A few moments’ thought convinced him that there was no necessity, whatever, for concealment, until he had reached the lower passages, where there were flower-stands, gardening tools, old doors, casks, and all sorts of lumber heaped up, as if on purpose to make places of retreat for gentlemen in his situation. He ensconced himself behind a spacious beer-barrel and waited patiently until he heard a step on the stairs. Keeping carefully in the dark, he whispered, “I am here, give me your hand.” But no hand was given; on the contrary, a scampering up stairs, three or four steps at a time, ensued, which was at first perfectly incomprehensible. Hamilton afterwards supposed that Crescenz had heard some noise in the corridor, and must wait for a better opportunity. Again he placed himself behind the friendly cask, and waited upwards of a half an hour. At the end of that time an odd, rustling noise among the lumber made him start; but muttering the word “rats,” he flung an old rake in the direction from whence it came, and all was still again. It had become so much darker that he now took up his post near the staircase, and soon after Crescenz appeared, looking timidly down into the obscurity. “I am here, do not be afraid; there is no one near,” cried Hamilton, softly advancing towards her.
“I have only come—to say—that—that I cannot come.”
Hamilton in vain endeavoured to repress a smile. “Well, come down the stairs, and at least tell me why!”
She descended a few steps.
“Well! why?”
“Because I have not courage; I am always afraid in the dark.”
“But it is not dark in the cloisters; there is the most beautiful moonlight imaginable! Come.”
“Would not to-morrow at six o’clock, in the garden, do as well?”
“I cannot hear you,” answered Hamilton, becoming suddenly deaf; “and you had better not speak too distinctly, as you may be heard by some one crossing the passage.”
“To-morrow morning in the garden,” she softly repeated, descending close to where he stood.
“I have been waiting nearly an hour!” was the answer which he gave, in order to change her thoughts.
“I could not help it; Hildegarde has only just fallen asleep.”
“We must not remain here, or we shall certainly be overheard. Come,” he whispered, drawing her arm within his.
“I cannot—I cannot—to-morrow before breakfast, or when you will; but not now. Let me go! oh, let me go!”
And he would have let her go; but the thoughts of Zedwitz’s raillery made him resolute. His first thought was to carry her off; but that appearing too strong a measure, he contented himself with holding her hand fast while pouring forth a volley of reproaches.
“And now,” he concluded with an affectation of reasoning, “now that you are so far, why retreat? Everyone is in bed; no human being in the cloisters. I ask but five minutes, but I would speak with you alone—unrestrained.”
And while he was speaking he had contrived to make her move along the passage. A moment after, they had reached the quadrangle, and stood in silent admiration of the calm seclusion of the spot. The echo of their footsteps was the only sound they heard; and the bright moonbeams not only lighted the monuments erected against the wall, but rendered almost legible the epitaphs of those whose tombstones composed the pavement.
He led Crescenz to a seat near the monument to the founder of the monastery, Count Aribo, and waited for her to speak; she had, however, no inclination to begin, but sat in a deep revery, looking fixedly on the ground; and, as it seemed, more inclined to be sentimental than communicative.
Hamilton, more conscious than she was of the impropriety of her situation, and fearing that they might be seen by some of the servants, at length exclaimed, with some impatience:
“Do not let us lose these precious moments, but tell me at once what has occurred.”
Crescenz became agitated, covered her face with her hands, but remained silent.
“For heaven’s sake tell me what is the matter?”
“I am very, very unhappy!” sobbed the poor girl.
“But why—why are you unhappy?”
“Because I—I am going to be married!”
“Married!—To whom are you going to be married?”
“To—to Major Stultz.”
“Major Stultz!—Why, this must be a very sudden business, indeed. Before I left Seon he seemed much more inclined to marry your sister than you!”
“Oh, of course he would rather have Hildegarde, because she is so much cleverer and handsomer than I am; but she would not listen to him, and called him an old fool!”
“I admire her candour,” said Hamilton.
“And then she got into a passion when he persevered, and slapped him on the mouth!”
“Slapped him on the mouth!”
“Yes, when he attempted to kiss her hand; at least he says so; and Hildegarde thinks it may be true, as she was angry and struggled very hard to release her hand. He told mamma that he would not marry her now if she were ten times handsomer, and a princess into the bargain!”
“She seems of rather a passionate temperament.”
“Passionate! yes, she sometimes gets into a passion, but it is soon over, and then she can be so kind to those she loves! No one knows her so well as I do, excepting, perhaps, papa, and he says, if she were not passionate, she would be faultless; with me she is never in a passion.”
“Perhaps because you yield implicit obedience to all her commands? But tell me why did not you follow her example, and refuse Major Stultz, if you did not like him?”
“He did not ask me, he spoke to mamma, and wrote to papa; and when all was arranged, I had not courage to refuse; and he is forty-six years old, and I shall not be sixteen until