The Initials. Baroness Jemima Montgomery Tautphoeus
“If he could change his appearance to please you, I have no doubt he would do so,” observed Hamilton, smiling.
“Hildegarde also dislikes red-faced men,” she added, pettishly.
“Whatever Hildegarde says must be right, of course,” said Hamilton, ironically; “but I have not discovered that she dislikes Count Zedwitz, and he rather comes under the denomination red-faced.”
“Hildegarde says Count Zedwitz is very agreeable, and not in the least presuming.”
“And who does she say is presuming, if I may ask?”
“She says you are—or would be, if you were allowed.”
“I think she is wrong. And were she to meet Zedwitz here alone——”
“Hildegarde would never do such a thing—never! And I ought not to have come, either,” she cried, starting from her seat and looking anxiously round. Then, laying her hand heavily on his arm, and straining her eyes as if to see something more distinctly, she asked, in a scarcely audible voice, “What is that?”
“What?—I see nothing.”
“There—there—in the corner! The moon’s shining on it now—that figure.”
“Oh, that is a stone figure—a monument, or something of that sort. Let us go and look at it.”
“Not for the universe—I saw it move.”
“You fancied it moved; one can imagine all sorts of things by moonlight. Will you remain here and let me examine it?”
“Oh, no—you must not leave me! I—I think it may be something unearthly. Oh, why did I come here?—why did I come here?”
“Don’t be unnecessarily alarmed; I am convinced it is nothing but——”
“There, there—it moved again!” She grasped his arm and hid her face on his shoulder.
“Come,” said Hamilton, encouragingly; “let me take you to your room—to your sister.”
She trembled violently, but endeavoured to walk. The figure, however, seemed to possess the power of fascination—she would or could not remove her eyes from it; and though Hamilton assured her he remembered having seen it by daylight, and at first really thought so, he was soon unpleasantly convinced of his error. They saw the outline more and more distinctly every moment—could even distinguish the large folds of the drapery in the moonlight. Hamilton tried to hurry her forward; but at that moment the figure, slowly and stiffly raising an arm, pointed threateningly towards them. This was the acme. Crescenz clung to him in an agony of terror, and while Hamilton whispered to her, “For heaven’s sake, not to scream—to think of the consequences were she to be discovered,” she writhed as if in strong convulsions, gasped frightfully once or twice for breath, and then sank on his arm perfectly insensible.
Shocked beyond measure, but now convinced that someone had been amusing himself at their expense, Hamilton called out angrily, “Cease your mummeries, whoever you are—and see what you have done!”
The moonlight fell on Crescenz’s lifeless form while he spoke, and in a moment Count Zedwitz stood beside him. He endeavoured to exculpate himself by avowing that he had no idea of playing ghost when he had followed them.
“I don’t care what you intended,” cried Hamilton, still more angrily; “but I wish, at least, you had spared this poor girl such unnecessary terror.”
“I did not think of the consequences. It was very foolish—it was very wrong, if you will. But you must not think I was a listener; I declare most solemnly I did not hear one word of your conversation.”
“The whole world might have heard it!” cried Hamilton, impatiently shaking off the hand which Zedwitz had placed on his shoulder; “the whole world might have heard it. But what is to be done now? She shows no sign of life, and is as cold as a stone. Perhaps you have killed her!”
“Oh, no, she has only fainted; let me go for a glass of water.”
“Are you mad?” cried Hamilton, detaining him forcibly; “no one must ever know that she has been here with me—with us——”
“Oh, I thought I could——”
“I wish you would think rationally, and repair the mischief you have done.”
“Let us take her to her sister; she will never betray her, and will know best what means to employ for her recovery.”
And between them they carried Crescenz along the passage and up the stairs. Fortunately, the first door led to her room, and Hamilton desired Zedwitz to knock gently, lest other people in the neighbouring rooms might be awakened. But it was in vain he knocked; Hildegarde seemed to be enjoying what is called a “wholesome sleep”; and at length, finding their efforts fruitless, Zedwitz volunteered to go in and waken her.
Hamilton heard the sleepy voice change into a tone of alarm, the anxious questions, and finally a request that he would leave the room. He did so, and in less than a minute Hildegarde opened the door in a state of great agitation. While Hamilton laid Crescenz on the bed, Zedwitz struck a light, and Hildegarde then asked him earnestly to tell her what had happened.
“My odious cloak has been the cause of all,” he answered, evasively; “she saw me standing in the moonlight, and thought I was a ghost.”
“Saw you standing in the moonlight?—when?—where? Oh, go away, both of you,” she cried, vehemently, as the candle lighted her sister’s pale features; “go away, and leave me alone with Crescenz.”
They left the room, and walked towards one of the windows looking into the quadrangle. After some delay, Hildegarde appeared, and a dialogue ensued which Hamilton thought unnecessarily long, as he was not able to hear what was said. The moment, however, that he approached the speakers, the door was closed, and he was left to make his inquiries of Zedwitz.
“How is she?”
“Better, or quite well, I forget which; she fancied at first that she had been dreaming, but now she knows the contrary.”
“Hum! No doubt you exaggerated splendidly when explaining to Hildegarde just now!”
“Not I! I was thinking the whole time of that bewitching little nightcap, and how lovely she looked in it.”
“Pshaw! if you have any fancy for such caps, I recommend you to go to London. In any street you please, and at any hour, you can see half a dozen such caps on as many Bavarian girls, whose employment is to scream ‘buy a broom,’ and who are just the most good-for-nothing creatures in the world.”
“And how do you know they are Bavarians? I think it much more probable that they are Dutch girls.”
“In London people call them Bavarians; and I must confess they never interested me sufficiently to induce me to make inquiries.”
“Very likely; but when I tell you that Bavarians do not lightly forsake their country, that they are seldom so poor as not to have enough to live upon—our marriage-laws provide against that; that London is a long way from Bavaria, and the steam-packets make it an easy matter for Dutch girls to transport themselves there, you will also think with me that they are more probably Dutch than Bavarian.”
“How warmly you defend your countrywomen and their hideous caps,” cried Hamilton, laughing. “But, really,” he added, opening the door of his room, before which they stood, “really, the matter is not worth a dispute. The girls are Dutch, if you will have it so, but the caps are ugly, say what you will.”
“It depends so entirely on the wearer of the cap! For instance, to-night I thought that cap the most becoming thing I ever saw!”
“Perhaps you also prefer one foot in a slipper and the other bare.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean