The Initials. Baroness Jemima Montgomery Tautphoeus
at an end. I am told that the Munich world is in the country, and I believe it; for nothing can be more deserted-looking than the streets which represent the west end. After all, one cannot go on forever looking at pictures and statues, etc.”
The young man folded up and sealed his letter, with a look of infinite vexation, and putting it in his pocket while he murmured something about “taking it himself to the post-office, for want of other occupation,” he slowly left the room and sauntered down the staircase, drawing his cane along the iron stair-railing as he went.
Hamilton, on his return, sprang lightly up the stairs, followed by a waiter, who lit the candles and prepared to assist him in taking off his rather tightly-fitting coat. The operation had proceeded about half-way, when his eyes fell on a letter which was placed conspicuously on the table. In a moment the coat was again on his shoulders and the letter in his hand.
“When did this come?”
“To-day, sir. Mr. Havard desired me to say it was carried by mistake to a gentleman’s room who left this morning early.”
Hamilton hastily opened the letter and read as follows:
“Dear Mr. Hamilton—I have this moment read your name among the arrivals in Munich, and write to tell you that we are for the present at Seon, a short journey distant from you. Our house is not at present habitable, and we have made this old monastery our headquarters. It was some years ago a tolerably frequented bath, but being no longer so, I shall have no difficulty whatever in procuring an apartment for you. We shall be delighted to see you, and show you the beauties of our neighbourhood. Perhaps, too, we can arrange a tour in the Tyrol together. John, I know, has joined his regiment; therefore I do not expect to see him. But probably Mrs. Hamilton is with you; in which case I am quite sure you will not leave Germany without having visited your sincere friend,
A. Z.”
“How far is Seon from Munich? What sort of a place is it?” asked Hamilton.
“I am sorry I cannot give you any information, sir. Since I have been here no traveller has left for Seon.”
“Is there no mail or stage-coach to any place near it? There must be a post-town, or something of that sort.”
“I really do not know, sir.”
“Try and decipher the post-mark,” said Hamilton, impatiently handing him the envelope.
“I think it is Altenmarkt, but I am not quite sure.”
“Give me my maps, if you please, and tell Mr. Havard I wish to speak to him for a few minutes.”
When he had left the room, Hamilton turned the letter in every possible direction, examined the seal, which was a small coronet with the initials “A. Z.,” read it five or six times over, and in thought mustered his tolerably numerous acquaintance. Not an “A. Z.” among them all! How very provoking! “And yet the letter may be intended for me,” he murmured, twisting it around his fingers: “It is not impossible that the writer may have thought that I was travelling with my aunt—why not? And John has actually joined his regiment very lately!—or—or—it may be some friend of my father’s; in which case, as I do not know the name, and cannot explain by letter, I consider it a sort of duty to go to Seon, and in his name thank the good-natured person for the invitation. But what if it were not intended either for me or for my father? No matter. The letter is addressed to A. Hamilton, Esq.; if the writer intended it for an Abraham, an Achilles, or an Anthony, the fault is not mine. Alfred also begins with A.; the address is to the Golden Stag; my correspondent has seen my name or my father’s in the newspapers;—mentions my mother and my brother. What more can I require?”
And Hamilton required nothing more, for on this occasion he was disposed to be easily satisfied. Besides, he was not going to force himself upon any person or persons unknown; he was merely going to Seon instead of Kissingen. Seon was also a place of public resort, quite as desirable for him as any other; nor could he see anything wrong in making some inquiries about this A. Z. when he arrived there.
Mr. Havard entered his room just as he was resolved what course he should pursue. “Pray, Mr. Havard, can you tell me how far Seon is from here?”
“A day’s journey, if you travel with a voiturier; half a day with post-horses.”
“If I engage a voiturier—are the carriages good?”
“Generally, especially if you don’t require much place for luggage. I think I can procure a light carriage and tolerable horses for you.”
“Thank you. To-morrow morning, at six o’clock, I should like to be off, if possible.”
An unpleasant idea just then occurred to him, and it required an effort on his part to add, with affected indifference:
“By-the-by, Mr. Havard, perhaps you can tell me if there have been any persons here lately whose names were the same as mine?”
Mr. Havard looked puzzled.
“My name is Hamilton.”
“Hameeltone—Hameeltone!” he repeated, thoughtfully. “We have a great many Hameeltone in our book. You shall see directly. I will send it to you.”
“So,” muttered Hamilton, as he walked up and down the room, “so, after all, the letter was not intended for me or my father! This is in consequence of having such a common name! And yet the name in itself is good, but the Hamiltons have multiplied so unconscionably of late, that I have no doubt we shall in time be quite as numerous as the Smiths! Should, however, no Hamilton have been here for the last week or ten days, I conceive that I have a right to appropriate this letter; for A. Z. says distinctly that he or she had that moment seen my name among the arrivals in Munich, and with every allowance for irregularity of post in an out-of-the-way place, chance, or unexpected delays, reference at least is made to some paper of a tolerably recent date. Oh! thank you,” he exclaimed, hurrying towards the waiter, who at that moment entered the room with the strangers’ book. “Before you go, show me the name of the gentleman into whose room my letter was taken by mistake.”
He pointed to the name of “Alexander Hambledon, from London.”
Hamilton turned back the leaves, six, eight, ten days, and no Hamilton; before that time, as Mr. Havard had said, “A great many Hamiltons.” He wished them, their families, and suites very agreeable journeys, closed the book, put A. Z.’s letter carefully into his writing-case, and, after having desired the waiter to call him very early the next day, hurried to bed.
The next morning proved fine, and Hamilton felt in better spirits than he had done since he had left home, for he flattered himself he was now about to diverge from the traveller’s beaten path, and had a chance of seeing something new. The rather shabby carriage and sleepy-looking horses had not power to discompose him, and the voiturier, with his dark-blue linen blouse and short pipe, overshadowed by a bush of mustache, he thought absolutely picturesque. Most careful he seemed, too, of his horses, for they had scarcely left the suburbs of Munich when he descended from his box to walk up a small acclivity, and Hamilton then began to protest vehemently, but in vain, against the carriage being closed. The coachman continued to walk leisurely on, while he assured his impatient employer that he had purposely so arranged it to prevent his being annoyed by the dust or sun, and that from the open side he could see quite as much as would be agreeable of the flat country through which they were to travel.
“Is, then, the country so very ugly?” asked Hamilton, anticipating nothing less than an American prairie.
“Flat—very flat; but in the evening we shall have the mountains nearer.”
“You seem fond of the mountains!”
“I am a Tyrolean, and used to them. Life is not the same thing in these plains,” he answered, cracking his whip, but not touching his horses.
“A Tyrolean!” exclaimed Hamilton; “oh, then you can sing your national songs, of course. Do, pray, let me hear one of them.”
“What’s the