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The Initials. Baroness Jemima Montgomery Tautphoeus
“No; I believe they came to meet some friends whom they intended to have visited. I heard the Count’s servants saying that their house, or the Baron’s, was full of masons and painters.”
“Ah! exactly——”
“But the old Countess does take baths,” continued the chambermaid, “and finds great benefit from them, too. The Count is a favourer of Preissnitz and the Water Cure; and when he does not go to Graefenberg, all places are alike to him where water is good and in abundance.”
“And his daughter?” asked Hamilton, now convinced that he had found A. Z.
“Oh, his daughter springs from her bed every morning into a tub of cold water with a great sponge in it, to please him; but I never heard of her having sweated, or——”
“Her having what?”
“Sweated! The Count sent his bed and tubs here the day before he came, and his servant Pepperl must tie him up every morning.”
“You never heard of mademoiselle’s being tied up by Pepperl?” asked Hamilton, gravely.
“I believe she never had the rheumatism; but one day, when she had a headache, I saw her sitting with her feet in a tub of cold water, and wet towels around her head.”
Some one just then knocked gently at the door. “Come in!” cried Hamilton, and, to his no small surprise, Crescenz appeared in the doorway. She blushed, and so did he, and then he blushed because he had blushed; and to conceal his annoyance he had assumed a cold, haughty manner, and waited for her to speak. She stammered something about a reticule and pocket-handkerchief, as, with the assistance of the chambermaid, she moved his carpet-bag, and shook his cloak in every possible direction. Nothing was to be found, and she was just about to leave the room when Hamilton perceived the lost property under his dressing-case. As he restored it, and held the door open for her to pass, he took advantage of the opportunity, and returned her former curtsy with an obeisance so profound that it amounted to mockery; and as such she felt it, too, for the colour mounted through the roots of her hair, suffusing with deep red both neck and ears as she bent down her head, and hurried out of the room, followed by the chambermaid. Hamilton was so shocked at his rudeness that he felt greatly inclined to run after her and apologise; and had she been alone he would certainly have done so, for it directly occurred to him that she had come herself to seek her handkerchief in order to have an opportunity of explaining to him the cause of her sudden and extraordinary change of manner. This made him still more repent of his puerile conduct, and wish he had spoken to her. He looked out of the window to see if he were likely to meet her should he perambulate the much-talked-of cloister, but instead of the rising moon, angry thunderclouds were rapidly converting the remaining twilight into darkest night. His hopes of a romantic interview and explanation were at an end; there was no chance of moonlight, and the acquaintance was much too new to think of a meeting in thunder and lightning! The supper-table seemed a more eligible place, and, spurred both by contrition and hunger, he determined to repair to it with all possible expedition.
On leaving the small passage conducting to his room, he entered the long corridor which he had traversed with the landlady; on turning, however, as he thought, to the staircase by which he had ascended, he suddenly found himself in a small but lofty chapel. It was too dark to see distinctly the decorations of the altar, but it seemed as if gilding had not been spared; two small adjoining apartments he next examined, and then completely forgetting whether he had entered from the right or left hand, he walked inquisitively forward until a broad gloomy passage brought him to a corridor, which he instinctively felt to be the place where on moonlight nights one might perchance be disposed to romance. The doors opposite to him, placed close to each other, had probably belonged to cells; over each was a black-looking picture, portraits of the abbots, the faces and hands looking most ghastly in their indistinctness. A broad staircase was near, but fearing to lose his way completely, he contented himself for the present with reconnoitring the garden and a lake from a sort of lobby window. Woods and mountains were in the distance, but every moment becoming less distinct; the oppressive calm had been succeeded by a wild wind which bent the trees in all directions, and ruffled the surface of the water. Interested in the approaching thunder-storm, he stood at the window until his revery was interrupted by the sound of footsteps, voices, and the clapping of doors. He turned quickly from the window, walked to the end of the corridor, turned to the left, and entered a very narrow passage looking into a small quadrangular court, which seemed once to have been a garden; it still possessed a few trees, a fountain, and a luxuriant growth of rank grass. He mounted a flight of stone steps, which brought him into the organ loft, whence he had a full view of the monastery church. The lamp which hung suspended before the altar threw fitful gleams of light on the objects in its immediate vicinity—all the rest was in shadow; behind the organ was a sort of vaulted, unfinished room, containing nothing but a most clumsy apparatus for filling the bellows. Just as he was about to leave this uninteresting place, two persons entered the adjoining loft; recognising the voice of his travelling companion, and perceiving she was accompanied by her sister, he commenced a precipitate retreat by another entrance than that next the organ; in his haste, however, he entangled his foot in the rope communicating with the belfry, so that his slightest movement might alarm the whole household. While endeavouring, as well as the darkness would permit, to extricate himself, he was compelled to become auditor to a conversation certainly not intended for his ears.
“And you don’t think him at all good-looking?” asked Crescenz.
“I cannot say that his appearance particularly pleased me, but you know I only saw him eating his dinner; he seemed, however, to have an uncommonly good opinion of himself!”
“At all events,” said Crescenz, “it was very obliging of him to take us in his carriage. I am sure if you had travelled with him instead of me, you would think quite differently.”
“Dear Crescenz! I have no doubt that he was agreeable, as you say so; and I agree with you in thinking him very civil, and all that sort of thing, but you cannot force me to think him handsome.”
“I did not say that I thought him handsome,” cried Crescenz, deprecatingly.
“No! Something very like it, then. Let me see, hum—a—most interesting person you ever saw; brilliant dark eyes, with long eyelashes; magnificent teeth, beautiful mouth, refined manners, and ever so much more! Now, I think him an effeminate-looking, supercilious boy, and——”
“Oh, I might have foreseen,” cried Crescenz, interrupting her sister, “I might have foreseen that he would find no favour in your eyes, as he is not an officer with a long sword clattering at his side.”
“Sword or no sword,” answered the other, laughing, “he would not look like anything but an overgrown schoolboy, perhaps a student, or—an embryo attaché to an embassy.”
Hamilton’s blush of annoyance was concealed by the darkness.
“I intended,” began Crescenz, hesitatingly, “I intended to have told you something, but you seem to be so prejudiced against him that——”
“Prejudiced! Not in the least. I do not think him particularly handsome, that’s all!”
“Well, you know I told you we talked a great deal during our journey, and—and a—in short, just as we reached Seon he said something about meeting me in the corridor by moonlight.”
“Just what I should have expected from him!” cried the other, angrily. “How presuming on so short an acquaintance?”
“He is an Englishman,” said Crescenz, apologetically; “and certainly did not mean anything wrong, for his manner did not change in the least when he saw mamma, while I was so dreadfully afraid that she might observe—Oh! Hildegarde! What is that? Did you not hear something moving?”
“I think I did; let us listen.” A pause ensued. “It’s only the thunder-storm, and”—taking a long breath—“the ticking of the great clock.”
“How like someone breathing heavily,” exclaimed Crescenz, anxiously.
“And