The Initials. Baroness Jemima Montgomery Tautphoeus
venture to move; they were so near him that he heard the hands feeling the way on the wall close to where he stood. One reached the narrow passage in safety, the other stumbled on the stairs; and, as Hamilton unconsciously made a movement to assist her, the lightning, which had once or twice enabled him to distinguish their figures, now rendered him for a moment visible. It was in vain he again drew back into his hiding-place. With a cry of terror, Crescenz raised herself from the ground, and rushed into her sister’s arms, exclaiming, “I have seen him! I have seen him! He is here!”
“What! Who is here?”
“The Englishman! the Englishman!”
“Impossible! How can you be so foolish? Come, come, let us leave this place.”
“I saw him, and the lightning played upon his face, and he looked as if he were dead. I saw him, indeed I saw him!” cried Crescenz, sobbing frantically.
“Crescenz—dear Crescenz!” said her sister, vainly endeavouring to calm her.
Hamilton was inexpressibly shocked, and conceiving his actual presence would relieve her mind from the fear of having seen something supernatural, he came forward and explained, as well as he could, the cause of his being there. In the excess of his anxiety he seized her hand, called her Crescenz, and talked he knew not what nonsense. Her efforts to control her emotions were desperate. She forced a laugh, but the attempt ended in a scream, which echoed wildly through the building.
“Crescenz! Crescenz! have you lost your senses?” cried her sister. “You will bring the whole house about us!”
Her words seemed likely to be verified, for lights began to glimmer in all directions.
“Mamma will come, and we may make up our minds to return to Munich to-morrow,” cried Hildegarde, impatiently.
Hamilton’s situation now became uncomfortable; it was, to say the least, not favourable for a first appearance among strangers; and the thought that “A. Z.” might be among them was so overpowering that he stood perfectly petrified, and still unconsciously holding Crescenz’s hand. “As to you, the Englishman,” continued Hildegarde, angrily, “your standing there can only increase our embarrassment. Begone! It is still possible for you to escape observation.”
He turned mechanically towards the organ-loft.
“Not there! Not there!” she cried vehemently. “One would really think you a fool!”
Roused by this somewhat uncivil observation, Hamilton asked, in about as gentle a tone of voice as her own, “Where the d—l shall I go, then, mademoiselle? You don’t wish me to face all those lights, do you?”
“Go! go! go!” she cried, with increased violence, and stamping the ground with her feet. “You can cross the corridor before they reach the entrance to this passage.”
He ran, crossed the passage, stumbled up some two or three steps to a door, which charitably yielded to his hand, and afforded him a retreat into—the church—for there he was again! Now completely confused, and feeling as if under the influence of nightmare, he threw himself into a seat, and covered his face with his hands. Steps and inquiring voices came nearer and nearer. He heard scolding, wondering, expostulating; then all was quiet, and only Crescenz’s subdued sobs reached his ear. All at once, to his no small dismay, the church became lighted; some persons with candles were in the organ-loft opposite to him; he could see them, however, in tolerable security, for his place of refuge proved to be the enclosed gallery formerly occupied by the monks. In the meantime the storm had increased; one flash of lightning was followed so immediately by thunder so loud that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the monastery. It served to disperse the assembly, for Hamilton heard soon after the retreating steps passing the door of the gallery, the opening and shutting of several doors, voices lost in the distance, and all was again still. He waited merely to assure himself that no one was in the way, and then cautiously commenced his retreat. A juvenile reminiscence made him smile as he now moved from his hiding-place; he remembered the time when he had hoped his “new boots would creak,” and had even tampered with the boot-maker’s apprentice when he had been so lucky as to have his measure taken without witnesses. And now, what would he not have given for a pair of slippers, or anything but creaking boots! He had scarcely made six strides on tiptoe when a door opened, and a head protruded itself. He trusted to the darkness for concealment, and leaned against the wall; the head had no sooner disappeared, than, seizing the favourable moment, he rushed into a dark passage, and ran, unconscious whether he turned right or left, until he reached a large open window. He looked out, and saw the traveller’s little green carriage being pushed towards the coach-house. Here was a sort of compass to steer by; his windows had the same aspect, ergo, that door must lead to his room. Before, however, he undertook another expedition, he thought it prudent to get a light. This caused a few minutes’ delay; and when he again sallied forth he seemed destined to be more fortunate. Hildegarde and her step-mother walked before him, as if to point the way. They disappeared at the end of the passage, and he quickened his steps in order to overtake them on the stairs. The latter was speaking loudly, it seemed in continuation of a previous discourse. “You may rest assured that your father shall have a full account of the whole affair! Such a disgraceful scene! Count Zedwitz sent his servant to inquire what was the matter, and recommended immersion in cold water. A good ducking would have most effectually quieted Crescenz’s nerves, and I shall certainly try it next time. My health is not likely to be much benefited by a residence here, if I have to act duenna to you and your sister! Remember, I strictly forbid your walking in these passages after sunset in future. Do you hear?”
“Yes, madame.”
“As to Crescenz being so afraid of lightning, that’s all nonsense! I should like to know if all the young ladies at school scream in that manner whenever they see a flash of lightning!”
“The thunder was very loud,” began Hildegarde; “and, besides, you have not heard that she saw——”
“Well, well,” cried her mother, interrupting her, to Hamilton’s great satisfaction, “thunder or lightning—or both—there was no occasion for such a noise, and I give you warning that the very first time I have cause to be dissatisfied with you or your sister, back you shall go to school. Health is my object at present, and every irritation of the nerves has been expressly forbidden by my medical adviser.”
To this speech no answer was made, and Hamilton followed them at a distance into the supper-room. He had lost so much time in the organ-loft that almost all of the guests were already gone. The traveller, whose arrival he had witnessed, was in the act of lighting a cigar, with which he immediately left the room. An elderly, red-faced, stout gentleman, with a tankard of beer beside him, he soon discovered to be Major Stultz; nor did it require much penetration to recognise Mr. Schmearer, the painter, in the emaciated, sentimental-looking young man beside whom he seated himself. Hildegarde and her step-mother were nearly opposite; the former, after bestowing on Hamilton a look which might appropriately have accompanied a box on the ear, fixed her eyes on the table; the latter bowed most graciously, and commenced an interesting conversation about the weather, the barometer, and her dislike to thunder-storms in general. When these topics had been completely exhausted, Hamilton hoped something might be said of the present inmates of Seon; but a long and tiresome discussion on the merits of summer and winter beer followed. Strauss’s beer was delicious—bock had been particularly good this year. “Bock!” cried Major Stultz, enthusiastically, “bock is better than champagne! Bock is——” Here he looked up with an impassioned air to the ceiling, and kissed the first two fingers of his right hand, flourishing them in the air afterwards. Words, it seems, were inadequate to express the merits of this beverage.
“Did you see that picture at the Kunstverein[1] in Munich, representing a glass of foaming bock, with the usual accessories of bread and radishes?” asked Mr. Schmearer. “It was exquisitely painted! I believe his majesty purchased it.”
1. Society of Arts.
“There is some sense in such a picture as that,” answered Major Stultz.