The Initials: A Story of Modern Life

The next day after dinner, while Hamilton went to his banker’s, Hildegarde looked out of her window, and watched, with a sort of quiet indifference, the arrival of two travelling carriages at the hotel. Out of the first sprang a tall large man, who, merely raising two fingers to his travelling cap by way of salutation, instantly disappeared—and even while the heated and tired horses were still being led up and down the yard others were brought out, and the servant, after great bustling and hurrying, followed his master into the hotel. Again the cracking of the whips and ringing of bells became audible, and another and larger carriage arrived—decidedly English. The well-built vehicle swung easily with all its weight of imperials and servants’ seats behind, and out of it stepped a tall, thin gentleman, with a grey hat, a grey coat, grey trousers, grey gaiters, and grey whiskers! An elderly lady followed, her face half concealed by her pendent lace veil, and two young and pretty girls stopped for a moment to inspect the building they were about to enter. Hildegarde looked at her watch, it was the hour that Hamilton told her he would return, so she locked her door, and began slowly to walk along the corridor and descend the stairs. The English family were just turning into a large suite of rooms on the first floor as she passed—the gentleman in grey had stopped at the door, his hat fast on his head; he turned to his wife, who was entering, and observed, quite loud enough for Hildegarde to hear, “By Jove, that’s the handsomest girl I have seen for a long time!” The lady turned round and deliberately raised her lorgnette to her eye, while their two daughters, after a hasty glance, exclaimed, “Oh, papa, I really do think she understood you.” Hildegarde walked quickly on, but met so many servants and strangers that she took refuge at last in the large dining-room, which at that hour was generally quite unoccupied.

One solitary individual sat at the enormous table. He seemed to have been dining, and Hildegarde walked to one of the windows without looking at him. Soon after she heard him striding up and down the room, and as the waiter entered with some fruit and confitures, he asked rather impatiently, “Has my servant not yet dined? Tell him to make haste—he knows we have no time to lose.”

The voice was familiar to Hildegarde, she unconsciously turned round to look at the speaker, and was instantly recognised by Count Zedwitz, who, with a look of astonishment, hurried toward her, exclaiming, “Mademoiselle Rosenberg! What on earth has brought you to Frankfort?”

“I came here intending to go to a Baroness Waldorf as governess to her daughter—she has gone to Mayence, I hear, and——”

“And you are here alone, unprotected, and I cannot offer to stay with you—I do not know if you have heard that my father is dying—no hope whatever of his recovery; I only received the intelligence yesterday, and am now travelling night and day to reach home in time to see him once more!”

At this moment the servant entered to say that the carriage was ready.

“Very well: you may go—and—shut the door—Hildegarde, I mean Mademoiselle Rosenberg—do not remain here. Give up this idea of going to Ida Waldorf; it will never answer—believe me you will be most unhappy!”

“It must answer,” said Hildegarde, “and I shall not be unhappy, for the idea of being a governess is familiar to me from my infancy, and has therefore lost all its terrors.”

“Excuse my questioning you,” cried Zedwitz quickly, “but may I ask how you happen to become acquainted with the Baroness Waldorf?”

“I do not know her at all—I never saw her—it was all arranged by Mademoiselle Hortense, one of the governesses of our school.”

“Did the Baroness Waldorf know your name?” asked Zedwitz, eagerly.

“At first, perhaps not,” answered Hildegarde, with a look of surprise, “but in the letter which told her that I had left Munich, Mademoiselle Hortense must have mentioned it—I should think my name a matter of very little importance!”

“In this instance, you are mistaken—I—I fear the Baroness is not likely to return for some time—I——”

“Her servant said she would not be long absent—that her leaving was quite a sudden thing,” observed Hildegarde.

“Her leaving when she expected you was unpardonable, cruel, ungenerous!” exclaimed Zedwitz, vehemently.

“I was rather shocked at first myself, but I afterwards thought she had not perhaps received the letter in time——”

“She did receive it, I am sure she did—it was the letter which—Oh, Mademoiselle Rosenberg, do not remain here any longer—return to your relations, return with me now—at once.”

Hildegarde blushed intensely.

“I shall send my servant with the carriage,” he added quickly, “and we can travel in the diligence, or in any way you please.”

“You are very kind,” said Hildegarde, “but I consider myself engaged to this Baroness Waldorf, and until I hear from her——”

“You will not hear from her, you will never hear from her!” he cried, impatiently, “and I must leave you; I cannot, dare not delay my return home now!”

Again Hildegarde blushed, she endeavoured to name Hamilton, but the words died on her lips, and her confusion increased every moment. Some people began to stray into the room, and Zedwitz added in an agitated whisper: “God forgive me for thinking of anything but my father when he is lying on his death-bed; the peculiarity of our position must be my excuse for telling you at such a time, that my feelings toward you are unchanged, unchangeable. Return to your family, and let me hope that time may so far overcome your dislike, or indifference, whichever it be——”

“Oh, Count Zedwitz, it is neither,” said Hildegarde, with evident effort. “I should be unworthy of such regard as you feel for me, were I not now to tell you that—I have—long—loved another.”

“Hamilton of course—I always feared it.”

Hildegarde was silent.

“If you are engaged to him, tell me so; it is the only means of effectually crushing all my hopes at once!”

“We have no engagement, he cannot enter into any; he does not even know that I regard him otherwise than as a friend!”

“Then listen to me, Hildegarde: notwithstanding all the admiration, all the love which he undoubtedly feels for you now—when he has been some time at home among the friends and companions of his youth—he will forget you!”

“I think he will,” said Hildegarde with a deep sigh.

“And you too will forget this youthful fancy,” continued Zedwitz.

“Youthful fancy!” she repeated slowly, “I fear I have neither youthful fancies nor youthful feelings; I have had no youth!”

“It will come like a late spring, and bestow on you at once those blessings which others receive so gradually, that they are insensible to them.”

Hildegarde shook her head and turned to the window. Zedwitz seemed to wish to say something which embarrassed him. “In case you should find this hotel more expensive than you expected,” he began in an hesitating manner.

“Oh, not at all expensive,” said Hildegarde. “I had no idea one could live so cheaply at such a place!”

Zedwitz looked surprised; he would have been more so if he had seen the bill which she had paid Hamilton with such childish satisfaction a couple of hours before. It is needless to say that it had been written by him, as soon as he had discovered that she had not the most remote idea of the expenses of travelling, that he had taken advantage of her ignorance to prevent her feeling any annoyance or uneasiness.

“I cannot tell you how unwilling I am to leave you,” said Zedwitz, after a pause; “but go I must. Until we meet again, let me indulge the hope that a time may come——”

Just at that moment the hotel-keeper entered the room and approached the window where they were standing. Zedwitz turned round, and Hildegarde in her anxiety to undeceive him, and fearing he was leaving her under a false impression, stretched out her hand to detain him; the action was misunderstood, he caught it between both his, and while she endeavoured in vain to stammer a few words of explanation, he whispered, “Thank you a thousand times, you do not know how even this faint ray of hope will lighten the gloominess of my present journey!”

He then took the innkeeper aside, and spoke long and earnestly to him about her, said he knew her family—requested him to let her know every opportunity that might offer for a return to Munich in respectable society—gave him his address, the name of his banker, and unlimited credit on her account; and just as the innkeeper, with an only half suppressed smile of amusement, was about to explain to him that he need not be so uneasy about the lady, as she was already under the protection of a young Englishman, Zedwitz, reproaching himself for the delay which had occurred, sprang into the carriage, and a moment after it rolled from under the archway past the window where Hildegarde still stood, a prey to the most distressing and contending emotions.

After waiting more than half an hour longer, and Hamilton not appearing, she retired to her room, supposing some unexpected business had detained him; but when several hours elapsed, and he was still absent, she became uneasy. A feeling of delicacy prevented her from making any inquiries, and she sat at her window, long after dusk, trying to discover him in every tall dark figure she saw moving near the entrance or in the court below. A sensation of utter loneliness came over her, thoughts of the most melancholy description chased each other through her mind; when, from a reverie of this kind, she recognised the well-known quick step, and a low knock at the door made her conscious that Hamilton was near; all the painful reminiscences—uncertainties—Zedwitz—everything, was in a moment forgotten; and she rose quickly and joyously from her chair to meet him. It was too dark for Hamilton to see the tears which still lingered in her long eyelashes, and too dark for her to observe the flushed and irritated expression of his whole countenance.

“Shall I light the candles?” she asked cheerfully.

“If you wish it, but I prefer the room as it is.”

She sat down near him, and after a pause observed, “You were long absent; was there any difficulty at the banker’s?”

“None whatever.” Another pause—then suddenly turning towards her, he said quickly, “I have been thinking that as the Baroness Waldorf has a house at Mayence, she may be longer absent than her servants supposed. A few hours would take you to Mayence.”

“Do you think it necessary to follow her there?”

“Not exactly necessary, but why not? You have often wished to see the Rhine.”

“Oh, it would be too delightful!” exclaimed Hildegarde.

“If you think so,” said Hamilton, every trace of annoyance disappearing from his face, “why, the sooner we go the better.”

“But the expense,” said Hildegarde, hesitatingly.

“Will not be greater than remaining here; do not let that weigh with you for a moment.”

“Perhaps I ought to write to my mother, or Hortense?”

“You cannot have an answer for several days, and it is better to wait until you have seen the Baroness Waldorf; I should think whether you were here or at Mayence must be a matter of indifference to them, and I am sure your mother would be quite satisfied if she knew that you were under my care!”

“That I think too,” said Hildegarde, “and I should like to put an end to my present state of uncertainty as soon as possible. I do not,” she continued, half laughing, “I do not feel any sort of scruples about travelling with you; I suppose, because we have lived so long in the same house, and I know you so well; but when Count Zedwitz to-day proposed my returning home with him——”

“Zedwitz! To-day!” repeated Hamilton, amazed.

“Yes. In passing through Frankfort to-day, he dined and changed horses here. I saw him for a few minutes when I was waiting for your return; he strongly advised me not to go to the Baroness Waldorf, and seemed, oddly enough, to think she had gone away on purpose.”

“Not impossible—not improbable. Did he explain, in any way, the cause of his suspicions?”

“No, he had not time, his father is dying, and he is, of course, most anxious to get home. He—he went away just as I was going to tell him that you was here——” she stopped, embarrassed.

“Hildegarde, let us go to Mayence,” cried Hamilton, abruptly.

“As early as you please to-morrow morning,” she answered, cheerfully.

“Not to-morrow morning—this evening—in an hour—in half an hour!”

“But—but it is night—almost dark already.”

“Well, what difference does that make?”

“They told me never to travel at night; it was to avoid doing so that I stopped at Aschaffenburg.”

“That was when you were alone, and travelling in a public carriage.”

“I do not, however, see any necessity for such haste,” she said quietly, “and, therefore, if you have no objections, I should greatly prefer waiting until morning.”

“But I have an objection, and you will greatly oblige me by leaving to-night.”

“I suppose you have some very good reason for what appears to me a most unnecessary exercise of the power which chance has given you over me?”

“I have a reason,” began Hamilton, and there he stopped. How could he tell her that he had recognised his own coat-of-arms on a carriage in the yard—that he had questioned the courier, who was unpacking it, and discovered that the same uncle who had been in Salzburg the year before, was now on his way to Baden-Baden with his wife and daughters; that he dreaded their discovering Hildegarde’s being with him, feared the ungenerous conclusions they might draw from her present position; and that, to avoid a chance meeting, he had wandered about the least frequented streets, until the shades of evening, and the certainty of their being engaged at the tea-table, had enabled him to pass their apartments, with the hope of not being discovered. To attempt an explanation with Hildegarde would be sufficient to make her insist on his leaving her instantly; his only chance was to use his personal influence and try to persuade her to leave Frankfort that night, before they had been seen—before the “strangers’ book” had given rise to any inquiries about them.

“Well,” said Hildegarde, “I have surely a right to hear your reason?”

“Right! Oh, if we talk of rights, it is you alone who should name the day and hour of departure—you alone who have a right to dictate; but I was asking a favour, I wish most particularly to be in Mayence at a very early hour to-morrow.”

“And if we leave at three or four o’clock in the morning, will not that be early enough?”

Hamilton looked only half satisfied.

“I do not like the appearance of going off at night in so sudden and mysterious a manner—not even—with you,” said Hildegarde, candidly.

“Perhaps you are right—but at three o’clock in the morning if the exertion be not too great.”

“Oh,” said Hildegarde, laughing, “you will find it more difficult to be ready than I shall.”

“Not to-morrow,” said Hamilton; “I shall be at your door waiting for you, even before the clock strikes.” And in the morning, when she opened her door, there he stood. He unconsciously stepped lighter as he passed the rooms containing his sleeping relations. Hildegarde pointed to them, and said they were occupied by English people; she had seen them arrive the day before, had passed them on her way down stairs, and, while still talking of the grey man and the veiled lady, Hamilton hurried her into the carriage and they drove off.