III.
Albert appeared at dinner and vanished immediately after that. He scarcely spoke a word during the meal. But this was not unusual. Dinner in this household was served with such elaborate ceremony—waiters and butlers and many courses—that the stiffness of it all robbed him of speech. Aunt Betty noticed his glance in Hilda’s direction once or twice but her daughter ignored her cousin entirely. The mother heaved a sigh of relief. She had been unduly alarmed.
What the watchful mother failed to observe was that as they rose from the table and were passing to the adjoining room Albert dashed across to Hilda and mumbled something in a panting voice and left abruptly. She paled but did not turn to see whither he had gone.
She joined her family but after a while chose a secluded place, apparently reading. She turned the pages of her book as if she were perusing them without seeing a word before her. She seemed vexed and perplexed and now and then jerked her head as if shaking off an intruding thought. Finally she walked up to her room and closed the door resolutely as if she had made a decision and given emphatic expression to it. She then threw herself on her bed and lay for a time, staring at the ceiling.
“Seven o’clock near Klopstock’s grave,” she murmured to herself.
Shortly after that she walked down stairs and remained standing in the doorway over the veranda and walked slowly, deliberately, down the broad stone steps, pausing and lingering a while on every step, like a playful child, and looking at her feet as she moved them. When she reached the pebbled path of the winding walk she played with the little stones with the tip of her dainty slipper as if there were not a single thought passing through her mind. Presently she was standing before the marble-walled well in the centre of the garden and looked curiously at the carved figures on the outside as if she had never seen them before. Dimly she remembered that Albert had spoken of them the other day—they were mythological figures and he had explained them to her. She recalled his face and the manner in which he looked at her as he spoke of the beautiful goddesses of Greece.
She was soon out of sight of the beautiful mansion on the hill, sauntering down the slope that led to the seashore. Along the Elbe was a cliff-walk that led to a promontory on which was the grave of him who sang of The Messiah.
The sun was going down but it was still long before sunset in this northern clime. There was a golden haze in the air, with hoards of mosquitoes and tiny insects in column formation flitting about like a dancing procession. Klopstock’s grave was west of the Zorn villa, where the sun was sliding down the curving horizon and making the many-branched linden tree over the tomb look like a burnished bush. There was tumult in her brain and her heart was beating irregularly. A number of limes she halted and half-turned, as if she were attempting to twist herself loose from the embrace of some invisible being, but soon again she proceeded on her way.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” he said as he came running toward her. His teeth were almost chattering, his voice was strained.
“I shouldn’t have come—I know I shouldn’t,” she was saying, scarcely glancing at him.
“Why do you despise me so?—”
He touched her hand which she withdrew quickly and put it back of her like an angered child.
“You don’t know how miserable I feel—Hilda—.” His voice was plaintive, pleading. “I know you detest me—You don’t even care for my poems, the echoes of my heart. Oh, Hilda—just a word—”
“You make me so unhappy,” she interrupted him. He thought he saw anger in her eyes.
“I am so sorry if my love makes you unhappy.” His voice was now penitent, humble, beseeching. “But I can’t help it, Hilda. We don’t will love—love wills us. I understand. I am not blaming you—you can’t help hating me as I can’t help loving you. I am not as dull as you think. I understand—Some girl might love me and I mightn’t care for her—”
Her eyes dilated; a pallor crept over her cheeks.
“Is that girl in Hamburg?” There was naiveté in her tone.
“There is no other girl. No one is in love with me. I was only explaining how nature works. One loves and the beloved loves another—”
“I am sure you have a girl in mind. Who is she?”
“I swear to you there is no one—”
“I am sure from the way you said it there is someone—anyhow, you wouldn’t tell me even if there were—”
“I would tell you the truth—I wouldn’t be ashamed to tell you if someone were in love with me. Oh, a long time ago—I was a youngster then.”
“Is she still in love with you?”
He waved his arms in despair.
“Oh, no, she is dead—But I am not thinking of anyone but you—”
“What did the other girl look like? Was she light or dark?”
“Oh, why speak of her—she is dead, I tell you—” he spoke impatiently.
“You must still be thinking of her or you wouldn’t remember her now. I am sure you are in love with her still—was she pretty?”
He was beside himself.
“I tell you she is dead—” There was exasperation in his tone.
“And you mean to tell me you never had a love affair since then?”
She was drawing an 8 on the ground with the tip of her slipper.
“Of course I have never loved anyone as I love you.”
“Then you did love her!”
“I might have had a boyish fancy—I wrote a poem about her—”
“And some day you’ll write a poem about me and all will be ended.”
“Hilda, why do you torture me so?—”
He clasped her hand and kissed it. She withdrew her hand and said he must not do this.
“I know I shouldn’t have come here—I know I shouldn’t—some one might have seen us—”
“And what if they did?”
“Oh, Albert, you don’t understand—”
He was about to seize her hand again but she ran down the path.