CHAPTER I.
In a large and stately chamber of one of the older parts of the castle at Heidelberg sat a lady of the middle age, about half an hour after Algernon Grey had been removed from the presence of the Elector. The room was a long parallelogram, tapestried all round with richly worked hangings, representing, in glowing colours and somewhat warm designs, the loves of Vertumnus and Pomona. Few specimens of that now abandoned branch of needlework could compete with those which were there displayed. The flowers and the fruit seemed to stand out from the background; the rich clusters of the grape and apple, the leaves of the trees, and the very birds upon the branches, all seemed to project into the chamber, and gave it the air of an arbour: while the forms of the garden goddess and her changeful lover were displayed with a truth and energy which, though not all offensive to the less delicate eyes of those days, would be judged rather indecorous in our own. This fine suite of tapestry had not been treated with much reverence by the hands that hung it up; for over each door, and there were three in the walls, a piece of the same size had been cut out and bordered with gilt leather--much to the inconvenience of the legs of Vertumnus in one instance, and to the waist and arms of Pomona in another--for the purpose of nailing the slips so detached to the door, the opening and closing of which were thus greatly facilitated. The ceiling above was of dark oak, richly wrought in pentagons, which, rising one above the other, diminishing as they came forward and ending with a spot of gold in the centre, took the shape of stars to the eye below, before it had time to trace out the elaborate workmanship; and from the central pentagon hung a large rich gilt lustre of twelve lights. Chairs covered with crimson velvet, tables with spiral legs and inlaid tops, a small mossy carpet for the feet in one corner of the room, a lute, a number of books, amongst which were several huge folios, and a quantity of very fine rare porcelain, made up the furniture of the chamber, which, though the light was by no means strong, even on a summer morning, had an air of comfort and calm state about it, which was pleasant and impressive to the eye.
There is a general harmony in all things, which we seldom see violated--or rather, perhaps, I should say, things naturally fall into harmony, and are never long in adapting themselves harmoniously to each other. The man and his dress, the room and its tenant, the church and the worship there celebrated, have all their peculiar fitness to each other; and so it was in this instance; for the lady, who was there seated, was exactly what one would have expected to find in that place. She was a woman of a grave and thoughtful aspect, tempered by a kindly look about the mouth, though the brow was firm and thoughtful, and the eyes clear and very bright. The lightness of youth was gone; and, if she could not exactly be called graceful, she was dignified; and yet there was the ease of high birth and high education, which is in itself a kind of grace, and the dignified carriage was softened by an occasional touch of homeliness of manner the most remote from vulgarity or coarseness. She was large in person, though not very tall; and the fine cutting of the mouth, the dimpled chin, and the small, though somewhat aquiline nose, displayed some pretensions still to that beauty, which courtiers had celebrated in her younger days. Her dress was very peculiar, consisting of a gown of black velvet, covered down the front and on the arms with embroidery of the same sombre colour; and, from the neck to the bosom, she wore a tucker of the most magnificent white lace. Above this, round the neck, was a large frill of plain white muslin; while springing from the shoulders was a sort of black silk wimple or hood, much in the form of a cockle-shell, stiffened with whalebone, and ready to receive the head and neck, ruff and all. The coif consisted of a piece of black velvet trimmed round with lace, fastened to the hair behind, and brought over the head in a peak upon the wide-extended forehead, from which the hair was drawn back, so as to leave the whole brow completely exposed.
Such was the dress and appearance of the Electress Dowager, Louisa Juliana, sister of the famous William, Prince of Orange, one of the most remarkable and clear-sighted women of her day; and I have thought it fit to dwell thus far upon the mere description of her person and habiliments, inasmuch as portraits of this Princess are very rare, and no description, that I know, exists.
At the moment I speak of, she had just seated herself in a great chair, and taken up a book; while one of her waiting-maids, who had run forth from her dressing-room by the door on the left hand, was thrusting another large pin into the black velvet coif to fasten it more securely to her hair, a precaution which, it seems, she had neglected while actually at her toilet. When she had done, the Electress looked up, inquiring, "Have you sent to my cousin, the Lady Agnes?"
"Eldrida is gone, may it please your Highness," said the maid with a low reverence, and withdrew.
The reader will remark that the Electress Dowager applied the name of cousin to the person of whom she spoke; but it must not be thence inferred that they stood in a very close degree of consanguinity to each other, for the lady to whom she sent was no other than Agnes Herbert; and it was common in those days, for high personages, either as a mark of reverence or love, to give the name of cousin to others of inferior station in no degree related to them.
For about five minutes Louisa Juliana continued to read with a somewhat careless and inattentive air, as if she were merely seeking to occupy a short space of time with the semblance of some employment, while her thoughts were really busied with other things. At the end of that period a light tap was heard at the door--not the great entrance which issued forth on the corridor and the stairs, but that of the dressing-room--and the next instant Agnes Herbert entered and approached the chair of the Princess. She had changed her dress since her return; and though, perhaps, her face was a shade paler than it had been before all the adventures of the preceding day, yet her exceeding loveliness was not diminished, even if the character of her beauty was somewhat changed.
The Electress rose partly from her seat as soon as she saw her; and when Agnes bent, almost kneeling at her feet, she cast her arms round her and pressed her warmly to her heart.
"Welcome, welcome, my sweet child," she cried; "I thought that fate, after taking from me so much and so many that I loved, had deprived me also of my Agnes. Oh, my dear girl! you cannot fancy the anguish of my heart during many a long hour last night. Seeing what I suffered, they came to my bedside at one this morning, and told me that, by some miracle, you had been saved. I would scarcely believe the tidings, loved one; and till I heard just now that you had returned, a shade of unbelief would linger in my mind."
"I should have been here ere now, your Highness," answered Agnes, "as bound in duty and in love, had not a matter of importance called me to the presence of the Elector. My deliverance was, indeed, a miracle, though yet one should scarcely say so, when it was brought about by that which should be as frequent as it is seldom, the gallantry and devotion of a gentleman and a courtier."
"Nay, sit you down here, my Agnes, and tell me all your marvels," said the Electress; "for as yet I have heard nought of the story. Indeed, I believe all in the castle are as ignorant as myself."
"Not now," replied Agnes; "in different forms, part truth and part falsehood, it has spread, I find, far and near. But I will tell you all, noble lady, exactly as it happened; for it is a pleasant task when one has nought but gratitude and praise to speak;" and, with more minute details than even she had indulged in towards Herbert, the fair girl proceeded to relate to her high friend all that had occurred since she had left her on the preceding day, till the moment she had left the Elector's presence. I have said "all;" but there were two things which she omitted: William Lovet's praises of his cousin, and the keen questions which her uncle had put to her on her return. For some reason, she knew not what herself, she spoke not on these two themes, but all the rest was told.
Louisa Juliana listened with thoughtful, earnest attention; her countenance did not vary much, for she was habituated to command its expression; but still there were particular parts on which she seemed to ponder more than others. All Agnes said of her escape from the imminent peril of death, and of him who had delivered her, she seemed to mark peculiarly; but, at the story of his arrest and what had followed, she took apparently but little heed, merely saying: "It will be found that Oberntraut provoked it."
When the young lady had done, she laid her hand upon her shoulder and kissed her brow, thanking her for her tale, and adding, "This is indeed a noble and a generous man, my Agnes; and I must see him and tell him what I think, for your sake, my sweet cousin."
"But he is in prison," answered Agnes; "and, I fear, may not be enlarged for a long time."
"I must see him, nevertheless," replied the Electress, thoughtfully, "on many accounts, dear girl--" she paused, and seemed to meditate a moment or two, after which she added, "I had heard of his being here before, Agnes--nay, you yourself told me of his demeanour the other night, but it is not that alone; a hint has reached my ears, that he has more objects than one, that he is not merely a traveller for pleasure; and this calm and thoughtful character in one so young bespeaks, methinks, a brain burdened with weighty matters. My son, I can see, judges the same,--he denies not that he knows him, and that he is not exactly what he seems.--I must see him, Agnes; and that, too, as speedily as may be."
"But how, dear lady?" inquired Agnes Herbert.
"Oh, that will be easy," answered the Electress; "your uncle has him in custody, you say; well, you shall be his turnkey for the night, and bring him forth to take the air upon the walls, or in the gardens; then lead him out beneath my windows, which shall be open; and, when you hear my little silver bell, conduct him hither by the small staircase in the tower.--I must know more of his errand, Agnes; and, if it be what I think, I may find cause for a long conference. The fate of my son and his whole house, the fate of Germany, nay, perhaps of Europe, is now in the balance, and I would fain prevent any fresh weight being thrown into the wrong scale. Wait till night has fallen, and I will ring my bell some time before ten.--Tell Herbert you have my commands."
"Which shall be obeyed, depend upon it, madam," answered the young lady, and then remained silent, as if waiting to receive any further directions.
"And so you are doubtless very grateful to this young cavalier, my Agnes," said the Princess, at length.
"What would I not do to show my thankfulness!" cried the fair enthusiastic girl.
"Anything in reason, child," replied the elder lady; "but let not gratitude carry you too far in your young fancies. The saving of a life may be paid too dearly by the peace of the heart."
Agnes smiled gaily. "Oh, no fear of that, noble lady," she answered: "he is no love-maker; and if I could thank him for anything more earnestly than for his chivalrous deliverance, it would be for his kind, calm, brotherly treatment throughout yesternight, without one word or look that the vainest heart could construe into gallantry."
"Strange conduct for so young a man! Strange gratitude for so fair a girl!" replied the Electress, laughing. "Yet be not too sure of yourself or him, dear child. Love may be heaping up the fuel before he sets the flame to the pile. Mark me, my Agnes, and do not let your cheek glow so warmly. I do not tell you not to love: that were both vain and dangerous: I only say, know him better before you do. All I have heard of him speaks well, and marks him out for no ordinary man; but yet it is right, when gratitude is so warm in a young heart, to take care that it lights up no other flame without our knowing it. Yours is a rich fancy, my Agnes, and an ardent spirit; and my good cousin Herbert is not so careful as a mother."
"Oh, he is more careful than you deem him," replied the young lady, with a faint smile at the remembrance of his questions; "he interrogated me as strictly this morning as a grand inquisitor; would know all my companion's words and acts towards me, even to the smallest trifle."
"But asked you nothing of your own, I will warrant," said the Princess: "that is his character, my child. All the English are theoretical, and he has his system, good as far as it goes, but often carried too far, and often inapplicable. Because he met with one woman in life who was an angel, if ever one dwelt on earth, and has known few others, his rule would seem to be to trust all women, and to doubt all men. But my advice, my Agnes, to every young being placed as you are, would be, to doubt yourself and ever to fly danger!"
"And do you doubt me, dear lady?" asked Agnes, almost mournfully.
The Princess cast her arm round her, exclaiming, "No, dear girl! No! I would doubt myself sooner; but what I have said was yet in kindness, Agnes. This same gratitude often leads on along a flowery path into a wilderness. Sweet smiling blossoms strew the path at first, and as we gather them we go forward farther than we know; till, frightened at the growing desolation round, we would turn back and then find the way shut with thorns and brambles. I say, beware, my sweet child, till you have known him longer, better, nearer. Then if he seek to win your heart, and you can give it, let it be so; for I am not one to undervalue the worth of true and honest love. It may have its pains; but I do believe that woman's life, at least, is not complete till she has known its blessings."
"But why should he seek to win my poor heart?" asked Agnes. "Why should I fancy that he ever will? He has never said one word that should justify me to myself for dreaming of such a thing. Doubtless he has seen many brighter, better, fairer than myself, and will see many more. As yet I have done nought to win his love, though your Highness thinks I know he has done much to win mine; but there is a vast difference between gratitude and love. I am too proud to love unsought, believe me; and till he either tells me so, or I have accomplished something worthy of love from him, I will not even fancy that he can feel aught but courteous kindness to me."
"Poor child!" said the Electress, "you are a scholar of the lowest class in this same school of love, I see. You have done nought to merit love! Have you not made yourself to him an object of eager, anxious thought and apprehension, when, whirling in the torrent, he rushed to save you? Have you not given him cause for the display of gallant daring and fine enthusiasm? Have you not wakened through the livelong night the tender, soft emotions of the heart for one protected, soothed, supported? What is this but to merit love from any man? You much mistake, my Agnes, if you think men's hearts are won by that which will win woman's. Man's is a different nature, a calling unlike ours: his task to strive with danger for himself and others, to shield the feeble, and love those he shields. Ours to suffer and to shrink, to seek protection from a stronger arm, and pay with our whole hearts the price of man's support. Overwhelm him with benefits, give him wealth, distinction, a kingly crown if you have it to bestow; save him from death, or pain, or misery, still you will twine no bond around his heart so strong as that which binds it to the object of his care or pity. But enough of this, my child, I would but warn you; for every woman carries a traitor in her bosom, ever ready to yield the citadel unless well watched. Bring this brave gentleman to me, as I have said, to-night. When I have seen him, I will tell you more."
Agnes retired, but she went not straight to her uncle's tower. It was her own chamber she first sought, and there, for well nigh an hour, with her fair face resting on her hand, she remained in deep and seemingly painful meditation. I will not pause to inquire what were the busy thoughts that crossed that young and inexperienced brain; what the emotions which filled that pure warm gentle heart. For a time her reveries were certainly bitter ones; but then she seemed to cast them off with some strong resolution; the clouds passed from her brow, her sparkling eye looked up, and rising with a gay laugh, she cried, "No, no; I will not give it another thought!" and with a light step, hurried to Herbert's tower.