How different her reception at the castle had been from any she had anticipated! She had looked forward with a heavy heart to meeting the old Baron; but he had welcomed her so kindly, so cordially, that she felt sure that in him she should find a friend.
But Arno? Even if Count Styrum had written to him beseeching his kind offices for the new governess, this morning, after his visit at the President's, he could not have received the letter; his conduct had been characterized only by the coldest courtesy. Still, she was prepared for this; she knew his sentiments with regard to women. He had behaved precisely as she had expected him to do, and his manner was certainly far preferable to the Finanzrath's. As she called him to mind a burning blush overspread her cheek, and she leaned her forehead against the cool glass window-pane. She could not tell what it was in his behaviour to her that so aroused her repugnance. He had been all that he should be, and no more, and yet his courtesy inspired her with dread; this man was antipathetic to her. But why trouble herself about him in any way? He was but a guest at the castle, where everything seemed so much more encouraging than she had hoped to find it; he would be gone in a few days, and Celia, this charming, lovely Celia, who had evidently conceived a sudden affection for her new companion, would still be with her. How entirely unnecessary had been Lucie's fear of the "wayward, spoiled child"! Celia could not feign; in her clear, honest eyes the genuine welcome she had given to her new governess was plainly to be read. How happy she had seemed upon noting the pleasant impression produced by the pretty and luxurious bedroom and dressing-room to which she had shown Lucie! How cordially she as well as Frau Kaselitz had begged to know if anything were wanting for the comfort of the new inmate! and how caressing had been the kiss with which she had said good-night!
Yes, everything was far, far more pleasant than Lucie had expected; surely she could find repose and forgetfulness amid these surroundings, and in the fulfilment of a duty so interesting as the instruction of this sweet young girl; and yet she could not look forward into the future with any degree of buoyancy; the driving rain, the dark night, the moaning wind, seemed to her to symbolize her destiny.
CHAPTER IX.
The tempest had spent its fury in the night, and the sun shone warm and bright into Lucie's bedroom when she awaked at a rather late hour the next morning. She was habitually an early riser, but the fatigue of the previous day and evening had prevented her from sleeping until towards morning, and she did not awake until eight o'clock from her dreamless and refreshing slumber. She gazed around her in some bewilderment, and could not at first remember where she was; but in an instant all the past, her parting from her dear Adèle, her journey hither, and last night's adventures, flashed upon her mind, and brought with them the consciousness that she was actually in Castle Hohenwald. If her room had looked pretty and comfortable by candle-light on the previous evening, it was positively charming now, with a bunch of fresh spring flowers, which she had not seen the night before, upon a little table between the windows, and the sunlight glorifying the landscape without. Lucie hastily left her bed, and was proceeding to dress, when there came a low knock at her door. "Who is there?" she asked.
"I,--Celia. I waited until I heard you stirring, to tell you that your trunk has been brought over from Grünhagen, and is here in the next room--our morning room--with your dry dress from the Inspector's. I will come to take you to breakfast in half an hour."
When Lucie opened the door into the next room Celia had vanished, but her trunk stood near, and her travelling-dress, brushed and dry, hung across a chair. She made haste to perform her simple toilet, and then went again into the apartment which Celia had called "our morning room." This room, then, she was to share with her pupil. It was a delightful and luxurious retreat; its windows opening upon an enchanting prospect of the garden, the mighty oaks in the park, and the distant mountains; near one window was a table, upon which lay a half-finished piece of embroidery, while another table, evidently new, and prettily furnished with writing materials, was plainly destined for the new governess. Upon it was a small vase filled with flowers evidently plucked but an hour ago, the dew not yet dry upon the petals of the roses. Flowers! So little, and yet so much! They made a welcome where they stood. Lucie bent over them to inhale their cool fragrance, and when she raised her head looked into Celia's laughing eyes. "How can I thank you for placing these here, Fräulein von Hohenwald?" she said, with emotion.
"By never again calling me Fräulein, but Celia. Every one who cares for me calls me Celia, and I want you to care for me very much."
Such a request, accompanied as it was by a kiss and a caress, could not be refused. The girl's frank tenderness was inexpressibly soothing to Lucie.
"And now come with me to the garden-room," Celia went on, putting Lucie's hand within her arm. "Papa is waiting for us; he drank his morning cup of coffee long ago, but he wants us to take our breakfast in the garden-room all the same."