They stopped at Heissenheimer’s house, to take their old friend along. He was just up, and after he came to them, had to parry a great deal of raillery from the arch Nina.
The country was arrayed in all the loveliness of early summer. The fields were green with the young grain, the foliage was in its freshest verdure, the morning air was cool and balmy, the sky cloudless; all things breathed of pleasure and beauty. Little was said by our friends, who each in his own way enjoyed the scenes around, and the motion through the fresh air. It might have been observed, however, that the eyes of Louis rested frequently on the fair Nina, and were withdrawn in some confusion whenever she raised hers to his face.
At length they left the high road and drove through an avenue bordered with cherry trees, past a little village, and into a wood beyond. On an eminence before them, half hid by foliage, was an old hunting-seat, and at the foot of the slope, the water, bordered with trees and bushes. On the other side of the river were situated country-seats.
The carriage stopped here; the friends alighted; and Nina immediately proposed a walk or a sail. The walk was decided upon, as the sun was now high, and the cool shade of the woods particularly inviting. They wandered about for some time, till they came to a knoll shaded by a large, old tree, covered with the softest moss. This served them for a sofa; and then Heissenheimer proposed that Nina should give the nightingales a lesson. She complained of being hoarse, and made twenty capricious excuses, till Signor Ricco produced his roll of paper, and handed a leaf to his daughter.
“What is this, dear father?” asked the maiden. “A composition?” inquired the merchant. “Truly,” answered Ricco, “I have attempted to arrange something; it is a cavatina from the ‘Gazza Ladra,’ to which I have made an accompaniment.”
Nina was delighted, and declared it was her favorite piece; Louis looked at her doubtfully. Signor Ricco assigned him the tenor, and the bass to Heissenheimer. Louis hoped to discover by Nina’s singing, if she were the songstress of the preceding night. It seemed to him that he was not mistaken; but he could find in her really charming voice not the least of that fervor and feeling which had so enchanted him with the mysterious songstress. His disappointment was so great that he went wrong in his own part, and was only recalled by a sharp look from the chapel-master. Nina seemed roguishly inclined to laugh. At last the piece was finished, and they rallied him severely on his abstraction. Heissenheimer said candidly he thought the solemn wood a place as unsuitable for such a melody, as a church for a waltz or polonaise; and thereupon ensued a renewal of the dispute about Rossini, Mozart, and Mercadante. Nina took a decided part with her father, who at last put an end to the discussion by proposing that they should go where they could obtain some lunch.
CHAPTER IV.
The providence of Nina had prepared for them a little surprise—a table spread with refreshments, under a neighboring tree. They talked of other matters besides music, and Louis recovered spirits enough to enter on a lively conversation with the young lady about the climates of Germany and Italy. While the elder guests were deep in their discourse, she proposed a walk down to the water.
The day was delicious; the blue, clear waters reflected the sunshine and the foliage on their bank. An avenue of chesnut and linden trees followed the windings of the river. Nina stood on the bank, smiling as she looked on the lovely scene; Louis was beside her, but a strange conflict agitated his bosom. Her evidently superficial apprehension of art, of that which formed the great object of his life, disappointed him so deeply, that his regard for her seemed nipped in the bud.
After a long silence, he ventured on the question that oppressed his heart. “We are alone;” he said to her in an earnest tone of entreaty; “tell me, was it you who sang last night? I beseech you, answer me truly.”