"Well, then," she said, "I am habitually free and at ease; because I am sure of myself--because I feel that I never mean wrong; and do not know that I have any thoughts I could wish to conceal. Let those who doubt themselves fear to show their heart as it is; thanks to wise friends and careful guidance, mine has no part that may not be open. Then, as to your share: you have treated me in a manner different from that which most men would assume to most women. I could scarcely lay my finger upon one of all that court, who, sent with me, like you, throughout this night, would not have tried to please my ear with tales of love and praises of my beauty, long, stupid, and insignificant as a cricket on the hearth. Had you done so, my manner might have been very different."
Her companion did not reply for a moment or two; but then said, with a smile: "It seems to me that there must be something both vain and insulting in supposing that a woman will willingly listen to tales of love from a man who has known her but a few hours--he must think her very light and himself very captivating."
"We poor women," she answered, "are bound to gratitude towards your sex, even for forbearance; and therefore, it is, I thank you for not having held me so lightly."
"I am far more than repaid," he rejoined, as she guided him down the steps into the lower garden, saying that they must hasten on, and that was the shortest way.
Passing round under the high banks formed by the casting down of a great part of the hill, called the Friesenberg, they had crossed one half of the gardens and were walking on at a spot where the shadow of one of the great towers fell deep upon the green turf, when suddenly a tall figure seemed to rise out of the earth close beside them, passed them, and disappeared. For an instant the lady clung to her companion's arm as if in terror; but then, the moment after, she laughed gaily, saying: "This place has so many superstitious legends attached to it that they cling to one's fancy whether one will or not. If I ever see you again, I will tell you one about this very spot; but we have not time now; for in ten minutes after that trumpet-sound, the Elector will be at table."
We will not go on to visit the banquet that followed, to contemplate its splendour, or criticise the ceremonies there observed. It were an easy matter to describe it, for we have many a dull relation of many a gay feast of the time; but, in this work, I have not in view to paint the mere customs and manners of the age, except incidentally, but rather to show man's heart and feelings undisguised, and exhibit their true proportions, stripped of a gaudy but disfiguring robe of ceremony.
CHAPTER IV.
How often an aching head or an aching heart is the follower of a gay night like that of the nineteenth of August, those who have much mingled with, or much watched, the world well know. In the commerce of life we are too apt to reverse the usual course of all reasonable traffic, and purchase with short present pleasure a vast amount of future grief and care. The bargain is a bad one, but made every day; and even at the table, in the ball-room, and in many another scene, this same losing trade is going on, with the bitter day of reckoning on the morrow.
How is it with Algernon Grey, as he sits there in the large gloomy chamber, with his head leaning on his hand, his eyes gazing vacantly forth through the narrow window? The servants come and go; and he notices them not. The table is laid for breakfast, but the meal remains untasted. Busy sounds rise up from without and float through the half open casement; the gay and cheering laugh, the light song, the chattered conversation, the cry of the vender of early grapes, the grating noise of wheels, or that of horses' feet, and through the whole a lively hum, indistinct but merry to the ear. Nevertheless, he hears not a sound, buried in the deep thoughts of his own heart.
Is it that the brow is aching? or that languor and feverish heat reign in those strong and graceful limbs? Oh, no. The whole frame is free from pain; fresh, vigorous, and fit for instant action. Is there any word, spoken the night before, any deed done, that he would recall, yet cannot? Not so. He has nought to reproach himself with; conscience has no accusing voice.