She was no longer espiègle, as of old; the piano remained unopened now, and no entreaties on the part of her father could lure her into playing 'Die Wacht am Rhein,' the war-song of Arndt, or any of those stirring and patriotic airs with which all Germany was resounding now. The very sound of the instrument fretted her.
Times there had been when she had tried over some of those songs she had loved to sing to Charlie Pierrepont—the same that she had been rehearsing on the evening of his arrival (how much had happened since then!)—but she fairly broke down and made the attempt no more.
A summons from Prince Bismarck, for the Baron Grünthal to attend at Berlin, in consequence of some affairs connected with the Oberconsistory Court at Aix, gave poor Ernestine a temporary respite from the annoyance of his presence and clumsy attentions; and as she was at times easier in mind, and more content to wait the issue of events, after that remarkable and somewhat solemn interchange of promises at Burtscheid Church, her parents began to hope that all was at an end between her and the Herr Lieutenant of Infantry, and that she would be content to receive the Baron as her husband in time, perhaps when Heinrich returned, if God spared him ever to return.
This was satisfactory to her on one hand, while on the other she had the pleasure of sharing her secret sorrows and hopes of future joy with Herminia, with whom she had now a double link and bond of sympathy.
They led but a dull life now in the old Schloss.
Baron Rhineberg, 'a beer-bloated Teuton' of the first class, came occasionally to talk politics with the Count, over a pipe and flask of Rhine wine; the two daughters of the Justiz-rath, and a few other visitors, dropped in, but Ernestine found it weary work to talk commonplaces with these people, not one of whom had any vital or particular interest, beyond a national one, in the army now in the field; and to chat of music and books, of Berlin wools and soup for the poor, when, perhaps, at that very moment of time, the bullets might be whistling about him she loved; or when he might be stretched wounded, dying or dead, upon the bloody sod—to talk, we say, of aught that was frivolous, with such fears in her heart, was impossible.
Strong, yet tender, was thus the bond of sympathy between the cousins; for those whom they loved—the one openly, the other secretly—and to whom they were affianced, were facing side by side the foes of Germany, and risking the same perils and toils.
Once only did she rouse herself thoroughly and feel startled when the portly Baron Rhineberg, taking his vast pipe out from his bushy moustaches, asked her abruptly if she 'ever visited the church of Burtscheid.'
'Sometimes,' said she, colouring deeply for a moment, and then becoming pale as before; 'but why do you ask, Herr Baron?'
'Because Herr Pastor Puffenvortz is preaching a series of stirring sermons there just now.'