“Well Roderick, my son,” said the old priest, as he paused at the door, “I fear you have been imprudent again. These outbursts of yours will bring the poor old mother to the grave. You have heard something since, and it has set you beside yourself, poor boy.”
“No, Father, I have heard nothing since I told you Count Reisach was in Cologne; that is three weeks ago, and from that time I have sought no news but for your sake. The only news I have to tell you is, that my departure for America is determined upon; I have made up my mind to go.”
“That’s right; that’s right!”
“You will tell her?”
“Leave it to me. God will surely temper the wind; but not to-night, not to-night!” And he sighed as he entered the house and left us alone again.
The moon was just rising, and as I pressed the poor fellow’s hand (poor fellow, I knew he was a poor fellow. I pitied him sincerely, but I knew not why), he returned the pressure warmly, and asked permission to visit me the following day. I appointed an hour, and galloped over the hilly road toward home. As I approached the end of the path that led off to the bower, I could not help turning my eyes thither, my mind was full of Roderick, and I could not disconnect the idea of him from the idea of the bower. Had I known his story then as I do now, I could have sighed with the sighing trees, that shook and sighed all night on the gloomy Castle Mount.
I knew that I had a treat in store for Miss Thornton. I knew what fresh interest I would awaken, when I should tell her that the rough peasant was an accomplished artist. That evening and the next morning, it was a subject she always recurred to when we were alone, she would talk of nothing else, and frequently sought opportunities of conversing apart.
The next day, Roderick appeared at the appointed hour, but his garb was changed. He wore no longer the coarse clothes of a peasant, and I could not but observe that his altered exterior harmonized much better with his bearing, and his intellectual features. Several of the party who had made with me the morning excursion to the Castle Mount were still at Heidelberg, and as we frequently met on our rounds upon the promenade, she was the only one, of all, who recognized my companion. His object seemed to be to learn, as far as my judgment extended, the probable prospects that awaited him in the United States, in the prosecution of his art. He dwelt upon the subject calmly, and was perfectly self-possessed until we approached Miss T., when he stopped, and regarded her with the same fixed gaze that I had remarked upon our first interview. From that moment he was a changed person. A strange uneasiness seemed to take possession of him. His face was pale, and at last he turned abruptly down the avenue. I followed him, and cast one look back at her, ere I started. She and her companion had paused; he was speaking to unheeding ears, for her gaze was fixed on us, her face was pale, and wore the expression of sudden alarm. He led me hastily along the avenue; I followed, I scarce knew why: but he could have led me anywhere. After a while—
“I cannot tell you,” said he, “until we reach the bower.”
And we began to ascend the mountain. At last, we pushed aside the briars that blockaded the little, descending path that led to the bower. The magnificent ruins appeared spread out below us, and I half forgot the sorrows of my eccentric friend in lively feelings of pleasure. After a pause, which I was unwilling to interrupt (for I saw in his countenance, in his whole bearing, evidence of a severe interior struggle), he said—