The coach stopped as the sun was setting; and at the palace door, too eager for a sight of her to wait in courtly etiquette within, host and hostess stood ready to greet this friend of a lifetime.
“No Heinrich?” they cried, laughing. “A truant always. And we have that with us to-day which will make you wish him here. No matter what! You will see in time.”
And in time she saw indeed. Going slowly up the marble stairs a half-hour later, a vision of magnificent beauty, with her ermine mantle wrapped about her, the hood fallen back from her regal head, the eyes with the pained look of disappointment and longing still lingering in them in spite of the loving welcomes lavished upon her, she came, in a turn of the stairs, upon another vision of beauty radiant as her own, and extremely opposite.
Coming slowly down towards her was a young girl, tall and slight, with a skin of dazzling fairness, where the blue veins in temple and neck were plain to see; a delicate tint like blush-roses upon the cheek; great waves of fair hair sending back a glint of gold to the torches just lighted in the hall; eyes very large, and so deeply set that at first their violet blue seemed black—eyes meek and downcast, and tender as a dove’s, but in them, too, a look of pain and yearning. The face at first view was like that of an innocent child, but beneath its youthfulness lay an expression which bespoke a wealth of love and strength and patience, unawakened as yet, but of unusual force. Skilled to read character by years of experience in kings’ palaces, madame the countess read her well—so far as she could read at all.
Evidently the maiden saw nothing that was before her; but madame held her breath in surprise and delight, and stood still, waiting her approach. Not till she came close to her did the girl look up, then she too stopped with a startled “Pardon madame”; and at sight of the timid, lovely eyes, at the sound of the voice—like a flute, like water rippling softly, like a south wind sighing in the seaside pines—madame opened her arms, and caught the stranger to her heart. “My child, my child,” she cried, “how beautiful you are!”
“Madame, madame,” the girl panted in amazement, carried away in her turn at the sudden sight of this lovely lady, who, she thought, could be, in her regal beauty and attire, no less than a princess—“Madame sees herself surely!”
The countess laughed outright at the artless, undesigned compliment. “And as charming as beautiful,” she said. “I must see more of you, my love.”
Then, kissing the cheek, red now as damask roses, she passed on. In the hall above her hostess stood with an arch smile on her lips. “Ah! Gertrude, we planned it well,” she said. “Fritz and I have been watching for that meeting. It was a brilliant tableau.”
“But who is she, Wilhelmina? Tell me quickly. She is loveliness itself.”
“’Tis but a short story, dear. We found her in Halle. Her name is Elizabeth Wessenberg. She is well-born, but her family are strict Lutherans. She—timid, precious little dove!—became a Catholic by some good grace of the good God. But it was a lonely life, and I begged her off from it for a while. Oh! but her parents winced to see her go. They hate the name even of Catholic. That is all—only she sings like a lark, and she hardly knows what to make of her new life and faith, it is so strange to her.”