Chapter XI: Separated

For a time the preparations for her marriage had gone on openly--though Ernestine, in her tenderness of heart and reluctance to wound one she loved so well, made no reference to this in her short letter--so openly that there were times when she contemplated flight; but whither could she fly? and then she shrunk from the dreadful _esclandre_ of such a proceeding; so settlements were made and deeds signed, and from time to time she found beautiful ornaments and jewels, the gifts of the Baron, on her toilette tables; but she never wore them, and the morocco cases remained unopened; till at last a serious illness, or sickness of the heart, in fact, supervened, and the espousals were delayed, and the Count cursed the hour that his thoughtless son had brought his troublesome English comrade to Frankenburg.

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.'

Poor Ernestine, who had begun to fear that her interview there with Charlie had been overheard or overseen by some eavesdropper unknown, felt greatly relieved by the Baron's simple reply; but her sudden change of colour was not unnoticed by the Countess, who drew certain conclusions therefrom, though she could scarcely give them any form.

The sudden and blunt reference to the church at Burtscheid, the scene of her last and farewell interview with Charlie, gave her so sudden a shock--her sensibility had become so delicate now--that she had to retire to her room.

Burtscheid! All the scene then came again before her--when words were spoken that were known to Heaven and themselves alone! He was gone--torn from her, the first and only man she had ever loved, so the girl pined in her heart. So now she sat, as she had been wont to sit for hours, listlessly, as if without consciousness of thought; yet her mind was keenly active and full of images of the absent one.

To the latter, variety of occupation, change of scene in a foreign land, the activity of a military life, the incessant stir and alarms of war, would, in spite of love, separation, and fear of rivalry and of her family, draw in fresh moods of thought and afford thereby a certain healthy relief; but she was left amid the scenes of her departed joy, with the additional affliction before her of domestic persecution and the odious addresses of a would-be lover!

How eagerly she hoped that he would be detained for months at Berlin!

'Oh, Herminia!' she would sometimes say to her cousin; 'I was so happy--so happy, that it is a sin to make me so miserable!'

'Be calm, darling, be calm; Heinrich will bring him to you once again,' replied the girl, embracing her.

'It will be miraculous if they _both_ escape the dangers of this mighty war.'

'Do not speak thus, I implore you,' said Herminia, passionately, and somewhat scared by her cousin's tone of voice and expression of eye.

'My sufferings are indeed great, Herminia. Do you remember,' she asked, with a sad smile, 'all you endured at Cologne, when you only knew Heinrich as Herr Mansfeld?'

'Never, never shall I forget them, and the agony that I suffered on one particular evening, when I heard you laughing, and deemed you heartless, dear cousin. How I then loathed the name of Heinrich--it seems wonderful now!'

'So now do I loathe that of the Baron. Oh, Herminia, few like me have to endure misery without the prospect of relief!'

In the evening after Rhineberg had withdrawn, the Countess, whose mind was still running on her daughter's evident emotion at the name of Burtscheid, gave vent to the anger and suspicion that excited her.

'Did you ever _go_ to Burtscheid with Herr Pierrepont?' she asked abruptly.

'Never, mamma,' replied Ernestine, blushing again, but at her own quibble rather than the question of her mother, who, after eyeing her narrowly, almost sternly for a minute, said--

'You still pine for that insolent young man. I can see it in your face, Ernestine!'

'Oh, mamma!' said the girl, with a wonderful tenderness of tone, 'is it a crime to love?'

'Not if it is a proper love.'

'Then why, mamma darling, are you so severe on _me_?' asked Ernestine, nestling in her mother's neck in the most endearing manner.

'I wish to protect and guide you, and to teach you that you must not love one who is beneath you.'

'But, dear Carl----' (The adjective escaped her unconsciously.)

'Grafine!' exclaimed the astonished Countess.

'Well, mamma, Carl Pierrepont is not beneath me.'

'This is new to me--how?'

'Because, even if he were so, love makes all equal.'

By kisses and caresses she strove to win over her mother; but the latter almost thrust her back, saying:

'This is folly--worse than folly; crush, forget, dismiss such thoughts. They are unworthy of you, Ernestine--unworthy of _my_ daughter!'

'And of mine, too,' added the Count, who had come unnoticed upon the scene. 'Der Teufel! much as I liked that English lad, I hope some French bullet may rid us of him for ever.'

'Oh, father,' implored Ernestine, 'spare me such terrible remarks. Think of his old father and his three sisters in England. Think that our Heinrich shares his dangers.'

'True--true; God forgive me the thought; but go to your room, child, and let us have no more scenes like this,' replied the old Count, who had long outlived the memory of what a young love was, and Ernestine gladly obeyed.

The expression of her face changed at times; its softness seemed to pass away, and then contempt and anger mingled with sorrow on her white lips. She was a spirited yet a gentle girl; she felt that she had been insulted, and treated like a child; that her natural freedom had been trampled on, her wishes ignored, and in the long waking hours of the silent night, when no sound was heard but the hooting of the owls in the ruined tower close by, she brooded, almost revengefully, upon the pride and tyranny of her parents, and the gross insolence--for such she justly deemed it--of the Baron Grünthal, seeking her hand without her affection--her hand in defiance of herself and her avowed love for another!

Then it was, in times such as these, that wild and impotent schemes of flight and freedom occurred--schemes from which she shrank when daylight came.

Ernestine looked ere long careworn and became ill; her physician recommended the baths at different places, and the mineral waters elsewhere; but they were resorted to in vain. One little enclosure from Carl, received secretly in the letters of Herminia, was worth all the baths and wells in Germany to Ernestine.

One evening Baron Rhineberg came galloping to the Schloss, and from his vast rotundity was ushered into the drawing-room when on the verge of an apoplectic fit. His features were purple, his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, and from mingled excitement and enthusiasm, the burly old Teuton could only splutter and utter some incoherent sounds, while the Spitz pug barked furiously.

'Ach Gott!' exclaimed the Count; 'what is the matter?'

'Have you not heard the news, Herr Count?' he gasped.

'News!' repeated Frankenburg, changing colour, and mechanically, or by use and wont, playing with the pipe that dangled at his button, for even he did not smoke in the drawing-room, though a thorough German.

'But of course you could not, for I have just come from the city,' said Rhineberg.

'Der Teufel!' said Frankenburg, angrily, 'and what may the news be?'

'The advanced column of the German army has come to blows with the French at last.'

'At last!' said the Count, with something of pride mingling in his irritation; 'I don't think the Kaiser has lost much time.'

'Our troops were attacked, at least so the telegram says, by the French, led by the Emperor Napoleon in person.'

'Where--where?' asked all his listeners, while the three ladies grew very pale indeed.

'At Saarbrück.'

'The devil!' exclaimed the Count; 'that is actually on our Prussian ground.'

'Saarbrück?' re-echoed the Countess and Herminia, in faint voices, for they both knew that Heinrich was with the advanced column there.

Ernestine knew that her Carl was there too; but no sound left her white and quivering lips.

'And what were the results of the conflict--the casualties, and so forth?' asked the old Count, his mind flashing back to the days of Ligny, Wavre, and Waterloo.

'Unknown as yet. The first man killed is said to be an _Englishman_.'

'Gott in Himmel!' cried the Count, 'my girl has fainted!'

So at Frankenburg, as at many other places, where the hearts of the people were with the flower of Germany, they could but wait and pray--pray and be patient till true tidings came.