and it was only at meal times that she was obliged to mingle with the other inhabitants, who, for the most part, absolutely overlooked the little shrinking pale maiden but with one exception, and that the most perplexing of all. She had been on terms with Freiherr Eberhard that were not so easily broken off as if she had been an old woman of Ursel’s age. All through his sister’s decline she had been his comforter, assistant, director, living in intercourse and sympathy that ought surely to cease when she was no longer his sister’s attendant, yet which must be more than ever missed in the full freshness of the stroke.
Even on the earliest day of bereavement, a sudden thought of Hausfrau Johanna flashed upon Christina, and reminded her of the guard she must keep over herself if she would return to Ulm the same modest girl whom her aunt could acquit of all indiscretion. Her cheeks flamed, as she sat alone, with the very thought, and the next time she heard the well-known tread on the stair, she fled hastily into her own turret chamber, and shut the door. Her heart beat fast. She could hear Sir Eberhard moving about the room, and listened to his heavy sigh as he threw himself into the large chair. Presently he called her by name, and she felt it needful to open her door and answer, respectfully:
“What would you, my lord?”
“What would I? A little peace, and heed to her who is gone. To see my father and mother one would think that a partridge had but flown away. I have seen my father more sorrowful when his dog had fallen over the abyss.”
“Mayhap there is more sorrow for a brute that cannot live again,” said Christina. “Our bird has her nest by an Altar that is lovelier and brighter than even our Dome Kirk will ever be.”
“Sit down, Christina,” he said, dragging a chair nearer the hearth. “My heart is sore, and I cannot bear the din below. Tell me where my bird is flown.”
“Ah! sir; pardon me. I must to the kitchen,” said Christina, crossing her hands over her breast, to still her trembling heart, for she was very sorry for his grief, but moving resolutely.
“Must? And wherefore? Thou hast nought to do there; speak truth! Why not stay with me?” and his great light eyes opened wide.
“A burgher maid may not sit down with a noble baron.”
“The devil! Has my mother been plaguing thee, child?”
“No, my lord,” said Christina, “she reeks not of me; but”—steadying her voice with great difficulty—“it behoves me the more to be discreet.”
“And you would not have me come here!” he said, with a wistful tone of reproach.
“I have no power to forbid you; but if you do, I must betake me to Ursel in the kitchen,” said Christina, very low, trembling and half choked.
“Among the rude wenches there!” he cried, starting up. “Nay, nay, that shall not be! Rather will I go.”
“But this is very cruel of thee, maiden,” he added, lingering, “when I give thee my knightly word that all should be as when she whom we both loved was here,” and his voice shook.
“It could not so be, my lord,” returned Christina with drooping, blushing face; “it would not be maidenly in me. Oh, my lord, you are kind and generous, make it not hard for me to do what other maidens less lonely have friends to do for them!”
“Kind and generous?” said Eberhard, leaning over the back of the chair as if trying to begin a fresh score. “This from you, who told me once I was no true knight!”
“I shall call you a true knight with all my heart,” cried Christina, the tears rushing into her eyes, “if you will respect my weakness and loneliness.”
He stood up again, as if to move away; then paused, and, twisting his gold chain, said, “And how am I ever to be what the happy one bade me, if you will not show me how?”
“My error would never show you the right,” said Christina, with a strong effort at firmness, and retreating at once through the door of the staircase, whence she made her way to the kitchen, and with great difficulty found an excuse for her presence there.
It had been a hard struggle with her compassion and gratitude, and, poor little Christina felt with dismay, with something more than these. Else why was it that, even while principle and better sense summoned her back to Ulm, she experienced a deadly weariness of the city-pent air, of the grave, heavy roll of the river, nay, even of the quiet, well-regulated household? Why did such a marriage as she had thought her natural destiny, with some worthy, kind-hearted brother of the guild, become so hateful to her that she could only aspire to a convent life? This same burgomaster would be an estimable man, no doubt, and those around her were ruffians, but she felt utterly contemptuous and impatient of him. And why was the interchange of greetings, the few words at meals, worth all the rest of the day besides to her? Her own heart was the traitor, and to her own sensations the poor little thing had, in spirit at least, transgressed all Aunt Johanna’s precepts against young Barons. She wept apart, and resolved, and prayed, cruelly ashamed of every start of joy or pain that the sight of Eberhard cost her. From almost the first he had sat next her at the single table that accommodated the whole household at meals, and the custom continued, though on some days he treated her with sullen silence, which she blamed herself for not rejoicing in, sometimes he spoke a few friendly words; but he observed, better than she could have dared to expect, her test of his true knighthood, and never again forced himself into her apartment, though now and then he came to the door with flowers, with mountain strawberries, and once with two young doves. “Take them, Christina,” he said, “they are very like yourself;” and he always delayed so long that she was forced to be resolute, and shut the door on him at last.
Once, when there was to be a mass at the chapel, Hugh Sorel, between a smile and a growl, informed his daughter that he would take her thereto. She gladly prepared, and, bent on making herself agreeable to her father, did not once press on him the necessity of her return to Ulm. To her amazement and pleasure, the young Baron was at church, and when on the way home, he walked beside her mule, she could see no need of sending him away.
He had been in no school of the conventionalities of life, and, when he saw that Hugh Sorel’s presence had obtained him this favour, he wistfully asked, “Christina, if I bring your father with me, will you not let me in?”
“Entreat me not, my lord,” she answered, with fluttering breath.
She felt the more that she was right in this decision, when she encountered her father’s broad grin of surprise and diversion, at seeing the young Baron help her to dismount. It was a look of receiving an idea both new, comical, and flattering, but by no means the look of a father who would resent the indignity of attentions to his daughter from a man whose rank formed an insuperable barrier to marriage.
The effect was a new, urgent, and most piteous entreaty, that he would find means of sending her home. It brought upon her the hearing put into words what her own feelings had long shrunk from confessing to herself.
“Ah! Why, what now? What, is the young Baron after thee? Ha! ha! petticoats are few enough up here, but he must have been ill off ere he took to a little ghost like thee! I saw he was moping and doleful, but I thought it was all for his sister.”
“And so it is, father.”
“Tell me that, when he watches every turn of that dark eye of thine—the only good thing thou took’st of mine! Thou art a witch, Stina.”
“Hush, oh hush, for pity’s sake, father, and let me go home!”
“What,
