Part 7 (1/2)
In the midst of his painful thoughts, on the hour of separation from his love, Albert could scarce refrain from laughing at the cunning ingenuity of the girls; he proffered his hand heartily to the welcome messenger, and prepared to follow his friend.
The garden was situated on the banks of the Danube, about two thousand paces below the bridge. It was not large, and bore the appearance of being kept with care and attention. The fruit trees were as yet not clothed with foliage, neither were the curiously formed flower beds ornamented with flowers; a long walk of yew trees skirting the bank of the river, and terminating in a large arbour, formed a pleasing picture by their bright green colour, and gave sufficient protection to a white neck and arm, against the piercing rays of a burning sun. The two girls, awaiting the arrival of the young men, were seated on a commodious stone bench in the arbour, and had an extended view, up and down the Danube, through apertures made in the side of it.
Bertha sat there in sorrowful thought, her arm resting on one of the apertures, and her head, weary from grief and weeping, supported on her hand. Her dark glossy hair threw out in strong relief her beautiful white complexion, which sorrow had rendered a deadly pale colour; sleepless nights had robbed her brilliant blue eye of its usual animation, and given to it a languis.h.i.+ng--perhaps so much the more interesting--look of melancholy. Beside her sat the rosy Marie, fresh and plump, a perfect specimen of a merry heart. Her golden tresses, animated round face, bright hazel eyes, light and lively movements, were peculiarly striking when compared with the dark locks, oval careworn countenance, and thoughtful look of her dejected cousin.
Marie appeared to have summoned up her most agreeable mood, expressly for the purpose of consoling her cousin, or at least to dissipate her pain. She prattled about indifferent things--she laughed at and mimicked the gestures and peculiarities of many of their acquaintances--she tried a thousand little arts, with which nature had endowed her--but with little success; for only now and then a painful smile spread over Bertha's beautiful features.
As a last resource, she took to her lute, which stood in the corner.
Bertha was an accomplished performer on this instrument, and Marie would not have been easily persuaded to play before so expert a mistress on any other occasion; but now, she hoped to be able to elicit a smile, at least, if it were only on account of her bad performance.
”What is Love, I'm ask'd to tell: Fain we would his nature know; You who've studied it so well, Why he pains us, prithee show.
Joy it brings, if love be there; If pain, of love 't is not the spell;-- Oh, then, I know the name that it should bear.”
”Where did you get that old Swabian song?” asked Bertha, who had lent a willing ear to the music and words.
”It is pretty, is it not? but the remainder is still more so; would you like to hear it?” said Marie. ”A music master, Hans Sacks, taught it me in Nurnberg. It is not his own composition, but Walther's, the bird-feeder, who lived and loved a good three hundred years ago. But listen:
”How I rightly may divine Love's enigma, prithee say.
'Tis the charm of pow'r to join Two hearts, where each must own its sway; One heart avails not, each must share Its influence: dear mistress mine, Say, wilt thou share with me, thou lovely May?
”Well, though you have shared your love equally with the poor young man,” said the playful Marie, ”I pity you, from my heart, the painful burden of its weight. If such be its chains, cousin Kraft, who would willingly give me a portion of his, must wait awhile, and groan under the load of carrying the whole charge of it on his own shoulders. But I see you are again absorbed in thought,” she added, ”so I must sing you another of Walther's songs:
”I know not what has chanced, I ween My sight was never on this wise.
Since in my heart she first was seen, I see her still without my eyes.
What miracle is this? What pow'r Enables me, without the aid of sight, To see her every day and every hour?
”Would you then learn the organs and the art, By which I see to earth's extremest zone?
They are the thoughts I nourish in my heart; They penetrate through walls of brick and stone; And, should these watchers fail, her presence still Is evermore, as 't were, before my eyes, Seen by my heart, my spirit, and my will.”
Bertha praised the song of Walther the birdfeeder, as being consolatory in separation. Marie agreed with her. ”I have one more verse,” she added, smiling:
”Though she wander'd in Swabia, far and wide, Through castles and walls her course he espied.
O'er the Alb unto Lichtenstein had she gone, His eyes would have follow'd through rock and stone.”
Marie was going on with her singing, when the garden door opened.
Footsteps were heard in the walk, and the girls rose to receive their expected visitants.
”Albert von Sturmfeder,” began Marie, after the usual salutations were over, ”you will pardon me for having ventured to invite you into my father's garden; but, as my cousin, Bertha wishes to give you some commissions, for her friend, I have taken the liberty.” She then turned to Dieterich von Kraft, and said, ”We will not interrupt their conversation; so, come and talk over the ball of last evening.” Upon which she took the hand of her cousin, and led him away down the yew-tree walk.
Albert seated himself beside Bertha, who laid her head on his breast, and wept bitterly. His most soothing words were unable to calm her grief. ”Bertha,” he said, ”you were always so stout-hearted; how can you thus give up all hope of a happier destiny?”
”Hope?” she replied, sorrowfully: ”to our hope, to our happiness, there is an eternal end.”
”But hearken, dearest,” replied Albert, who, to cheer up her drooping spirit, endeavoured to inspire her with courage; ”let not this slight interruption to our hopes throw its chilling influence over the purity of our love, as if it were to extinguish altogether its bright flame.
All will be well yet. Rather let us put our trust in G.o.d, and wait his almighty will; for I never can believe that He who knows the secret of our hearts, and has joined them together by the indissoluble tie of faithful attachment, will not, in his own way, make all things to work for our good.” These consoling words produced a smile upon her countenance; but it pourtrayed the character of despondency rather than of hope.
She replied, after a short silence, ”Listen to me with attention, Albert. I must acquaint you with a profound secret, upon which hangs my father's life. He is as bitter an enemy to the League, as he is the firm friend of the Duke. He is not come here solely for the purpose of fetching his daughter home; no, he is using his utmost endeavour to find out the plans of the enemy, and with money and address to spread distrust and confusion among them. Do you suppose, then, that such a determined adversary to the League, would ever consent to give his daughter to a man who seeks to raise himself by our destruction? to one who has attached himself to a party, whose object is not justice, but plunder?”