thought it still more improbable that any danger was to be apprehended from such a man as Schirmwald. And yet this Schirmwald, vain, ignorant, selfish, and (as he had more lately had occasion to discover) unprincipled, had succeeded, by an affectation of peculiar softness of manner, and a pompous display of fine feeling, in captivating the unsuspecting heart of Leonora.
It happened, also, towards the end of autumn, that Schirmwald, during one of his walks near the castle, had the good fortune to rescue Eleonora from the attack of a marauding ruffian, who had assaulted her in the wood. From this moment, the heart of Eleonora seemed to glow with the fire of affection. She seemed to think that even the warmest love towards her deliverer could scarcely repay the service she had received. She would no longer hear of her marriage with Saalburg. She admitted the goodness of his disposition,—but he wanted mind, and mind alone could make her happy.
“My dear Saalburg,” said the Baron, as he concluded his recital, “so stands the case. You see you have little to hope. Eleonora’s character, and the strength of this passion, make me fear that opposition—” “Would be in vain,” cried Saalburg; “you know, my dear father, that passion was never cured by contradiction. If it is possible to win back Eleonora’s heart, it can only be by taking care that not the smallest symptom of my design should appear. Promise me then not to allude in any way to our union. My relationship will account for my staying here a month or two. In that time, I shall be able to ascertain what I have to expect.”
The Baron promised the strictest silence on the point, and after agreeing to communicate to each other any thing that should happen, they separated.
At Neideck, every one was master of his time. The Baron went about his ordinary employments, without concerning himself about the movements of his guests, to whom an excellent library, a billiard-room, and every convenience for walking, riding, or hunting, offered a constant fund of amusement. From breakfast-time, when they all met together, every one might employ himself as he pleased until two, when the sound of the hunting-horn summoned them to table. They enjoyed equal liberty during the afternoon, till they met again at eight o’clock to tea.
Saalburg saw Eleonora daily, and met her with an air of composure and indifference. During their rides, in which he occasionally accompanied her, he was attentive, but not officious; and he seemed to pay no attention to the marked distinction with which she treated Schirmwald. Thus the connection between them seemed to have subsided into the calm, easy intercourse of mere acquaintance and politeness. The aunt and the young ladies, however, were not disposed to take the matter so coolly, and Saalburg found considerable difficulty in prevailing on them to be silent, as to the long-proposed union, and to leave him quietly to mature his plans.
One evening, he observed that Eleonora had evidently been weeping. Her eyes appeared inflamed, and during the whole evening it was impossible to draw her into conversation.
He soon ascertained the cause from Neideck. The Baron, he found, had taken Schirmwald soundly to task, and had told him decidedly that he might look for another situation. Ill humour, and scarcely-concealed indignation, sat upon the Secretary’s brow when he appeared at table, and Eleonora seemed to share his feelings. Saalburg gave up every thing for lost.
Grieved to the heart at the consequences of the Baron’s impatience, he left the room. It was the close of a winter afternoon, as he directed his steps towards the waste and dreary park that surrounded the castle. The snow crisped and crackled under his feet, in the clear frosty air. The winter wind rustled through the bare boughs of the willows, where the ice-flakes now hung in place of the vanished leaves. The deep, melancholy stillness of Nature harmonized with his dejection. In this thoughtful mood he continued to saunter on till he reached a grove of dark pines, under whose boughs, still green amidst the surrounding desolation, a
