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CHAPTER XI.
Wilhelm was rapidly approaching complete recovery: he now hoped to be
upon his journey in a few days. He proposed no more to lead an aimless routine
of existence: the steps of his career were henceforth to be calculated for an end.
In the first place, he purposed to seek out that beneficent lady, and express the
gratitude he felt to her; then to proceed without delay to his friend the manager,
that he might do his utmost to assist the luckless company; intending, at the
same time, to visit the commercial friends whom he had letters for, and to
transact the business which had been intrusted to him. He was not without hope
that fortune, as formerly, would favor him, and give him opportunity, by some
lucky speculation, to repair his losses, and fill up the vacuity of his coffer.
The desire of again beholding his beautiful deliverer augmented every day. To
settle his route, he took counsel with the clergyman, — a person well skilled in
statistics and geography, and possessing a fine collection of charts and books.
They two searched for the place which this noble family had chosen as their
residence while the war continued: they searched for information respecting the
family itself. But their place was to be found in no geography or map, and the
heraldic manuals made no mention of their name.
Wilhelm grew uneasy; and, having mentioned the cause of his anxiety, the
harper told him he had reason to believe that the huntsman, from whatever
motive, had concealed the real designations.
Conceiving himself now to be in the immediate neighborhood of his lovely
benefactress, Wilhelm hoped he might obtain some tidings of her if he sent out
the harper; but in this, too, he was deceived. Diligently as the old man kept
inquiring, he could find no trace of her. Of late days a number of quick
movements and unforeseen marches had taken place in that quarter; no one had
particularly noticed the travelling party; and the ancient messenger, to avoid
being taken for a Jewish spy, was obliged to return, and appear without any
olive-leaf before his master and friend. He gave a strict account of his conduct in
this commission, striving to keep far from him all suspicions of remissness. He
endeavored by every means to mitigate the trouble of our friend; bethought him
of every thing that he had learned from the huntsman, and advanced a number of
conjectures; out of all which, one circumstance at length came to light, whereby
Wilhelm could explain some enigmatic words of his vanished benefactress.
The freebooters, it appeared, had lain in wait, not for the wandering troop, but
for that noble company, whom they rightly guessed to be provided with store of
gold and valuables, and of whose movements they must have had precise
intelligence. Whether the attack should be imputed to some free corps, to
marauders, or to robbers, was uncertain. It was clear, however, that, by good
fortune for the high and rich company, the poor and low had first arrived upon
the place, and undergone the fate which was provided for the others. It was to
this that the lady’s words referred, which Wilhelm yet well recollected. If he
might now be happy and contented, that a prescient Genius had selected him for
the sacrifice, which saved a perfect mortal, he was, on the other hand, nigh
desperate, when he thought that all hope of finding her and seeing her again was,
at least for the present, completely gone.
What increased this singular emotion still further, was the likeness which he
thought he had observed between the countess and the beautiful unknown. They
resembled one another as two sisters may, of whom neither can be called the
younger or the elder, for they seem to be twins.
The recollection of the amiable countess was to Wilhelm infinitely sweet. He
recalled her image but too willingly into his memory. But anon the figure of the
noble Amazon would step between: one vision melted and changed into the
other, and the form of neither would abide with him.
A new resemblance — the similarity of their handwritings — naturally
struck him with still greater wonder. He had a charming song in the countess’s
hand laid up in his portfolio; and in the surtout he had found a little note,
inquiring with much tender care about the health of an uncle.
Wilhelm was convinced that his benefactress must have penned this billet;
that it must have been sent from one chamber to another, at some inn during
their journey, and put into the coat-pocket by the uncle. He held both papers
together; and, if the regular and graceful letters of the countess had already
pleased him much, he found in the similar but freer lines of the stranger a
flowing harmony which could not be described. The note contained nothing; yet
the strokes of it seemed to affect him, as the presence of their fancied writer once
had done.
He fell into a dreamy longing; and well accordant with his feelings was the
song which at that instant Mignon and the harper began to sing, with a touching
expression, in the form of an irregular duet.
“’Tis but who longing knows, My grief can measure. Alone, reft of repose,
All joy, all pleasure, I thither look to those Soft lines of azure. Ah! far is he who
knows Me, and doth treasure. I faint, my bosom glows ‘Neath pain’s sore
pressure. ’Tis but who longing knows, My grief can measure.” — Editor’s
Version.
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