University of Virginia Library

4. IV.

Meanwhile, the corpse of Albert was removed
to his former lodgings, and from thence to the

family vault in the country. But a strange report
— none knew whence — came to the ears of Anastasia.
It was whispered that Albert of Holstein
was still alive. The story went that a skilful physician
and careful hands had kept the spark of
life in his bosom, and that hopes were entertained
of his final recovery. But these hopes, though
they inspired new ones in the heart of Anastasia,
were for a long time illusive, and, perhaps, injurious.
They kept her mind in a state of feverish
inquietude, and prolonged, if they did not increase,
the sickness at her heart.

But little time was allowed her, however, for
idle meditation upon fancies such as these. Count
Wallenberg pressed his suit, and would not be denied.
In vain did the maiden plead for time —
for a brief indulgence to her sorrows. At that
early period in the history of civilization, parents
did not often trouble themselves to give ear to the
tastes and desires of their daughters. They did
not, in the present instance; but with the most cruel
disregard to her complaints and prayers, they decreed
her to the great bear, her wealthy lover.
They doomed her to the sacrifice, and the day was
appointed for placing the victim before the altar.
We may not speak of the anguish of Anastasia on
being instructed to prepare for the nuptials with

Wallenberg. She felt that it would be far easier
to die. But, hopeless of any aid from without,
and having no succor or show of mercy from
within, she prepared to resign herself without
struggling to the fate which now seemed inevitable.

It was only a few weeks after the death of her
lover, when this scarcely less cruel doom was uttered
in her hearing. She fled to her chamber,
desperate and desolate. She knew not where to
turn for consolation or counsel. It was midnight.
She threw herself down before her window, and
wished and prayed for death. The very associations
of memory, so full of pleasure and joy as the
reality had been, now brought her infinite pain.
They told her what she had enjoyed, but they also
told her what she had lost, and lost for ever. She
felt that it would be sweet then to lapse away into
forgetfulness, and, fleeing from the pressure and
the care of life, rejoin her departed lover in the
dwellings of the blessed.

Musing thus, and hopeless of all things and
thoughts, she starts and trembles. A sudden terror
is upon her. Her blood freezes in her veins
— her very heart grows cold. What is it that
she hears — what is it that rises up before her
sight?

Well may she start and tremble. The faint and
exquisite tones of music which now seek her ears
are such as she had long been accustomed to hear
from the lips of Albert. The words are those of
a familiar song, and the tones cannot be mistaken.
They breathe of the same sweet passion — they
speak the same blessed language. It is Albert's
voice and music, and Albert must be at hand.
Breathlessly, and half fainting, she lingered and
listened to the strains. She did not dare to move
— indeed she could not — while she heard them.
But soon they melted away in distance, and the
winds only remained sighing mournfully through
the lattice. Her frame seemed fastened — frozen
to the ground; and her terror, becoming insupportable
at length, with a shriek she rushed to the
innermost recesses of her chamber, and burying
her head in the thick drapery of the couch, strove,
in this way, to fly and hide from those strange and
terrible surmises which were fast gathering in her
soul.

But the strange and starling minstrelsy pursued
her even there, and its fascinations proved
too powerful for her mind to resist. She braved
all the terrors of her imagination, in the hope
again to hear it. With the approach of the next
midnight she again sought the lattice, and listened

impatiently for the returning strains. They came
at last, obedient to her senses. The same sweet,
mysterious air, rose swelling upon the night wind,
and was borne, as it were, directly to the window
where she sat. The tones were full of the warmest
melancholy — faint, but full — strange, but
sweet — mysterious and vague, but as familiar as
if they had all been learned in childhood. She
was no longer terrified; and, obeying an impulse
which she now found irresistible, and having no
fears, she gently undid the lattice, and looked out
with far-searching eyes among the trees of the garden.
Nor did she look in vain. She beheld a
form retreating away among the thick crowding
trees, so nearly resembling that of her departed
lover, that she involuntarily uttered his name.
She was answered by a sigh — so mournful, so
deep, that it seemed to reproach her for the indifference
of her grief — for her consenting to the
bridal sacrifice which had been decreed by her
father. Her sorrows burst forth afresh with this
thought, and she was convulsed by her emotions.
She lost all guidance of her reason at that moment,
and called upon Albert deliriously.

Had her voice indeed so much power? Had
the deity spoken from her lips, and was it in truth
her lover who now stood before her? Fair and

manly as when at first she had beheld him, she
beheld him now. He looked even lovelier and
nobler than ever. No trace of his hurts was perceptible.
He was alive, and utterly uninjured.
She grew faint as she surveyed him. She trembled
with a feeling of awe, lest, at that moment, she
should be standing in the presence of a spectre.
His eyes, though clear and intelligent as ever,
were sad, and full of a solemn expression. They
looked the divinity of wo — such an expression as
might well belong to a fallen and defeated deity. A
mingled feeling of love and adoration, which she
stove vainly to restrain, filled and inflamed her
heart. How gentle were all his tones — how soothing
his words — how tender their utterance. How
sweetly did he assure her of his existence — of his
continued love for her, even while that existence
was doubtful. He had been in deep extremity
from his wounds — on the verge of dissolution,
from which he had been saved only by the marvellous
skill of his physician. The moment of his
recovery brought him once more to the feet of her
without whom the skill which had saved him would
have been rejected. He had risked all danger
once more to see her — to hear from her lips that
she was not lost to him yet — that she would be
none other than his. How easy to give that assurance,
— how sweet to receive it. Long did they
linger in the sacred and silent garden, in fond communion,
with no watcher but the stars, and no
thought but of that true and blessing love which
they seemed to smile upon and sanction.

But the difficulty of escape from the approaching
bridal with Wallenberg distracted the maiden,
in the midst of all her new-born hopes and pleasures.
She had poured into her lover's bosom all
the sorrows which had troubled hers. His composure
satisfied and reassured her.

“Fear nothing,” he said, “I shall not lose you.
I will save you from this hated bridal. You shall
be mine, Anastasia — mine only, believe me.”

“I do — I do,” she repeated, fervently.

“Be ready, then, as I shall counsel you, and
fear nothing.”

He gave her directions for meeting him, made
his own preparations for flight, and with mutual
impatience they waited the approaching and appointed
evening.

It came — the hour which had been designated
for the marriage of Wallenberg. The chapel of
D'Arlemont Castle was pompously illuminated —
the company were already assembling in crowds,
and every thing was gay comparison, amusing
scandal, and good-humored clamor. There

were aunts and uncles, cousins and friends — the
whole world of various and motley elements which
such an occasion so commonly brings together.
At the head of a long train of connexions and dependants
came the bridegroom, as full of his own
consequence as of impatience for the ceremony.
The hour was dawing nigh for the sacrifice — but
a voice, under the lattice of Anastasia, said to her
in a whisper, which, though soft, yet reached her
ears —

“Come — come to me, beloved — I await thee,
Anastasia!”

A mournful but a sweet voice was his — a voice
of melody and love, — and she answered it in
like language — “I come.”

She stole away by a private passage into the
garden. She joined her lover, and they fled from
the boundaries of her father's domain, long before
the assembled company had dreamed of her absence.