A Night on the Borders of the Black Forest. Amelia Ann Blanford Edwards

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       Amelia Ann Blanford Edwards

      A Night on the Borders of the Black Forest

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664594730

Table of Contents

       A NIGHT ON THE BORDERS OF THE BLACK FOREST.

       THE STORY OF SALOME.

       IN THE CONFESSIONAL.

       THE TRAGEDY IN THE PALAZZO BARDELLO.

       CHAPTER I.

       CHAPTER II.

       CHAPTER III.

       CHAPTER IV.

       THE FOUR-FIFTEEN EXPRESS.

       CHAPTER I.

       CHAPTER II.

       CHAPTER III.

       SISTER JOHANNA'S STORY.

       ALL-SAINTS' EVE.

       CHAPTER I.

       CHAPTER II.

       CHAPTER III.

       CHAPTER IV.

       CHAPTER V.

       CHAPTER VI.

       CHAPTER VII.

       CHAPTER VIII.

A NIGHT ON THE BORDERS OF THE BLACK FOREST.

       Table of Contents

      My story (if story it can be called, being an episode in my own early life) carries me back to a time when the world and I were better friends than we are likely, perhaps, ever to be again. I was young then. I had good health, good spirits, and tolerably good looks. I had lately come into a snug little patrimony, which I have long since dissipated; and I was in love, or fancied myself in love, with a charming coquette, who afterwards threw me over for a West-country baronet with seven thousand a year.

      So much for myself. The subject is not one that I particularly care to dwell upon; but as I happen to be the hero of my own narrative, some sort of self-introduction is, I suppose, necessary.

      To begin then—Time: seventeen years ago.

      Hour:—three o'clock p.m., on a broiling, cloudless September afternoon.

      Scene:—a long, straight, dusty road, bordered with young trees; a far-stretching, undulating plain, yellow for the most part with corn-stubble; singularly barren of wood and water; sprinkled here and there with vineyards, farmsteads, and hamlets; and bounded in the extreme distance by a low chain of purple hills.

      Place—a certain dull, unfrequented district in the little kingdom of Würtemberg, about twelve miles north of Heilbronn, and six south-east of the Neckar.

      Dramatis Personæ:—myself, tall, sunburnt, dusty; in grey suit, straw hat, knapsack and gaiters. In the distance, a broad-backed pedestrian wielding a long stick like an old English quarter-staff.

      Now, not being sure that I took the right turning at the cross-roads a mile or two back, and having plodded on alone all day, I resolved to overtake this same pedestrian, and increased my pace accordingly. He, meanwhile, unconscious of the vicinity of another traveller, kept on at an easy "sling-trot," his head well up, his staff swinging idly in his hand—a practised pedestrian, evidently, and one not easily out-walked through a long day.

      I gained upon him, however, at every step, and could have passed him easily; but as I drew near he suddenly came to a halt, disencumbered himself of his wallet, and stretched himself at full length under a tree by the wayside.

      I saw now that he was a fine, florid, handsome fellow of about twenty-eight or thirty years of age—a thorough German to look at; frank, smiling, blue-eyed; dressed in a light holland blouse and loose grey trousers, and wearing on his head a little crimson cap with a gold tassel, such as the students wear at Heidelberg university. He lifted it, with the customary "Guten Abend" as I came up, and when I stopped to speak, sprang to his feet with ready politeness, and remained standing.

      "Niedersdorf, mein Herr?" said he, in answer to my inquiry. "About four miles farther on. You have but to keep straight forward."

      "Many thanks," I said. "You were resting. I am sorry to have disturbed you."

      He put up his hand with a deprecating gesture.

      "It is nothing," he said. "I have walked far, and the day is warm."

      "I have only walked from Heilbronn, and yet I am tired. Pray don't let me keep you standing."

      "Will you also sit, mein Herr?" he asked with a pleasant smile. "There is shade for both."

      So I sat down, and we fell into conversation. I began by offering him a cigar; but he pulled out his pipe—a great dangling German pipe, with a flexible tube and a painted china bowl like a small coffee-cup.

      "A thousand thanks," he said; "but I prefer this old pipe to all the cigars that ever came out of Havannah. It was given to me eight years ago, when I was a student; and my friend who gave it to me is dead."

      "You were at Heidelberg?" I said interrogatively.

      "Yes; and Fritz (that was my friend) was at Heidelberg also. He was a wonderful fellow; a linguist, a mathematician, a botanist, a geologist. He was only five-and-twenty when the government appointed him naturalist to an African exploring party; and in Africa he died."

      "Such a man," said I, "was a loss to the world."

      "Ah, yes," he replied simply; "but a greater loss to me."

      To this I could answer nothing;