THE BETROTHAL.
THE afternoon of the next day the betrothal took place. Hamilton had
expected an imposing ceremony, but not one of the many persons assembled
appeared to consider it as anything but an occasion for drinking wine or
coffee and eating cake. Crescenz and her sister must be excepted; they
both looked greatly alarmed; and when the certificates of birth,
baptism, vaccination, and confirmation had been laid on the table, and
the marriage contract read aloud and presented for signature, Crescenz
fairly attempted to rush out of the room. She was brought back with some
difficulty; and it was from Hamilton’s hand that she received the pen
with which she wrote her name. A present of a very handsome ring from
Major Stultz seemed in some degree to restore her equanimity, and a
glass of champagne, judiciously administered by her father, enabled her
to receive the congratulations and enjoy the jokes of her bridesmaids.
As evening drew on, the pianoforte was put in requisition, and dancing
proposed. Hamilton immediately engaged Hildegarde; he was in England
considered to dance well, and was, therefore, not a little surprised and
mortified when, after a few turns, she sat down quietly, saying he was a
most particularly disagreeable dancer.
“You are the first person who has told me so,” he observed, somewhat
piqued; for Englishmen are vulnerable on this point.
“Others have _thought_ so, perhaps,” said Hildegarde, carelessly, and
following with her eyes Crescenz and Major Stultz; the latter, forgetful
of the hardship of his Russian campaign, and unmindful of the stoutness
of his figure, was whirling round the room with a lightness which would
have done credit to a man of one-and-twenty.
“How very well Major Stultz dances!” said Hamilton, when Crescenz and
her partner soon after stopped near them.
“And you—why do you not dance?” asked Crescenz.
“Your sister says I dance badly.”
“I said you were a disagreeable dancer,” said Hildegarde; “other people
may think differently; but I particularly dislike being held so close,
and having——”
Hamilton’s face became crimson, and she left her sentence unfinished.
“Perhaps people dance differently in England,” suggested Crescenz.
“Most probably they do not waltz at all there,” said Major Stultz.
Hamilton explained with extraordinary warmth.
“Well, at all events—it is—and will ever remain, a German national
dance; and, so I suppose, without giving offence, I may say that we
Germans dance it better than you English. I have no doubt that you dance
country-dances and Scotch reels perfectly, but——”
“I have never danced either the one or the other,” said Hamilton, with a
look of sovereign contempt.
“Well, Francaise’s quadrilles, or whatever you call those complicated
dances now coming into fashion here.”
Hamilton did not answer; he had turned to Crescenz, and was now
insisting on her waltzing with him, that she might tell him the fault in
his dancing. She murmured the words, “_Extra tour_,” which seemed to
satisfy Major Stultz and then complied with his request. It was singular
that Crescenz did not complain of being held too closely; she was not
disposed to find any fault whatever with his performance; and it was
with some difficulty that he induced her to say that there was something
a little foreign in his manner, and that she believed he did not dance
_quite_ so smoothly as a German.
“Your sister’s personal dislike seems to influence her judgment on all
occasions,” said Hamilton, glancing towards Hildegarde, who, still
seated in the same place, was watching them with evident
dissatisfaction.
“Hildegarde, come and help me to put candles in the candlesticks,” cried
Madame Rosenberg; “we cannot let our friends grope about in the dark any
longer.”
Hildegarde rose; as she passed Hamilton, she said, in a low voice—
“For personal dislike, you may say detestation, when you refer to
yourself in future.”
“Most willingly, most gladly,” cried Hamilton, laughing. “I wish you to
hate me with all your heart.”
“Then your wish is gratified; I feel the greatest contempt——”
“Halt!” cried Hamilton, still laughing, for her anger amused him. “I did
not give you leave to feel contempt; I only said you might hate as——”
“Hildegarde! Hildegarde!” cried Madame Rosenberg, impatiently—“Why, what
on earth is the girl about?”
“Quarrelling as usual,” muttered Major Stultz, shrugging his shoulders.
“Oh, she is not quarrelsome!” exclaimed Crescenz; “you don’t understand
her; she is right—quite right.”
“Right to hate me without a cause!” cried Hamilton, pretending great
astonishment.
“I did not exactly mean—that is—I think—I believe—I am sure Hildegarde
does not hate you or anybody,” said Crescenz, confusedly, and retiring
hastily to that part of the room which seemed by common consent
appropriated to the unmarried female part of the company. At this moment
the door opened, and Madame Rosenberg, followed by Hildegarde and the
cook, entered the room, carrying lighted candles. A loud ringing of the
house-bell was heard, and the cook, having deposited her candles, rushed
out of the room to open the door.
“I dare say it’s the Bergers,” said Madame Rosenberg, as she walked
towards the pianoforte with her candles. “Better late than never. I’m
glad she’s come, for she plays waltzes charmingly; and as such days as
this do not often occur in a family, we may as well keep it up.”
Hamilton looked towards the door, and saw an elaborately dressed and
extremely pretty person, with very long and profuse blonde ringlets,
leaning on the arm of an elderly man with a protruding chin. His
recollection of having heard something about her companion was brought
more distinctly to his mind, when he saw Crescenz start forward and
embrace her, while she eagerly exclaimed,—
“Oh, Lina! I have _so_ longed to see you! _so_ wished for your advice!”
After she had spoken with great animation to the Rosenbergs and other
acquaintances, she turned to Crescenz, who, continuing to hold her hand,
reproached her for having neglected her.
“My dear creature! I have been in Starnberg, or you should have seen me
long ago. The Doctor came for me this afternoon, and I have not been
more than an hour in town. On such an occasion I was obliged to make
myself smart, and you have no idea how I hurried! Isn’t this dress a
love? the Doctor’s choice—he bought it at Schultz, and surprised me with
it on my birthday! Conceive my being nineteen years old!” she continued
in a whisper, leading Crescenz apart; “I am really glad that I am
married; I should have been obliged to wait an eternity for Theodor; he
is now studying with the Doctor, visits the hospitals with him, and
dines with us every Sunday! Heigho!——”
“Is not the Doctor jealous?”
“Jealous! oh, dear, no—why should he be jealous? If Theodor had been
rich, I should have preferred him, of course! but a poor student!—the
thing was absurd! And yet I _did_ love him—with all my heart, too!”
“I can easily imagine it,” said Crescenz, pensively; “and in Seon, of
all places in the world!” and she sighed very expressively.
“Why surely, dear, you did not find anyone at Seon with whom you could
fall in love! I beg Major Stultz’s pardon, but—a—the company at Seon is
a——”
“Oh, there were some very nice people there this year; Count Zedwitz and
his family—his son, I am almost sure, proposed to Hildegarde, though she
won’t acknowledge it.”
“Count Zedwitz! why, surely, Hildegarde would not be such a fool as to
refuse such a——”
“Hush, dearest—it’s the greatest possible secret; and Hildegarde would
never forgive me if she knew——”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” said the Doctor’s wife, arranging a
stray ringlet; “I don’t believe a word of it. Hildegarde would have
talked if there had been even a shadow of probability of such a thing.
As to her having refused him, that is out of the nature of things! I
suppose, dear,” she added, shaking back her curls, “I suppose he turned
to you when he was tired of Hildegarde? Did she frighten him with a fit
of fury, as she did me the day I read the letter from her father, which
she had mislaid in the school-room? Do you remember how she stormed and
called me dishonourable, and said I was capable of any horrible act? I
never forgave that Mademoiselle Hortense for not taking my part; but all
the governesses were so proud of Hildegarde’s beauty, after her picture
was painted, that she was allowed to do as she pleased.”
“Don’t talk of her,” said Crescenz, in a low voice; “I know you never
liked her.”
“They called us the rival beauties at school, you know, which was quite
enough to make us hate each other all our lives; but now that I am
married, all rivalry has ceased. I have got a position in society,
especially since the Doctor has been called in to attend the royal
family, and——”
“You don’t say so,” exclaimed Crescenz, interrupting her.
“Yes, my dear, he is not exactly appointed, but when the other
physicians were out of town, he was sent for to attend one of the ladies
of the court, who had been obliged to remain behind from illness, and
she promised to use all her influence for him; indeed, his practice is
so extensive that he does not require anything of the kind—but then for
appearance’ sake—and it sounds well, you know—it sounds well!” and she
played with her pocket-handkerchief, which was trimmed with very broad
cotton lace. “But I forgot, you were going to tell me that you had
fallen in love with somebody at Seon; if it were not this Count Zedwitz,
who was it?”
“Nobody,” said Crescenz, wiping her eyes with her little cotton
handkerchief, ornamented with a few coarse indigo-dyed threads for a
border; “Nobody!”
“I assure you, Cressy, as a married woman, I can give you much better
advice now than in former days, when I was silly as yourself. You had
better confide in me.”
“I have nothing to confide,” replied Crescenz, diligently biting the
before mentioned blue thread border of her handkerchief.
“Well, if you don’t choose to be confiding, perhaps you will be
communicative, and tell me who is that very tall, very young, and
singularly handsome man talking to your father near the window?”
“That’s he,” said Crescenz, blushing.
“Who?”
“The Englishman.”
“What Englishman?”
“The Englishman that we met at Seon.”
“So!” whistled, rather than exclaimed, the Doctor’s wife.
“So!—hem!—a—some excuse for a little sentiment, I must allow, Cressy.
How does he happen to be here this evening?”
“He is living with us; he boards with mamma this winter.”
“So! Can he speak German?”
“Oh, yes, very well.”
“Introduce him; I should like to know him.”
“I _cannot_.”
“You cannot! Why I could have introduced Theodor to all the world, and
have ordered him about everywhere. Beckon, or call him over, like a
dear.”
“Not for worlds!”
“I do believe you are afraid of him!”
“Afraid of him! What an idea!” said Crescenz, laughing faintly.
“Yes, afraid of him,” persisted her friend; “and yet he is not at all a
person to inspire terror.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” said Crescenz; “I don’t think I am at all afraid
of him. Why should I?”
“Why, indeed! See, Crescenz, he is looking this way now; just turn
towards him and make some sign, or else I must apply to Hildegarde.”
“Oh, go to Hildegarde, if you like,” said Crescenz, half laughing; “but
most probably they have just been quarrelling, and, in that case, she
will send you to papa or mamma.”
“For that matter, I might as well go to your father at once, as he is
standing beside him; for a married woman it would be of no consequence,
you know; but, still, I should prefer the introduction to appear
accidental. Men are generally vain—especially Englishmen, they say.”
“Oh, he is not at all vain, though Hildegarde insists that he is; and
says, too, that he ridicules everybody. She took an inveterate dislike
to him at first sight.”
“Well, that does surprise me, for his appearance is certainly
prepossessing; but I think also he _has_ a tolerably good opinion of
himself: in so far I must agree with her; but why should he not? He is
certainly good-looking, probably clever, and no doubt rich!”
“Oh, he is very clever,” said Crescenz; “even Hildegarde allows that.”
“Well, my dear, to return; will you introduce him or not?”
“Pray, don’t ask me.”
The Doctor’s wife shrugged her shoulders, shook back her blonde
ringlets, and walked, with an evident attempt at unconcern, across the
room.
“Hildegarde,” she said, tapping the shoulder which had been purposely
turned towards her, “Hildegarde, will you introduce me to your
Englishman? Crescenz says he is very clever; and you know I like clever
people, and foreigners. But you must maneuvre a little, and not let him
know that I particularly requested to make his acquaintance.”
“I never maneuvre,” replied Hildegarde, bluntly; “you might have known
that by this time.”
“I did not just mean to say maneuvre; I only wished you to understand
that you were to manage it so that he should not think I cared about the
matter; in short, it ought to be a sort of chance introduction.”
“Will you by chance walk across the room with me?”
“Impossible!”
“Shall I call him over here by chance?”
“Call—no, not call; but look as if you expected him to come. He will be
sure to understand.”
“He will not; for I do not expect him in the least. Crescenz could have
told you that we are not on particularly good terms. You had better ask
mamma.”
“_Mein Gott!_ What a fuss the people make about this Englishman. I think
you are all afraid of him. Crescenz certainly is.”
“I dislike him; but I am not afraid of him, as you shall see. Mr.
Hamilton,” she called out distinctly, and Hamilton, though surprised,
immediately approached her. Madame Berger shook her hand and the pocket
handkerchief most playfully, and then took refuge on the sofa at some
distance. Hildegarde followed, quietly explaining that Madame Berger
wished to make his acquaintance, because he was a foreigner, and
supposed to be clever. Hamilton smiled as he seated himself beside his
new acquaintance, and in a few minutes they were evidently amusing each
other so much that Crescenz observed it, and said, in a low voice, to
her sister, “You were quite right, Hildegarde; Lina is a desperate
flirt. Do look how she is laughing, and allowing Mr. Hamilton to admire
her dress.”
“He is making a fool of her. Now, Crescenz, if you are not blind, you
can see that expression of his face I have so often described to you.”
“I only see he is laughing, and pulling the lace of her handkerchief,
which she has just shown him. I dare say he is admiring it, for it is
real cambric, and very fine.”
“He is not admiring it; his own is ten times finer.”
“Indeed! I have never remarked that; how very odd that you should!”
“Not at all odd,” said Hildegarde quickly; “everyone has some sort of
fancy. You like bracelets and rings, and I like fine pocket
handkerchiefs.”
“Well, that is the oddest fancy,” said Crescenz, “the very last thing I
should have thought of. I don’t care at all for pocket handkerchiefs.”
“Nor I for rings or bracelets,” replied Hildegarde.
“Come here, girls,” cried Madame Rosenberg; “what are you doing with
your two heads together there? Come and help me to make tea. Hildegarde,
there is boiling water in the kitchen. Crescenz, you can cut bread and
butter, or arrange the cakes.”
Tea was then a beverage only coming into fashion in Germany, and, in
that class of society where it was still seldom made, the infusion
caused considerable commotion. Hildegarde and her step-mother were
unsuccessful in their attempt; the tea tasted strongly of smoke and
boiled milk. Everybody sipped it, and wondered what was the matter,
while Madame Rosenberg assured her guests that she had twice made “a
tea,” and that it had been excellent; the cook, Walburg, or, as she was
called familiarly, Wally, must have spoiled it by hurrying the boiling
of the water. Mr. Hamilton, as an Englishman, would, of course, know how
to make tea; he really must be so good as to accompany her to the
kitchen, and they would make it over again.
Hamilton agreed to the proposition with some reluctance, for he had
found his companion amusing; but, as she proposed accompanying him, he
was soon disposed to think tea-making in a kitchen as amusing as it was
new to him. Madame Rosenberg, Hildegarde, Crescenz, and Major Stultz
followed, forming a sort of procession in the corridor, and greatly
crowding the small but remarkably neat kitchen where they assembled. If
it had not been for the stone floor, it was as comfortable a room as any
in the house; the innumerable brightly shining brass and copper pans and
pots, pudding and pie models, forming the ornaments. Round the hearth,
or rather what is in England called a hot-hearth—for the fire was
invisible—they all stood to watch the boiling of a pan full of fresh
water, which had been placed on one of the apertures made for that
purpose. They looked at the water, and then at each other, and then
again at the water; and then Wally shoved more wood underneath. Still
the water boiled not; and Madame Rosenberg and Major Stultz returned to
the drawing-room, Madame Berger having undertaken, with Hamilton’s
assistance, to make the most excellent tea possible.
“It is an odd thing,” she observed, seating herself on the polished
copper edge of the hearth, and carefully arranging the folds of her
dress, “it is an odd thing, but nevertheless a fact, that when one
watches, and wishes water to boil, it won’t boil, and as soon as one
turns away it begins to bubble and sputter at once. Now, Mr. Hamilton,
can you explain why this is the case?”
“I don’t know,” said Hamilton, laughing, “excepting that, perhaps, as
the watching of a saucepan full of water is by no means an amusing
occupation, one easily gets tired, and finds that the time passes
unusually slowly.”
“All I can say is—that as long as I look at that water, it will not
boil——”
“Then pray look at me,” said Hamilton, who had seated himself upon the
dresser, one foot on the ground, the other enacting the part of a
pendulum, while in his hands he held a plate of little macaroni cakes,
which Crescenz had just arranged; “pray look at me. German cakes are
decidedly better than English—these are really delicious.”
“Oh, I am so fond of those cakes,” she cried, springing towards him, “so
excessively fond of them. Surely,” she added, endeavouring to reach the
plate, which he laughingly held just beyond her reach, “surely you do
not mean to devour them alone.”
“You shall join me,” said Hamilton, “on condition that every cake with a
visible piece of citron or a whole almond on it belongs to me.”
“Agreed.”
Her share proved small, and a playful scuffle ensued.
Crescenz turned towards the window, Hildegarde looked on contemptuously.
At this moment, Walburg exclaimed, “The water boils!” and they all
turned towards the hearth. “How much tea shall I put into the teapot?”
asked Madame Berger, appealing to Hamilton.
“The more you put in the better it will be,” answered Hamilton, without
moving.
“Shall I put in all that is in this paper?”
Hamilton nodded, and the tea was made.
“Ought it not to boil a little now?”
“By no means.”
“Perhaps,” said Walburg, “a little piece of vanilla would improve the
taste.”
“On no account,” said Hamilton.
“The best thing to give it a flavour is rum,” observed Madame Berger.
“I forbid the rum, though I must say the idea is not bad,” said Hamilton
laughing.
Hildegarde put the teapot on a little tray, and left the kitchen just as
her step-mother entered it.
“Well, the tea ought to be good! It has required long enough to make it,
I am sure!” she observed, while setting down a lamp, which she had
brought with her. “Crescenz, your father, it seems, has invited a whole
lot of people without telling me, and he wishes to play a rubber of
whist in the bedroom. I have no more handsome candlesticks, so you must
light the lamp; the wick is in it, I know, for I cleaned it myself
before I went to Seon, so you have only to put in the oil and light it.”
She took Madame Berger’s arm, saying, “This is poor amusement for you,
standing in the kitchen all the evening,” and walked away without
perceiving Hamilton, who was examining the construction of the hearth
and chimney with an interest which greatly astonished the cook.
“Oh, Wally—what shall I do?” cried Crescenz, “I never touched a lamp in
my life, and I am sure I cannot light it.”
“It’s quite easy, Miss Crescenz; I’ll pour the oil, and you light those
pieces of wood and hold them to the wick.”
Crescenz did as she was desired.
“Stop till the oil is in, miss, if you please,” said Wally.
The oil was put in, the wick lighted, the cylinder fixed, and Crescenz
raised the globe towards its place, but either it was too heavy for her
hand, or she had not mentally measured the height, for it struck with
considerable force against the upper part of the lamp, and broke to
pieces with a loud crash.
“Oh, heavens, what _shall_ I do!” she cried in her agitation, clasping
the pieces of glass which had remained in her hand. “What _shall_ I do!
Mamma will be so angry! I dare not tell her—for my life I dare not. What
on earth shall I do!”
“Send out and buy another as fast as you can,” said Hamilton. “Is there
no glass or lamp shop near this?”
“I don’t know,” said Crescenz, blushing deeply.
“Yes, there is,” said Walburg, “in the next street, just round the
corner, you know, Miss Crescenz—but a——” and she stopped and looked
confused.
“I _must_ tell mamma, or get Hildegarde to tell her. Oh, what a
misfortune! what a dreadful misfortune!”
“Go out and buy a globe, and don’t waste time looking at the fragments,”
said Hamilton, impatiently to Walburg. “There is no necessity for saying
anything about the matter.”
“But,” said Walburg, hesitatingly, and looking first at Crescenz, and
then at Hamilton, “but I have no money.”
“Stupid enough my not thinking of that,” said Hamilton, taking out his
purse.
“That is at least a florin too much,” cried Walburg, enchanted at his
generosity.
“Never mind, run, run; keep what remains for yourself, but make haste.”
“Oh, indeed I cannot allow this,” said Crescenz faintly; “it would be
very wrong—and——” but the door had already closed on the messenger.
“Suppose, now—mamma should come,” said Crescenz, uneasily.
“Not at all likely, as everyone is drinking tea.”
The drawing-room door opened, and the gay voices of the assembled
company resounded in the passage.
“I knew it, I knew it; she is coming,” cried Crescenz;—but it was only
Hildegarde, who brought the empty teapot to refill it.
She looked very grave when she heard what had occurred, and proposed
Hamilton’s accompanying her to the drawing-room, as he might be missed
and Major Stultz displeased; he felt that she was right, and followed
silently. His tea was unanimously praised, but Madame Rosenberg
exhibited some natural consternation on hearing that the whole contents
of her paper cornet, with which she had expected to regale her friends
at least half-a-dozen times, had been inconsiderately emptied at once
into the teapot!
“It was no wonder the tea was good! English tea, indeed! Anyone could
make tea after that fashion! But then, to be sure, English people never
thought about what anything cost. For her part she found the tea bitter,
and recommended a spoonful or two of rum.” On her producing a little
green bottle, the company assembled around her with their tea-cups, and
she administered to each one, two, or three spoonfuls, as they desired
it.
In the meantime Mr. Rosenberg sat in the adjoining dark bedroom at the
card-table—sometimes shuffling, sometimes drumming on the cards, and
whistling indistinctly. Hildegarde had observed an expression of
impatience on his face, and, to prevent inquiries about the lamp, she
quietly brought candles from the drawing-room and placed them beside
him.
“Thank you, Hildegarde,” said her father, more loudly than he generally
spoke; “thank you, my dear; you never forget my existence, and even obey
my thoughts sometimes.”
“Why, where’s the lamp?” cried Madame Rosenberg; “where’s the lamp? What
on earth can Crescenz have done with the lamp?”
“Broken it, most probably,” said Mr. Rosenberg, dryly. “Hildegarde,
place a chair for Major Stultz. She’s a good girl, after all, Major! a
very good girl, I can tell you.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” replied the Major, bowing over the proffered
chair.
“Go and see why your sister does not bring the lamp,” cried Madame
Rosenberg impatiently.
As Hildegarde slowly and with evident reluctance walked to the door, she
unconsciously looked towards Hamilton; he was listening very attentively
to the rhapsody of sense and nonsense poured forth by the Doctor’s wife,
who occasionally stopped to shake back, with a mixture of childishness
and coquetry, the long fair locks which at times half concealed her
face. Hamilton, however, saw the look, understood it, and gazed so
fixedly at the door, even after she had closed it, that his companion
observed it, and said abruptly: “Why did you look so oddly at
Hildegarde; and why do you stare at the door after she has left the
room?”
“If you prefer my staring at you, I am quite willing to do so.”
“You know very well I did not mean any such thing,” she cried with
affected pettishness; “can you not be serious for a moment, and answer a
plain question?”
“I dislike answering questions,” said Hamilton absently, and once more
looking towards the door.
“Now, there you are again with your eyes fixed on that tiresome——”
He turned around, took a well-stuffed sofa-cushion, and, placing it
before him, leaned his elbows upon it, while he quietly but steadily
fixed his eyes on her face, and said:
“Now, madame, if it must be so, I am ready to be questioned.”
“You really are the most disagreeable person I ever met.”
“That is an observation, and not a question.”
“You are the vainest——”
Hamilton looked down, and seemed determined not to interrupt her again.
“Are you offended at my candour,” she added, abruptly.
“Not in the least.”
“Put away that cushion, and don’t look as if you were getting tired.”
“But I thought you were going to question me?”
“No, I am afraid.”
“Well, then I must question you,” said Hamilton, laughing. “Why may I
not look at Mademoiselle Rosenberg, and why may I not look at the door,
if it amuse me?”
“You may not look at the door, because in so doing you turn your back to
me, which is not civil,” she replied readily.
“Very well answered; but now tell me why I may not look at Mademoiselle
Rosenberg?”
“Oh, you may look at her, certainly; but—but—but—the expression of your
face was not as if you disliked her.”
“And why should I dislike her?”
“I don’t know, indeed—only Crescenz told me that you often quarrelled
with her; and as Hildegarde knows no medium, she most probably hates you
with all her soul. You have no idea of the intensity of her likings and
dislikings!”
“Indeed?”
“At school she took a fancy to one of the governesses, the most severe,
disagreeable person imaginable; can you believe it? This Mademoiselle
Hortense was able to do whatever she pleased with her; her slightest
word was a command to Hildegarde. I have seen her, when in the greatest
passion, grow pale and become perfectly quiet when Mademoiselle Hortense
suddenly came into the room. It was, however, not from fear, for
Hildegarde has no idea of fearing anybody; she is terribly courageous!”
“Altogether rather an interesting character,” observed Hamilton.
“Do you think so? I cannot agree with you. At school we all liked
Crescenz much better.”
“Very possibly—I can imagine your liking the one and admiring the
other.”
“As to the admiration,” said Madame Berger, looking down—“as to the
admiration of the girls at school, that was very much divided:
Hildegarde headed one party and I the other.”
“You were rivals, then?”
“We were, in everything—even in the affection of her sister. It was
through Crescenz alone that I was able to tease her when I chose to do
so.”
“But you did not often choose it, I am sure.”
“Oh, I assure you, with all her love for Crescenz, she often tyrannised
over the poor girl, and scarcely allowed her to have an opinion of her
own on any subject. Crescenz was a little afraid of her, too, at times.
Cressy is the dearest creature in the world, but not at all brilliant;
we all loved her, but we sometimes laughed at her, too; and you can form
no conception of the fury of Hildegarde when she used to find it out.
Crescenz has confessed to me, when we were alone, that her sister had
often lectured her on her simplicity, and had told her what she was to
do and say when we attempted to joke with her. Nothing more comical than
seeing Crescenz playing Hildegarde.”
“Mademoiselle Rosenberg was considered clever?” asked Hamilton.
“Clever! why yes—as far as learning was concerned she was the best in
the school, and that was the reason that madame and the governess
overlooked her violence of temper; she is very ill-tempered.”
“That is a pity,” said Hamilton, “for she seems to have excellent
qualities.”
“I never could discover anything excellent about her,” said Madame
Berger, biting her lip slightly.
“Perhaps,” observed Hamilton, “she is more violent than ill tempered;
and you say that she can control herself in the presence of anyone she
likes.”
“But it is exactly these likings and dislikings that I find so
abominable; for instance, she loves her father—well, he is a very
good-looking, quiet sort of insipid man—she, however, thinks him
perfection, and is outrageous if people do not show an absurd respect
for all his opinions. What he says must be law for all the world! On the
other hand, she dislikes her step-mother; who is nothing very
extraordinary, I allow—rather vulgar, too; but still she has her good
qualities. Hildegarde cannot see them, and will not allow Crescenz to
become aware of them either! Is not this detestable?”
“It is a proof that she has strong prejudices; but——”
The door just then was opened, and Crescenz entered the room, carrying
the lamp, and smiling brightly. It was heavy, and Hamilton rose to
assist her in placing it on the table before the sofa where they sat.
“Thank you, oh, thank you!” cried Crescenz, with a fervency which Madame
Berger thought so exaggerated that she found it necessary to explain.
“That dear girl is so grateful for the most trifling attention! It is
generally the case with us all for a short time after we leave school.”
“There’s the lamp!” exclaimed Madame Rosenberg, “and not broken! What do
you say now, Rosenberg? I declare it burns better than usual;—the globe
has been cleaned, eh, Crescenz?”
“Yes, Wally cleaned it a little; it was very dusty,” replied Crescenz,
looking archly at Hamilton, and seeming to enjoy the equivocation.
Hildegarde blushed deeply, and walked into the next room.
Hamilton saw the blush, and looked after her, while Madame Berger
whispered:
“Did you see that?—she is jealous of the praise bestowed on her sister.”
“Jealous! oh, no!” said Hamilton, still following her with his eyes.
“I beg your pardon!” cried Madame Berger; “I was not at all aware that I
was speaking to an adorer; I really must go and tell her the conquest
she has made.”
Perhaps she expected him to detain her, or she feared a rebuff from
Hildegarde; for she waited a moment before she proceeded into the next
room. Hamilton followed just in time to hear Hildegarde say:
“Pshaw! you are talking about what you don’t understand,” as she turned
contemptuously away.
Madame Berger, to conceal her annoyance at Hildegarde’s
imperturbability, turned to Crescenz, who had been placed next Major
Stultz, at his particular request, in order to bring him _luck_. Her
presence, however, not having produced the desired effect, he was told
by Madame Rosenberg that those who were fortunate in love were always
sure to be unfortunate at cards, which seemed to afford him great
consolation; while Crescenz smiled and played with his counters and
purse.
“I am sure, Crescenz,” said Madame Berger, “I am sure you are thinking
what sort of purse you will make for Major Stultz this Christmas! You
cannot allow him in future to use leather. I can teach you to make a new
kind of purse, which is very strong and pretty.”
“Oh, pray do!” cried Crescenz, starting up; “you know I like making
purses, of all things. When will you begin it for me?”
“To-morrow, if you like. I say, Cressy,” continued Madame Berger, in a
whisper, “what makes Hildegarde so horribly savage this evening?”
“I did not observe it.”
“She is most particularly disagreeable, I can assure you. I attempted
some most innocent _badinage_ about Mr. Hamilton, and she——”
“Oh, about him you must not jest; she hates him so excessively——”
“Not a bit of it—and he does not hate her either.”
“You don’t say so?”
“I say so, and think so; and you will see that I am right. Why, he
already makes as many excuses as your father for her ill-temper. If you
had only heard him!”
“I did not think Hildegarde capable of playing double,” cried Crescenz,
with emotion.
“She is capable of anything. Had you but seen the look of intelligence
that passed between them when she left the room to inquire about you,
and the lamp, it would have convinced you at once. And then he watched
the door, and——”
“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Crescenz, apparently greatly relieved; “I
understand. No, Lina, this time I am right, and you are wrong, I know
why he looked at Hildegarde, and at the door.”
“You do!—do you? Then, come and tell me all about it. By-the-by, I
should like to have a long talk with you, to learn how matters stand.
This Mr. Hamilton is uncommonly good-looking and amusing; I should like
to know what brought him to Seon, and how it happened that he came to
live with your mother, and all that. If we have not time to-night, you
can tell me to-morrow, while you are learning the purse-stitch.”
An appointment was made for the next day, and the party soon after broke
up.
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