DOMESTIC DETAILS.
HAMILTON had gone out early to visit Zedwitz, and look at a horse
recommended by Major Stultz. On his return, when walking towards his
room, he heard some one singing so gayly in the kitchen that, as he
passed the door, he could not resist the temptation to look in. Crescenz
was standing opposite the hearth, a long-handled wooden spoon in her
hand, her sleeves tucked up, and her round, white arms embellished with
streaks of smut and flour; while a linen apron, of large dimensions,
preserved the greater part of her dress from injury. Her face was
flushed, partly from heat, but more from pleasure. As soon as she
perceived Hamilton in the doorway, she at once ceased singing, laughed
merrily, and invited him to enter. Now to this kitchen Hamilton had
taken rather a fancy; he thought it by many degrees the best furnished
room in the house; in fact, it was a pretty and cheerful apartment, and
kept with a neatness common in Germany, where it is usual to see the
female members of the burghers’ families employed in culinary offices.
“I have got my first lesson in cookery to-day,” she exclaimed joyfully;
“and I have assisted mamma to make a tart, and you see I am cooking
these vegetables,” she added, plunging her wooden spoon into one of the
pots.
“Oh, yes, miss,” cried the cook, “that’s the soup, and the noodles will
be all squashed if you work them up after that fashion.”
“Well, this is the _sauer-kraut_,” she said, eagerly drawing one of the
saucepans towards her; “this is the _sauer-kraut_.”
“I could have told you that myself,” cried Hamilton, laughing; “the
smell is too odious to admit of a doubt.”
“But the taste is very good,” said Crescenz.
“I cannot agree with you; taste and smell are horrible in the extreme.”
“I never heard of anyone who did not like _sauer-kraut_,” said Crescenz,
with some surprise; “do people never make it in England?”
“I never saw it, excepting at the house of a friend who had been long
ambassador at one of the German courts, and then it was handed about as
a sort of curiosity.”
“How odd! England seems to be altogether different from Germany?” she
half asked, while shaking her head inquiringly.
“The difference is in many things besides the eating or not eating of
_sauer-kraut_,” answered Hamilton; “but as you are such a famous cook, I
must beg you to give me something else to-day, for I cannot eat your
_kraut_.”
“Oh, yes!” cried Crescenz delightedly; “Wally, what shall we cook for
Mr. Hamilton? I am sure I never thought I should have liked this cooking
so much!” As she spoke, she with difficulty repressed an inclination to
dance about the kitchen.
“Indeed, as you are learning it, Miss Crescenz,” said Walburg, “it must
be very agreeable. To think that you will so soon have a house of your
own, and a rich husband who will let you have everything you like to
cook. Tarts and creams every day. The Major knows what’s good, or I am
greatly mistaken.”
This speech completely sobered Crescenz; had Hamilton not been present
she might have been loquacious; but she now looked confused, and turned
to leave the kitchen, saying it was time to wash her hands for dinner.
“But I thought you were going to find me a substitute for the
_sauer-kraut_.”
“Wally will send in something,” she answered, rubbing her arm with her
apron to avoid looking up as she walked into the passage. Hamilton was
so near to her as she entered her room that a feeling of politeness
prevented her from shutting the door, and he saw Hildegarde sitting at a
small deal table between her brothers Fritz and Gustle; a few books and
a slate were before her, and as the door opened she was returning a book
to the former, with the remark, “This will never do, Fritz. You have not
learned one word of your lesson!”
“_Kreuz!_ _Himmel!_ _Saperment!_” exclaimed Fritz, pitching the book up
to the ceiling; “this is exactly too much! when a fellow has been all
the morning at school, and comes home for an hour or so to eat and amuse
himself, to be set down in this way to learn French. I tell you what,
Hildegarde, I shall begin to hate the sight of you if you plague me with
these old grammars.”
“What shall I do with him?” asked Hildegarde, appealing to her sister.
“Fritz, learn your lesson—there’s a love!” interposed Crescenz; “see
what a good boy Gustle is!” and she carelessly placed her hand on the
shoulder of the latter, who was industriously rolling the leaf of his
book into the form of a trumpet, and yawning tremendously.
“I will give up all idea of ever entering the cadet corps, or ever being
an officer,” cried Fritz, kicking the book as it lay upon the ground,
“rather than write these odious exercises and listen to Hildegarde’s
long explanations.”
“But think of the sword and the uniform, Fritz,” said Crescenz,
coaxingly.
“_Donner und Doria!_—what is the use of a sword and uniform, when I must
learn vocabulary and write French exercises?”
“Come, Fritz,” cried Hildegarde, authoritatively, “let me hear no more
of this absurd swearing; it does not at all become a boy of your age. If
you will not learn your lesson, I can, at least, correct your exercise.”
She stretched out her hand for the slate. Fritz anticipated her, seized
and flung it up in the air, as he had done the grammar; but it did not
fall so harmlessly. Hamilton, who had been standing at the open door,
rushed forward, but was too late to prevent its descending with
considerable force upon her temple, where it made a wound, from which
the blood instantly began to trickle in large dark drops. Hildegarde
started up angrily, while Fritz, after the first moment of dismay had
passed, ran towards her, and throwing his arms round her, exclaimed,
“Forgive me, forgive me—indeed I did not intend to hurt you.”
“If papa has come home from his _bureau_,” said Crescenz, preparing to
leave the room, “I’ll go this moment and tell him.”
“Stay,” cried Hildegarde, hastily; “he says he did not do it on purpose;
and after all, I am not much hurt. You must not tell papa or mamma
either.”
“Well, you certainly are the best fellow in the world, Hildegarde,”
cried Fritz. “I declare I would rather be cuffed by you than kissed by
Crescenz.”
“And cuffed you would have been, had you been near enough,” said
Hildegarde, laughing, while she poured some water into a basin.
“Mamma will be sure to see the cut, and ask how it happened,” said
Crescenz.
“I can easily hide it under my hair when it has stopped bleeding.”
“Now just for that, Hildegarde,” cried Fritz, “I promise to learn as
many lessons as you please for the next fortnight.”
Madame Rosenberg’s step and the jingling of her keys alarmed them all.
Hamilton turned to meet her in the passage, saying, “Can I speak to you
for five minutes?”
“To be sure you can, and longer, if you like,” she replied, hooking her
keys into the string of her apron. “Just let me look how things are
going on in the kitchen, and I am at your service as long as you please.
Put a cover on that pot, Walburg, and tell Miss Crescenz not to forget
the powdered sugar for the tart, and the apples for the boys’ luncheon.
And now,” she said, turning to Hamilton, and leading the way to her
room, “what have you got to say? You look so serious that I suspect you
are going to tell me that you dislike your rooms, as they look into a
back street, and are near a coppersmith’s. Captain Black left me for
that reason, although I told him he could look out of the drawing-room
windows as much as he pleased, and receive all his visitors there. I
could not make the coppersmith leave his shop, you know; though this
much I must say, that in winter the nuisance is less felt than in
summer, when the workmen, during the fine weather, hammer away all day
in the lane, but in winter they work in the house, and shut the doors,
so that they are scarcely heard at all.”
“I have slept too soundly to hear the coppersmiths,” said Hamilton,
smiling; “and during the day I have been too seldom in my room to be
disturbed by them. In fact, I find so much to amuse—I mean to say, so
much to interest me as a foreigner in your house, that I do not think
half a dozen smiths could induce me to leave you at present.”
“I am glad to hear it, for I like you very much, and so does Rosenberg.”
“Then I hope you will not be offended if I request to have wax candles
in my room, and—a—fresh napkin every day,” said Hamilton, with some
embarrassment.
“This can easily be managed,” said Madame Rosenberg. “Neither Mr. Smith
nor Captain Black ever asked for wax candles; but I suppose you have
been brought up expensively. Now, don’t you think spermaceti candles
would do just as well for a young man of your age—such candles as you
may have seen in my silver candlesticks for company? Of course, I only
mention this on your account.”
“You are very kind. I shall be quite satisfied with spermaceti—but I
have still something to request.”
“I can save you the trouble,” said Madame Rosenberg, interrupting him.
“You are not satisfied with your dinner, and wish to go to a _table
d’hôte_.”
“By no means!” cried Hamilton, eagerly. “There you wrong me. I do not in
the least care what I eat.”
“But, indeed,” said Madame Rosenberg, “I don’t think it would be a bad
plan were you to do so, after all, for you see the girls must learn to
cook, and things will be spoiled sometimes. It is quite enough to have
Rosenberg discontented, without——”
“Oh, I promise never to be discontented,” said Hamilton, laughing
good-humouredly. “You have no idea how indifferent I am on this
subject.”
“I must say, Crescenz seems to have great taste for cookery,” observed
Madame Rosenberg, complaisantly; “very great taste indeed; but I rather
expect to find that Hildegarde has no talent that way. I suspect we
shall often have burned cakes and spoiled pudding when her turn comes.
But you were going to say something else, I believe.”
“I was going to say, that I have been looking at horses this morning
which I feel greatly disposed to purchase, if I were sure of finding a
stable near this, and a respectable groom.”
“Why, how lucky!” cried Madame Rosenberg. “There is now actually a
stable to let in this house; the new first floors don’t keep horses, so
you can have it all to yourself; and old Hans asked me only yesterday if
I could not recommend his son to some one who wanted a groom or
coachman! I will go down with you at once, and look at the stable, and
you can speak to old Hans about his son.”
The arrangements were soon completed, and as they ascended the stairs
together, they met two very well-dressed women, who bowed civilly, but
distantly to Madame Rosenberg. When they had passed, she observed to
Hamilton—
“The new lodgers for the first floor; they come on the 29th of this
month, and have been looking at their apartments, which are being
papered and painted. On the second floor we shall find our landlord, who
has the warehouse below stairs, as he has six or eight children, and
they make a tremendous noise; I am better pleased to live above than
below them, though it is not so noble.”
After dinner, Hamilton, finding himself alone with Crescenz in the
drawing-room, insisted on her giving him a lesson in German waltzing;
she had just completed her instructions, and they were whirling around
the room for the first time when the door was opened, and Hildegarde,
having looked in, closed it again without speaking.
“There, now!” cried Crescenz, walking with a look of great vexation
towards the open window; “was there ever anything so provoking! and
after our explanation last night, too, but she really requires too
much!”
“What does she require?” asked Hamilton, taking possession of the other
half of the window, and leaning on one of the cushions, which, as usual
in Germany, were conveniently placed for the elbows of those who
habitually gazed into the street. “What does she require?”
“That I should never, for one moment, forget that I have promised to
marry Major Stultz. I know quite well that she disapproves of my having
danced with you.”
“And if you were to go to a ball now, would you not be at liberty to
dance with whomsoever you pleased?”
“Oh, of course.”
“Then, why not with me?”
“Oh, because—because—she knows that—I—that you—”
“In fact,” said Hamilton, “you have told her of my inexcusable conduct
the day we were on the alp.”
“No,” replied Crescenz, blushing deeply, “I have only told her that you
cannot marry without your father’s consent—that the younger sons of
English people cannot marry—just what you told me yourself.”
“The recollection of that day will cause me regret as long as I live,”
said Hamilton, blushing in his turn; “thoughtless words on such a
subject are quite unpardonable. I hope you have forgotten all I said!”
“I cannot forget,” said Crescenz, looking intently into the street to
hide her emotion—“I cannot forget—it was the first time I had ever heard
anything of that kind, and was so exactly what I had imagined in every
respect.”
Hamilton bit his lip, and replied gravely: “It was the novelty alone
which gave importance to my words; I am convinced, had you considered
for a moment, you would have laughed at me as I deserved. Major Stultz
must often have said——”
“Major Stultz,” said Crescenz, contemptuously, “never speaks of anything
but how comfortably we shall live together, and what we shall have for
dinner, and how many servants we shall be able to keep, and all those
sorts of things, which make it impossible to forget one year of his age,
or one bit of his ugliness.”
“He is a very good-natured man,” said Hamilton, “and Zedwitz told me,
has been a very distinguished officer.”
“You are just beginning to talk like Hildegarde,” cried Crescenz,
impatiently, “and from you, who are the cause of my unhappiness, I will
not bear it.”
“The cause of your unhappiness!” repeated Hamilton, slowly; “if I really
could believe that possible, nothing would induce me to remain an hour
longer in this house.”
“Oh, no,” cried Crescenz, hastily, “no! I did not mean what I said. Oh,
no! you must have seen that I am not unhappy! I—I—am very happy,” and
she burst into tears as she spoke.
“Well, this is a punishment for thoughtlessness!”—exclaimed Hamilton,
starting from his place at the window, and striding up and down the
room. “Surely, surely, such vague expressions as mine were did not
deserve such a serious construction!”
“Vague expressions,” repeated Crescenz, looking up through her
tears—“serious construction? Did you not mean what you said?”
“By heaven! I don’t know what I said, or what I meant,” cried Hamilton,
vehemently.
Crescenz’s sobs became frightfully audible.
“Crescenz—forgive me,” he said hastily; “once more I ask your pardon,
and entreat of you to forget my folly. Let this subject never again be
mentioned, if you would not make me hate myself.”
“But,” sobbed Crescenz, “but tell me, at least, that you were not, as
Hildegarde said, making a fool of me. Tell me, oh, tell me, that you
love me, and I am satisfied.”
“You—you do not know what you are saying,” cried Hamilton, involuntarily
smiling at her extreme simplicity. “You are asking me to repeat a
transgression which I most heartily repent. Situated as you are, such a
confession on my part, now deliberately made, would be little less
than—a crime.”
“You mean because I am betrothed!”
He was spared an answer by Hildegarde’s entrance with a small tray and
coffee-cups. It was in vain that Crescenz turned to the window to
conceal her tears; Hildegarde saw them, and, turning angrily to
Hamilton, exclaimed:
“This is most unjustifiable conduct—dishonourable——”
“Oh, stop! Hildegarde!” cried Crescenz, beseechingly: “Pray stop! You
are, as usual, doing him injustice, and misunderstanding him
altogether.”
“Do not attempt a justification,” cried Hamilton, impatiently; “she will
not believe you. And,” he added in a whisper, “in fact, I do not deserve
it.”
Walburg interrupted them by half opening the door, and informing them
mysteriously, that an officer was without who had asked for Mr.
Hamilton.
“Show him into my sitting-room, and say I shall be with him in a
moment.”
“My visit is only partly intended for you, Hamilton,” said Zedwitz,
entering the room. “I wish also to pay my respects to Madame Rosenberg.”
He had scarcely time to glance towards Hildegarde before she left the
room, followed by her sister.
“The young ladies are not particularly civil to you,” observed Hamilton,
seating himself on the sofa.
“Why, you did not expect them to remain here with us, did you?”
“To be sure I did.”
“I did not, but I expect them to return with their mother.”
Crescenz did. Hildegarde did not. And in consequence Zedwitz’s visit to
Madame Rosenberg was very short, and he soon adjourned to Hamilton’s
room.
“Why, what’s this?” cried Madame Rosenberg, peeping into the coffee-pot.
“I do declare, Mr. Hamilton has forgotten to drink his coffee!”
“Let me take it to him,” said Crescenz, advancing towards the table.
“You will do no such thing,” said her step-mother, waving her hastily
back. “No such thing—and I think—that is, the Major—but it is not
necessary to explain. Call Hildegarde.”
Hildegarde came and was desired to carry the tray to Hamilton’s room.
“May I not send Walburg?”
“You may not, because I have sent her on an errand, and the coffee is
too cold to be kept waiting until her return, now that the fire is out
in the kitchen.”
“But—but——” hesitated Hildegarde, “Mr. Hamilton is not alone.”
“Count Zedwitz is in his room, but he won’t bite you, so go at once, and
don’t be disobliging.”
Half an hour afterwards Hamilton was in the corridor, looking for his
cane, which the children had mislaid. He turned into the nursery, and
while rummaging there, Madame Rosenberg joined him, and hoped he had not
found his coffee too cold.
“Coffee! no—yes! When, where did I drink it?”
“In your own room,” replied Madame Rosenberg, laughing. “Your memory
must be very short; I sent it to you by Hildegarde, about half an hour
ago.”
He looked inquiringly towards Hildegarde. She raised her eyes slowly
from her work, and looking at him steadily and gravely, said in French:
“I threw it out of the window rather than take it to you.”
“Next time I advise you to drink it,” said Hamilton, laughing, as he
left the room with Zedwitz. While descending the stairs, he observed:
“Well, that is the oddest girl I ever met—perfectly original. You have
no idea how she amuses and interests me.”
“I can easily imagine it,” said Zedwitz, dryly.
“But you can _not_ imagine how intensely she hates me.”
“That was what you desired, if I remember rightly; and for your sake I
hope you continue as indifferent as formerly.”
“Not exactly; I believe I rather feel inclined to like her unpolished
sincerity and straightforward vehemence; she really would be charming
sometimes, if she were a little less quarrelsome.”
“I never found her quarrelsome,” said Zedwitz.
“Of course not, when you were enacting the part of adorer. That makes
all the difference in the world! But what are you looking at?” asked
Hamilton, seeing his companion stop short at the street-door. “I see
nothing but a couple of officers lounging about the windows of that
brazier’s shop opposite, which cannot contain anything particularly
interesting, I should think.”
“Did you think they were admiring the coffee-pots and candlesticks?”
asked Zedwitz. “That’s only a feint—I saw them looking up at the
Rosenberg windows. It is a regular _window parade_, and they have been
here nearly an hour; for I saw them in the street, as I entered the
house. Let us cross over and see whether it be intended for Hildegarde,
or Crescenz.”
They crossed the street, looked up, and saw Madame Berger sitting at the
window, teaching Crescenz the promised pretty and strong purse-stitch.
Although the latter appeared extremely intent on her work, she was
evidently aware of what was passing in the street, for, as Zedwitz and
Hamilton saluted, she bowed and blushed deeply.
“_She_, at least, has not yet learned to play unconscious,” observed
Zedwitz, laughing; “Madame Berger can give her some instruction.”
“Do you know Madame Berger?” asked Hamilton.
“Of course; her husband is our physician. She is very pretty, and the
greatest coquette in Christendom. I say, Raimund, what are you admiring
in that shop?” said Zedwitz, stopping suddenly opposite the brazier’s
and addressing one of the officers.
“The kitchen utensils, Max! I shall soon be obliged to purchase such
things, and they have a kind of mysterious interest for me now.”
“You don’t mean to say that you are going to keep house—going to be
married?”
“My father says so, which is much more to the purpose,” replied Raimund.
“And who is the happy woman destined to make you a respectable member of
society?”
“They tell me she lives in that house,” replied Raimund, pointing to the
one they had just left.
“The third story?” asked Zedwitz, quickly.
“No, Max, for a _wife_ I do not look so high,” replied the other,
ironically.
“And when may I offer my congratulations?”
“Not just now, if you please, for, as I have never yet spoken to the
lady, something might occur to prevent the thing; but I have very nearly
made up my mind.”
Zedwitz laughed and walked on with Hamilton. “I hope he has told the
truth,” he said, musingly; “I hope he has told the truth, for I should
be very sorry if he made his way into the Rosenberg family. He is very
clever, but a great reprobate; has already seduced two girls of
respectable connections, and is not ashamed to boast of his success.”
“Were there no fathers, no brothers, no cousins, to compel him to make
reparation?” asked Hamilton.
“As it happened, there were none,” replied Zedwitz; “but even if there
had been, he has not the caution-money, and could not marry. If he were
serious just now, I suppose his father has discovered some rich _partie_
for him, and that he will succeed, I do not for a moment doubt. He
pretends to have a regular system of seduction, which consists in
several gradations of improper books—it is disgusting to hear him
descant on the subject.”
“But he will carefully avoid anything of that kind with his future
wife?” said Hamilton.
“I was not thinking of his wife, for I do not know her; I fear for the
Rosenbergs—Hildegarde would be sure to attract him.”
“He would, however, have no chance of success in that quarter, I am
sure,” said Hamilton.
“It is hard to say; her nature is passionate, and I should be sorry to
see her an object of attention to such a man. The fact is, I find it
impossible to forget her, and as long as I know her to be free, I cannot
cease to indulge hopes that she may eventually be mine. What I most
apprehend is a sudden and violent passion on her part for some person as
yet, perhaps, unknown; for I believe her capable of loving desperately.”
“And you very naturally wish to be the object of this desperate love?
But how are you to obtain your father’s consent to your union?”
“Of that I have no hope whatever; but as I am an only son, I have every
chance of pardon were I once married. My mother’s opposition is much
less violent, but quite as determined as my father’s, and the
astonishment of both was indescribable when I confessed that I had been
refused without explanation or chance of recall. All my hopes are now
centred in my sister, who is a dear, good little soul, and has promised
to assist me when she can. By-the-by, she made a remark which may,
perhaps, interest you.” Zedwitz stopped and looked very hard at
Hamilton.
“Pray let me hear it.”
“She said she was sure I should not have spoken in vain had not
Hildegarde loved another——”
“Well, that was your own modest idea, was it not?” said Hamilton,
interrupting him.
“Yes; but it was not my idea that _you_ were the object of her
preference.”
Hamilton laughed.
“Perhaps you are already aware of it?” asked Zedwitz, growing very red.
“No, indeed,” replied Hamilton, trying to look serious, “I am only
amused at your sister’s strong imagination; were she, however, to see us
together, and hear us speak, she would soon think differently.”
“You forget that my sister was at Seon, and had opportunities of making
observations.”
“But she is not aware how desperately we quarrel; she does not know——”
“I have told her all that, and she insists that Hildegarde likes you
without being herself conscious of it.”
“But I assure you she has told me more than once that she hates me.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Zedwitz, dryly, and immediately after he
changed the subject.
This conversation, notwithstanding the little impression it had
apparently made on Hamilton, took complete possession of his thoughts,
as he walked home late in the evening. However incredulous he might at
first have felt, the idea was too flattering to his vanity to be lightly
abandoned; and no sooner had he admitted the possibility, than it became
probability: nay, almost certainty. It is extraordinary what a
revolution these reflections made in his feelings. Hildegarde was so
remarkably handsome that he had been compelled to admire her person; her
odd decided manners had always amused him; but now that he imagined
himself so much the object of her preference as to cause her to refuse
the addresses of Zedwitz, his admiration began to verge towards love;
and the manners which had before caused him amusement became the subject
of deep interest, as affording a key to the mind which, with secret
satisfaction, he felt he had always considered of no common stamp.
Pleased with himself, and unconsciously prepared to be more than pleased
with the subject of his thoughts, he bounded up stairs, rang the bell,
and was admitted by Hildegarde herself.
“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, with some embarrassment, “I wish to speak to
you alone for a few minutes, if you are at leisure.”
“I am quite at leisure,” replied Hamilton, following her towards the
drawing-room. She walked directly to the window, and desired him so
haughtily to “shut the door,” that he felt half inclined to be angry.
After waiting some time in vain expectation that she would begin the
conversation, he observed, with some pique at her apparent
imperturbability—
“To what extraordinary event, or to what singular good fortune, am I
indebted for this interview, mademoiselle?”
No sooner had he spoken than he perceived that her composure had been
forced, that she was in fact struggling with contending emotions, and
quite unable to utter a word. After some delay, she at last began in a
constrained voice—
“Believe me, Mr. Hamilton, that nothing but my affection for my sister
could have induced me to trespass on your time, or,” she added more
naturally, “subject myself to your sneers.”
Hamilton remained silent, and she again commenced with evident effort.
“You are aware that my sister’s feelings towards you are more favourable
than——”
“Than yours?” he asked, interrupting her.
“I have not requested this interview to speak of my own feelings,” she
answered, sternly and turning pale. “I wish to point out to you how
ungenerous, how cruel your conduct has been to my gentle, confiding
sister. You know the influence you have acquired over her—you are aware
that she is on the eve of marriage with another, and that other person
she has yet to learn to love; instead of pointing out to her any
estimable qualities he may possess in order to reconcile her to her
fate, you turn him on all occasions into ridicule, and—and—not content
with changing her indifference for her future husband into positive
dislike, you take every opportunity of paying her attentions, which,
knowing the state of her feelings towards you, is a refinement of
cruelty that you must acknowledge to be unpardonable.”
“You speak like a book, mademoiselle! Your affection for your sister
makes you absolutely eloquent! but would it not have been better had
_you_ consented to marry Major Stultz, and so saved your gentle,
confiding sister from this unwished-for connection? You would, no doubt,
easily have learned to love him and esteem any amiable qualities he may
possess!” He spoke calmly and ironically; but the idea of the beautiful
creature before him, as the wife of Major Stultz, inflicted a pang of
jealousy which sufficiently punished him for his impertinence.
Hildegarde was perfectly unconscious of the feelings of her tormentor;
he had intended to have irritated her, for her self-possession wounded
his vanity, while her too evident dislike cut him to the quick. He
failed, however, for the first time, and most completely; either her
affection for her sister, or the consciousness of right, prevented her
from exhibiting even impatience when she again spoke.
“You seem to have forgotten that Major Stultz’s proposal to me was made
after a two-days’ acquaintance. I refused him because I did not like
him, and I knew it could give no pain to a man whose mere object was to
have a wife to manage his household concerns. It never occurred to me
that he would turn, half an hour afterward, to my sister, and that my
vehemence would only serve to make him more cautious, and her fate more
certain. You know he applied to my step-mother, and wrote to my father.
The answer was a letter, full of reproaches to me, and of entreaties and
commendations to Crescenz, which, to her yielding nature, were
irresistible; and I do believe, if given time, and were you not here,
she might be reconciled to her lot. However little Major Stultz may have
cared for Crescenz at first, it is impossible for him to remain long
indifferent to so much goodness. I think he already begins to be
sincerely attached to her; in time, gratitude and habit will enable her
to return his affection, and they may, eventually, be very happy. At all
events, my sister’s fate is now irrevocable.”
She paused for a moment, and then added: “Oh, Mr. Hamilton, be generous!
Spare her! Leave Munich—or, at least, leave our house——”
“You require a great and most unnecessary sacrifice on my part,
mademoiselle. Suppose I were able to convince you that my absence is
unnecessary?”
“You cannot do so,” replied Hildegarde, with a slightly impatient
gesture.
“I have listened to you with patience and expect in my turn to be
heard,” said Hamilton, handing her a chair, which, however, she
indignantly refused.
“Your sister has most probably told you——” he began.
“My sister has told me nothing,” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him
angrily, “excepting that you said you could not marry, or even think of
marriage! The conversation which preceded such a declaration I can
imagine!”
“Indeed! It seems you have had experience in these matters.”
Hildegarde bit her lip and tapped with her foot on the floor, while
Hamilton smiled provokingly, and watched her varying colour.
“Ungenerous, unfeeling Englishman!” she cried at length; “I—I see you
are trying to put me into a passion—but I am not angry, not in the
least, I assure you,” she said, seating herself on the chair he had
before placed for her. “You said,” she added in a constrained voice,
“you said you were able to convince me——”
“_You_ have convinced me that you are a consummate actress!” cried
Hamilton, contemptuously.
“I am no actress!” she exclaimed, starting from her chair with such
violence that it fell to the ground with a loud crash. “I am no actress!
For Crescenz’s sake, I have endeavoured to be calm, in the hope of
making some impression on you, but you are even more thoroughly selfish
than I imagined. This is the last time I shall ever speak to you!”
“Don’t make rash vows,” said Hamilton, coolly. “I dare say you will
often speak to me in time—perhaps condescend to like me!”
“Never! I do not think there exists a more unamiable being in the world
than you are! I now see you are determined not to leave our house, and
only wonder I could have been such a fool as to expect you to act
honourably.”
Hamilton turned to the window to hide his rising colour.
“You are vindictive, too,” she continued, “cruelly vindictive. It is
because you dislike me; it is in order to make me unhappy that you
trifle with my sister’s feelings. You do not, you cannot love her. She
is not at all a person likely to interest a man such as you are!”
“When did you discover that?” asked Hamilton, turning suddenly round.
“No matter,” she replied, moving towards the door, somewhat surprised at
the effect her words had produced on him. “No matter; I now see that
these conferences and quarrels are worse than useless, and——”
“I agree with you,” said Hamilton, quickly, “and am most willing to sign
a treaty of peace, on reasonable terms. Suppose I promise never by word
or deed to disparage Major Stultz in future, and totally to abstain from
all further attentions to you sister?”
“That—is—better—than—nothing,” said Hildegarde, slowly, “and as I am
acting for the benefit of another, I ought not to refuse a compromise.
If you promise,” she added, hesitatingly, “I—I think I may trust you.”
“And are you satisfied without my leaving the house?”
“I suppose I must be,” she replied, stooping to raise the chair she had
thrown down; Hamilton moved it from her, and leaning on the back of it,
asked if he might not now hope, in case he conscientiously performed his
promises, that she would in future be at least commonly civil to him.
“You have advised me to make no rash vows,” said Hildegarde. “The wisest
thing we could both do would be never to look at or speak to each other
again.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Hamilton, gravely, “but such wisdom is too
great for me——”
She left the room while he was speaking, without even looking at him.
“Zedwitz and his sister were totally mistaken,” thought Hamilton, “but I
am determined, since they have put it into my head, to make her like
me!”
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