THE OCTOBER FÊTE, AND A LESSON ON PROPRIETY OF CONDUCT.
IT was the first Sunday in October, and Major Stultz had just driven up
to the door in a carriage, which he had hired to take his betrothed and
her family to the October fête. In order to increase Crescenz’s
pleasure, he had promised to take the three boys also, and though Mr.
Rosenberg had declared his intention to walk, their party was still
uncomfortably large. Fritz in his cadet uniform mounted the box, fully
convinced that the equipage had considerably gained in appearance by his
presence, and the others were endeavouring to wedge in the children
between them, when a servant came running to the door, bearing a message
from Madame de Hoffmann, who offered a seat in her carriage to one of
the young ladies, if they did not mind going a little later.
“Oh, dear,” cried Madame Rosenberg, “now really that’s very civil—before
I have returned her visit, too! Hildegarde, you will accept that offer,
of course; and to tell the truth, I am glad you do not leave home so
soon; Mr. Hamilton has not returned from church, and I wish you to see
that he gets his dinner comfortably served. I know you don’t mind being
an hour or so later, and the races don’t begin until three o’clock.”
Hildegarde descended from the carriage, seemingly satisfied with the
arrangement, and the others drove off. She stopped on her way upstairs
at the first floor, and requested to see the Hoffmanns in order to thank
them, and ask when they intended to leave. Mademoiselle de Hoffmann came
to meet her, and took her hand eagerly, while she exclaimed: “Ah, I knew
you would be the one to go with us. Your sister, of course, could not
leave Major Stultz—but surely you will come in and stay here until we
are ready to go—in fact we are ready now, and I am only waiting for my
bridegroom, who is to accompany us—I do not know if you are aware that
I, like your sister, am a bride.”
“I have heard so,” replied Hildegarde. “Mamma intends to offer her
congratulations in form to-morrow.”
“I don’t like being congratulated,” said Mademoiselle de Hoffmann
abruptly; “it would be better if people waited a year or so, until they
knew how a marriage turned out. It is, after all, an awful sort of
lottery for a woman, and if she draw a blank——but pray, come into the
drawing-room; this is no place to discuss such subjects.”
“I am sorry to say that I have some arrangements to make at home, but I
shall return as soon as possible.”
“Pray do,” said Mademoiselle de Hoffmann. “I may as well tell you that I
have taken such a fancy to you, that I cannot help hoping that we are
destined to be very good friends.”
“I hope so too,” replied Hildegarde with unusual warmth of manner, and
laughing gayly. Hamilton passed the door at the moment, on his return
from church, and seemed not a little surprised to find her bestowing so
much friendliness on a person he had supposed nearly a stranger.
Hildegarde followed him up the stairs, and on entering their apartments,
took off her bonnet, and prepared to obey her mother’s directions by
bringing in his dinner herself. Hamilton had already become accustomed
to these attentions, and therefore her appearance—with a napkin pinned
on her dress in the form of an apron, and carrying a little tureen of
soup—by no means astonished him. Having placed it on the table, she
walked to the window, took up a book, and began to read.
“Have you all dined?” asked Hamilton.
“Yes, and all are gone too,” replied Hildegarde.
“You don’t mean to say that you must remain at home?” asked Hamilton,
turning round quickly.
“Oh, no, I am to go with the Hoffmanns.”
“How did you happen to make that arrangement?”
Hildegarde came towards him to explain, stood for a moment behind his
chair, then seated herself at the table near him, and while performing
her office of waiter, entered into an unusually unrestrained
conversation. They talked long and gayly, Hamilton at length beginning
to think he would prefer staying at home with her to going to the
_fête_, and was actually as much annoyed as she was surprised, when the
Hoffmanns’ servant announced the carriage, and said they were waiting
for her.
The day was clear and warm, the sky cloudless, and of that deep blue
almost unknown in England. The sun shone brightly on the groups of merry
pedestrians, who still continued to pour out of the town and its
environs, towards the Thérèsian meadows. Notwithstanding the warm
sunbeams, each peasant carried under his arm an enormous red or yellow
umbrella. Many were furnished with cloaks, and some were dressed in the
mountain costume, with which Hamilton had become acquainted at
Berchtesgaden; but, in strong contrast to their picturesque appearance,
there were others from the plains, with their long coats almost reaching
to their heels—two large buttons between their shoulders, as if to mark
the waist, and broad-brimmed, low-crowned hats. The cloth of which these
most ugly garments were made was good, and in many cases fine. The hats,
too, were shining, and decorated with thick gold tassels, and even the
most careless observer could not fail to remark the absence of any
appearance of poverty.
Hamilton rode as fast as the crowd would permit, wishing, considerately,
that all nurses and children had remained at home, and wondering what
business they could have at an agricultural _fête_ and races. Then he
thought of Hildegarde—Hildegarde as he had last seen her, gay and
unrestrained, laughingly giving her opinion of the Hoffmanns, and
relating with what self-possession Mademoiselle de Hoffmann had spoken
of her intended marriage; and then she had taken the half of his bunch
of grapes with a sort of unconscious familiarity flattering from its
rarity. He had for some time been aware of a change in her manner, and
he now began to hope that a feeling of good-will towards himself had
been the cause; in this, he was, however, partly mistaken—the
reconciliation or explanation with her step-mother had mostly effected
the change. She felt that she had been unjustly prejudiced against both,
and, ever ready to act from impulse, she now went from one extreme to
the other, and at once gave Madame Rosenberg credit for virtues which
she scarcely possessed—blamed herself unnecessarily, and received any
remains of severity on the part of her step-mother, as a deserved
punishment for her former unwarrantable dislike. Madame Rosenberg had
not been insensible to the alteration which had taken place—she had more
than once observed to her husband, “That Hildegarde was really a
warm-hearted girl, and not nearly so often in a passion as she used to
be. There was nothing like a mother’s care to form a girl’s character;
she now understood how to manage her, and expected in time to like her
quite as well as Crescenz.”
Hamilton, on reaching the Thérèsian meadow, looked round for the object
of his thoughts—in a crowd of eight or ten thousand persons, the search
was not immediately successful. The royal family had long been on the
tribune, and the King was distributing the last prizes as Hamilton
arrived. A movement in the crowd soon after commenced, which denoted
preparations for the races; Hamilton rode towards the place where the
jockeys were assembled, but when there, his horse became suddenly
restive—he shied, reared, pranced, leaped forwards and sideways, and
Hamilton, had he not been a practised rider, would have found it no easy
matter to keep his seat. At length the animal seemed to become aware of
the power of his rider, for his capers ceased by degrees, and he merely
bent his head and tore up the ground with his fore-foot. Hamilton was
about to return to the interrupted inspection of the jockeys and their
horses, when a voice close to him observed, “You seemed alarmed for the
safety of your English friend, mademoiselle—ask him if he will not give
his horse to our servant, and look at the races from the carriage.”
Hamilton turned quickly round, and found that these words had been
addressed by Madame de Hoffmann to Hildegarde; he rode close up to the
latter, and said in a low voice, “I have been looking for you in vain
the last half-hour, and just as I had given up the search, I find myself
beside you—pray, present me to your friends; you have made me really
wish to be acquainted with them.”
Hildegarde complied with his request, while an officer, who was sitting
opposite to her, and who was instantly recognised by Hamilton as the
admirer of the candlesticks and coffee-pots in the brazier’s shop,
waited for a moment and then said, “I hope you mean to include me; if
you do not choose to allow me to come under the denomination of friend,
you cannot refuse to admit my right to that of relation, and very near
relation, too.”
Hamilton looked astonished, and Hildegarde coloured slightly as she
laughingly added, “My cousin, Count Raimund.”
Hamilton bowed with apparent indifference; but all that Zedwitz had said
of Count Raimund flashed across his mind; he now felt convinced that
there was no doubt of his gaining admittance to the Rosenberg family,
and on the most dangerous footing possible—as cousin! He himself knew
from experience all the advantages of this relationship, and the
unreserved intimacy which it permitted; and though he tried to convince
himself that Count Raimund, being already engaged to Mademoiselle de
Hoffmann, would have neither time nor opportunity to pay Hildegarde
extraordinary attention, a feeling of incipient jealousy, to which,
however, he gave in thought the name of disinterested friendship, took
possession of his mind, and he turned with something more than
curiosity, to examine this cousin, this Raimund, said to be so
dangerous. He was a slight young man with rather regular features, his
mouth alone remarkably handsome, though his lips were, perhaps, too red
and full for a man, his eyes light blue, hair and moustache remarkably
fair; his complexion, which varied with every passing emotion, sometimes
almost pale, sometimes sanguine, gave an appearance of perpetual
animation to a countenance which would otherwise have, perhaps, failed
to interest at first sight. He immediately addressed Hamilton, spoke of
England, hunting, horses, races—of English customs and sports, with such
correctness that Hamilton could not help exclaiming, “You must have been
a long time in England to understand these things so well!”
“My information is altogether acquired from reading,” replied Raimund,
smiling, and evidently flattered at Hamilton’s remark; either encouraged
by it, or the approving smiles of his companions, he gave a description
of races in different countries, from the most ancient to the present
day, discovering considerable information, well applied, but brought it
forward with such ill-concealed arrogance that Hamilton, already
predisposed to dislike him, was soon disgusted, and taking advantage of
the first pause and some confusion among the bystanders, he suddenly and
violently checked his horse, threw him on his haunches, and backing him
out of the crowd, galloped across the field. The races began, and
although the horses did not promise much, it was impossible not to feel
in some degree interested; he crossed the field several times at full
speed, and in doing so he passed and repassed the carriage in which
Hildegarde sat, when having met some Englishmen with whom he was
slightly acquainted, he began to talk to them not very far distant from
her.
“My fair cousin follows with her eyes, and rather seems to admire her
English friend,” said Raimund with a laugh. “He certainly is handsome,
but I never saw more haughty manners or prouder looks in my life. How
does he contrive to get on with step-mamma?”
“Exceedingly well,” answered Hildegarde. “She gives him occasional
lectures on his extravagant habits, which he receives with the most
perfect good temper; but they do not seem to have much effect. I rather
think his parents must be very rich, although he never speaks on the
subject, for they send him large sums of money, which he leaves at his
banker’s, as he says, with the best intentions possible he can find no
opportunity of spending it.”
“It seems the lectures on extravagance were scarcely necessary,”
observed Raimund, with a slight sneer; “from your account, he is more
disposed to hoard than spend.”
“And yet he is really generous,” cried Hildegarde, warmly. “Mr.
Biedermann, who is giving him lessons in German, says that he has been
munificent to him; and I know that he gave old Hans, only the other day,
a complete suit of clothes for the winter, to keep him warm when he is
sawing wood in the yard; not to mention a great many occurrences in our
house, where, had he not been disposed to give, he would have acted
quite differently.”
“You are eloquent in his praise,” said Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, “and
will force me to think well of him; though, to tell the truth, I feel
half inclined to agree with Oscar in thinking him proud. It is true, I
have only seen him for a few minutes, and on a very restive horse; but
the glance which he bestowed upon us all was more scrutinising than
agreeable, and he certainly did appear to have a tolerably good opinion
of himself.”
“I cannot dispute that point,” replied Hildegarde, laughing; “but I wish
to do him justice when I can, as I am only by degrees getting over an
inveterate dislike which I took to him at first sight, without any
reasonable cause.”
“So,” exclaimed Raimund, “if that be the case, I am satisfied. It must,
however, be extremely disagreeable to have such a Don Magnifico forced
into one’s domestic circle. I wonder your father did not rebel; but of
course he must do whatever your mother chooses.”
“Oh! papa, mamma, and Crescenz liked him from the first,” said
Hildegarde. “I was the only person who quarrelled with him, because I
imagined that he was laughing at us, or seeking amusement at our
expense, while he considered himself far, far above us. On a nearer
acquaintance, it is impossible not to think him agreeable, clever, and,
I must say, perfectly unaffected.”
“My dear, if you continue in this strain,” said Mademoiselle de
Hoffmann, laughing slyly, “you will force us to think you altogether in
love with him!”
“By no means,” observed Raimund; “were that the case, she would be more
reserved in her praise. I am rather disposed to think that this
Englishman, by some unaccountable perversion of taste, must have given
the preference to my other cousin. Come, confess, Hildegarde! As to his
living in your house, and not taking a fancy to one or the other, the
thing is absolutely and totally impossible.”
“I believe,” replied Hildegarde, “he—he rather admired Crescenz until
she was engaged to be married to Major Stultz.”
“Then he admires her still, you may depend upon it.”
“Perhaps he does; it is difficult to know Crescenz, and not both admire
and love her,” replied Hildegarde; “but at all events he has ceased to
pay her any attention, and does not speak more to her than to me.”
“You may be sure he makes up for lost time when he sees her alone,”
cried Raimund, laughing. “By Jove, I envy him his recent position; what
capital fun to—to supplant that stout old major!”
“He never thought of such a thing,” cried Hildegarde, eagerly; “he
explained at once that he could not marry.”
“Better and better,” said Raimund, laughing oddly, “he seems perfectly
to know what he is about.”
“I don’t understand you,” began Hildegarde, but Madame de Hoffmann
called her attention to the races, and when they were over she had no
time to think about the matter.
Hamilton could scarcely conceal his vexation, on his return home, when
he heard that Hildegarde was engaged to spend the evening with the
Hoffmanns. Mr. Rosenberg left them, as usual, immediately after supper;
Major Stultz altogether monopolised Crescenz, Madame Rosenberg busied
herself with a pack of cards, which she shuffled, cut, and spread out on
the table before her with extraordinary interest, while Hamilton,
accustomed as he now was to talk or read with Hildegarde, and missing
her more than he liked to perceive, held a newspaper in his hand, and
employed his thoughts in forming uncomfortable surmises respecting her
and her cousin.
“Very odd,” said Madame Rosenberg, thoughtfully, holding a card to her
lips; “very odd indeed;—the marriage is not in the cards!”
“I thought you were playing patience,” said Hamilton, looking up.
“Oh, no, I have been cutting the cards for Crescenz,” she said, in a low
voice; “and oddly enough, her marriage is not in them. I must try it
again,” she said, gathering up the pack and shuffling energetically.
Hamilton drew his chair to the table, and watched her as she slowly and
thoughtfully placed the cards in regular rows before her, while
murmuring, with evident dissatisfaction: “This is Crescenz and this is
the Major, but ever so far asunder! And the marriage and love cards are
all near him, while Crescenz’s thoughts are occupied about a present.
Oh, ah! here is a letter full of money coming to our house; but I
suppose it will be, as usual, from England, and for you, Mr. Hamilton.
You are laughing at me, I see! Perhaps you don’t believe that I can tell
fortunes?”
“I am convinced you can do so quite as well as anyone else.”
“That is saying too much,” said Madame Rosenberg. “Our washerwoman is
very expert; but I know some who could astonish you!”
“I like being astonished,” said Hamilton, “and promise to be so if what
you foretell comes to pass; but then you must predict something more
surprising than that I should receive a letter containing money. This is
more than probable, as my father is very liberal, and I said something
about intending to buy a sledge this winter when I last wrote.”
“But suppose Crescenz’s marriage should be broken off—which Heaven
forbid—what would you say then?”
“It will not be broken off, but it may be postponed. You said yourself
yesterday that her _trousseau_ could not be ready at the time expected;
and as to her thoughts being occupied about a present, we all know that
she is making a purse and cigar-case for Major Stultz.”
“Oh, if you explain everything in that way, I need not go on,” said
Madame Rosenberg, laughing. “Here, for instance, is a false person in
our house—a very false person; he is followed, too, by a number of
unlucky, disagreeable cards; now, who can that be?”
“I hope you do not suspect me of being this false person?”
“Most certainly not,” repeated Madame Rosenberg, seriously. “I know few
people of whom I think so highly; I always liked my English lodgers, and
was sorry when they left me; but I feel as if you were a part of our
family. You must observe that I talk to you and consult you about all
our affairs a hundred times more than Major Stultz, who is actually
about to become my son-in-law!”
“I am exceedingly flattered by your good opinion,” said Hamilton, “and
am greatly relieved to find you do not suspect me to be this false
friend, followed by ill-omened cards!”
“Set your mind at rest; this person seems in some way related to our
family, and has light hair.”
“And you can see all this in these cards!” said Hamilton, laughing.
“Look here, and I will explain it easily,” said Madame Rosenberg. “You
see this ace is our house——”
“_Is_ that an ace?” said Hamilton. “The German cards are as difficult to
learn as the handwriting. I do not know a single one of these cards.”
“They are easily learned. These are acorns, and these bells; these
trifles, and these hearts.”
“But this ace of hearts is double; and what is the meaning of the basket
of flowers and the blinded cupid?”
“Only for ornament.”
“This, then, I suppose, is the king of hearts; but where is the queen?”
“This, I believe, answers to your queen.”
“What! the man leaning on his sword?”
“I see you do not want to learn——”
“And yet I should rather like to know what these acorns and bells are
intended to represent,” said Hamilton.
“Crescenz, come here and explain in French,” cried Madame Rosenberg.
Crescenz came most willingly. In a few minutes Hamilton imagined he knew
the cards, and began to play some childish game which Crescenz taught
him; they played for six-kreutzer pieces, and, as he continually mistook
the cards, in the course of half an hour he had lost some florins.
Crescenz’s exclamation of delight and triumph caused Madame Rosenberg at
last to look round, and no sooner did she perceive how matters stood,
than she took the money which Crescenz had won, returned it to Hamilton,
notwithstanding all his protestations; and, taking some red and white
counters out of her work-table drawer, divided them equally between
them, while she observed that they might fancy them florins if they
wished,—“it would be much more proper for young people than really
playing for money.”
Crescenz did not know whether to be satisfied or vexed—but when her
mother added a few words of reproach about her playing without her
having the means of paying her debts, should she lose, she blushed
deeply and stammered, “I—I have more than a florin pocket-money—and
besides, Mr. Hamilton would have waited until Christmas, when papa
always gives me a crown!”
“Oh, certainly,” said Hamilton, laughing, “I could have waited until
Christmas without the least inconvenience.”
“I hope,” said Major Stultz, “that before Christmas, Crescenz will have
made me her banker.”
“At all events,” Hamilton said to Madame Rosenberg, “you cannot treat me
so like a child as to force me to take back what I have lost; but if you
forbid our continuing to play, of course we must obey.”
“Well, play for kreutzers or pfennings, if you like, but it is a bad
habit.”
The permission granted, Crescenz seemed to have lost all inclination to
continue. She and Hamilton were soon after employed in building
card-houses, while they kept up a sort of murmured conversation in
French, possibly very interesting to them, but unintelligible to Madame
Rosenberg and Major Stultz—the former had commenced knitting, the latter
sat watching the varying countenance of his betrothed, as she, sometimes
lowering her voice to a whisper, seemed to speak pensively, and quite
forgot her occupation; the next moment, however, with childish delight,
slyly blowing down the Chinese tower which had apparently cost Hamilton
a world of trouble to erect. How long this occupation might have
continued to interest them, it is impossible to say, for Hildegarde’s
return caused Crescenz instantly to leave her place, and though Hamilton
still continued to play with the cards, it was unconsciously. Crescenz’s
eager inquiries of how Hildegarde had amused herself, if the Hoffmanns
had pleased her on a nearer acquaintance, and if she had seen the future
husband of Mademoiselle Hoffmann, were answered quickly and decidedly.
“I have spent a delightful day, the Hoffmanns are the most charming
people I ever met, and the bridegroom is, without any exception, the
most amusing and the cleverest person in the world!”
“Phew-w-w-w,” whistled Major Stultz.
“What is his name?” asked Crescenz.
“Count Raimund. He is our very nearest relation—our first cousin!”
“Our cousin! But—but—I thought the Raimunds did not wish to know us?”
“We have no right to make him answerable for the unkindness of his
parents, Crescenz; and all I can say is, that he spoke at once of our
near relationship, and as it was impossible to refuse to acknowledge it,
we became intimate immediately. In fact, he gave me no choice, for he
called me Hildegarde, and spoke of you as if he had known you all his
life. He intends to call here to-morrow, to visit mamma!”
“Does he?” said Madame Rosenberg, dryly.
“He says you are his aunt, as you have married papa.”
“It is singular he never discovered the relationship until to-day!
During your mother’s lifetime, I have heard, too, that the Raimunds
pretended at times to forget your father’s name. The fact is, my dear,
he thought it would flatter me to fancy myself aunt to a count, although
there is actually no relationship whatever, and you thought so too,
Hildegarde, or you would not have repeated so absurd a remark.”
Hildegarde’s face became crimson. “These were his words,” she said, with
the quivering lips of half-subdued anger. “You may, of course, put what
construction you please on them.”
“The words and their meaning are easily understood,” said Madame
Rosenberg, laughing. “But why he has so suddenly chosen to acknowledge a
relationship with you and Crescenz, and force upon me the honour of
being his aunt, is more difficult to comprehend.”
“Not at all, ma’am,” said Major Stultz, glancing from Hildegarde to
Crescenz, “not at all. A young man is always glad to gain admittance to
a house where there are young ladies.”
“But, my dear Major, the man is engaged to be married to Mademoiselle de
Hoffmann in January, and all other young women must be indifferent to
him now!”
“Some men never become indifferent to young women, ma’am; and, if I am
not mistaken, this Count Raimund is one of these persons. I think I have
heard that he has been a very—a——”
“Very what?” asked Madame Rosenberg, quickly.
“Very wild—if not very profligate,” replied Major Stultz, distinctly.
“Then I shall take good care that if he comes to-morrow, it shall be his
last as well as his first visit. But you are quite sure of what you say?
Otherwise you know Rosenberg might be dissatisfied, and think that I was
uncivil from personal dislike, for I do dislike these Raimunds, and
that’s the truth. Fancy their pretending to think that I treated
Hildegarde and Crescenz harshly after my marriage, and proposing to take
them altogether from me!”
“I wonder why you did not resign us,” said Hildegarde, bitterly.
“For two reasons,” replied Madame Rosenberg. “First, you were never to
be allowed to see your father, and he did not like that part of the
arrangement. Secondly, you were to be educated to become governesses,
and were to remain at school until you were given a situation in some
foreign family, as they only wanted to get you out of the way on account
of the relationship. Now, I had a promise of one free place at the same
school, and did not despair of working out the other, while by coming
home for a time there was a chance of your marrying into the bargain.
And I was right, for here is Crescenz well provided for, and if you
continue to improve as you have done of late, I foresee that I shall not
long have you on my hands either. But to return to this Count Raimund,
Major—tell me all you know or have heard about him.”
“I have heard more than I can tell you at present,” said Major Stultz,
mysteriously, “such things are not a proper subject of conversation
before young ladies.” Crescenz blushed. Hildegarde threw herself back in
her chair and laughed contemptuously, as Madame Rosenberg adjourned to
the next room with Major Stultz. “This is the first time,” she said,
looking after them, “the first time that I have seen him attempt to act
the part of son-in-law.”
“He is acting as a friend,” said Hamilton, gravely.
“How do you know that?”
“Perhaps I have heard more of Count Raimund than you imagine.”
“And suppose you have,” said Hildegarde, folding her hands together and
looking Hamilton steadily in the face; “suppose, even, you have heard
all that can be said against him, what does it amount to? Failings,
faults, if you will, which, as he himself said this evening, every young
man has been guilty of——Have you, yourself, been so immaculate that you
feel authorised to judge him?”
Hamilton blushed deeply, but did not answer.
“I know,” continued Hildegarde, with increased warmth, “I know you think
yourself superior to other people, but your present confusion proves
that you have your weaknesses, too, with this difference, that you the
while pretend to be a pattern of perfection, and others honestly confess
their faults!”
“Oh, Hildegarde!” cried Crescenz, deprecatingly.
Hamilton crushed the card which he held in his hand, looked vexed, but
still did not attempt to speak.
“It is hard,” continued Hildegarde, more quietly, though her cheeks
flushed deeply, “it is hard to judge a young man like Oscar without
knowing the temptations to which he has been subjected.”
Hamilton still remained silent; he began once more to build a tower with
the cards.
“Do you not hear me?” she asked, impatiently.
“I am listening most attentively.”
“Then why don’t you say something?”
“Because a reply would only provoke another taunt on your part, and can
answer no purpose whatever?”
“I see—you think I have been hasty—I did not mean it—I am sorry if I
have offended you.”
Hamilton looked up and smiled, and Hildegarde continued—“We have so few
relations—so very few. Oscar is our _only_ cousin. I cannot tell you how
I felt to-day when he called me Hildegarde, and told me to consider him
a brother. You will think me romantic when I assure you that I
experienced an instantaneous prepossession in his favour, or rather a
sort of affection which I thought it quite impossible to feel for a
stranger! I suppose the recollection of my mother, faint though it be,
partly caused this feeling. At all events, I have found it impossible
not to think him the most amusing, clever—in short, the most fascinating
person I ever met.”
“Oh dear! How I should like to know him!” exclaimed Crescenz.
“Then he is so very accomplished!—speaks French so perfectly—and plays
the pianoforte as I have never heard it played. Fancy his being able to
compose for hours together without ever being at a loss! able to follow
all his thoughts, and express them beautifully in music! sometimes so
sad, so melancholy, then gay and passionate, according to the impulse.”
“I was not in the least aware that you cared for music,” said Hamilton,
interrupting her with a look of unfeigned surprise, “you play the
pianoforte so seldom, and——”
“And so badly,” said Hildegarde, interrupting him in her turn, “so
badly, that you concluded I must be incapable of appreciating good music
when I heard it? On the contrary, I am so sensitively alive to its
beauties that I cannot endure mediocrity, and beyond that I know I
should never arrive, when I take into consideration my want of time and
patience!”
“Of your want of patience you are the best judge—time you have enough,
if you want to employ it on music—for instance, you read enormously.
Were the hours which you devote to——”
“Ah, bah!” cried Hildegarde, impatiently; “why should I plague myself
studying music, which, after all, is half mechanical expertness most
difficult to acquire, when in reading I gain information and amuse
myself at the same time. If I could hope to play like Oscar, it would be
different, but nothing else would satisfy me.”
“Then you do not care for vocal music,” said Hamilton.
“I rather give it the preference; because one has words to direct the
thoughts; but then the voice is also an instrument—requires incessant
practice, and so—and so—but you know very well that I have no patience!”
“So I thought, until I discovered that you had learned English so
perfectly without an instructor; this proves that you have both patience
and perseverance.”
“But, then, think of the reward! a new and extensive literature!”
“And if you really liked music, would it not also have rewarded you?”
“I see you have got the best side of the argument; and I must therefore
suppose that I have no real talent for music. To appreciate Oscar’s
playing, however, only requires feeling—it is a sort of thing one never
could get tired of—something like the conversation of a person who talks
well. I only hope you may soon have an opportunity of judging for
yourself. I wish, too, you could hear him read aloud. I never imagined
anything like it. He read for Mademoiselle de Hoffmann and me, and we
both felt cold and warm alternately—it was too delightful!”
“What did he read?” asked Crescenz.
“Heine’s poems,” answered Hildegarde, drawing from her pocket a small
volume—“this is called the _Book of Songs_; and he has given it to me.
Shall I read you _The Dream_?”
“By all means,” said Hamilton.
Hildegarde began, her voice trembling from eagerness. She had, however,
scarcely read a couple of verses, when her mother entered the room, and
asked directly, “What have you got there, Hildegarde?”
“A book, mamma.”
“That is evident: but what book? You know I do not wish you to read
anything but French; and this is German, and poetry into the bargain—and
Count Raimund’s too!” she said, taking it out of Hildegarde’s unwilling
hand—“You see, Major, he has already begun with his books, just as you
told me. I dare say it is full of improprieties!”
“As well as I can recollect, you are mistaken,” said Hamilton. “Some of
the poems are beautiful, and all original, and full of talent.”
“If that be the case, I suppose I may let her read them—but the book
must be returned as soon as possible.”
“But——” began Hildegarde.
Crescenz pulled her sleeve, and whispered: “Don’t say he gave it to
you.”
Hildegarde shook off her sister’s hand, while she said, “The book is
mine: he gave it to me; and if I may read it, I may keep it, I suppose.”
“You may do no such thing,” cried her mother, with considerable
irritation. “Should Count Raimund come to-morrow, I shall return him his
book, and request him to keep the remainder of his library for his own
perusal. He would have done better had he given it to his betrothed
instead of you: and I shall tell him so.”
“I see you are determined to affront him,” said Hildegarde, angrily;
“and, as you mean to return this book to-morrow, I may as well tell you
that I shall not go to bed to-night until I have read every line of it.”
“Hildegarde! Hildegarde! I am afraid you are about to have one of your
old fits of anger and obstinacy. It is unpardonable your being so
childish, now that you are near seventeen years old! However, since you
are a child, I must treat you as one; and you shall not have more candle
than will light you to bed.”
Hildegarde put the book into her pocket, shoved her chair hastily back,
and walked towards the stove. Major Stultz, while wishing Crescenz
good-night, observed, in an audible whisper, “What a lucky man am I that
_you_ have fallen to my lot!”
Madame Rosenberg accompanied him out of the room, first stopping at the
door to say to Hildegarde and Crescenz, “You must not think that I am
actuated by personal dislike to Count Raimund if to-morrow I forbid him
our house—he is a most dangerous person—has brought dishonour on two
respectable families, and his last exploit was going off with the wife
of one of his friends.”
Crescenz seemed utterly confounded by this speech, and turned to her
sister, while she said, “Oh, Hildegarde! if this be true!”
“It is true.”
“Why, you praised him just now, and——”
“Well, I am ready to praise him again; and yet it is true. He intends,
however, henceforward to lead a different life, and honestly confessed
all his misdemeanours to Marie de Hoffmann and to me this evening. He
did not spare himself, I can assure you!”
“His confession must have been very edifying,” observed Hamilton.
“It was very amusing,” replied Hildegarde, slightly laughing. “He
related with such spirit, described such comical situations, and begged
Mademoiselle de Hoffmann to forgive his thoughtlessness with such
fervour, that she was not only obliged to pardon him, but also forced to
confess that perhaps others would not have acted differently, had they
been subjected to the same temptations.”
“He seems to have proved himself a sort of victim,” said Hamilton,
without looking up.
“Almost,” said Hildegarde. “He was given all sorts of encouragement by
the young ladies, who met him alone, and Madame de Sallenstein actually
herself proposed going off with him.”
“He told you that, and the names also?”
“Certainly; he did not conceal the slightest circumstance, related all
the conversations and adventures—no book could be more amusing! His
first love was a daughter of a Captain Welden—there were four daughters,
and they all took a fancy to him at the same time—the youngest was much
the prettiest, and so——”
“Excuse my interrupting you,” cried Hamilton, “but really I cannot
endure to hear you talk in this light manner—Count Raimund must be a
fiend incarnate, if he can change you so completely in one day!”
“Indeed, I do think Hildegarde is changed,” chimed in Crescenz: “I never
heard her talk so oddly before—and oh, Hildegarde, do you remember how
hardly you judged Mr. Hamilton, when you only suspected that he—that I—I
mean we—on account of Major Stultz, you know? Oh, think of all you said
in Berchtesgaden!”
Crescenz’s eloquence did not seem to make much impression on
Hildegarde—she merely shook her head impatiently.
“I find I have altogether mistaken your character,” said Hamilton,
approaching her, and leaning his elbow on the stove, “altogether
mistaken, it seems.”
“How do you mean?”
“I thought that, if from a false and romantic idea of generosity or
liberality, you could be induced to overlook conduct like Count
Raimund’s, you would at least be shocked to find him boasting of his
villainy, and throwing the blame on his victims.”
Hildegarde blushed so deeply that it must have caused her acute pain—she
threw herself into a chair, and turned away.
“Mr. Hamilton is quite right,” said Crescenz, “it was not honourable of
Count Raimund to throw the blame on Captain Welden’s daughter, who, I
dare say, was not the first to propose a rendezvous—and then to repeat
everything and laugh! Oh! Hildegarde, he may be very amusing, but he
cannot have a good heart!” She bent down towards her sister, and added
in a whisper, “Mr. Hamilton would never have acted so!”
“Mr. Hamilton is, most probably, in no respect better than other
people,” replied Hildegarde, quickly, but without turning round.
“Why, Hildegarde, you seem to forget that you said only yesterday—that
he was superior to other people—so like somebody in a book you know, the
hero who was too perfect to be natural, because he never was angry or——”
“Crescenz!” cried Hildegarde, literally bounding from her chair, “are
you purposely trying to irritate me? or are you really what Lina Berger
has often called you, a simpleton—a fool? Anything so nonsensical or
silly as your remarks, I never in my life heard!”
“Now, Hildegarde, don’t be angry, you know these were your own words.”
“I shall in future carefully avoid making any remark to you which I do
not intend to be repeated to the whole world,” said Hildegarde, walking
up and down the room, and speaking hurriedly. “Everything that I say is
misunderstood, and stupidly brought forward in the most provoking
manner! Until to-night, I had no idea of your excessive silliness!”
“You are right—I see—I understand now,” cried Crescenz, with tears in
her eyes: “I ought not to have repeated what you said before Mr.
Hamilton, because he might think, perhaps, you liked him as I do—did, I
mean to say—that is, he might fancy——”
“You tiresome girl, can you not at least be silent?” cried Hildegarde,
stamping with her foot. “Mr. Hamilton may fancy what he pleases, but he
knows that I disliked him from the commencement of our acquaintance, and
if I did begin to think better of him, I have again returned to my first
opinion—he is in no respect better than others; and had he anything to
boast of, I am sure he would do so quite as inconsiderately as Oscar or
anyone else.”
“I _hope_ you are mistaken,” said Hamilton, quietly lighting his
bedchamber candle, “but as I have never been put to the proof, I cannot
answer for myself.”
Crescenz hung her head, and looked uneasily towards her sister, who was
about to reply, when Madame Rosenberg appeared at the door, and they all
prepared to retire for the night. Hamilton did not, as was his usual
custom, linger at the door to continue the interrupted conversation, or
talk some nonsense not adapted for the rational ears of their mother; he
walked quickly to his room, seated himself at the table, and taking out
his journal, was soon employed in writing the events of the day, with
copious reflections. He was angry, very angry with Hildegarde, and yet,
by some strange process of reasoning, he firmly persuaded himself that
not a particle of jealousy was mixed with his just indignation. He began
to suspect that his admiration for her person had induced him to give
her credit for virtues which she did not possess; he was even ready to
allow that he had greatly overrated her in every respect; but still the
idea of her becoming his first love had that day so completely taken
possession of his mind that it would not be banished, and imagining
himself, as a younger son, privileged to fall in and out of love as
often as he pleased, with perfect impunity, he determined at once to
enter the lists, and break a lance with Count Raimund. In England his
position was known; Crescenz had already forced him to be explicit on
the subject, and had, he supposed, informed her sister; he therefore
conceived he had a right to pay to Hildegarde all the attention she
would accept, while her opinion of Count Raimund’s conduct that evening
would, he thought, exonerate him from self-reproach, or future blame on
her part. This was arguing most sophistically, and judging a few
thoughtless words too harshly. He seemed to have forgotten that her
mother had accused her of inordinate family pride, and it was this,
perhaps, alone which had made her blind to her cousin’s faults, and
explained, if it could not excuse, the utterance of opinions so unlike
any that Hamilton had ever heard her express. He recollected, however,
with peculiar complacency, the words which Crescenz had repeated
respecting himself, and which Hildegarde had not denied. She had found a
resemblance between him and some hero in a novel; that is, she was
beginning to make a sort of hero of him, and he had not read and studied
with her for so many weeks, without discovering that she had a warm
imagination, romantic ideas, and passionate feelings. She did not, it is
true, remind him of any particular heroine, nor, on consideration, did
she seem adapted to form one at all, for who ever heard of a heroine
whose passions “oozed out,” like Bob Acres’ courage, “at the palms of
her hands,” or found vent in the clapping of doors and upsetting of
chairs—not to mention considerable fluency of language when irritated?
But then, her perfect face and figure covered a multitude of faults, her
occasional violence of temper was rather amusing than otherwise, and on
taking into consideration her extreme youth, it merely proved an energy
of character far more interesting than the gentle insipidity of her
sister. He perceived that her cousin had made a deep impression on her,
and imagined, in consequence, that his quiet and respectful manner had
not been appreciated—he remembered having heard his brother say, that
very young or very elderly women prefer audacity to deference, and he
wished with all his heart that it were morning, that he might begin a
new line of operations. A knock at the door surprised him in the midst
of these reflections, and made him hastily throw down his pen—scarcely
waiting for permission to enter, Hildegarde had partly opened the door,
and stood before him, her candle burned down in the socket, and already
emitting the fitful gleams of light which precede extinction.
“I dare say you are surprised to see me at this hour,” she began.
“Not at all,” cried Hamilton, pushing away his table, “not at all, for I
have just been thinking of you, and I suppose some sort of sympathy has
made you think of me.”
“No, not exactly of you,” replied Hildegarde, with a smile, “but I have
thought of your candles! You have often offered me one when I wished to
read at night, and I always feared it would be dishonourable to take
advantage of your offer, as it would be deceiving mamma. To-night,
however, I have given her fair warning, so if you will permit me——”
Hamilton pushed a candle towards her, and was rather puzzled what to say
next: she, in the mean time, very calmly extinguished her light and
began to arrange the new one.
“I suppose you have half read your book by this time?” said Hamilton at
length.
“No,” said Hildegarde, while she rolled a piece of paper round the
candle. “No, I have been employed in making apologies to Crescenz. You
must have thought me abominably rude to her this evening?”
“Rather,” replied Hamilton, greatly vexed to find that the determination
to be audacious had made him more than usually restrained—almost timid
in his manner.
“I thought you would have blamed me more,” continued Hildegarde,
fastening the candle steadily, “but even your judgment, with all its
severity, cannot equal my own in rigour, when the moment of anger is
past. Crescenz forgave me directly, and in her good nature tried soon to
excuse my loss of temper, and to reconcile me to myself.”
“A fault must be forgiven when so acknowledged,” said Hamilton, lightly.
“But instead of talking of faults, which, by-the-by, is not the most
agreeable subject of conversation, suppose you read me this dream, which
was so unpleasantly interrupted this evening.”
“Not now,” said Hildegarde, “but I intend to write it out, and we can
read it together to-morrow when Mr. Biedermann is gone.”
“No time like the present,” said Hamilton, pointing to a place beside
him on the sofa. “Come, suppose we read the whole book?”
“If it were not so late, I should have no objection.”
“From your conversation this evening, I should not have expected you to
make difficulties about such a trifle.”
“Conversation this evening,” repeated Hildegarde, thoughtfully.
“Have you then already forgotten all you said in defence of your
cousin?” asked Hamilton, half laughing, while with his hand he gently
induced her to take the unoccupied place beside him. “I thought your
memory was more retentive.”
“But my defence of Oscar has no sort of connection with my remaining
here until two or three o’clock in the morning to read Heine’s poems!”
said Hildegarde, quietly fixing her large blue eyes on Hamilton’s face,
with an expression of such perfect confidence, that his previous
resolutions and his brother’s opinion lost at once all influence over
him, and not for any consideration would he have shaken the reliance on
his integrity legible in every feature of his companion’s face. He
blushed deeply, as he answered evasively—“Perhaps there is more
connection than you are aware of; but you must wait until to-morrow, and
then if you wish it, I will tell you what I meant.”
“But why not now? I detest delay—besides, I shall forget to ask you
to-morrow.”
“No, you will not forget,” said Hamilton, laughing.
“But why will you not tell me now?” asked Hildegarde.
“Because I fear to shock you unnecessarily.”
“But I am not easily shocked,” observed Hildegarde.
“So I perceived from what you said this evening.”
“It is really not generous of you to harp continually on my defence of
Oscar; I am willing to acknowledge that you were quite right in what you
said about him—I know, too, I was wrong to be angry with mamma and
Crescenz—but I do not like to be so perpetually reminded of my faults by
you—you are not old enough—and—and—you bore me with your real or
affected superiority.”
“Did I affect superiority we should never have quarrelled,” replied
Hamilton, with evident vexation; “I only quarrel with my equals.”
“I quarrel with everybody,” said Hildegarde, with a sigh; “a passionate
temper is a great misfortune—but I can and will learn to control it.
Perhaps the fear of my losing my temper, and not the fear of shocking
me, prevented you from telling your thoughts just now? Do not wait until
to-morrow, but speak freely and at once.”
“Excuse me,” said Hamilton, rising, “I have changed my mind, and will
neither speak now nor to-morrow—I have no right to correct, and
certainly no wish to bore you.”
“I might have guessed what your answer would have been,” cried
Hildegarde, petulantly. “You store up every hasty word to bring forward
just when I wish it forgotten! If you will not tell me, I may as well
wish you good-night.” She took up the candle and walked to the door.
“Good-night,” said Hamilton, approaching as if to close it after her,
and making no attempt whatever to detain her.
“As you feared to shock me,” said Hildegarde, stopping suddenly, “I
suppose I have done something very wrong?” and she looked up
inquiringly.
“I really do not know,” replied Hamilton, stiffly.
“You—you most disagreeable person—” she began angrily, but seeing that
Hamilton was endeavouring to suppress a smile, she exclaimed: “Well, if
this is not affecting superiority, I do not understand you at all!—What
must I say to you? I was wrong to defend Oscar, he is unfortunately
a—a—great reprobate, I suppose, but he is my cousin, my only cousin, and
I admire him more than anyone I have ever seen.”
“You had better tell him so,” said Hamilton, ironically.
“It is not necessary, he is perfectly aware of his advantages,” she
replied in the same tone.
“So I perceived at the races to-day.”
“That he did not please you I saw at once,” said Hildegarde, playing
with the lock of the door. “You looked so unfriendly and haughty that
the Hoffmanns could hardly believe all I said in your praise.”
“So you undertook my defence,” said Hamilton quickly.
“Of course, I always defend the absent, especially when they are
censured by people who do not know them. If Oscar had not been attacked
this evening, I should never have attempted to take his part—Perhaps you
don’t believe me?”
“I do believe you—but I cannot understand how Madame de Hoffmann could
allow him to speak so freely.”
“She is very deaf and he was seated at the pianoforte; Marie at one side
of him, and I at the other—he spoke very gently, and sometimes played a
few chords, which gave the appearance of a sort of recitation. Exactly
what I imagined an improvisatore must be! I am sure he would make an
excellent actor!”
“And I am sure he will prove a dangerous man,” said Hamilton.
“If he keeps his promises, Marie will nevertheless be very happy with
him—he is a person one must admire, and might easily love—but I am
keeping you from writing, and I dare say you would rather hear what I
have to say to-morrow.”
“By no means—if you have anything more to say, I should like to hear
it.”
“Oh, yes, I want to speak to you—about myself, not Oscar.”
“A much more interesting subject,” observed Hamilton.
“But then,” said Hildegarde, hesitating, “you will probably give me some
severe answer, and make me repent my humility.”
“I promise to give you no severe answer,” said Hamilton, exceedingly
flattered.
“Then I must beg of you to forget what I said just now. I am quite aware
that I have more faults than people generally have, and if you will take
the trouble to correct them, I shall be obliged to you. I have spent
almost the whole of my life at school among girls of my own age, so, of
course, I must know very little of the manners and customs of the world.
I see Crescenz’s simplicity quickly enough, and to avoid falling into
her errors, I try to act differently in every respect. Now, Crescenz,
with all her weaknesses, makes herself beloved—not more than she
deserves, for she is the most amiable creature in the world, while I am
universally disliked. I think, therefore, that something must be wrong;
I have no person whose advice I can ask. Papa overrates as much as mamma
underrates me, and neither of them understands me at all. Do you
remember one evening mamma’s saying that you, as an unbiassed looker-on,
could judge between us? I refused you as arbitrator then, because I knew
you liked mamma better than me; but I am now willing to accept of you as
judge, Mentor, or whatever you please, for I am convinced that you only
dislike me just enough to see my faults without exaggerating them; so I
promise to bear your corrections with as much patience as my natural
impatience will allow.”
During this speech Hamilton had been leaning against the wall,
endeavouring to look as sage as Hildegarde evidently thought him; his
eyes were bent on the ground, but a smile of ineffable satisfaction
played round his mouth. Not for a moment did he hesitate to undertake
the dangerous task. He would direct her studies, correct her faults, and
make her mind as perfect as her form! What words he made use of to
express this most magnanimous resolution he himself never could
recollect; that he had spoken intelligibly was evident, for Hildegarde
held out her hand and smiled brilliantly as she once more turned to the
door. “I think,” she said, with some hesitation, “I think I could sleep
more soundly to-night if you would begin your office at once, and tell
me what I have done to-day that is reprehensible.”
“I must of course, if you desire it.”
“Let me guess. It is not Oscar’s defence?”
“No; we have already discussed that subject,” replied Hamilton.
“My—my losing my temper this evening, when mamma made the remark about
Oscar’s saying she was his aunt?”
Hamilton shook his head.
“Well, then, my obstinacy about reading the book?”
“Humph!—obstinacy is certainly a fault, but was not what I meant on the
present occasion.”
“Ah! now I know—because I asked you for a candle, and as I did not tell
mamma I could get one from you, you think that I have acted
dishonourably? Perhaps you are right, so I shall not take it, but go to
bed in the dark as a punishment. Are you satisfied?”
“I ought to be, for you have not only confessed your fault, but imposed
penance on yourself; and yet I must still say that you have not
discovered the error to which I alluded.”
“Then, now you must tell me, for I can think of nothing else.”
“Is it possible,” said Hamilton, the colour as usual, mounting
impetuously to his forehead, “is it possible that you are not aware of
the impropriety of coming to my room at this hour?”
“I—I—came for—for the candle,” stammered Hildegarde, in painful
confusion.
“I know you did; but you have remained here some time, and people——”
“Let me go—let me go,” she cried, impatiently pushing back the hand
which he had placed on the lock of the door in order to have time to add
a few words. “Let me go; I desire—I insist.”
He drew back, and she rushed past him into the dark passage without
turning round or stopping until she reached the door of her room. He
merely waited until she entered, and then once more sat down to write.
---------------------