LOVERS’ QUARRELS.
THE moon was shining brightly on their house, as they lingered in the
street to speak a few parting words. Mademoiselle de Hoffmann sat at an
open window, and gazed pensively upwards.
“Should you not like to know the thoughts of your betrothed at this
moment?” asked Mr. Rosenberg, turning to Raimund.
“Not at all,” he replied, carelessly glancing towards the house, “I am
sure they are commonplace, for a more matter-of-fact person does not
exist than Marie de Hoffmann.”
“So,” cried Zedwitz, “it is really true that you are going to be
married! I am glad to hear it, and congratulate you with all my heart.”
“Thank you,” said Raimund musingly, while he turned from Zedwitz to
Hamilton, and then to Hildegarde, as if they, and not Mademoiselle de
Hoffmann, occupied his thoughts.
“When is it to take place?” asked Zedwitz.
“What! ah! my execution? Some time in January, they say; I wish it were
sooner.”
“Of course you do,” said Zedwitz, laughing.
“That is,” said Raimund, the colour mounting to his forehead, “I am
afraid, if it be put off long, I shall get tired of the concern, and in
the end prove refractory.”
Mademoiselle de Hoffmann had recognised and now addressed them from the
window. Raimund was invited to supper, and entered the house with the
Rosenbergs, while Mr. Rosenberg, who never spent an evening at home,
walked off with Zedwitz.
The moonlight was so bright in the drawing-room, that on entering Madame
Rosenberg declared it would be folly to light the candles. She gave
Crescenz a gentle push into the adjoining room, telling her to “be a
good girl, and make up her quarrel with the Major,” and then went to
“look after her boys.”
Hamilton looked out of the window, and hummed an air from _Fra Diavolo_.
“I am very tired,” said Hildegarde, taking off her bonnet; “our walk has
been long and dusty: and besides I have talked a great deal, which is
always fatiguing,”—she stood beside and leaned out of the window with
him.
Hamilton’s hum degenerated into a half-suppressed whistle, accompanied
by a drumming on the window-cushion, while his upturned eyes were fixed
on the moon. They remained several minutes without speaking, until a
murmuring of voices from the window beneath them attracted their
attention. Hamilton leaned farther out to see the speakers, but on
recognising Count Raimund and Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, he drew back
with a slightly contemptuous smile, while he said, “Your cousin’s
observations this evening on his intended bride were by no means
flattering.”
“He scarcely knows her yet,” said Hildegarde, seating herself on the
window-stool.
“Scarcely knows the person to whom he is to be married!” exclaimed
Hamilton. “You Germans have the oddest ideas on these subjects.”
“I see nothing odd in the matter; it is an acknowledged _mariage de
convenance_. Oscar proposes to marry Mademoiselle de Hoffmann because he
has debts and she has a large fortune; and she accepts him because she
is not very young, and not at all pretty, and wishes for a good
connection; they are not, however, to be married until January, and are
to endeavour in the meantime to like each other as much as possible. Can
anything be more reasonable?”
“Nothing, excepting, perhaps, their having delayed their engagement
until the trial was over. I should like amazingly to know what the
sensations of a man may be who sees, for the first time, a person to
whom he is beforehand engaged to be married. A lady in such a situation
is still more awkwardly placed.”
“There was no awkwardness whatever in this case. Marie was pointed out
to Oscar in the theatre, he did not find that her appearance was
disagreeable, heard that she was amiable, and consented to marry her.
His father made the proposal for him, and Marie was given a whole week
to consider before she was required to decide.”
“A _whole_ week!” repeated Hamilton, laughing ironically.
Hildegarde rose abruptly, and was about to leave the window, when he
exclaimed, “Excuse my ignorance of German customs. I am really
interested in what you have been telling me, and should like to know
what finally induced Mademoiselle de Hoffmann to accept your cousin.”
“What induced her! They met at the house of a mutual friend, and though
you do not know how agreeable Oscar can be when he chooses, you—you must
have perceived that he is uncommonly good-looking.”
“Why, yes, he certainly is not ugly; but good looks on the part of a man
is a matter of minor importance!”
“A handsome face is always an advantage. Don’t you think so?” asked
Hildegarde, laughing.
“An advantage? oh, certainly; but from what you have told me of
Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, I thought her far too rational to attach much
importance to personal advantages. I should have imagined her just the
sort of a person to appreciate a man like Zedwitz.”
“You do her but justice,” said Hildegarde; “and I think that, were she
given the choice, with time and opportunity to form an opinion, she
would decide in favour of Count Zedwitz; but he has no debts, requires
no fortune, and is not likely to marry in this way; he certainly will
not employ his father as suitor!”
“You seem to know him thoroughly; I was not aware that you had such an
exalted opinion of him until to-day,” said Hamilton, biting his lip.
“If we had ever spoken of him when mamma was not present, I should not
have hesitated to say that, with the exception of my father, I do not
think there is a more amiable or generous-minded person in the world
than he is.”
Hamilton attempted to smile, in order to hide the jealousy which at the
moment he keenly felt, and answered with affected eagerness, “Will you
allow me to tell Zedwitz what you have said? I know it will make him
inexpressibly happy.”
“No, thank you,” replied Hildegarde, calmly, though even in the pale
moonlight her deep blush was perceptible. “It is equally unimportant now
what he thinks of me or I of him.”
A pause ensued, which was broken by Hamilton saying abruptly, “If you
really think Zedwitz so estimable, may I ask you why you refused his
proposal of marriage the day we were on the alp?”
Hildegarde seemed utterly confounded, and remained silent.
“You may speak without reserve,” added Hamilton, “for Zedwitz has told
me everything.”
“I am not going to speak at all, unless,” she added, half laughing,
“unless you intend to begin your office of mentor; you seem altogether
to have forgotten that you undertook last night to tell me my faults,
and assist me to correct them. Have I done nothing reprehensible
to-day?”
“Yes,” replied Hamilton, “I saw you bestow on your cousin this evening
when he joined us a glance that gave me the idea of a previous
understanding with him——”
“Go on,” said Hildegarde.
“Can you not explain or exculpate yourself?” asked Hamilton with some
embarrassment.
“Oh, of course—but I thought you would naturally say something about my
having bestowed a glance of nearly the same kind on you, when mamma
talked of the pork-chops and my father’s illness the day of his
marriage; that was in fact more reprehensible than the other, and shall
not occur again.” She paused for a moment, and then continued: “When you
came for me to the Hoffmanns’ to-day, I had just returned that unlucky
book of poems to Oscar, and to prevent an unpleasant scene in our house,
I partly told him what mamma had said—he, however, resolved immediately
to try what he could do with papa, who he knew was too gentlemanlike to
be rude to him. I suppose he overheard me tell Marie where we were going
this evening, and followed—his success was complete, it seems, and I
could not resist the temptation to let him know that I perceived and was
glad of it. What else?” she asked, gayly.
“Your mother seemed to think it was odd that Zedwitz always knew where
you were to spend the evening. Have you ever in any way let him know,
or——”
“Really, this is too much,” cried Hildegarde, angrily; “I will not be
questioned in this manner—or on this subject——”
“You are right,” said Hamilton, quietly, “and I resign my most absurd
office of corrector and improver. You have, however, no just cause for
anger, for you not only proposed the plan yourself, but reminded me of
my promise.” He leaned out of the window, and had recourse again to _Fra
Diavolo_ and the moon.
“You are a horrible tyrant!” she exclaimed after a pause, “and I
suppose, if I leave your question unanswered, you will think me capable
of making Count Zedwitz acquainted with all our walking-parties!”
“What matters it what I think?” said Hamilton, without turning round.
“Your question is exceedingly offensive, and yet I must answer it, and
tell you that I am as much surprised as mamma at meeting him so often.
If I could avoid seeing him, I should greatly prefer it.”
“Indeed!” cried Hamilton. “Then you have no wish to renew the—the——”
“None whatever,” replied Hildegarde, smiling.
“But if you think so highly of him,” persisted Hamilton, “surely you
must like him!”
“Like him!” she repeated, “why, have I not told you that I like him
exceedingly?”
“Something to that purport, certainly,” said Hamilton; “you are
altogether inexplicable, and I dare not ask an explanation.”
“You have no right,” said Hildegarde; “what occurred before yesterday
does not come under your cognisance.”
“I am completely at fault,” said Hamilton, in a low voice, as if
reasoning with himself. “Zedwitz told me that you had said you liked him
as an acquaintance, but nothing more. This, I know, is not the case;
therefore there must be some misunderstanding—he suspected a prior
attachment, but that seemed to me improbable.”
“Rather say impossible,” cried Hildegarde, laughing, “for the object of
it must have been either Major Stultz—or you! ha, ha, ha!”
Hamilton did not laugh with her, and another long pause ensued—his
jealousy, or, as he to himself termed it, his curiosity, prompted him to
make another effort, and he again began: “I told Zedwitz he ought not to
resign all hope; that probably the fear of opposition on the part of his
family had influenced you.” He stopped, for Hildegarde bit her lip, and
seemed agitated. She stood up—sat down—stood up again—and after a
moment’s hesitation, said, “I do not know whether I had better tell you
all or nothing.”
“Tell me all,” cried Hamilton, eagerly; “no one can feel more interested
than I do, in everything that concerns you.”
“The all is easily told,” she said, slowly—“I have no confession to
make. You were right in your supposition—it would be dreadful to me to
enter a family unwilling to receive me, for I am very proud, and his
mother’s unnecessary haughtiness—rudeness, I may say, to us all at Seon,
showed me what I might expect. It was her evident avoidance of me that
made me first aware of his intentions.”
“So,” Hamilton almost whistled, while an indefinable sensation of actual
bodily pain passed through his frame, “so after all you loved him!”
“No,” replied Hildegarde, turning away, “but I believe I could in time
have loved him.”
“No doubt,” said Hamilton, sarcastically, “with his parents’ consent the
match would be unexceptionable, and I only wonder you did not, on the
chance, make a secret engagement with him. The old Count is killing
himself as fast as he can with cold water, and were he once out of the
way, I suppose there would be little further difficulty. It is really a
pity you were so taken by surprise, that you had not time to think of
all this!”
Hildegarde’s eyes flashed, and, in a voice almost choked by contending
emotions, she exclaimed: “I deserve this insult for trusting you—these
insidious expressions of contempt are more than I can bear, and to
prevent a repetition of them, I now release you most willingly from your
promise of last night, and request you will in future altogether banish
me and my faults from your thoughts.”
Hamilton would gladly have revoked his last speech, had it been
possible—he felt that anger and jealousy had dictated every word—but it
was too late; Hildegarde gave him no time for a recantation, she had
left the room with even more than her usual impetuosity. He no longer
attempted to deceive himself as to the nature of his feelings towards
her; it only remained for him to consider how he should in future act.
That she did not care for him was evident, and the little advance which
he had made in her good opinion and confidence, he feared he had now
lost. For a moment he thought of a retreat to Vienna, but then the idea
of flying from an incidental and perfectly harmless flirtation was too
absurd! Besides—could he hope that chance would be again so favourable,
and place him on the same terms of intimacy with another family? It was
not to be expected; so he resolved to remain where he was—but to employ
his time differently. He would study more with Biedermann—attend
lectures at the university, ride, walk, call at the English
Ambassador’s, be presented at court, make acquaintance with the English
in Munich, and accept evening invitations. Hildegarde’s indifference
should be met with at least apparent indifference on his part, and he
would take care she should never discover the interest which he now knew
he could not help attaching to her most trifling actions. A low
murmuring of suppressed voices from the adjoining room, which he had
indistinctly heard, at length ceased altogether, leaving nothing but
footsteps of an occasional passenger through the solitary street to
break the silence of the night. He felt irritated and impatient, and,
hoping that a walk by moonlight might have a tranquillising effect, he
turned quickly from the window. Great was his astonishment on
discovering Crescenz standing beside him—tears stood in her eyes, as she
laid her hand on his arm to detain him, and said in a scarcely audible
voice, “I must ask you a question—will you answer me?”
“Certainly,” replied Hamilton, much surprised.
“Did you tell Major Stultz this evening that you had never admired—never
liked me?”
“No—I rather think I said I admired both you and your sister
exceedingly.”
“I know you did,” cried Crescenz, “I heard what you said, and remember
it perfectly—and now he—he wants to persuade me that I am mistaken, and
assures me you greatly prefer Hildegarde, and that you said so to him
most explicitly this evening!”
“Must I then account for every idle word!” cried Hamilton, impatiently.
“Surely it ought to be a matter of indifference to you what I said!”
“Hush—do not speak so loud—he is there.”
“Who?”
“Major Stultz. He is waiting for me. I have such reliance on you, that I
have told him I cannot believe what he has said. And now answer my
question quickly. Have you ceased to care for me? and do you prefer
Hildegarde?”
“Pshaw,” cried Hamilton, taking up his hat, and endeavouring to conceal
his embarrassment, “I like you both and admire you both; but when Major
Stultz was jealous this evening, I gave, of course, the preference to
Hildegarde.”
“Is this the very truth?” asked Crescenz.
Her manner was unusually serious, but Hamilton was not in the habit of
paying much attention to anything she said, and answered with a careless
laugh, “What importance you attach to such a trifle!”
“If you can laugh, I have indeed mistaken you!”
“What _do_ you mean?” asked Hamilton, exceedingly bored.
“At the beginning of our acquaintance,” said Crescenz, almost
whispering, “Hildegarde said you were amusing yourself at my expense;
this I am sure was not the case; but Major Stultz not only says that you
never cared for me, but insists that you have openly acknowledged a
preference for Hildegarde.”
“And if this were true?” said Hamilton, twirling his hat on the end of
his cane.
“If it be—I—can—never trust any man again!”
“A most excellent general rule, at all events; we are in fact not worthy
of trust, and your sister says I am not better than others, you know!”
“Is this your answer?” asked Crescenz.
“If you will consider it one I shall be infinitely obliged to you, for I
am really at a loss what to say.”
“It is enough,” she said, turning away.
“Stay!” cried Hamilton, perceiving at length that something unusual had
occurred. “Stay—and tell me quickly what is the matter. What have you
been saying to Major Stultz?”
“He accused me of liking some—other—better than I liked him—and I did
not deny it; he named you—and—and——”
“I understand,” said Hamilton, quickly; “and he told you that you were
slighted. Come, I will explain everything to him satisfactorily.”
They entered the next room, but Major Stultz was no longer there.
“He has gone to mamma!” cried Crescenz, clasping her hands, and then
sitting down, she added, with a sort of desperate resignation, “I don’t
care what happens now!”
“But I do,” cried Hamilton. “I will not be the cause, however innocent,
of separating you and Major Stultz. I see I must go to him this moment
and take the whole blame on myself; if you afterwards refuse to fulfil
your engagement with him, that is your affair. This must, however, be
the very last time we ever speak on this subject. It seems I must pay
dearly for my thoughtlessness; but it will be a lesson which I am not
likely to forget as long as I live.”
At one of the windows of the corridor Madame Rosenberg and Hildegarde
were standing—the former was speaking loudly and angrily. “I never knew
anything so absurd as Crescenz’s conduct! To choose Mr. Hamilton of all
people in the world for the object of a sentimental love! If she had not
been a simpleton, she might have easily perceived that he thinks of
everything rather than of such nonsense. As to what the Major hinted
about his having said that he liked you, that was said at my particular
request; so don’t you begin to have fancies like Crescenz.”
“There is not the slightest danger,” said Hildegarde, with a scornful
smile.
“Where is Major Stultz?” said Hamilton, hastily opening the hall-door.
“He is gone home, I am sorry to say. Oh, Mr. Hamilton, this is a most
unpleasant business! If Crescenz’s marriage should be broken off now, it
will be an actual disgrace.”
“It will not be broken off. I can explain everything.”
“Let me give you a hint what to say,” cried Madame Rosenberg, detaining
him, “for he is exceedingly angry, and says we have all been deceiving
him. Can you not just set matters right—say that you _have_ paid
Crescenz some attentions, and that you did admire her some time ago!”
“Of course I shall say that,” replied Hamilton, endeavouring to get
away.
“Say, too, that she does not really care at all for you, and was only
trying to make him jealous this evening because he called her a
coquette. And then, to frighten him, you may as well add that you will
renew your addresses to-morrow if he do not at once make up his quarrel
with her.”
“I shall tell him the truth and blame myself—even more than I deserve,”
said Hamilton, closing the door and running down stairs.
“He certainly is an excellent young man!” exclaimed Madame Rosenberg,
“and notwithstanding his youth, I see I may transfer the arrangement of
this disagreeable affair to him. At all events, I can do nothing more
to-night, and may as well go to bed. Tell Crescenz I do not wish to see
her until to-morrow. What is said cannot be unsaid, and scolding now
would be useless. What will your father say when he hears what she has
done?”
Hamilton was longer absent than he had expected. He had overtaken Major
Stultz just as he was about to enter his lodgings, had walked up and
down the street with him more than an hour in earnest conversation, and
had afterwards accompanied him to his rooms. It was past midnight as he
quietly entered the house by means of the latch-key given him by Madame
Rosenberg, whose voice he heard calling him the moment he had opened the
door, and immediately after, her husband, in a long flowered cotton
dressing-gown and slippers, appeared and invited him to enter their
room. Hamilton hesitated; but on being again called by Madame Rosenberg
he courageously advanced. A few oblique rays of moonlight and a
dimly-burning night-lamp contended for the honour of lighting the
apartment and showing Hamilton a chair near Madame Rosenberg’s bed,
which she requested him to occupy while he related circumstantially
where he had overtaken Major Stultz, what he had said to him, what Major
Stultz had answered, and what chance there was of his forgiving and
forgetting Crescenz’s sentimental confession. Hamilton related as much
as he thought necessary, and then said he was the bearer of a letter.
“A letter! give it to me; that will explain all,” cried Madame
Rosenberg.
“It is for—for Mademoiselle Crescenz,” said Hamilton, hesitating.
“No matter; on such an occasion parents have a right to make themselves
acquainted with the true state of the case; besides, I don’t quite trust
Crescenz just now, although her father, for the first time in his life,
has lectured her severely while you were absent. Franz, light the taper,
and let me see what the Major has written.”
Hamilton most unwillingly gave up the unsealed letter committed to his
charge, and watched Madame Rosenberg with some irritation, as she, with
evident pleasure, perused it. A more extraordinary night-dress he had
never seen than that on which the light of the taper now fell; he was,
as may be remembered from his remarks at Seon, rather fastidious on the
subject of nightcaps. Madame Rosenberg’s was interesting from the
peculiarity of its form, resembling a paper cornet, the open part next
her face being ornamented by a sort of flounce of broad lace, and the
whole kept on her head by a foulard kerchief tied under her chin. She
wore a jacket of red printed calico, of what she would herself have
called a Turkish pattern, the sleeves of which were enormously ample at
the shoulders, proving that the fabrication was not of recent date. Her
husband held the taper, looked over her shoulder, and seemed exceedingly
pleased with the contents of the letter, which Madame Rosenberg returned
to Hamilton, saying, “I perceive you have very nearly said what I
recommended, and we are very much obliged to you. It really would have
been a most unpleasant business had this marriage been broken off, and
the Major more than hinted he would do so.”
“You are detaining Mr. Hamilton, my dear Babette,” observed Mr.
Rosenberg, mildly.
She laughed—pulled and thumped her pillows, and again wished him
good-night.
Hamilton found the door of Crescenz’s room open, she and her sister had
evidently expected him—they were seated at the window, and either for
the purpose of enjoying the moonlight, or as Hamilton afterwards
supposed, to make their features less distinct, they had extinguished
their candle. Hildegarde pushed back her chair, Crescenz hung her head
at his approach. “I have brought you a letter,” he said to the latter,
“which I hope will give you pleasure. Major Stultz will be here early
to-morrow, and trusts in the meantime you will try to forget all that
has passed between you this evening. He sees that his absurd jealousy
was enough to provoke you to say all, and more too, than you have said
to him, and he is ready to believe that you spoke under the influence of
extreme irritation. In short, he is sincerely attached to you, and it
will be your fault if a perfect reconciliation do not take place
to-morrow.”
“I suppose he must have been very angry,” said Crescenz, in a low voice,
while she twisted the letter round in her fingers. “I suppose he must
have been very angry, as you remained out so long.”
“Yes, at first; but then I told him he had no right to be angry with you
because you happened to be loved by others.”
“Indeed! Did you say that?” cried Crescenz.
“That is,” said Hildegarde, with a slight sneer, “you have said exactly
what mamma recommended.”
Hamilton felt extremely angry, but resolved not to let Hildegarde
perceive it. He answered calmly, though a slight frown contracted his
eyebrows: “No, mademoiselle—not exactly—for I said only what was the
truth.” While he spoke, as if to brave her, he seated himself
deliberately on the chair beside Crescenz, and took her hand, while he
added: “I told Major Stultz how much I admired you, how thoroughly
gentle and forgiving you were; but I explained to him also, without
reserve, my own position in the world, and all the miseries entailed on
a younger son in England.” Hamilton here explained at some length the
difference between the equal division of property among children so
general in Germany, and the apparently unjust privileges of
primogeniture in England; dwelt long and feelingly on the struggles and
vexations of a younger son brought up in luxury, and then cast with all
his expensive habits in comparative poverty on the world; the necessity
of pushing himself forward by his talents; the impossibility of an early
marriage! He spoke long and eloquently, and made an evident impression
on both his hearers. Crescenz’s tears fell fast on the letter, which she
had unconsciously crumpled in her hand, without having thought it worthy
of perusal. Hildegarde leaned on a small work-table, her eyes fixed
intently on Hamilton, her lips apart, and an expression of strong
interest pervading her whole form; she followed him with her eyes, but
remained immovable as he rose to leave them, and watched with what
Hamilton thought a look of subdued anger, while he pressed Crescenz’s
hands in both his, whispering his wishes for her happiness, and his
hopes that she would not misunderstand him in future.
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