THE WARNING.
HAMILTON prided himself upon being an excellent skater; it was,
therefore, with no little satisfaction that he perceived, the next day,
that he had been followed to the lake by the Rosenberg and Hoffmann
families—no sooner, however, had Zedwitz seen the former, than his
skates were thrown aside—a place beside Hildegarde secured, and he
accompanied them home. This occurred several days successively, and
Zedwitz at length, on finding that he had regained his former intimacy,
ventured to give the proposed warning. Hamilton was at the moment
sweeping before them, “on sounding skates a thousand different ways,”
and exhibiting more than usual grace and animation. Zedwitz began
judiciously by praising his rival—commended his person, his varied
information and talents, the more extraordinary from his extreme youth,
and then regretted that he had lost almost all the freshness belonging
to his time of life, that his ideas were altogether those of a man of
the world, that the society of an elder brother, an accomplished
_vaurien_, had evidently been of great disadvantage to him, and had
given him opinions, especially with respect to women, which were
dangerous in the extreme. Hildegarde had listened with a composure so
nearly verging on indifference, that Zedwitz, almost reassured,
regretted having said so much, and had she continued silent, would have,
perhaps, softened his last remark, but she looked up suddenly, and said
with her usual energy, “Mr. Hamilton has never spoken of his brother to
me, therefore I know nothing about him. You are, however, mistaken as to
his opinion of women—he thinks much more highly of them than men
generally do, and that he likes their society is evident by his
remaining so much at home with us. Mamma says she never knew any young
man so perfectly well educated, and so excellent in every respect.”
Zedwitz was not aware of the peculiarity in Hildegarde’s disposition
which led her invariably to defend the absent; he was, therefore,
greatly vexed, and with difficulty stammered, “And you—you—perhaps—think
equally highly of him?”
“Perhaps I do—the more I know him, the better I like him,” replied
Hildegarde, bluntly.
“I am answered,” murmured Zedwitz, biting his lip, “my warning comes too
late—he knew it when he gave me leave to speak.”
“Who gave you leave? What warning?” asked Hildegarde, quickly.
Zedwitz had gone too far to recede, and he now became perfectly
explicit. Hildegarde again listened calmly, and when he ceased, observed
half reproachfully, “When Mr. Hamilton speaks of you, it is not to warn
me—but let us pass over that. I must, however, tell you that you have
not in your warning said anything which I have not already heard from
himself.”
“That’s it!” cried Zedwitz, with ill-concealed impatience, “he acted
honourably in putting you on your guard, but he now considers himself at
liberty to win your affections if he can!”
Hildegarde seemed struck by this remark, and walked on in silence.
Zedwitz excused himself for having spoken against his friend on the plea
of jealousy, and then urged his own cause with great fervour. While thus
speaking, they had taken a wrong turn, and were loudly recalled by
Madame Rosenberg, “who wondered what on earth they could have been
thinking about!” Zedwitz had no opportunity of renewing the
conversation, but he was apparently satisfied on finding that she was
not displeased.
When Hamilton returned home that evening, Hildegarde was at the
Hoffmanns’: she had not visited them for a long time, and on her return,
he inquired with extreme affability after each member of the family,
cousin Oscar included. She seated herself as far distant from him as
possible, and while answering his questions seemed to think more of a
coloured wool, which she was arranging in a basket, than of what she was
saying.
“Did your cousin read for you this evening?” asked Hamilton, moving his
chair towards her.
“No, he tried a quantity of new music which Marie had just received.
Crescenz, do tell me how you distinguish your greens at night? They all
appear blue to me!”
“The names and numbers are pinned on each colour,” replied Crescenz,
pushing forward her neatly arranged basket for inspection.
Major Stultz said something about young women of orderly habits making
good wives, which she did not seem to hear, but when Hamilton in
returning the basket observed, that the colours were so judiciously
arranged, that they reminded him of a rainbow, a smile of childish
delight brightened her youthful features and made her look so pretty,
that he playfully held back the basket, and began a series of questions
on the different colours, exhibiting an excess of ignorance on the
subject which seemed to amuse _her_ infinitely more than Major Stultz,
who first drummed on the table, then pushed back his chair, and finally
told her somewhat testily, that “she was preventing Mr. Hamilton from
reading his newspaper.”
Hamilton understood the hint, and resigned the basket with a slight
laugh; Crescenz blushed, and, with evident displeasure, followed Major
Stultz to another table, where he proposed reading her the letters which
he had that day received from Nuremberg.
Hamilton drew his chair close to Hildegarde’s, while he observed, “I am
very glad that you have no one who has a right to forbid your speaking
to me.”
Hildegarde bent over her work for a minute, and then looking up asked
abruptly, “What sort of a person is your eldest brother?”
“The best-natured fellow in the world, good-looking, and amusing. You
would be sure to like him, if you could pardon his speaking the most
execrable French imaginable.”
“Is he amiable?”
“Amiable? oh, very amiable!”
“And not a _vaurien_?”
“_Tant soit peu_,” said Hamilton, laughing, “but not half so bad as your
cousin Raimund.”
“Is he much older than you?”
“Several years; but may I ask why my brother has so suddenly become an
object of interest to you?”
“He does not interest me in the least,” began Hildegarde, but at that
moment, Hamilton, whose hand had been wandering through the entangled
skeins of wool in her basket, suddenly drew forth a small book which had
been concealed beneath them; her first impulse was to prevent his
opening it, but she changed her mind, and though blushing deeply,
continued to work without uttering a syllable.
Hamilton turned over the leaves for some minutes in silence. “Who
recommended you to read the works of Georges Sand?” he asked, as he
placed the book beside her on the table.
“Oscar; he told me they were interesting, and extremely well written.”
“They are both the one and the other, and yet nothing would have induced
me to advise you to read them, especially this volume. I am surprised
you did not yourself perceive that it was not suited for a person of
your age or——”
“Pshaw!” cried Hildegarde, impatiently. “Mamma wishes me to read French
that I may not forget the language; the best writers of the day are, of
course, the best for that purpose, and Oscar says all French novels are
more or less of this description. He told me that I need not have any
scruples, for that these works were written by a woman, and might
therefore be read by one.”
“So, then, you had scruples?”
“I have none at present,” said Hildegarde, taking up the volume,
“besides,” she added, drawing her chair close to the table, “I
positively must know whether or not the heroine marries the young poet.”
“Marry!” cried Hamilton, laughing, ironically, “there is not one word of
marriage in the whole book—that would be much too unpoetical. I can
hardly, however, imagine that _this_ heroine really interests you—a
heroine whose thoughts and reasonings are those of a woman who has
plunged into the whirlpool of earthly pleasures, and from satiety
learned to despise them. I wish it were any of the other works of Sand,
or—or that, for your sake, Madame Dudevant had been less gloriously
graphical in some parts of her work. If,” he added, half inquiringly,
“if you merely read to know the end of the story, it is easily told; the
events are few, and I am ready to relate them to you.”
“Oscar has a much higher opinion of my intellect than you have,”
observed Hildegarde, slowly turning over the leaves; “he says my
character is so decidedly formed, that I may read, without danger,
whatever I please.”
“That was gross flattery,” said Hamilton, “for no girl of seventeen can
read a work of this description without danger. The religious
speculations alone make it unfit for you—but stay, I can prove it; read
half a dozen pages aloud for me—where you please; the chances are in my
favour that I prove myself right.”
“It is not exactly adapted for reading aloud,” said Hildegarde with some
embarrassment.
“That is an infallible criterion by which you may know what to read for
the next ten years,” said Hamilton.
“But I dare say I could find many parts which I should have no objection
to read aloud.”
“Read then,” said Hamilton, with a provoking smile.
Hildegarde began. “The style at least is faultless,” she observed, at
the end of a few minutes.
“Perfect,” said Hamilton; “but go on.”
She continued. By degrees her voice became less firm; a deep blush
overspread her face; she turned away her head from him, and his eyes
rested on her small and now perfectly crimson ear, and yet she
persevered until the words almost seemed to suffocate her, when,
throwing down the book, she exclaimed, “You were right. I will not read
any more of it, nor any of the others recommended by Oscar.”
“May I write you a list?” asked Hamilton, eagerly.
“Pray do,” cried Hildegarde, turning round. “I promise to read them
all.”
A leaf was hastily torn out of his pocket-book, a pencil carefully
pointed, and two hours scarcely sufficed to bring this most simple
business to a satisfactory conclusion, so various were the observations
and discussions to which it gave rise.
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