THE STRUGGLE.
THE following Sunday Hamilton saw the whole Rosenberg family, with the
exception of Hildegarde, walking in the English Gardens. It appeared odd
that she should have remained at home when her father was present, and
he, for a moment, thought of asking the reason; on consideration, the
hope of finding her alone made him turn his horse’s head directly
homeward, and, on riding into the yard, he looked up to her window,
expecting, as usual, to find her there ready to greet him and admire his
horse—but not a human being was visible; even his servant, not expecting
his return so early, had disappeared, and he was obliged to lead his
horse into the stable himself. He entered the house by the back
staircase, visited all the rooms, and even the kitchen, but found all
deserted. Madame Rosenberg’s room was also unoccupied, but through the
partly open door of it he saw Hildegarde sitting on the sofa in the
drawing-room, reading so intently that she was perfectly unconscious of
his presence. The deep folds of her dark-blue merino dress, with its
closely-fitting body, gave a more than usual elegance to her tall,
slight figure, as she bent in profile over her book, and Hamilton stood
in silent admiration, unconsciously twisting his riding-whip round his
wrist, until his eyes rested for the second time on the book which she
held in her hand. He started, hesitated, then hastily strode forward and
stood before her. Doubt and uncertainty were still depicted on his
countenance as Hildegarde looked up; but her dismay, her deep blush, and
the childish action of placing the hand containing the volume behind
her, were a confirmation of his fears that she was reading the forbidden
work. “Excuse me for interrupting you,” he said, with a forced smile;
“but I really cannot believe the evidence of my own eyes, and must
request you to let me look at that book for a moment.”
“No, you shall not,” she answered, leaning back on the sofa, and
becoming very pale while she added, “It is very disagreeable being
startled and interrupted in this manner. I thought you told mamma you
would meet her at Neuberhausen.”
“Very true; perhaps I may meet her there; but before I go I must and
will see that book. On it depends my future opinion of you.”
“You shall not see it,” cried Hildegarde, the colour again returning to
her face.
“The book,” said Hamilton, seizing firmly her disengaged hand. “The
book, or the name of it!”
“Neither; let me go!” cried Hildegarde, struggling to disengage her
hand.
Like most usually quiet tempered persons, Hamilton, when once actually
roused, lost all command of himself; he held one of her hands as in a
vice, and, when she brought forward the other to accelerate its release,
he bent down to read the title of the book, which was immediately thrown
on the ground, and the then freed hand descended with such violence on
his cheek and ear that for a moment he was perfectly stunned; and, even
after he stood upright, he looked at her for a few seconds in unfeigned
astonishment. “Do you think,” at length he exclaimed vehemently—“Do you
think that I will allow you to treat me as you did Major Stultz, with
impunity?” And then, catching her in his arms, he kissed her repeatedly,
and with a violence which seemed to terrify her beyond measure. “I gave
you fair warning more than once,” he added, when at length he had
released her. “I gave you fair warning, and you knew what you had to
expect.” She covered her face with her hands, and burst into a passion
of tears.
“I cannot imagine,” he continued, impetuously walking up and down the
room—“I cannot imagine why you did not, with your usual courage, tell me
at once the name of the book, and prevent this scene.”
Hildegarde shook her head, and wept still more bitterly.
“After all,” he said, seating himself with affected calmness opposite to
her, leaning his arms on the table, and drumming upon the book, which
now lay undisputed between them, “After all, you are not better than
other people! Not more to be trusted than other girls, and I fancied you
such perfection! I could have forgiven anything but the—the untruth!” he
exclaimed, starting up. “Anything but that! Pshaw! yesterday when you
told me that the books had been sent back to the library, I believed you
without a moment’s hesitation—I thanked you for your deference to my
opinion—ha, ha, ha! What a fool you must have thought me!”
Hildegarde looked up. All expression of humility had left her features,
her tears ceased to flow, and, as she rose to leave the room, she turned
almost haughtily towards him, while saying:
“I really do not know what right you have to speak to me in this manner.
I consider it very great presumption on your part, and desire it may
never occur again.”
“You may be quite sure I shall never offend you in this way again,” he
said holding the book towards her. “What a mere farce the writing of
that list of books was!”
“No, for I had intended to have read all you recommended.”
“And all I recommended you to avoid, too! This—this, which you tacitly
promised not to finish——” He stopped; for, while she took the book in
silence, she blushed so deeply, and seemed so embarrassed, that he added
sorrowfully, “Oh, how I regret having come home! How I wish I had not
discovered that you could deceive me!”
“I have _not_ deceived you,” said Hildegarde.
Hamilton shook his head, and glanced towards the subject of dispute.
“Appearances are against me, and yet I repeat I have not deceived you.
The books _were_ sent to the library yesterday evening——but too late to
be changed. Old Hans brought them back again, and I found them in my
room when I went to bed. I did not read them last night.”
“But you stayed at home for the purpose to-day,” observed Hamilton,
reproachfully.
“No; my mother gave the servants leave to go out for the whole day, and
as she did not like to leave the house unoccupied, she asked me to
remain at home. I, of course, agreed to do so; without, I assure you,
thinking of those hateful books. I do not mean to—I cannot justify what
I have done. I can only say in extenuation that the temptation was
great. I have been alone for more than two hours—my father’s books are
locked up. I never enter your room when you are absent, and I wished to
know the end of the story which still interests and haunts me in spite
of all my endeavours to forget it. The book lay before me; I resisted
long, but at last I opened it; and so—and so——”
“And so, I suppose, I must acknowledge that I have judged you too
harshly,” said Hamilton.
“I do not care about your judgment. I have fallen in my own esteem since
I find that I cannot resist temptation.”
“And is my good opinion of no value to you?”
“It was, perhaps; but it has lost all worth within the last half-hour.”
“How do you mean?”
“I have seen you in the course of that time suspicious, rough, and what
you would yourself call ungentlemanlike.”
“A pretty catalogue of faults for one short half-hour!” exclaimed
Hamilton, biting his lips.
“You were the last person from whom I should have expected such
treatment,” continued Hildegarde, while the tears started to her eyes,
and her voice faltered, “the very last; and though I did get into a
passion and give you a blow, it was not until you had hurt my wrist and
provoked me beyond endurance.” She left the room and walked quickly down
the passage.
“Stay,” cried Hamilton, following her, “stay, and hear my excuses.”
“Excuses! You have not even one to offer,” said Hildegarde, laying her
hand on the lock of her door.
“Hear me at least,” he said eagerly. “I could not endure the thought of
your being one jot less perfect than I had imagined you—that made me
suspicious; the wish for proof made me rough; and though I cannot
exactly justify my subsequent conduct, I plead in extenuation your own
words, ‘the temptation was great.’”
Hildegarde’s dimples showed that a smile was with difficulty repressed,
and Hamilton, taking courage, whispered hurriedly, “But one word
more—hear my last and best excuse; it is, that I love you, deeply,
passionately; but I need not tell you this, for you must have known it
long, long ago. Hildegarde, say only that our perpetual quarrels have
not made you absolutely hate me!”
Hildegarde, without uttering a word more, impetuously drew back her
hand, sprang into her room, and locked the door. He waited for a minute
or two, and then knocked, but received no answer. “Hildegarde,” he
cried, reproachfully, “is this right—is this kind? Even if you dislike
me, I have a right to expect an answer.”
“Go,” she said, in a very low voice; “go away. You ought not to be here
when I am alone.”
“Why did you not think of that before?”
“I don’t know. I had not time. I——”
“Nonsense. Open the door, and let me speak to you for a moment.”
No answer, but he thought he heard her walking up and down the room.
“Only one moment,” he repeated.
“I cannot, indeed I cannot. Pray go away.”
He retired slowly to his room; even before he reached it he had become
conscious of the absurdity of his conduct, and the prudence of hers.
That she no longer disliked him, he was pretty certain; that she had so
discreetly avoided a confession of other feelings was better for both,
as it enabled them to continue their intercourse on the same terms,
while the acknowledgment of a participation in his affection would have
subjected her to great annoyances, and placed him in a most embarrassing
situation. He was angry with himself—recollected, with shame, that he
had repeated the error which he had so much cause to regret on a former
occasion, and mentally repenting his own loquaciousness and rejoicing at
Hildegarde’s taciturnity, he resolved never to refer to the subject
again. A ring of the bell at the entrance-door induced him to stop and
await her appearance. She did not answer the summons, and it was
repeated, accompanied by a few familiar taps on the door. Still she did
not move. Again the bell was rung; the knocks became louder, as if
administered by some hard instrument, and finally her name was loudly
and distinctly pronounced.
“I am coming, papa,” she cried at last, running forward, and opening the
door precipitately.
Count Raimund sprang into the passage, closed the door with his
shoulder, leaned upon it, and burst into a fit of laughter at the dismay
legible on the features of his cousin.
“Oscar,” she began, seriously, “you must come some other day, mamma is
not at home, and I have been left to——”
“I know, I know,” he cried, interrupting her. “I saw them all in the
English Gardens—your chevalier Hamilton, too, galloping about like a
madman; and for this reason, my most dear and beautiful cousin, I have
come here now, hoping for once to see you alone. Do not look so alarmed,
I am only come to claim the advice which you promised to give me on the
most important event of my life.”
“Not now, not now,” said Hildegarde, glancing furtively towards the end
of the passage, where, in the shadow of his door, she distinguished
Hamilton’s figure leaning with folded arms against the wall; “some other
time, Oscar.”
“What other time? I never see you for a moment alone—even at the
Hoffmanns, although my good Marie is too rational to bore me with
useless jealousy, does not her deaf old mother watch every movement and
intercept every glance with her cold, grey, suspicious eyes? I sometimes
wish the old lady were blind instead of deaf, she would be infinitely
less troublesome.”
“Oh, Oscar!”
“Conceive my being doomed to live in the vicinity of such eyes, dearest
creature, and you will pity me, at least!”
“You are not in the least to be pitied—for the Hoffmanns are most
amiable,” said Hildegarde, hurriedly. “But now I expect you will leave
me.”
“Expect no such thing! On the contrary, I expect you will invite me to
enter this room,” he replied, advancing boldly towards her.
“If you enter that room,” said Hildegarde, sternly, “I shall leave you
there, and take refuge with Madame de Hoffmann, who, I know, is now at
home.”
“Don’t be angry, dearest, all places are alike to me where you are. All
places are alike to me where I may tell you without reserve that I love
you more than ever one cousin loved another.”
“The time is ill chosen for jesting, Oscar; I never felt less disposed
to enjoy anything of the kind than at this moment.”
“Indeed! then let me tell you seriously that I love you to distraction.”
“Oscar, even in jest I do not choose to hear such nonsense.”
“By heaven, I am not jesting.”
“Then, betrothed as you now are, your words are a crime.”
“Be it so; there is, however, no crime I should hesitate to commit were
you to be obtained by it. As to breaking my engagement with Marie, that
is a trifle not worth considering; but what am I likely to obtain by
doing so?”
“Dishonour,” said Hildegarde, firmly and calmly.
“Hildegarde,” he exclaimed, fiercely, “do not affect a coldness which
you cannot feel; do not drive me to madness. My love must not be trifled
with; it is of no rational every-day kind, but violent as my nature, and
desperate as my fortunes.”
“That is,” thought Hamilton, “exactly what she wished. If he continue in
this strain she will not shut the door in his face. But I have had
enough of this raving, and will no longer constrain her by my presence.”
He entered the room, and closed the door.
For more than half an hour he impatiently paced backwards and forwards,
stopping only when he heard Raimund’s voice suddenly raised. At length
he thought he heard a stifled scream, and rushed to the door, scarcely
knowing what he feared or expected. Hildegarde was holding her cousin’s
arm with both hands, while she exclaimed, “For heaven’s sake, Oscar, do
not frighten me so horribly.”
A loud ringing of the house-bell, and the sound of many voices on the
stairs, seemed to be a relief to her, while Raimund appeared
considerably agitated. “Hide me in your room, Hildegarde; I am lost if
the Hoffmanns find me here.”
“And what is to become of me should you be found there?” she asked,
while a deadly paleness overspread her features, and she irresolutely
placed her hand on the lock of the door, then glanced down the passage,
and beckoning Raimund to follow, she led the way to Hamilton’s room.
“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, with a trembling voice, “will you allow Oscar
to remain a few minutes in your room, and when no one is in the passage,
have the goodness to open the door leading to the back staircase for
him?”
“The part which you have assigned me in this comedy, mademoiselle, is by
no means agreeable, but I will not be the means of causing you
embarrassment; Count Raimund may easily be supposed to have voluntarily
visited me, and there is no necessity for a retreat by the back
staircase, unless he have some motive for wishing to give his visit an
air of mystery.”
“Ah, very true,” said Hildegarde, in a hurried, confused manner, while
she moved aside to let her cousin pass.
Hamilton’s speech made more impression on Raimund; he looked furious,
and seemed to hesitate whether or not to enter the room. Again the bell
rang, and Hildegarde was in the act of springing forward, when Raimund
caught her arm, and while a fearful frown contracted his brows, with
closed teeth, and in the low voice of suppressed rage, he whispered,
“One word; is it Zedwitz? or—or——” he looked towards Hamilton.
Hildegarde’s face became crimson, she flung off his detaining hand, and
ran to the hall-door, which she threw wide open, leaving him to retreat
precipitately into Hamilton’s room, where, with folded arms, he strode
toward the window, after having murmured the words, “Sorry to intrude in
this manner.” Hamilton moved a chair towards him; he sat down for a
moment, but the next jumped up, and going to the door, partly opened it
and looked into the passage.
“I saw Count Raimund enter the house more than half an hour ago,”
observed a very loud voice, which Hamilton recognised as Madame de
Hoffmann’s, “and as I knew you were all out walking, and only
Mademoiselle Hildegarde at home, I expected to see him leave it again
immediately.”
“I think, mamma, you must have been mistaken,” said Mademoiselle de
Hoffmann, putting her mouth close to her mother’s ear.
“I have the misfortune to be somewhat deaf, Marie, but my eyes are as
good as yours, and with these eyes I saw him enter this house.”
“You are quite right,” said Raimund, advancing with the easiest manner
and most unconcerned smile imaginable. “I knew that Marie had gone out
with Madame Rosenberg, and not imagining that my future mother-in-law
could be so much interested in my movements, I ventured, without
informing her of my intentions, to visit my friend Hamilton.”
“But Mr. Hamilton is out riding,” cried Madame de Hoffmann.
“Perhaps he _was_ out riding, but I have had the good fortune to find
him at home, nevertheless.”
“Then he must have come up the other staircase, or I should have seen
him through the slit in our door, where I watched you walking upstairs.”
“Very possibly,” said Raimund, contemptuously.
“Marie,” said Madame de Hoffmann, in what she intended for a whisper,
but which was audible to all, “Marie, my child, I don’t believe a word
of all this. The Englishman is no more in the house than the man in the
moon.”
“Confound your suspicions,” muttered Raimund, angrily. “I suppose,
then,” he added with a frown, “I shall be obliged, in order to satisfy
you, to ask Mr. Hamilton to show himself to the assembled household.”
He seemed, however, so very unwilling to make the request, that Madame
de Hoffmann’s suspicions received confirmation; she turned from him,
saying, with a laugh of derision, “Perhaps Hildegarde can assist you in
making him appear!”
Her words acted like a charm. Hamilton, who had been an immovable
listener of all that had passed, no sooner heard her name mentioned,
than he mechanically rose, and taking his hat and whip, issued forth. He
forced a smile as he passed the Hoffmanns and Madame Rosenberg, which,
on approaching Hildegarde, changed into an expression of contempt that
neither her swelled and tearful eyelids nor her excessive paleness could
mitigate.
After his return home, he remained in his room until supper was
announced, and even then delayed some minutes, to insure Madame
Rosenberg’s being in the drawing-room when he reached it. She was
endeavouring to persuade Hildegarde to leave the stove, near which she
was sitting with closed eyes, leaning her head in her hands.
“If you would only eat your supper, Hildegarde, it would quite cure your
headache, which is probably caused by your having spent the day in a
heated room. Next time I shall leave old Hans in charge of the house,
for had you been out walking with us as usual, you would have had no
headache, I am sure. Don’t you think so too, Mr. Hamilton?”
“I think it very probable,” he answered, seating himself beside Madame
Rosenberg.
“And don’t you think if she took some soup she would be better?”
“Perhaps.”
“Hildegarde, I insist on your trying it—or go to bed at once. You make
your head worse by sitting so close to the stove.”
Hildegarde, without speaking, moved to the vacant chair at the other
side of Hamilton, and slowly and reluctantly sipped a few mouthfuls of
soup.
By some singular anomaly, Hamilton found himself suddenly in remarkably
high spirits—he looked at Hildegarde, and congratulating himself on
being free from thraldom, gazed with a gay smile on her pale features
until they were suffused with red, and great was his triumph to feel and
know that there was no sympathetic blush on his own countenance. He told
Madame Rosenberg of an engagement he had made with Zedwitz to accompany
him to Edelhof on the following morning, to attend the marriage of his
sister, and requested to have his breakfast at an early hour the next
day.
“And you intend to remain away a whole fortnight! How we shall miss
you!” cried Madame Rosenberg.
“You are very kind to say so,” replied Hamilton, laughing.
“And I think so too, though you seem to doubt me. You know I like you
better than any of the Englishmen I have had in my house. Captain Black
was not to be compared to you, nor Mr. Smith, either, although he used
to tell me so often that he was noble even without a _von_ before his
name, and that he could be made a chamberlain here if he wished it, as
he was related to the Duke of Buckel,[2] which always appeared to me
such an odd name for a duke that I was half inclined to doubt there
being any such person.”
Footnote 2:
Buckel means in German back, or more generally humpback. It seems that
Madame Rosenberg took it in the latter sense.
“We have a Duke of Buccleugh——” began Hamilton.
“Very likely he pronounced it that way; I am sure I heard it often
enough to know, but I never can learn an English word until I see it
written; and never should have learned his name if he had not constantly
left his cards lying about on the tables; I dare say I shall find some
of them in the card-basket still.” She commenced a diligent search while
speaking, and soon held up a card on which was printed in large German
letters the name of Mr. Howard Seymour Scott Smith.
“He used to sometimes say that the last word ought to be left out, for
that his real name was Scott.”
“Perhaps he inherited property with the name of Smith?”
“No; he said something about a marriage certificate having been
lost—that before he was born there was great irregularity in such things
in England.”
Hamilton laughed.
“Is it not true?” asked Madame Rosenberg.
“Oh, very possibly.”
“He told us, too, that in Scotland people could be married without any
certificate of birth, baptism, or confirmation—without even the consent
of their friends. Franz says this is a fact, and that the existence of
such a law is a great temptation to thoughtless young people.”
“I have no doubt it is,” replied Hamilton; “I would not answer for
myself were I led into temptation. A great-uncle of mine made a marriage
of this kind and it proved a very happy one—his friends, to provide for
him quickly, used all their interest to send him out to India, where he
made an enormous fortune, and as he has no children, has been, ever
since his return, a sort of lawgiver in our family. I should not have
been here now, if old Uncle Jack had not said that travelling was
necessary to make me a man of the world, and that in Germany alone I
could learn to speak the German well.”
“But,” said Madame Rosenberg, “this marriage was a fortunate exception,
for,” she added, with sundry winks and blinks towards Hildegarde, “for
marriages against the consent of relations seldom or never turn out
well. Let me give you some more salad, and then, as you are to leave so
early to-morrow, I may as well pack up your things to-night.”
“By no means,” cried Hamilton, “I must beg of you to send for Hans.”
“Oh, young Hans is much too awkward, and the old man is gone to bed
hours ago. I have been thinking, if you intend to keep Hans, that I will
begin to teach him to be handy, and instead of Hildegarde’s arranging
your linen, he must learn to do it from this time forward.”
“That would be very kind of you,” said Hamilton.
“For the sewing on of buttons, and all that,” continued Madame
Rosenberg, delighted at the idea of giving instruction, “he must of
course still apply to you, Hildegarde.”
Hildegarde, who had been leaning back on her chair, diligently puckering
and plaiting her pocket handkerchief, looked up for a moment, and
replied:
“Yes, mamma.”
“I shall send for Hans, and give him his first lessons to-night,” said
Madame Rosenberg, moving towards the door.
“Wait a moment and I can accompany you,” cried Hamilton, quickly. “I
shall be ready directly.”
“Don’t hurry yourself,” said Madame Rosenberg; “you will have time
enough before Hans comes up; and I must first see if Peppy has fallen
asleep, and if he is properly covered. Don’t hurry yourself.”
Why did Hamilton bend over his plate? and why did the colour mount to
his temples as the door closed? Did he begin to entertain doubts of his
indifference, or did he dread an explanation with Hildegarde? He
scarcely knew himself, but he felt uncomfortable, and gave himself a
quantity of trouble to prevent his companion from observing it.
The distant roll of carriages had already informed them that the opera
was over; but it was not until the sound of voices in the usually quiet
street had made the immediate return of her father, sister, and Major
Stultz probable, that Hildegarde summoned courage to say, in a very low
voice, and without looking up, “What must you think of me——”
“Do you wish to know what I think of you?” asked Hamilton, with affected
negligence.
“Yes; but do not again judge too harshly.”
“I think,” he said, facing her deliberately, “I think you are very
beautiful.”
“Pshaw!” cried Hildegarde, pushing back her chair angrily, “I expected a
very different answer.”
“Something different,” said Hamilton, in the same tone. “Something about
distraction and committing crimes, perhaps.”
“What occurred to-day is no subject for a jest,” she said seriously.
“So I thought a few hours ago, also,” said Hamilton; “but now the whole
affair appears to me rather amusing than otherwise. Perhaps, however,
your cousin alone is privileged to speak to you in this manner, in which
case you must pardon me for endeavouring to recollect what he said; but
it was so well received that——”
“It was not well received!” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him. “You
know it was not; and I am ready,” she added, after a pause, “ready to
repeat to you every word of our conversation.”
“Thank you,” said Hamilton, coldly, “but I have already heard enough to
enable me to imagine the remainder.”
“Perhaps,” said Hildegarde, hurriedly, “perhaps you heard—and saw——”
“I heard a declaration of love after the most approved form, a proposal
to commit any crime or crimes likely to render him interesting and
acceptable to you. I remembered to have once heard you tell your father
that you wished to be the object of a love of this kind; but I did not
wait to hear your answers, it was your half-suppressed scream which made
me foolishly imagine you wished for my presence. When I saw you I
perceived at once my mistake, and returned to my room.”
“Then you did not see the—the dagger——”
“What dagger?” asked Hamilton, his curiosity excited in spite of
himself.
“Oscar’s dagger—he threatened to stab himself!”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Hamilton. “I really did not think him capable of
acting so absurdly. I gave him credit for too much knowledge of the
world to treat you to such an insipid scene.”
“Then you do not think he was serious!”
“I am sure he was not. The dagger was purposely brought for effect. He
has proved himself an excellent actor to-day—tragic as well as comic, it
seems.”
“It was cruel of him deliberately to frighten me,” said Hildegarde,
thoughtfully.
“It was unpardonable—inexcusable his doing so,” cried Hamilton, “for he
thought you were alone, and took advantage of finding you unprotected.”
“Most men take advantage of finding us unprotected. After the events of
to-day I may say all men do so,” replied Hildegarde, with so much
reproachful meaning in her glance that Hamilton rose from his seat and
began to perambulate the room, occasionally stopping to lean on the
stove, until her father’s voice and approaching steps made him suddenly
move forward towards her, as if he expected her to speak again. She
remained, however, silent and motionless; and at length, overcome by a
mixture of anxiety and curiosity, and with an ineffectual effort to
appear indifferent, he said quickly, “I thought you were going to tell
me what you said that could have given your cousin an excuse for
producing a dagger.”
“You did not choose to hear when I was willing to tell you; and now——”
Here Madame Rosenberg entered the room, and Hildegarde rose, saying,
“that her head ached intolerably, and she would now go to bed.”
“Good-night!” said Hamilton. “I hope your headache will be cured by a
long sleep, and that you will be quite well when we meet again.”
“Thank you; before that time I shall most probably have altogether
forgotten it,” said Hildegarde.
That means, thought Hamilton, she will not pour out my coffee to-morrow
at breakfast.
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