THE DEPARTURE.
HILDEGARDE did not appear the next morning, and Hamilton breakfasted
with Madame Rosenberg sitting opposite to him in a striped red and white
dressing-gown; her hair, as usual, twisted up to the very roots with
hair-pins, to prepare curls which, however, seldom made their appearance
at home, excepting on the evenings which the Hoffmanns spent with her.
She sat opposite to him, and watched while he vainly endeavoured to
improve his coffee by adding alternately cream and sugar. “One never
enjoys a breakfast at this early hour,” she observes at length, “the
coffee is, however, quite as good as usual; I made it myself.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Hamilton, “but the fact is, I am so
accustomed to your daughter Hildegarde’s preparing it for me, that I do
not know the quantity of cream and sugar necessary—by-the-by, I hope her
headache is better this morning?”
“She said so,” replied Madame Rosenberg, “but I found her so feverish,
and looking so wretchedly ill, that I have forbidden her getting up
until Doctor Berger sees her.”
“You do not apprehend any serious illness, I hope?”
“Oh, no—but Crescenz tells me that she slept very uneasily—had frightful
dreams, and at one time during the night fancied someone intended to
stab her! Such an idea! I suppose,” she added, after a pause, “you
expect Count Zedwitz to call for you?”
“I believe so,” said Hamilton, absently.
“I am beginning rather to like him,” observed Madame Rosenberg.
Hamilton did not appear to hear her.
“You are going to a gay house,” she added, “at least it will be gay on
such an occasion.”
“What occasion?” asked Hamilton, looking up.
“Why, did you not tell me that the only daughter was going to be
married? And is not a wedding a very gay thing?”
“Not always,” said Hamilton, “for brides generally shed tears and infect
the bridesmaids, and the mamma half faints, and the papa is agitated,
and when the bridal party leave, the house is immensely dull, until it
fill with new people again. Altogether, a wedding is a very
deadly-lively festivity, excepting to the two principal actors.”
“I will prove the contrary,” said Madame Rosenberg, “you shall see how
gay our wedding will be—that is, Crescenz’s! Did I tell you that it must
be deferred until the carnival?”
“Not a word—I thought it was to take place before Christmas.”
“Marriages are seldom or never celebrated before Advent,” said Madame
Rosenberg, “but at all events, Major Stultz’s sister has died suddenly,
and he must leave for Nuremberg to-morrow.”
“I am sorry he has lost his sister,” said Hamilton, compassionately.
“Why, in fact, the loss is rather a gain,” said Madame Rosenberg. “He
knew very little about her—she was unmarried, rich, and stingy—always on
the point of making a fool of herself by marrying some young student or
officer. Now the Major quietly inherits all her property—a very pretty
addition to what he already has. I told Crescenz yesterday evening that
she had drawn a greater prize than she expected.”
“And what did she say?”
“Why, not much, but she looked exceedingly pleased—her father has told
me since that he thinks she is glad that her marriage is put off, and
does not care in the least about the money, of which she has not yet
learned the value. This may be partly true—Crescenz may have no
objection to a delay, but she is now quite satisfied with the Major, and
has no wish whatever to break off her engagement. Count Raimund has been
of great use to her!”
“How do you mean?” asked Hamilton surprised.
“Why, his unpardonable negligence towards Marie de Hoffmann forms a fine
contrast to the Major’s attention and handsome presents. Crescenz is
very childish, but she has perceived the difference, nevertheless, and I
have not neglected the opportunity to tell her that all young men are
careless lovers, and still more careless husbands, and that I am sure
she will be much happier when she is married than Marie.”
“The carriage is come! The carriage is come for Hamilton!” cried Peppy,
rushing into the room; “and Count Zedwitz is coming up the stairs! and
Crescenz is hiding behind the kitchen-door! and Walburg is gone with
Gustle to school! and Dr. Berger is in Hildegarde’s room! and papa is
putting on his coat! and he wants you to come to him!”
“Well, have you any more news to tell me before I go?” said his mother,
taking up her bunch of keys from the breakfast-table. “Good-morning,
Count Zedwitz—you must excuse me—Dr. Berger is here, and——”
“No one ill, I hope?” said Zedwitz.
“Hildegarde is ill,” replied Hamilton; “have you any objection to
waiting until we hear what the Doctor says?”
“Quite the contrary,” said Zedwitz, sitting down, evidently alarmed.
“In the meantime, I can tell Hans to carry down my luggage,” said
Hamilton.
Hans was despatched with the portmanteau, carpet-bag, and dressing-case;
but Hamilton, instead of returning to his friend, watched until Madame
Rosenberg and the Doctor had left Hildegarde’s room, and walked up the
passage together. A moment after he was at her door, and had knocked.
“Come in,” said Hildegarde, almost gayly. “I am not so ill as you
suppose!”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Hamilton, entering as he spoke.
“I—I—expected papa,” said Hildegarde, blushing deeply.
“I more than half suspected the permission to enter was not intended for
me,” said Hamilton, “but I really cannot leave you without having
obtained pardon for having offended you last night. I cannot quit you
for so long a time, without the certainty of your forgiveness.”
“It is granted—or rather I have nothing to forgive,” replied Hildegarde,
“for you were quite right not to listen to my confession, though I
remained up on purpose to favour you with it.” She had become very pale
while speaking, and Hamilton was forcibly reminded of all her long and
unwearied attentions to him during his illness. He wondered how he could
ever, even for a moment, have forgotten them, and remained lost in
thought, until, slightly pointing towards the door, she wished him a
pleasant journey and much amusement. Instead of obeying the sign, he
walked directly forward, saying, “You must not expect me to believe that
I am forgiven until you have told me all I refused to hear yesterday
evening.”
“How very unconscionable you are,” she said, with a faint smile. “When,
however, I tell you that I wish you to leave my room, that I am too ill
to talk, I am sure you——”
“Oh, of course, of course,” said Hamilton, quite aware of the
reasonableness of her demand. “Only one thing you must tell me, and that
is, what you said to Raimund which could induce him to threaten to kill
himself.”
“Do not ask me,” said Hildegarde, uneasily.
“But that is exactly what I insist upon knowing,” persisted Hamilton.
“You said you came to ask forgiveness, but it seems you have fallen into
your usual habit of commanding, and——”
“I do not command,” cried Hamilton, interrupting her, “I do not command;
but,” he added in a very low voice, and approaching still nearer, “I
entreat, I entreat you to tell me what you said to him.”
“I reminded him that he was betrothed to my friend,” began Hildegarde,
slowly and unwillingly.
“Well, well; and then——”
“And then—I said—I could not like him otherwise than as a—cousin.”
“But surely, situated as he is, he must have expected just such an
answer from you. Were he free and independent, you would probably have
spoken differently. Did you not console him by telling him so?”
Hildegarde remained silent, her eyes almost closed.
“And if you told him that,” continued Hamilton, “there was no possible
excuse for the dagger-scene; he might have been despairing, but not
desperate, on such an occasion. Tell me, Hildegarde, did you say that?”
“No,” she replied, almost in a whisper, “no; for though I admire Oscar,
I do not love him at all.”
“Then you must have said something else!”
“You are worrying me,” she murmured, with an expression of pain.
“I see I am,” cried Hamilton. “Forgive me, but I must ask one question
more. Did he not ask you if you loved another?”
“Yes,” said Hildegarde, turning away her face, which was once more
covered with blushes.
“And you acknowledged?”
“I acknowledged. I confessed my folly, to put an end to the wildest
ravings and most impracticable schemes imaginable.”
“And you named the object of your preference?”
“Oh, no, no, no!”
“Hildegarde,” cried Hamilton, hurriedly, “tell me at once—answer me
quickly, have you chosen Zedwitz?”
Hildegarde turned still more away, but did not answer.
“I understand your silence. You have chosen well—and,” he added, after a
slight struggle, “wisely.”
Hildegarde made an impatient gesture with her hand.
“Do not mistake me,” he continued, eagerly; “I am convinced your choice
has not in the least been influenced by interested motives. Zedwitz is
in every respect worthy of your regard.”
Hildegarde raised herself quickly on her elbow, and seemed about to
speak, but the words died on her lips when she perceived Crescenz, who
had, as usual, entered the room noiselessly, standing between them. She
shrank back, her colour changed several times with frightful rapidity,
but her voice, though faint, was perfectly calm as she requested her
sister to close the window shutters, and every trace of emotion
disappeared as her father entering, seated himself beside her bed, and
observed that she looked more like a marble statue than a living person.
Hamilton was at the moment unable to articulate; he shook Mr.
Rosenberg’s hand, and left the room precipitately. In the drawing-room
he found the Doctor assuring Madame Rosenberg that Mademoiselle
Hildegarde would be perfectly well in a day or two. Hamilton,
nevertheless, requested her to write to him, and having obtained a
promise, he began to hurry Zedwitz’s departure.
“Does your servant not go with us, Hamilton?” asked Zedwitz.
“He is to follow with Madame Rosenberg’s letter to-morrow. Be sure to
bring the letter, Hans!” said Hamilton, as he wrapped himself in his
cloak, and sank back in the corner of the carriage.
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