THE CHRISTMAS-TREE, AND MIDNIGHT MASS.
THE Hoffmanns arrived, and with them Count Raimund. Hamilton watched
Hildegarde’s reception of the latter, and forgetting the three weeks he
had passed at Edelhof, was surprised to find that she met her cousin
without the slightest embarrassment; he perceived, too, that Raimund had
contrived to ingratiate himself with Madame Rosenberg; she greeted him
with a familiar nod, as he entered, and the children’s manner (no bad
test of intimacy) convinced him that Raimund’s visits must have been
numerous during his absence. Fritz smiled saucily, and raised his hand
to his forehead in military salute; Gustle, with his usual rudeness,
seized his coat, and began to swing himself backwards and forwards by
it: while Peppy took possession of the unbuckled sword, and rode round
the room upon it, until his mother, irritated by the noise, forcibly
took it from him, and shoving him with his brother Gustle into the next
room, declared that if they were so ill-behaved, the infant Christ would
pass by their house, and they would get neither Christmas-boxes nor
_bon-bons_. “Do you know,” she said, turning to Count Raimund, “that Mr.
Hamilton is quite shocked at my telling the children such stories? He
says——” but the entrance of the Bergers and Madame Lustig gave her
thoughts another direction. The latter was a red-faced, stout,
jolly-looking widow of at least fifty years of age; her nose was
extremely thick, and her forehead extremely low; she seemed very glad to
see everybody, and made tremendously low curtsies in all directions.
Madame Berger immediately took possession of Hamilton, saying that she
had a lot of messages to deliver from Theodor Biedermann.
“I hope he intends to come here to-morrow; I shall be glad to see him,
and commence my studies again.”
“If we may believe him,” said Madame Berger, laughing, “Hildegarde has
made great progress during your absence; he says she writes German as
well as French now, and that is saying a good deal; but he complained
bitterly of the noise which the children made while he was giving his
lessons, and regretted the tranquillity of your room. Of course, I
reminded him of the day I found you fencing!”
“Our lesson was over when you arrived; I assure you we were always
exceedingly attentive and well-behaved.”
“And Hildegarde sitting there reading, as if she were quite alone.
By-the-by, have you begun your English studies with her again?”
“Not yet; but I am quite ready, if she feels disposed.”
“You intend, perhaps, to enter the ranks of her adorers?”
“I only aspire to being among her friends at present.”
“But I can tell you she will not be satisfied with anything less than
the most unlimited devotion.”
“I dare say she will find people enough willing to comply with her
demands.”
“Do you think so? If everything ends like the Zedwitz affair, it would
be better if she turned her mind to something rational. You know,” she
added, lowering her voice confidentially, “you know that at Seon, and
also here, she encouraged Count Max Zedwitz in every possible manner;
met him in the cloisters, and sat beside him at table every day at Seon,
and here let him know every time she went on a walking party——”
“I think,” said Hamilton “you are rather mistaken in supposing that
she——”
“Oh, I am not at all mistaken. She made him, in the most artful,
deliberate manner, so in love that he actually took it into his head to
marry her. Such an idea, you know! And his father a knight of St.
George, and all that.”
“I was not aware that his father being a knight of St. George could make
any difference.”
“What! When they can prove sixteen noble generations on both sides! When
Count Max can become a knight of St. George whenever he pleases! When
marrying a person who is not noble would deprive his children and
children’s children of the right of claiming an order which can be
obtained on no other terms.”
“Ah, I understand.”
“Hildegarde,” continued Madame Berger, “was always desperately proud,
and her greatest ambition is to marry some one of rank. A man must be a
count or baron at least before she thinks him worthy of her notice. Now,
such a man as Count Zedwitz was just what she wished, and she persuaded
him to write a letter making her a formal offer of his hand; this she
exhibited in triumph to her father, who, however, had received about the
same time from the old Count a most furious epistle, telling him that
his son’s fortune and rank entitled him to look for a wife among the
first families in Germany—that a marriage with Mademoiselle Rosenberg
now, or at any future period, was totally out of the question. He
supposed that Mr. Rosenberg would not desire any other sort of
connection for his daughter, and therefore had better join him in
putting an end to any further intimacy. This, with a few other
impertinences of the same description, made even good, quiet Mr.
Rosenberg outrageous, and he insisted on Hildegarde’s refusing Count
Max—if that be called a refusal where marriage was a chimera!”
“Not so much a chimera as you imagine,” said Hamilton, “for Zedwitz had
procured the necessary security—as I happen to know, for he himself told
me so at Edelhof—and his father cannot disinherit him.”
“So! Well, if that be the case, Mr. Rosenberg might as well have
pocketed the affront—namely, the letter, and let his daughter marry him.
Perhaps, after his anger has cooled, he may wish he had acted
differently, or at least wish that he had left an opening for a renewal
of the affair.”
“Hildegarde has made a great sacrifice to please her father,” observed
Hamilton.
“Not so great as you suppose; for Crescenz told me that she was quite as
angry as her father about the letter.”
“Of that I have no doubt; but, nevertheless, the sacrifice was great.”
“You mean on account of his rank, or the fortune which his miserly old
father is always increasing? Hildegarde has such an exalted idea of her
beauty that she imagines she can find a Count Zedwitz whenever she
pleases. Crescenz says she took the whole business very coolly after the
first burst of anger was over. When Count Zedwitz had left, her father,
as usual, praised her conduct extravagantly, and, with tears in his
eyes, thanked her for her compliance with his wishes. What do you think
she did? Told him in her customary ungracious manner that she did not
deserve either his praises or thanks, for that it had caused her no
great effort to dismiss Count Zedwitz!”
“Extraordinary—inexplicable girl,” murmured Hamilton.
“Not at all,” cried Madame Berger, colouring, “not at all; for, added to
her pride, she is naturally violent and has strong passions. I am
convinced she will never marry anyone who is not of rank, but it is both
possible and probable that she may take it into her head to fall
desperately in love with some one whom she considers beneath her. I have
strong suspicion that she has done so, and that Theodor Biedermann is
the favoured individual.”
“Biedermann!” repeated Hamilton, amazed.
“Yes, Theodor Biedermann; but with him she will find all her arts and
vehemence useless. He scarcely even allows her to be good-looking!”
“I think you are altogether mistaken about her,” began Hamilton. “I
never perceived the slightest——”
“You have been absent more than three weeks,” said Madame Berger,
interrupting him. “If I have made a right guess, Hildegarde will receive
a severe lesson, which I hope may be of use to her.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that Theodor will treat her love with the scorn which it
deserves.”
Hamilton shook his head and laughed—rather ironically.
“How long are we to continue in the dark?” asked Mr. Rosenberg from the
other end of the room. “Pray, Babette, let us have at least a pair of
candles, that we may not be blinded when your tree dazzles our
astonished eyes!”
The candles were unwillingly granted, and Madame Rosenberg left the room
mysteriously with Madame Lustig.
“Come here, boys,” cried Mr. Rosenberg. “Let us take our station near
the door, that we may enter first.”
Doctor Berger came towards Hamilton, and began a conversation about the
different ways of celebrating Christmas in different countries, and the
habit of giving presents at that time or on New Year’s Day, while
Hamilton’s eyes involuntarily strayed towards Hildegarde, who, sitting
at the other end of the room with Count Raimund and Mademoiselle de
Hoffmann, was speaking eagerly with the latter, all unconscious that her
cousin was gazing at her with an emotion which his sanguine temperament
betrayed in rapid changes of colour, although he did not seem to take
any part in the conversation.
At length a bell was rung, and the door thrown open which led to the
school-room. The children rushed forward with shouts of joy, followed,
somewhat tumultuously, by their father and his guests. Hamilton was the
last, and had more time to prepare his eyes for the blaze of light which
they had to encounter. In the middle of the room was a large round
table, on which was placed a tall fir tree, hung with a profusion of
_bon-bons_, of the most varied colours, and sparkling like gems as they
reflected the light of the hundreds of wax tapers which were fastened on
the dark green branches in their vicinity. On the top of the tree was a
diminutive angel, dressed in gold and silver; in the moss which covered
the root was a wax infant, surrounded by lambs. The table itself was
covered with toys of every description, from drawing-books and boxes for
Fritz, to drums and trumpets for Peppy. There were two other tables with
smaller trees, to which Madame Rosenberg conducted Hildegarde and
Crescenz. The noise was excessive; everyone spoke and nobody listened.
Old Hans and the cook were not forgotten; they stood, with their
Christmas-boxes and pockets of gingerbread, laughing spectators near the
door.
Hamilton received a cigar-case from Madame Rosenberg, which she had
worked most elaborately for him during his absence, and from Crescenz a
scarlet purse, glittering with steel beads; this he particularly
admired, while Major Stultz told him he was half inclined to be jealous,
it was so much prettier than the one which she had made for him. The
presents which Hamilton offered in return were accepted with the best
grace imaginable, and he now amused himself watching Crescenz’s face, as
she opened the various parcels and inspected the contents of the
numerous boxes and caskets on her table. Some natural disappointment was
at times legible when, instead of the expected jewels, respectable rows
of forks and spoons met her eager eyes; but at length a case of red
morocco disclosed such treasures, that Hamilton, after having listened
to her expressions of rapture for a few minutes, moved towards
Hildegarde, who stood before her table turning over the leaves of some
books, which had been placed beside the expected ball dress and wreath
of roses.
“I have nothing to offer you,” she said, slightly blushing as he
approached, “nothing but some _bon-bons_,” and she began to untie some
from her tree as she spoke.
Hamilton took them, and with unusual diffidence presented the case
containing the watch. She had no sooner opened it, than she blushed
excessively, and endeavouring to replace it in his hands—failing in her
endeavour, she put it on the table, saying, “Mr. Hamilton, I cannot
possibly accept anything of such value.”
“Your mother and sister have not pained me by making any difficulties,”
he said, reproachfully.
“Then you must have given them something very different.”
This was undeniable, and Hamilton was silent. Mr. Rosenberg came to his
daughter’s assistance, to Hamilton’s annoyance agreed with her, and
“hoped the watch was not definitely purchased.”
“Of course it is,” said Hamilton; “I never dreamed of such a trifling
thing being refused.”
“It is only trifling in size,” said Mr. Rosenberg holding it toward his
wife, who had joined them. “Fortunately, however, a watch will be quite
as useful to you as to Hildegarde, as you can use it yourself.”
“But unfortunately, I have already two, one which I received from my
uncle, and one from my mother,” said Hamilton, in a tone of great
vexation.
“If that be the case,” said Madame Rosenberg, in a low voice to her
husband, “perhaps——”
“Babette!” he exclaimed, “you don’t know the value of such a watch as
this!”
“Englishmen do not consider value as we do—I only thought if Mr.
Hamilton had really bought it for Hildegarde, and cannot use it himself,
it will be ungracious if she refuses it.”
“Very ungracious, indeed!” cried Hamilton eagerly.
Madame Rosenberg drew her husband aside, and began a whispered
discussion. Hildegarde leaned against her table in painful
embarrassment, while Hamilton quietly withdrew from his pocket a long
gold chain which he had not before ventured to produce, and attached it
to the watch.
“I shall not be allowed to accept it,” said Hildegarde, shaking her
head.
“You will,” said Hamilton.
He was right; her father, in a reluctant, half-annoyed manner, gave his
consent. “Thank you! Oh, thank you!” cried Hamilton, with such warmth
that Madame Berger came skipping from the other side of the room,
exclaiming, “I positively must know what Hildegarde has given you; you
seem so uncommonly pleased!”
“That is a secret,” said Hamilton, laughingly turning away, while she
pursued him with guesses.
“It is not the half-finished travelling-bag, at all events, for you
could not put that into your pocket. Nor is it a purse, or a cigar-case.
Oh, I know, a pair of slippers, or a portfolio worked on canvas! You may
as well tell me, for I shall hear at all events from Crescenz! Have you
seen what splendid ornaments the Major has given her? And the three
bracelets? And then such droves of coffee-spoons as her god-mother has
sent her from Augsburg—and Cressy is so childish that she does not care
in the least for spoons?”
Madame Rosenberg went round the room distributing _bon-bons_ and
trifling presents, which sometimes caused amusement when they contained
an allusion to well-known foibles or peculiarities. The tapers on the
tree were nearly burned out. Mr. Rosenberg desired old Hans to
extinguish them, and having placed candles on the table, the children
were left to play with their newly-acquired treasures, and the rest of
the party adjourned to the drawing-room.
Everyone seemed happy excepting Raimund, who, with a flushed face and
contracted brow, took the place assigned him beside his betrothed, and
poured into her ear at intervals his discontented observations; her
good-humoured laughing answers appearing to act like fuel on the
malevolent fire burning within him. At length he suddenly started from
his chair, and pleading business of importance at the barracks, he left
the room with little ceremony, and negligently trailed his sword after
him along the corridor.
“Well,” said Madame Rosenberg, as she carved a prettily-decorated cake
into neat slices; “well, we can do without him, now that the Major is
here to take his place at whist or taroc, but I cannot conceive what has
put him out of temper!”
“Who is out of temper?” asked Madame de Hoffmann, who, as usual, had
only heard the last words.
“Nobody, mamma,” answered her daughter quickly. “Poor Oscar,” she added,
turning to Hildegarde; “I believe he is annoyed at not being able to
give such presents as your sister has received from Major Stultz. It
would have been better had we not come to your Christmas fête; I had no
idea it would be so splendid.”
“That is a fancy which papa and mamma have in common,” answered
Hildegarde; “Crescenz being a bride has made our Christmas unusually
brilliant, I suppose. I dare say, however, your tree was very handsome.
Why did you not invite us to see it?”
“Oscar did not wish it—and he forbade my saying that this bracelet was
from him, when Crescenz showed me hers. I hope he does not think I
expected or wished for such presents as she has received! By-the-by,
dear, do tell your mother not to make any remarks when he is a little
odd at times; for mamma, who, you know, at first so wished and promoted
our marriage, has lately been endeavouring, under all sorts of
pretences, to break it off. If it were not for Oscar’s father’s
extraordinary patience with her, I do believe our engagement would be at
an end at once. I dare not tell her how sombre and dissatisfied he has
become of late; she would attribute it to the supposed preference for
you, which I cannot persuade her is an absurdity, although she begins to
see that it is not returned on your part. Madame Berger has been
endeavouring to enlighten her——”
“By telling her something very ill-natured of me, most probably,” said
Hildegarde, colouring.
“She told us a long story about that good-natured Count Zedwitz this
morning, of which I do not believe anything, excepting that he wished to
marry you, and that his family perhaps were opposed to the match; and
she ended by saying that you had taken a fancy to that young student,
Biedermann, who is giving you lessons in German.”
“Just like her!” exclaimed Hildegarde, indignantly.
“Oscar, who was present, laughed excessively; indeed, he was so amused
at her chattering that he became quite gay, and was more amiable than I
have known him for a long time, until he came here and saw Crescenz’s
bracelets and that watch which Mr. Hamilton gave you.”
Hildegarde bent down her head to hide a blush of which she was but too
conscious. “I have no intention of keeping the watch longer than this
evening,” she said, after a thoughtful pause; “it is a much too valuable
present to accept from a—a stranger—but that is of no consequence to
Oscar, who might easily have found some better employment than laughing
at me with Lina Berger!”
“My dear creature, he was laughing at her! He says she was jealous about
that little Biedermann!”
“Pshaw!” cried Hildegarde, impatiently.
“Will you not at least tell me the true state of the case about Count
Zedwitz?”
“Not now—not now, Marie—in fact I never wish to mention the subject
again,” said Hildegarde, arising abruptly and going towards the door,
which, however, she had no sooner reached than she was recalled by her
mother, and desired to carry round the cake to the expectant company,
who had been already supplied with weak tea strongly perfumed with
vanilla.
Hamilton was so occupied by Madame Berger that he did not observe
Hildegarde as she passed him; his companion’s eyes followed her for some
time furtively, and then turning to him she observed with a laugh, “Did
you not see how Hildegarde’s hand trembled as she offered us the cake? I
am sure she has been in a passion, though I cannot imagine about what,
as she has only been speaking with her friend Mademoiselle de Hoffmann!
Berger has become physician to the Hoffmanns ever since your illness;
they took such a fancy to him, and are so civil to me, that I often
visit them now. By-the-by, that Count Raimund is charming, but he does
not seem to care in the least for his betrothed, who certainly is not at
all pretty. She did not look half pleased at his talking so much to me
this morning! A little pug-faced person such as she is has no sort of
right to be jealous, you know, and the sooner she learns to bear his
paying attentions to other women the better!”
“How kind of you to give her such a lesson?”
“I see, by your manner that you think me ill-natured,” said Madame
Berger.
“Or malicious!” said Hamilton.
“Perhaps I was a little,” said Madame Berger, with an affectation of
repentive pensiveness. “After all, Mademoiselle de Hoffmann is a
good-natured, a most inoffensive person!”
“She is sensible and well-informed, too,” said Hamilton, warmly.
“You take your opinion from Hildegarde, who you know has no medium. Pray
don’t ask her what she thinks of me, that’s all. See, she will not offer
us any cake this time, because we took no notice of her when she passed
before.”
“I did not see her,” said Hamilton; “I believe I was admiring the ring
which you told me had been given you by one of the Doctor’s patients.”
“But the ring was still on my finger, and perhaps she thought——”
“What?” asked Hamilton, laughing, as he followed Hildegarde, and
obtained the piece of cake which he requested. Madame Lustig, who did
not perceive his vicinity, observed to Dr. Berger, “Your wife is getting
on at a great rate with that young Englishman to-night.”
“It’s a way she has,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders, “opposition
only makes her worse, so I generally pretend not to see her. At all
events, I have discovered long ago that the Englishman’s heart and
thoughts are elsewhere, even when he is apparently completely engrossed
in my Lina.”
Hamilton looked at Hildegarde, and thought he perceived something like a
smile playing around the corners of her mouth as she turned away; he
walked slowly to his seat, and began to eat his cake with an earnestness
which soon became offensive to his lively neighbour.
“I suppose she forbade you talking anymore to me?” she observed, after
some time.
“Do you mean Madame Lustig?”
“Madame Fiddlestick!—you know I mean Hildegarde.”
“She did not speak to me.”
“Perhaps a look was sufficient?”
“She did not look at me.”
“But you looked at her?”
“Undoubtedly—I like looking at her—and at you, too, if you have no
objection.”
“I see I shall be obliged to complain of you to the Doctor—and I tell
you he is horribly jealous at times!”
“How very considerate of him to stand with his back to us all this
time,” said Hamilton, laughing; “one would almost think he did it on
purpose! But see, the children are coming to say good-night, and the
Hoffmanns seem to be going——”
“I suppose the Doctor will insist on my going, too!” said Madame Berger;
“he has no sort of consideration for me, and the idea will never enter
his old head, that I should like to go to the midnight mass with
you—all.”
The Doctor did insist, and the company departed together. Mr. Rosenberg
at once declared his intention to go to bed; his wife said she would
doze on the sofa until it was time to go to church; Major Stultz placed
himself, as usual, beside Crescenz and her work-basket, and began a
whispered conversation, which, however, in time perceptibly flagged, for
Crescenz’s fingers moved more quickly than her tongue—the monotony of
his own voice on the otherwise unbroken stillness in the room naturally
produced drowsiness, with which the Major long and valiantly
combated—but it was in vain he endeavoured to sit bolt upright in his
chair, occasionally staring wildly around him. After having made a
succession of sleepy obeisances, of such profundity that Crescenz’s
demure smile almost verged into laughter, his arms sank at length
heavily on his outspread legs, his head sought support on the
uncomfortable low back of his chair, his jaw fell, and the long-drawn
breathing degenerated into snores both loud and long.
Such influence had Hildegarde acquired over Hamilton, that the fear of
incurring her displeasure prevented him from laughing aloud, or at first
even looking up; after some time, however, pressing his lips firmly
against his book, his eyes glanced over it with a mixed expression of
mirth and curiosity, from one sister to the other. Crescenz seemed
embarrassed, but there was not a particle of either dislike or
impatience in the look which she bestowed on the sleeper. She bent
towards her sister, and said in a whisper, “If I could manage to put a
sofa cushion on the back of the chair!”
“An excellent idea,” said Hildegarde, taking up one, and preparing to
assist her.
“Give me the cushion, and do you move his head,” said Crescenz, timidly.
“No, dear, that is your office,” replied her sister, half laughing.
“But if he should wake,” cried Crescenz, drawing back.
“He will scarcely be angry,” said Hildegarde, approaching with the
cushion.
Crescenz took it from her, and began to insinuate it between his head
and the chair—her movements were so gentle that she succeeded without
awakening him—his mouth closed with a slight jerk, while uttering a
grunt of sleepy satisfaction, as his chin dropped on his breast.
Nothing could be less attractive than Major Stultz’s face at this
moment, with his puffed-out crimson cheeks and wrinkled double chin—but
Crescenz saw him not; with a good-humoured smile she tried to arrange
still better the supporting cushion, and then stood behind him with all
the immovable serenity of a Caryatid. Hildegarde walked to the window,
and holding her hands at each side of her temples, endeavoured to look
out into the darkness. “We shall have rain, I fear,” she observed to
Hamilton, who had followed her.
He opened the window—it was a cold, cheerless night, the flickering
lamps throwing unsteady gleams of light across the street.
“The weather is not very inviting,” said Hildegarde, drawing back into
the warm room with a slight shudder.
Hamilton leaned out for some time in silence, and then whispered—“Who is
that?” He pointed to the opposite side of the street, where a figure,
muffled in a cloak, had been standing opposite the house, and now began
to walk quickly away. “Do you know who that was?”
“I think it was Count Zedwitz,” answered Hildegarde.
“You knew he was there? You came to the window to see him?”
“No,” said Hildegarde, quietly.
“Then how could you know him so directly?”
“I recognised the cloak he used to wear at Seon.”
“Ah—yes—true—poor fellow!” said Hamilton.
“How inclined you are to suspect me!” said Hildegarde, reproachfully.
“One might suspect, without blaming you, for giving Zedwitz a gleam of
hope to lighten his despair.”
“I should blame myself, for it would be unpardonable coquetry!”
“Coquetry! when you really love him!”
“Love him!” repeated Hildegarde, hastily—“No—yes—that is, I like him—I
like him very much.”
At this moment the church bells in Munich began simultaneously to send
forth loud peals. Madame Rosenberg raised herself on her pillow, and
exclaimed, “What are you about, Hildegarde? Shut the window, and don’t
let the cold night air into the room.”
Hamilton closed the window. When he looked round he perceived Major
Stultz with the sofa-cushion on his knees, offering a profusion of
thanks to Crescenz, who stood smiling beside him.
In a few minutes they were on their way to the Frauen church. It was
crowded to excess, and brilliantly lighted, chiefly by the number of wax
tapers which had been brought with the prayerbooks, and now burned
brightly before each kneeling or sitting figure.
The music was excellent: and as Hamilton soon observed that
extraordinary devotion was chiefly practised by the female part of the
congregation who occupied the pews, and that those in his vicinity who
stood in the aisle amused themselves by looking around them in all
directions, he by degrees followed their example, and his tall figure
enabling him to overlook the sea of heads about him, he gratified his
curiosity to the fullest extent. He observed that Crescenz’s eyes stole
not unfrequently over her prayerbook to bestow a furtive glance on him
or on Major Stultz who stood near her, but Hildegarde was immovable—her
profound devotion surprised him. She spoke so much less of religion than
her sister, that he had come to the erroneous conclusion that she was
less religious. The burning taper threw a strong light on her bent head
and clasped hands; and as he suddenly recollected some remark of
Zedwitz’s about the Madonna-like expression of her regular features, he
unconsciously turned to seek his friend, to ask him when and where he
had so spoken. His astonishment was lost in emotion on perceiving that
Zedwitz was actually not far distant from him, his whole appearance wild
and disordered, his haggard eyes fixed on Hildegarde’s motionless
figure. The service ended, she closed her book, and rose calmly, while
Madame Rosenberg extinguished the three tapers and deposited them in her
reticule. As the lights one after another disappeared, there was a
universal move towards the nearest doors. Hamilton was about to follow
the Rosenbergs when he felt himself drawn in a contrary direction by a
powerful arm, and Zedwitz whispered, “One word before you go home;” and
they were soon brought outside the church with the crowd. It was raining
torrents; and several persons attempted to return again into the aisle,
while they despatched messengers or servants for umbrellas. The
carriages rolled rapidly away in all directions, and Hamilton in a few
minutes was walking with his friend under the leafless trees in the
promenade _platz_.
“I am ill,” said Zedwitz, “really ill—this sort of life is not to be
endured—I shall get a fever, or go mad, if I remain here.”
“You do look ill,” said Hamilton, “and change of air and scene might be
of use to you—but is it advisable to remain out in this rain if you are
feverish?”
“Certainly not advisable—but I cannot set out on my travels without
taking leave of you.”
“Travels! where do you mean to go?”
“To Paris—or Rome—or Athens—or Jerusalem.”
“Will your father consent?”
“I think so. To-morrow I intend to go to Lengheim and commence
negotiations—I have determined on quitting the army at all events; for I
have no fancy for country quarters, and as to remaining in Munich, the
thing is impossible. What are all my resolutions when I see her? and see
her I do—continually—although unseen by her, or any of her family.”
“You were in the street this evening, I know. She recognised your cloak
immediately.”
“My cloak, ah! very true—I must have another—adieu, Hamilton, I will not
detain you longer in the rain—we shall scarcely meet again before I
leave——”
“Write to me then,” said Hamilton. “I should like to know where you are
to be found. Perhaps I may join you in the spring.”
“You shall hear from me,” cried Zedwitz, seizing his hand and holding it
firmly. “One word more—promise me to act honourably by Hildegarde, and
not to take advantage of her isolated situation when her sister has left
the house.”
“I have never thought of acting otherwise,” replied Hamilton, calmly.
“I suppose I must be satisfied with this answer,” said Zedwitz, wringing
his friend’s hand as he hurried away.
It was too late to overtake the Rosenbergs, nevertheless Hamilton walked
quickly home. He was surprised to find the house-door open, the
staircase perfectly dark, and several persons speaking at different
distances upon it. On the third story Walburg, who was endeavouring to
open the door of the Rosenbergs’ apartment, was loudly assuring her
mistress that when she left the house with the umbrellas the lamp had
been burning—she had trimmed it on her way downstairs. Major Stultz and
Crescenz were not far distant, for they occasionally laughed, and joined
in the conversation. Hamilton began to grope his way along the passage;
as he gained the foot of the stairs, Hildegarde, who had probably only
reached the first landing-place, exclaimed: “Is that you, Mr. Hamilton?
You had better wait until we have a light.”
Before he had time to speak, a voice quite close to her answered for
him.
“You have startled me,” cried Hildegarde, “I thought you were at the
foot of the stairs.”
Not a little surprised to find himself in the presence of a second self,
he stood still to hear what would follow.
“How did you happen to be separated from us?” asked Hildegarde.
“Met some friends at the church door, and stopped to speak to them,”
replied the voice in French.
“You must be completely wet!”
“Not at all.”
Hildegarde laughed.
“You do not believe me! Feel my arm—not even damp!”
A pause ensued—perhaps the arm was felt—the midnight representative
lowered his voice and spoke eagerly. Hamilton advanced a few steps and
heard the concluding words—“Surely, surely, if you consider me a friend,
you will let me know the true state of the case. Is it friendship for
Mademoiselle de Hoffmann that makes you of late avoid your cousin with,
I may say, such exaggerated care?”
“Exaggerated care!” repeated Hildegarde, with evident surprise.
“Well, well—never mind that—we have no time to weigh words just now;
but, tell me quickly, was it to please your father—or in anger—or
indifference—that you refused Zedwitz?”
“Have you any right to question me in this imperious manner?” cried
Hildegarde, moving quickly on.
“No,” replied the stranger, striding after her. “No; and it is a great
relief to my mind to find that I have not. I was beginning to fear you
had a—misunderstood me—would think perhaps I had trifled with your
feelings: in short, I thought you were unkind to your cousin and had
refused Zedwitz from having formed expectations which can never be
realised. Painful as it is to me to say so, I must nevertheless tell you
that nothing was further from my thoughts than——”
“Villain!” cried Hamilton, springing forward. “How dare you take
advantage of the darkness to traduce me in this manner! Who are you?”
A violent and silent struggle ensued, but the darkness was so complete
that the stranger contrived to free himself from Hamilton’s grasp,
bounded down the stairs, and closed the hall-door with such violence
that the whole house shook. Hamilton would have followed, but
Hildegarde’s hand grasped his arm, and she entreated him, almost
breathlessly, to remain quiet. “Do not go after him; it will serve no
purpose whatever. I ought to have known,” she added, walking up the now
lighted staircase, “I ought to have felt at once that it was not you!”
“It would have shown extraordinary discernment on your part,” said
Hamilton, “for not only did he whisper, and choose a foreign language
which he probably knows we often use, and in which you could not easily
detect the difference of expression—but he also asked the very questions
which I should have asked long ago, had I dared!”
Hildegarde hurried forward, while Madame Rosenberg called from the top
of the stairs: “You were determined to let us know that you had shut the
house-door after you, Mr. Hamilton, but I was glad to hear that you were
at home, for it is raining torrents, and, as you have neither cloak nor
umbrella, you must be wet to the skin.”
“I believe I am rather wet,” said Hamilton, composedly allowing himself
to be felt by his attentive hostess.
“Take off these clothes directly, or you will get one of your English
colds.”
“A cold never lasts more than a day or two here; I am no longer afraid,”
said Hamilton, following her into the drawing-room in the hope of
speaking a few words more with Hildegarde; but Madame Rosenberg insisted
on his going to bed, and as a bribe, promised herself to bring him a
piece of cake and a glass of wine.
The whole family were in the deepest sleep, and not a sound was heard in
the house, when suddenly, about three o’clock in the morning, the
Rosenberg bell was rung loud and violently. A great commotion ensued,
and the cook having been sent downstairs to open the house-door,
returned in a minute or two, preceded by Count Zedwitz’s servant, who,
running towards Hamilton’s room, seemed only able to pronounce the word
cholera.
“Who is that?” cried Madame Rosenberg, drawing a little black shawl
tightly over her shoulders, and following him with hasty steps. “What
does the man mean?”
She found him standing in Hamilton’s room, explaining that his master
had returned home ill about one o’clock; that he had gradually become
worse, and had now the cholera; he had refused to send for Mr. Hamilton,
but the doctor had said some one ought to be with him, who could write
to Edelhof directly.
“I must say I think it very unnecessary that Mr. Hamilton should be
exposed to any danger of the kind,” interposed Madame Rosenberg. “I dare
say Count Zedwitz has other friends or relatives to whom he can apply.”
The man said he had not been long with Count Zedwitz—he had seen him
more with Mr. Hamilton than anyone else—and then he looked inquiringly
towards Hamilton, who, having sprung out of bed the moment the bell
rang, had finished his hasty toilet undisturbed by the presence of
Madame Rosenberg. His answer was throwing his cloak over his shoulders,
and advancing towards the door.
“Surely you will not run the danger of getting the cholera, for a mere
acquaintance of yesterday,” she cried, anxiously placing herself before
him.
“The danger is by no means so great as you suppose,” said Hamilton. “I
doubt the cholera being contagious.”
“But I don’t in the least doubt it,” cried Madame Rosenberg, “and I feel
quite sure you will bring it into our house. Have some consideration for
us, if you have none for yourself!”
“The best plan will be not to return for a week or so,” said Hamilton.
“In fact, not until you let me know that you no longer fear infection.
Hans must bring me whatever I require, as soon as it is daylight.”
“But he must not go backwards and forwards,” began Madame Rosenberg.
“Oh, mamma!” exclaimed Hildegarde, who was standing in the passage;
“will you not speak to papa about it? I am sure——”
“Go to your bed,” cried her mother, interrupting her testily, “and don’t
stand shivering there until you get the cholera, too; go to your bed. I
assure you,” she said, turning apologetically to Hamilton, “I assure you
I don’t mean to be unkind, but I have a family, and it would be awful
were the cholera to come among us. Suppose I were to lose Franz, or one
of my boys, or even Hildegarde——”
“Do not speak of anything so dreadful,” cried Hamilton, instantly
seizing the last idea. “Nothing will induce me to return until even the
shadow of danger has past.”
“And you do not think me ill-natured?”
“Not in the least!”
Hildegarde was at the door of her room as he was about to pass—he
stopped to take leave.
“Use whatever precaution you can against infection,” she said, warmly
returning the pressure of his hand, “and,” she added, hurriedly, “and
don’t be angry when I send you the watch you gave me last night. Papa
agrees with me in thinking such a present too valuable to be accepted
from a—an acquaintance. Don’t forget to let me know as often as you can
by old Hans, how Count Zedwitz is!”
Hamilton dropped her hand with an impatient jerk, and hurried from the
house, without speaking another word.
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