WHERE IS THE BRIDEGROOM?
HAMILTON’s slumbers were disturbed by confused dreams of Hildegarde and
Raimund; but towards morning he fell into a heavy sleep, from which he
was awakened by the return of Mr. Rosenberg, his wife and children; the
latter, probably to indemnify themselves for their forced good behaviour
during their absence, now scampered riotously up and down the corridor,
blowing little wooden trumpets, which had been given them by their
grandfather just before they had left him.
When Hamilton was dressed, he found the whole family assembled at
breakfast, all in high spirits. Crescenz sprang to meet him in her
bridesmaid’s dress, looking so pretty that Major Stultz’s laboured
compliments were for once not only pardonable, but even allowable.
“Only think!” she exclaimed, “Hildegarde does not like being bridesmaid,
though Marie is much more her friend than mine! She says she has got a
headache, and a cold.”
“I knew,” observed Madame Lustig, “I knew she would catch cold, when I
saw her turning the ice-cream yesterday. I ought not to have permitted
it.”
“The cold is not of much importance,” observed Madame Rosenberg; “I
rather think she dislikes putting on a thin white muslin dress in the
morning.”
“A very natural dislike at this time of year,” said her husband. “It
makes me freeze only to look at Crescenz.”
“Oh, I don’t feel at all cold,” cried Crescenz; “I was down at the
Hoffmanns’ too, and there is such a splendid _déjeûner_ laid out—and
Marie really looks quite lovely in her white silk dress and orange
flowers!”
“You must excuse my doubting your last assertion, Crescenz,” observed
her father, smiling. “Mademoiselle de Hoffmann is a most amiable,
excellent person, but as to looking quite lovely in any dress, the thing
is impossible.”
“This day week,” said Major Stultz, pompously, “we shall see a bride who
looks lovely in every dress!”
At this moment Hildegarde entered the room; her paleness was still more
apparent than the night before, and her drooping eyelids showed plainly
that she had not slept. She wished Hamilton good morning without looking
at him, and then turned to her father.
“My dear child,” said the latter, taking her hand compassionately, “you
seem really ill. Shall I send for Doctor Berger?”
“Oh, no!” she answered, “I—I—am only cold,” and she walked shivering to
the stove.
“It will soon be time to go downstairs,” said Madame Rosenberg. “I think
we had better dress ourselves for the occasion. This _hint_,” she added,
“is intended for the Major too—he seems to forget the present, in
anticipation of the future.”
Major Stultz laughed, bowed to Crescenz, who was not looking at him, and
left the room with his future father-in-law.
The moment the door closed, Crescenz bounded towards her sister. “Oh,
Hildegarde, you have no idea how beautifully arranged everything is
downstairs! What a pity there are to be so few people! It was very
stupid of Oscar to prefer driving off into the country at this time of
year, to having a gay dance in the evening. However, Marie is quite
satisfied. Do you know, the old Countess Raimund was below, looking so
red and apoplectic. She did not take the least notice of me, though I
heard her ask who I was. I dare say her husband would not acknowledge us
either; but he was not there. They said he was to come with Oscar.
Another carriage has just driven up to the door. Perhaps that may be
Oscar. I wonder, will he be married in uniform? No—these are some
acquaintances of the Hoffmanns’—we don’t know them.”
As she continued at the window, her sister approached Hamilton. “Is not
this a melancholy mummery?” she said, glancing at her bridal dress. “I
feel as if I were under the influence of a frightful dream, forced to
act against my inclination, and in momentary expectation of some
dreadful catastrophe. Am I then really awake?” she added, extending her
cold hand to him.
“I hope at least I am not dreaming,” he said, holding it firmly, and
looking at her until a transient flush passed across her pale features.
“It will be impossible for me to appear surprised when I hear what I
already know but too well,” she said.
“No one will observe you in such a moment, and I will endeavour to
remain near you.”
Here Madame Rosenberg summoned them, and they all descended the stairs
together. There were about twenty persons assembled, to whom Madame de
Hoffmann was talking in her usual loud, sharp manner, while she paid
particular attention to a grand, stiff-looking, elderly woman, in whom
Hamilton immediately recognised the mother of Raimund. Hildegarde and
Crescenz went into the adjoining room, where the bride was loitering
until the arrival of the bridegroom. Hamilton walked to the window, and
awaited in anxious silence the expected scene; a minute after, Count
Raimund’s carriage drove to the door. Without waiting to see who
descended from it, Madame de Hoffmann conducted her daughter into the
drawing-room, and while occupied in receiving the congratulations of her
assembled friends, the poor girl did not perceive that her mother had
been somewhat mysteriously called out of the room; soon after the
Countess Raimund was summoned, and she returned no more; Hamilton saw
her assisted into her carriage, and driven off. Then a couple of elderly
gentlemen and Mr. Rosenberg were sent for; the latter alone returned,
deprived of his usual serenity, and evidently at a loss what to say. He
approached Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, looked round the room, and then
said: “I am sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant tidings—but—Count
Raimund has become so suddenly and alarmingly ill, that his mother has
been obliged to return home—and—the marriage—cannot possibly take
place—to-day.”
“Ill!” exclaimed Marie, growing very pale. “Where is my mother?”
She entered at the moment, and Hamilton saw from her extreme agitation
that she knew all. She spoke hurriedly and confusedly with her guests,
unconsciously showing her impatience to get rid of them. The Rosenbergs
were the last, and were about to retire, when Marie laid her hand on
Hildegarde’s arm, and begged her to remain with her.
“Mademoiselle Hildegarde will not be able to offer you much consolation,
Marie,” said her mother, bitterly; “there is little or no chance of
Count Raimund’s recovery.”
“While there is life there is hope,” said the poor girl, bursting into
tears. “I suppose he has got the cholera, but many people have recovered
from it, and why should not he?”
Madame Rosenberg left the room, followed by her husband, Crescenz, and
Hamilton.
About an hour afterwards, Hildegarde returned home, and changed her
dress. She found her father, mother, and Major Stultz talking eagerly in
the drawing-room; the moment she appeared, her father exclaimed, “See
there is Hildegarde already in mourning! I am sure a natural feeling of
propriety induced her to put on a black dress.”
“A natural feeling of pride,” cried Madame Rosenberg; “she wishes people
to know that a Count Raimund was her cousin; her aunt, however, the
Countess, examined her superciliously enough through her _lorgnette_
to-day, without in the least appearing to remember the relationship.”
“What is the matter?” said Hildegarde appealing to her father.
“The matter!” cried Madame Rosenberg. “Your father most absurdly wishes
you and your sister to put on mourning for your worthless cousin, and
proposes Crescenz’s marriage being deferred until after Easter. Heaven
knows, in these cholera times, where we may all be in six or seven
weeks.”
“Babette!” said her husband reproachfully, “this is going too far.”
“Well, I did not quite mean to say so much, but I am against any further
delays; let the girls wear mourning if you wish it, and I promise to
arrange the wedding so quietly that no one will know anything about the
matter.”
“This is a reasonable proposal,” said Major Stultz. “Crescenz can put on
her mourning after her marriage and wear it for six months, if you wish
it.”
“A few weeks, for decency’s sake,” said Mr. Rosenberg, “I certainly do
desire. Count Oscar at least acknowledged the relationship, and his
parents’ neglect cannot alter the position of my daughters, or prevent
them from mourning the unhappy end of their mother’s nephew.”
In the meantime Hamilton had approached Hildegarde. and asked her how
her friend had borne the intelligence.
“We did not venture to tell her. She still thinks and talks of cholera;
but,” she added, in a low voice, “imagine Madame de Hoffmann taking me
aside, and in the most abrupt and unfeeling manner informing me of the
real facts, fixing her small inquisitive eyes on my face the whole time.
She little knew how well prepared I was for her intelligence.”
“What did you say?”
“Very little. That it was a melancholy affair altogether. That Oscar had
possessed some good and many brilliant qualities, but that, had he
lived, I feared he was not calculated to have made Marie happy.”
“Did she agree with you?”
“More than I wished. She said, that after the first month she had
endeavoured to draw back, but that the Raimunds had not allowed her. She
had long perceived that Oscar did not care for her daughter, and had
suspected that I was the object of his love, and that I returned it too,
but she said she was now convinced of her error, and begged my pardon
for her unjust suspicion.”
“And you?”
“I pardoned her without difficulty, as you may suppose. Indeed, Oscar’s
conduct must have alarmed and irritated any reasonable mother. Marie’s
blindness has been incomprehensible to me.”
“You forget that love is blind.”
“Yes, to faults, but not to flagrant neglect.”
“To weaknesses, faults, ill usage, to everything,” said Hamilton.
“I suppose it is so,” said Hildegarde, thoughtfully. “Marie certainly
was blind to all his errors, and will probably ever remain so. I was
dazzled myself at first, as you may remember.”
“Perfectly,” said Hamilton, dryly.
“I know I have a sad habit of taking likings and dislikings,” she
continued, listlessly.
“Yes, and on such occasions you are not exactly blind; you can even
mistake faults for perfections.”
“I am afraid that it is true,” said Hildegarde, leaning back in her
chair, with half-closed eyes, and speaking very slowly. “I remember for
some time thinking Madame de Hoffmann agreeable and entertaining; her
severe remarks I mistook for wit, until they were directed against
myself.”
“And what an antipathy you took to me at first sight!” observed
Hamilton.
“You have no idea how she disliked you,” cried Crescenz, who had,
unperceived, approached them. They both started, and then blushed, as
she continued, “if you had only heard her in Berchtesgaden railing at
the cold, proud Englishman.”
“Crescenz,” said Hildegarde, with evident effort, “don’t let us talk of
that now; I cannot defend myself against you both to-day, I am too
tired.”
“Perhaps you begin to think differently of him,” said Crescenz, archly;
“Lina Berger may after all be right. When we were waiting for you last
night at her house, she said she thought your hatred might in the end
turn into——”
“Oh, Crescenz,” gasped Hildegarde, in so unnatural a tone that her
father called out, “Why, what’s the matter there?”
“Hildegarde is getting into a passion,” said Madame Rosenberg. “Do you
not see how she is changing colour?”
And changing colour she was with frightful rapidity; no one but Hamilton
knew that she had been twenty-four hours without eating, for in the
hurry of preparing for the wedding, her not breakfasting had passed
unobserved. None but he knew the shock which her nerves had received the
night before, the constraint under which she had been labouring; he
alone understood that Crescenz’s last remark was the drop which made the
cup of bitterness to overflow, and yet he was quite as much shocked as
the others when, stretching out her arm, and vainly grasping the air for
support, she fell senseless on the floor.
“Crescenz, what have you said to your sister?” cried her father, rushing
forward.
“I don’t know—I don’t remember. What did I say?” she cried, appealing
with a look of alarm to Hamilton.
Mr. Rosenberg raised Hildegarde, who, however, gave no sign of returning
life; he was so alarmed and trembled so violently, that Hamilton was
obliged to assist him to lay her on the sofa, while Crescenz opened the
window, and Madame Rosenberg went for water. Their united efforts at
length brought her to consciousness; she opened her eyes, perceived her
father’s terror as he hung over her, and while assuring him that she was
quite well again, relapsed into a state of insensibility, which lasted
until she had been removed to her room, and placed on her bed.
Doctor Berger was sent for. He hoped her illness might prove of no
consequence, but she must be kept very quiet; there were symptoms which
might lead to typhus or brain fever. Crescenz repeated this opinion to
her sister, who, on hearing it, immediately desired to see Hamilton.
“But not now—not here,” said Crescenz.
“No, I believe I must write a few lines, and you can give my note to him
as he passes on his way to his room.”
Crescenz brought a pencil and paper, and Hildegarde wrote in English:
“You have heard the doctor’s opinion of my illness; I think, myself, it
will only prove a severe cold. Should it, however, end in fever, and
should I become _delirious_, you must go to Mademoiselle Hortense, one
of the governesses in our school, tell her my situation, and say I
request her to come and take charge of me. My step-mother will be
satisfied with the arrangement, and you have no refusal to fear; my
motives you will easily guess.”
“May I read it?” asked Crescenz as she received the paper from her
sister—“ah! it is English; how fond you are of everything English.”
“It is a commission to Mademoiselle Hortense; you may see her name,”
said Hildegarde. “Mr. Hamilton can more easily go to her than you can.”
“Oh, if that be all, I am glad you have chosen him, for you know I am
horribly afraid of her.”
“I know,” said Hildegarde, pressing her hand on her forehead, and
turning away.
The next two days were passed over in uncertainty, and Hamilton wandered
about disconsolately enough; but on the third, Hildegarde appeared to
relieve his mind; and so great was her father’s joy at her recovery,
that he actually spent the whole evening at home, without even requiring
a rubber of whist.
---------------------