THE WEDDING AU TROISIÈME.
SEVERAL days passed over. Count Raimund’s death had been much discussed
among his acquaintance, who almost unanimously agreed in thinking he had
committed the rash act to avoid a connection so much beneath him. He was
more regretted than he deserved; his various talents having made him
unusually popular, and, in the society in which he had moved, people
were not generally in the habit of studying character, or seeking
motives of action. His circle was, however, so completely unknown to the
Rosenbergs; they were so totally without any sort of communication with
any member of it, now that Count Zedwitz had ceased to frequent their
house, that they heard none of the remarks—not one of the particulars.
It spared Hildegarde much anxiety, for his wounded hand, the
blood-stained dagger, and open door, had caused many inquiries; and had
it not been for a letter which he had written to his father (in the vain
endeavour to exculpate himself), might have led to suspicions of murder.
The Rosenbergs heard nothing, and the preparations for Crescenz’s
marriage began; they were conducted with ostentatious secrecy to please
Mr. Rosenberg, who had consented to its taking place sooner than had
been expected, as the Hoffmanns had left the house, and removed
altogether to Augsburg. Madame Berger had promised to play waltzes if
the company should prove numerous enough to enable them to dance, and
Madame Lustig had spent two or three afternoons cooking for the supper.
On the wedding-day, Hamilton was not a little surprised to find Crescenz
sitting composedly at breakfast in her gingham morning wrapper, while
her father left the room to go to his office as usual.
“I believe I have dressed too early,” he said, glancing at his studied
toilet; “may I ask at what hour——”
“At five in the afternoon,” answered Hildegarde. “Mamma has determined
to keep her promise, and has desired our friends to meet us at the
Frauen Church. On our return it will be almost dark, and no one will
know that we have a wedding in the house.”
“But we shall dance,” cried Crescenz, “and Major Stultz said I might
waltz as often as I pleased with you this evening!”
“How very kind!” said Hamilton, smiling; “and how often do you intend to
make use of the permission?”
“That depends upon you, I should think,” she answered, blushing.
“You had better not trust to my discretion. I shall be tempted to make
up for lost time, and dance with you the whole evening. You have put no
sugar in my coffee,” turning with a look of mock distress to Hildegarde.
“Did you forget it on purpose to punish me for being so late?”
“No. I—I was thinking of something.”
“And that something?”
“Is not of much importance. I was thinking that, had you made that
speech to Crescenz a few months ago, I should have been angry, for I
should have imagined you were amusing yourself at her expense—whereas I
now know that you mean nothing, but that you will dance with her two or
three times this evening.”
“And,” said Hamilton, warmly, “and that I like to dance with her, and am
obliged to her for wishing to dance with me. I mean that, too.”
“I knew you did,” cried Crescenz, triumphantly. “I am sure I always
understood you better than Hildegarde, notwithstanding all her
cleverness; but from the time that Count Zedwitz told her that you were
already quite a man of the world, a—a—what was the word, Hildegarde?”
“I don’t remember the word,” she answered, calmly.
“It meant, I remember,” said Crescenz, “a person who was too cold and
calculating for his years—who was too worldly to have much feeling.”
“That was unjust—that was saying too much,” cried Hamilton, colouring.
“So Hildegarde thought also, but she has always insisted that you are
proud and calculating, and that you seek to amuse yourself with other
people’s feelings and weaknesses.”
“Is this your opinion of me?” said Hamilton, turning to Hildegarde.
“It was,” she replied, steadily.
“Oh, Hildegarde is not afraid to say what she thinks; her opinion of you
must have greatly changed, if it be what you would like to hear.”
Hildegarde moved behind her sister to hide the intense blush which now
spread over her features, and, placing her hand on her shoulder, perhaps
to prevent her from turning round, she said, in a low voice, and with an
embarrassed manner, “Crescenz, you have no idea, I am sure, how you are
paining me at this moment. You are forcing me to confess, that I have
not in this instance acted towards you with my usual candour. I have the
very highest opinion of Mr. Hamilton.”
“Well, to be sure!” exclaimed Crescenz, while she endeavoured to catch a
glimpse of her sister’s face, but Hildegarde moved still further back,
and continued: “That I disliked him at first is most true, more on your
account, however, than on mine; for his open hostility to me was
excusable—his covert attentions to you unpardonable.”
“But,” said Crescenz, who seemed altogether to have forgotten Hamilton’s
presence; “but when did you begin to think differently of him?”
“From the time that he has ceased to be the subject of altercation
between us,” answered Hildegarde, bending over her sister, and kissing
her forehead.
“But, Hildegarde,” cried Crescenz, turning round with unexpected energy,
“before we went to the ball, do you remember, when I told you that Lina
Berger had said that Mr. Hamilton might still be my _scha_——”
Hildegarde’s two hands closed over her mouth, and the word was stifled
in utterance. “Good gracious! I quite forgot he was still here,” she
cried, making a slight effort to laugh, and then running out of the
room.
A long pause ensued. Hildegarde began to arrange the cups and saucers on
a tray, until Hamilton, without looking up, asked her if she could
remember the very time when her opinion of him had changed.
“Perfectly; it was the night of Crescenz’s quarrel with Major Stultz.
Your explanations by moonlight in our room were upright and honourable.”
“And you forgave my having flirted with her at Seon?”
“Yes; and I forgave your having tried to do the same with me here.”
“The case is totally different,” began Hamilton.
“There is some difference, I allow,” said Hildegarde; “you warned me so
well, that it would have been inexcusable my not understanding
you—besides, I had the advantage of hearing from Count Zedwitz, that you
considered yourself at liberty to act as you pleased after having so
fairly warned me.”
“Zedwitz’s love for you made him forget his friendship for me
altogether,” said Hamilton, with some irritation.
“I do not blame your conduct to me,” said Hildegarde; “you wanted to
improve yourself in German, and found quarrelling or flirting with me
the most exciting method. I have profited by your society also, for I
have not only learned to pronounce English, but,” she added, with an
arch smile, “I begin to understand something of the art of flirting,
too, of which, I do assure you, I knew nothing when our acquaintance
began.”
“Oh, do not say that,” cried Hamilton; “you are only joking, I am sure,
for you have no inclination that way, but your sister Crescenz——”
“My sister Crescenz knew nothing of your propensities that way at Seon,
and, therefore, I blame your conduct towards her. Your love, if you ever
felt any, was pardonable; people cannot help that, I believe—but your
endeavours to make her dislike Major Stultz were quite unpardonable.”
“I acknowledge it,” said Hamilton, gravely, “and regret it.”
“That fault you were able in a measure to repair,” continued Hildegarde,
“but, perhaps, you are not aware that you have been the cause of
frequent altercations between me and my sister—and that almost total
estrangement has taken place between us in consequence.”
“And is that my fault, too?” asked Hamilton.
“I don’t know,” she replied, sorrowfully. “Before we became acquainted
with you, we never had the most trifling difference of opinion—and now
we never think alike, and all confidence is at an end!”
“You take the matter too seriously,” said Hamilton; “I am convinced your
sister is not aware of your estrangement.”
“I am afraid you are mistaken——” began Hildegarde, but at this moment
Crescenz entered the room; she was dressed to go out, and asked her
sister to accompany her.
“Let us be off,” said Hildegarde, “we have no time to lose.”
“May I go with you?” asked Hamilton.
“N—o, I rather think not,” replied Hildegarde.
“But he may come for us in an hour or so,” said Crescenz, nodding to him
with a smile.
“Tell me where I shall find you.”
Crescenz coloured and hesitated. “In——in my——in the——in Major Stultz’s
apartments.”
“We are going to arrange the furniture,” said Hildegarde, closing the
door.
The hour had scarcely half elapsed, when Hamilton found himself again
with the two sisters; he was without ceremony desired to make himself
useful, and immediately employed in assisting to arrange a press which
was to be filled with linen—afterwards the chairs and tables were moved
about in all directions, the _étagère_ admired, and finally they
adjourned to the kitchen, where Crescenz, with amusing exultation,
exhibited, one by one, her culinary utensils to Hamilton, explaining
their uses, and assuring him that though her mother intended to give her
Walburg as servant, she was determined to cook everything herself. While
she was yet speaking, old Hans came to say she was expected home—they
were to dine earlier than usual, and the hair-dresser was expected
before two o’clock. She became very pale, and after having dismissed
him, sat down on a little wooden stool, and began to cry. Hildegarde
silently made a sign to Hamilton to leave them, and greatly wondering at
the sudden change, he walked back to the drawing-room.
On glancing round at the furniture which Crescenz considered so
splendid, he could not help smiling at the frugality of her taste. Was
he to be envied for his more lavish ideas? Assuredly not. Everything in
this world, from the diamond to the first thing beyond the absolute
necessaries of life, is valued fictitiously. The actual worth depends on
the mind of the possessor, and is regulated in civilised countries by
unconsciously made comparisons—the mental effort losing itself in the
result. To Crescenz the thin white muslin curtains were quite as
desirable, even on a cold day in February, as to Hamilton the richest
silk—the yellow sofa, with its hard-stuffed cushions and perpendicular
sides, was intended to be a seat of honour for a guest, and was not
adapted for reclining—even Hamilton must have failed in discovering a
posture of repose upon it, and he had a most decided talent for making
himself comfortable. The six chairs had long thin legs, but the wood
which had been spared on the legs had been conscientiously bestowed on
the backs, which were tastefully formed to represent hearts. A table,
two chests of drawers, and the _étagère_ completed the furniture of the
room. As Hamilton stood before the latter, trying to admire the cups,
saucers, glasses, and bronze candlesticks arranged upon it, and
reflected in the looking-glasses which for that purpose formed the back,
Hildegarde and her sister entered; Crescenz, with the traces of recent
tears on her face, nevertheless looked complacently around her, for the
twentieth time arranged the folds of the curtains, dusted the table with
her handkerchief, and then led the way downstairs.
At five o’clock, a party of about sixteen or eighteen persons assembled
in the private chapel of the Frauen Church to witness the marriage of
Major Stultz and Crescenz Rosenberg. The bride shed no tears, she looked
very pretty and very shy—the bridegroom rather stouter and redder than
usual. Madame Rosenberg openly expressed her satisfaction, and hoped the
day was not far distant when she should be in the same place, and for
the same purpose, on Hildegarde’s account. Hildegarde was pale and
silent, and Mr. Rosenberg alone showed that he was endeavouring to
control his emotion.
On their return home, they found the rooms lighted, and supper prepared
under the superintendence of Madame Lustig. They spent three hours at
table, and then they danced, and then they ate, and then they danced
again until past midnight, when, to conclude the festivity, punch was
made. Let it not be supposed that this was, as in England, a simple
mixture of water, sugar, and Cognac, or rum. In Germany, it is a
complicated business, and notwithstanding the previous preparations of
Madame Lustig, Madame Rosenberg and three or four matrons accompanied
her to the kitchen to assist in the brewing. Each had a different
receipt—and a separation of the parties became absolutely necessary, as
one proposed using black, another green tea, for the mixture, while the
others were for rice-water or wine. Hamilton, who had become a sort of
authority in the house on all subjects, was consulted, but on his
venturing to suggest pure water, Madame Rosenberg laughingly pushed him
towards the drawing-room, saying, it was evident he knew nothing about
the matter—he might dance until the punch was ready!
Most excellent it proved to be, however concocted, when at length Madame
Rosenberg appeared with a soup-tureen full, and dispensed it ladlewise
to the surrounding company, who then crowded round Major Stultz and
Crescenz, in order to clink their glasses, and partake of a colossal
sponge-cake, which the latter distributed in ample portions.
A short time afterwards, old Hans announced, “The carriage for Miss
Crescenz,” and she retired with evident reluctance to put on her shawl.
The whole company prepared to leave at the same time, and were soon
altogether in the corridor. Crescenz embraced her step-mother, and
somewhat formally thanked her for her kindness and generosity. She held
out her hand to Hamilton, and then threw herself into her sister’s arms,
and burst into tears. “Come, come, Crescenz,” cried her father, with an
attempt at gayety he was far from feeling, “this will never do—you are
taking leave as if seas and not streets were to separate us. Come,” and
he drew her arm within his, and led her downstairs. The others followed,
all but Hildegarde, and after a moment’s hesitation, Hamilton. They
returned to the deserted drawing-room, where Hildegarde threw open the
window and leaned out.
They soon heard Crescenz’s voice saying cheerfully, “Good-night,
Lina—good-night, papa—good-night, Hildegarde.”
“Good-night,” answered her sister from the window, and the carriage
drove off.
“Well, have we not spent a merry evening!” cried Madame Rosenberg,
triumphantly, as she almost breathlessly entered the room a few minutes
afterwards. “This has been a gay wedding after all, you see, Franz.”
“It has,” he answered, sinking dejectedly on the sofa; “I am quite
provoked with myself for feeling so low-spirited. I believe I am not
well.”
“Ah, bah,” cried his wife, laughing, “if you had been ill, you could not
have supped as you have done. Perhaps, however, you have eaten too much
fish, or turkey, or ham? At all events, I am sure you are tired and
sleepy, so you may go to bed, while we put everything in order again.”
Mr. Rosenberg, as usual, followed his wife’s advice without
contradiction. He held Hamilton’s hand for a moment as if he intended to
say something more than the good-night which was scarcely audible.
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