AN UNEXPECTED MEETING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
MADAME ROSENBERG took possession of her father’s house more quietly than
had been expected; he resigned his keys and authority with a solemnity
which quite subdued her, and a whole week elapsed before any
extraordinary bustle was perceptible; at the end of that time a
scrubbing, and washing, and painting began, which drove the old man to
the neighbouring inn, and Hamilton into Munich, for some days. It was
very disagreeable, but certainly the house appeared metamorphosed when
it was at an end, and no complaints were heard, excepting a few faint
murmurs from Mr. Eisenmann about the vine which was trained against the
front of the house being covered with whitewash.
Hildegarde, to her infinite satisfaction, was not obliged to learn
cooking—she had shown a too decided distaste and want of talent; she
became, however, a tolerably expert ironer, and it was amusing to see
Hamilton sitting, day after day, beside the table covered with heaps of
linen, a volume of Schiller on the philosophy of Herder in his hand,
reading aloud, in order (as he explained to Madame Rosenberg) to improve
his German accent, about which his family had become very anxious of
late, and from which he concluded they had some hopes of placing him at
one of the German courts; however, he did not feel particularly
interested on that subject, nor, indeed, on anything that had reference
to the future; he lived from day to day, reckoning the time profitably
or unprofitably spent, according to its having been or not having been
spent in Hildegarde’s society; he might truly say with Proteus of
Verona—
“I leave myself, my friends, and all for love.
Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me;
Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,
War with good counsel, set the world at nought—”
And three months passed like so many days, and three more would have
followed them in blissful monotony, had not a circumstance, trivial in
itself, led in its consequences to an abrupt termination of this mode of
life, or waste of life—whichever the reader may consider it.
The Munich midsummer fair had commenced, and Madame Rosenberg, not
having found time in one day to make her usual purchases, decided upon
going a second; she put it off, however, until the very last, and when
the morning came was suffering so much from headache that she was
obliged to remain at home. As they had promised to dine at twelve
o’clock with the Major, she thought it better to send Hildegarde and
Gustle, and though at first she insisted that they were to go in their
grandfather’s little old carriage, she at length yielded to Hamilton’s
remonstrances and entreaties, and after he had passed a good half hour
at her bedroom door, making promises of the most varied description,
allowed them to drive with him, and be under his care during the day.
Crescenz received them, as usual, with childish delight; her greatest
pleasure on such occasions was to astonish them with a variety of tarts
and sweetmeats, and they always found it difficult to get away. On this
day it was easier, for she intended to accompany them to the fair.
Blazius had insisted on her buying some new muslin dresses, he was so
thoughtful, and so generous! In fact, they were a very merry party; for
Major Stultz had ceased to be jealous; his wife now really liked him,
and was more obedient than a child; the thought of disputing his will
had never entered her mind, and she appealed to him in the most
infantine manner on every occasion, while, captivated by her beauty and
innocence, he was invariably indulgent and generous almost to
prodigality. She assured her sister, therefore, with the most perfect
sincerity, as they walked together through the fair, that she considered
herself the most fortunate woman in the world, that she could never have
been so happy with anyone as with Major Stultz—no, not even with Mr.
Hamilton—Blazius had quite convinced her of that!
They loitered about nearly two hours, and Hamilton, unutterably wearied,
was slowly following Hildegarde, carrying her various little parcels of
ribbons and pins, until the arrival of Hans with the carriage should
relieve him, when he was suddenly seized by both arms and familiarly
addressed by some persons behind him. They were two of his nearest
relations, passing through Munich on their way home from Italy, and were
evidently more glad to see him than he to see them.
“Where have you been hiding yourself, Alfred? We were at your supposed
lodgings, and no one could tell us anything about you. Any letters left
would be called for, which sounded very mysterious, as, had you left for
Vienna or Berlin, your letters would have been forwarded _sans façon_, I
suppose. Come, give an account of yourself. I shall be asked a thousand
questions, you know, when I go home—that is, if you don’t accompany us,
which you might as well do, all things considered, and—Uncle Jack——”
No, Hamilton had no intention of returning home until the very last day
of his leave of absence had expired.
“Well, as we start in a day or two, you will spend the evening with us
at least?”
At this moment Hans appeared, and said, “the carriage was ready.”
Hamilton desired him to wait at the termination of the booths, and then
turning to his companions said, with some embarrassment, “Spend the
evening with you! oh, of course; but I have promised to drive home a
lady who lives a little out of the town.”
“Oh, there’s a lady, is there?”
“Yes: she is at present with her sister, making some purchases.”
“Ah, perhaps these are also some of them?” cried one of his cousins,
peeping with an affectation of extreme care into one of the parcels;
“ribbons, I declare, and hair-pins! _ergo_, young—where is she?”
“I don’t—know,” replied Hamilton, looking down the row of booths, at one
of which Hildegarde was standing.
“It’s that tall girl with the small waist, I’m certain.”
“Well, it is that tall girl,” said Hamilton, half laughing; “the sooner
you let me go take her home, the sooner I shall be back with you.”
“Let him go, let him go,” cried his other cousin; and Hamilton, with an
impatient gesture, walked quickly on, followed at a little distance by
both. He took a hasty leave of Major Stultz and Crescenz, and hurried
Hildegarde to the end of the fair. Just as they were seated in the
phaeton, and Hamilton was taking the reins in his hand, his cousin
called out, “Hollo, Alfred! you never asked where we were stopping. I
think you are going to give us the slip!”
“You are at Havard’s, I suppose,” said Hamilton, not in the least
endeavouring to correct the impatient movements of his horses.
“Yes. Wait a moment, I want to ask you a question.”
Hamilton bent down; his face, by degrees became crimson, and he glanced
furtively at Hildegarde, as if he feared she might have overheard the
whisper; but she, quite unconscious that so many eyes were fixed upon
her, was leaning back, and absently twisting her purse round her
fingers.
Hamilton drove off at a furious rate, but scarcely were they out of the
town, when, throwing the reins to Hans, he stepped over the seat and
placed himself beside Hildegarde.
“I am surprised,” she observed, with a smile, “that you did not remain
with your friends, and send us home with Hans.”
“It would have been the wisest thing I could have done: it was
confoundedly stupid, my not thinking of doing so. Stop!” he cried to
Hans; but directly after, sinking back on his seat, he added, “No—go
on,” and then murmured, “it is too late now. The best plan will be not
to return. The less he knows, the less he can talk about.”
Hildegarde bent forward. “Talk about what?” she asked.
“You cannot understand,” he answered, quickly.
“No: I perceive I cannot. I have not the most remote idea whether or not
you were glad to see these friends.”
“They are my relations, my cousins; and that one who last spoke to
me—did you observe him?”
“Not particularly.”
“That is Harry Waldcott, a great friend of my brother John’s, the most
amusing, worthless, extravagant fellow in the world. Were he to find out
where I am, he would come to the Iron Works to-morrow, establish himself
at the inn, use my horses, abuse myself, laugh at your step-mother,
bully Mr. Eisenmann, and, for all I know, fall in love with you!”
“Dreadful person!” cried Hildegarde, laughing.
“As it is, he has seen enough—too much, unfortunately, I think,” he
continued, with increasing irritation of manner. “I think I hear his
exaggerations to my father, his insinuations when talking to my uncle!
No: he shall never know where I am—nothing shall tempt me into Munich
for a fortnight at least!”
“You think, perhaps, that your father and uncle would disapprove of your
being at the Iron Works?”
“Think!” cried Hamilton, “I am sure of it. My father would say I was
losing my time; my uncle, that I was making a fool of myself.”
Neither of them spoke a word until they reached home, and Hamilton was
remarkably thoughtful during the remainder of the evening.
The next day he was as cheerful as ever; and having from his window seen
Hildegarde walking towards the arbour with some paper and an ink-stand
in her hand, he took up the book they were reading together, and
followed her. She had just finished making a pen when he entered, and
throwing it on the table, she leaned forward and began, rather formally:
“Mr. Hamilton——”
“Pray, call me Alfred—I have long wished it, and we are quite intimate
enough to admit of your doing so. I called you Hildegarde the first
month I was in your house.”
“It is perhaps an English custom,” she said, half inquiringly.
Hamilton did not answer. The fact was, at the commencement of their
acquaintance he had considered both Hildegarde and her sister so
infinitely beneath him in rank that he had almost immediately called
them by their Christian names.
“I suppose,” she continued, “if I know you well enough to call you
Alfred, I may venture to say——”
“You may venture to say anything you please.”
“Well, then—Alfred—I think the sooner you leave us—leave the Iron
Works—the better.”
“Do you?” he said, with a tolerably successful effort to appear
unconcerned. “I suppose what I said yesterday, when I was vexed, has
made you come to this conclusion.”
“Yes; and though I cannot perceive that you have exactly been making a
fool of yourself, I think it very evident that you have been losing your
time here.”
“I wish I could lose the remainder of my life in the same way. I have
been immeasurably happy lately.”
“You said your cousin would exaggerate—would insinuate——”
“Did you understand what I meant when I said that?” cried Hamilton,
quickly.
“I believe I did; and I half wished you had allowed him to come here,
and see that he was mistaken; he would soon have perceived that your
friends have no cause for anxiety—that friendship alone exists between
us.”
“He would have seen no such thing, Hildegarde, at least as far as I am
concerned, and that you know as well as I do. That you have limited your
measure of regard for me is a proof—of—of—no matter what; I am most
happy that it is so.” And Hamilton felt at that moment as unhappy and
indignant as he had ever been in his life.
“Do you not think,” said Hildegarde, bending over the table, as she
played with the pen, “do you not think it would be better to leave us
before you are ordered to do so?”
“No,” answered Hamilton, almost harshly.
“But,” she continued, bending still lower, to conceal her heightened
colour, “but suppose I were not here, would you still remain?”
“Can you doubt it?” cried Hamilton, ironically. “How could I ever
willingly quit this tranquil retreat? The pastoral beauties of these
grounds! The society in every way so suited to my tastes and habits!
The——”
“Enough, enough!” cried Hildegarde, seizing her pen, and with burning
cheeks, but steady hand, she rapidly wrote a letter, while Hamilton,
standing at the entrance, watched her with an odd mixture of anger and
admiration. He waited until she had signed her name, and then placing
his hand on the paper, asked if the letter concerned him.
“I might easily equivocate, and say no, as you are neither directly nor
indirectly mentioned in it; but that would not be the truth. The letter
is to Madame Hortense. I am now quite resolved to leave——this place.”
“May I read it?”
“If you insist——”
He took the letter; it was in French, short and forcibly written, as
most letters are when composed under the influence of excited feelings.
Hamilton’s anger increased as he read; her proud determination of manner
irritated him beyond measure, and, ashamed of the agitation which his
trembling hands betrayed, he first crushed and then tore it to pieces.
“My letter!” cried Hildegarde, starting up with all her former vehemence
of manner. “How dare you——” she stopped and sat down, breathing quickly
and audibly.
“You are in a passion,” said Hamilton.
“I was,” she replied, taking a long breath; “it is over.”
“Oh, no; be angry, I entreat; say—do something outrageous or I can have
no hope of forgiveness. We have changed characters; you have learned to
control your anger, and have me now in your power; be merciful!”
“Rather tell me to be candid,” she replied, rising; “writing that letter
in your presence was an unnecessary display of self-control; I was not
so calm as I wished you to suppose me.”
“Well, you certainly are the most honourable——”
“Don’t praise me,” she said, hastily; “I cannot listen to you when I am
so dissatisfied with myself. I fancied my temper was corrected; I find
it has merely not been tried.”
“Your temper is a very good one,” said Hamilton. “That you doubt
yourself, and are on your guard, is rather an advantage than otherwise.
I always have been considered so good-tempered, that when I feel angry
it never occurs to me to conceal it, and the consequence is that you
have seen me forget myself more than once.”
Just then Madame Rosenberg entered the garden, holding a very diminutive
note in her hand. “I am come,” she said, “to remind you of a promise
which you made to a lady, I hope with the consent of her husband.”
“I don’t know any lady likely to remind me of a promise, excepting,
perhaps, Madame Berger.”
“Exactly; the Doctor will not be at home to-morrow, and as the weather
is so fine she proposes spending the day here.”
“Well,” said Hamilton.
“Well, and Crescenz and the Major write to know if you will take them
also in your phaeton when you drive into Munich for Lina.”
“Oh, certainly,” said Hamilton, laughing; “it was to Crescenz I made the
offer, and it was Madame Berger who accepted it. You may remember,
Hildegarde, the beginning of the month, when we all went to drink coffee
at the Stultzs’, and had such excellent ices afterwards. I wonder they
did not say anything yesterday when we were with them.”
“I suppose,” observed Madame Rosenberg, “that they saw Lina after you
left; but at all events you will go for them?”
“Yes, and at a very early hour.”
“Oh, of course,” she cried, nodding her head jokingly; “that means at
ten o’clock, I suppose.”
“It means at five o’clock.”
“Ah, bah! as if you could get up at four!”
“I can and will. Crescenz must give me breakfast, and I hope to be out
of Munich before seven, for various reasons!”
“The dust, perhaps!”
“Dust or dirt,” said Hamilton, carelessly. “If Madame Berger cannot
leave so early, we can send Hans with the carriage at a later hour;
though I would rather she would stay at home as far as I am concerned.”
“I cannot believe that,” said Madame Rosenberg, “for I never saw you get
on with anyone as you do with her; if I were the Doctor I would not
allow it.”
“Nor I either, if I were the Doctor,” said Hamilton, laughing; “but he
is not, perhaps, aware that her usual vivacity degenerates into romping
when she is here, and she is much too young and much too pretty for
anyone to expect that I——”
“Oh, after all there is no great harm; you only scamper about like a
pair of children, but I should not like to see either Crescenz or
Hildegarde doing the same.”
Hamilton looked at Hildegarde; there was something in the expression of
her face which made him imagine that she, perhaps, had not quite
approved of the scampering about of which her mother spoke.
“Am I to write an answer to this note?” she asked, as she took it out of
Madame Rosenberg’s hand.
Her mother nodded her head, and left the garden. Hildegarde wrote, and
Hamilton again leaned against the entrance of the arbour and looked in.
“Are you waiting for this letter too?” she asked, smiling.
“I was not thinking of it,” he replied. “I want to know if you, at
least, believe that I would rather Madame Berger did not come here
to-morrow?”
Hildegarde began to scribble on the blotting paper with great diligence.
“I see you do not believe me.”
“I do, partly, especially if you think you must be quieter than on
former occasions, now that mamma has remarked it. The fact is, I think
Lina altogether to blame, and I have often admired your forbearance.”
“Thank you,” cried Hamilton, “I am quite satisfied now.”
“Do not be quite satisfied with yourself,” said Hildegarde, “for I must
tell you honestly that I am quite disposed to be unjust to Lina; more
than ready to put an unkind construction on all she does or says.”
“Why?” asked Hamilton, with a blush of pleasure, as a faint vision of
the “green-eyed monster” approaching Hildegarde floated before his
imagination. “Why?”
“Because I dislike her. We waged war with each other for nearly ten
years.”
“Ah, I remember, she told me you were rival beauties at school.”
“There was no rivalry on my part,” said Hildegarde quietly; “I never
hesitated to acknowledge her beauty: it is of the most captivating
description, and even when she is most disagreeable to me I admire her
person.”
“You dislike her mind—her disposition, which is so different from
yours,” said Hamilton.
“I cannot tolerate her want of truth and honour; her, to me,
unfathomable cunning. In one word, I despise her.”
“You have been at no pains to conceal it,” observed Hamilton.
“There was no necessity,” said Hildegarde, beginning to fold up her
note; “but,” she added, “you must not let my opinion weigh with you; you
know I have strong, and often unreasonable, prejudices. At all events,
Lina’s faults are not of a description to prevent one from passing a
long summer’s day very agreeably in their society.”
“She is certainly an amusing person,” said Hamilton.
“She is clever,” said Hildegarde, gathering up her writing materials to
carry into the house; “no one can deny that she has intellect; at school
there were few to be compared to her.”
---------------------