THE EXPERIMENT.
THE morning was bright and still cool, though promising a sultry day, as
Hamilton prepared to leave the Iron Works. To the astonishment of Madame
Rosenberg, it was so early, that she was obliged to wish him
good-morning from one of the windows, her nightcap yet on her head.
Hildegarde was standing before the horses, giving them lumps of sugar,
which they had learned to expect from her, and looking so fresh and
beautiful that Hamilton began to grudge the few hours which civility
required him to absent himself from her. Kneeling on the seat of the
phaeton, he looked up towards Madame Rosenberg, and asked if it would
not do just as well if he sent the carriage with Hans?
“Lina Berger will never forgive you,” she answered from the window.
“Dear Crescenz will expect you to breakfast,” said Hildegarde, pushing
away the head of one of the horses which had been resting on her arm, “I
am sure she has already arranged all her prettiest cups and saucers for
you—don’t forget to admire them.”
Hamilton drove off. He found Crescenz not only waiting for him, but with
her head stretched far out of the window, watching for his arrival. She
ran to meet him, exclaiming, “How good-natured of you to come on so
short a notice, and so early too! Blazius is not dressed—he is so lazy
in the morning—he never gets up until past six! We shall not wait
breakfast for him, however. Which cup do you choose?”
“I don’t know,” said Hamilton, thoughtfully. “This is the largest, but
that is the prettiest—I think I must have both, first this and
afterwards that one.”
Crescenz laughed; and between the history of her cups, and a discussion
about her new half-mourning, the time passed until her husband made his
appearance to eat a hearty breakfast, for he was quite as anxious as
Hamilton to leave Munich early, he so very much disliked both heat and
dust. They called for Madame Berger: she was dressed in the very extreme
of fashion, and bounded lightly up to the seat beside Hamilton.
“Let me see how your horses can step out,” she cried, while leaning back
to offer Crescenz her little, tightly gloved hand.
Hamilton was quite willing to gratify her, his horses ready to second
him; at that early hour the road was but little encumbered by carts or
carriages, and past the few they met the phaeton rolled with a velocity
that made Madame Berger laugh so heartily, that poor Crescenz’s stifled
screams were for some time inaudible. At length Major Stultz spoke: “Mr.
Hamilton, may I beg of you to drive a little slower—Crescenz’s nerves
are not in a state to bear——”
“Why, good gracious, Crescenz!” exclaimed Madame Berger, “you don’t mean
to say you are frightened? Mr. Hamilton drives so well that there is not
the slightest danger.”
“Oh, no; I dare say not,” said Crescenz.
“I should not be afraid,” continued Madame Berger, “if it were night,
and pitch dark into the bargain!”
“How very courageous!” observed Crescenz, timidly.
In the meantime, Hamilton endeavoured to “draw in his flowing reins,”
but——
“a generous horse
Shows most true courage when you check his course.”
His horses were no longer to be restrained, and their impatient
springing and dancing alarmed Crescenz more than ever. At length she
could endure it no longer; and when little more than half way, insisted
on getting out of the phaeton; and Hamilton had the mortification of
seeing her take her husband’s arm, and with a look of infinite relief,
begin to walk off as fast as she could.
“You always lead me into mischief of some kind or other!” cried
Hamilton, provoked at Madame Berger’s laugh of derision. “I shall keep
out of your way as much as I can the rest of this day!”
“You will do no such thing,” she answered, saucily. “Those two fools
trudging along the road there only live for each other at
present—Hildegarde will not talk to me, and I have not the slightest
intention of spending the day with either Madame Rosenberg, who lectures
me about my duties towards the Doctor, or old Mr. Eisenmann, who talks
of nothing but cactuses and iron! If you don’t mean to be civil to me,
turn back and leave me at home again.”
“Civil! oh, I have every intention of being civil, but I would rather
avoid such scenes as we had the last day you were with us; I was obliged
to explain and excuse——”
“And who has a right to demand an explanation, I should like to know?
Hildegarde, perhaps?”
“No,” answered Hamilton, colouring; “it was Madame Rosenberg, who seemed
to think——”
“Never mind what she thinks, we mean no harm, and I do not see why we
should not amuse ourselves; but I must tell you something which I
observed the last time I was with you—Hildegarde certainly does not like
our being such good friends!”
“I don’t think she cares.”
“You don’t know her as well as I do. Without particularly caring for
you, she may—in fact she must, have become accustomed to your
attentions—for who else have you to talk to? Now, any lessening of the
homage one has been used to is sure to irritate—should you like to make
her jealous?”
“Jealous!” repeated Hamilton, and he thought of what had occurred the
day before in the garden. Could he in any way provoke her jealousy, he
should be able perhaps to judge of the state of her feelings towards
him; if, as she professed, but which he could not quite believe,
friendship was really all she felt for him, why then, the magnanimous
plans, the colossal sacrifices he had lately so often meditated, would
be thrown away, and he might after all share the fate of Zedwitz. Here
was an opportunity of making the trial, without committing either
Hildegarde or himself. The temptation was strong to make the experiment,
and he again repeated, very thoughtfully, the word “Jealous!”
“Yes, jealous; jealous of your allegiance. She will at first think I am
to blame, but you must show her the contrary. You——”
“Stay,” cried Hamilton, “what will Madame Rosenberg say?”
“No matter what; I shall give her no opportunity of lecturing me. She is
too good-natured to tell the Doctor, and Biedermann will never hear
anything about the matter.”
“Biedermann?”
“Yes, Theodor; he would be much more angry than the Doctor, I suspect.”
“But what right has he——”
“Oh, none in the world; but, you see I have got accustomed to his
attentions, and cannot do without them—he is enormously prosy
sometimes—but then he loves me; even when he is scolding I can observe
it, and attribute half his lectures to jealousy. One likes a little
_sentiment_ sometimes, you know, and once accustomed to these sort of
_petit soins_, it is impossible to resign them without an effort, of
which I confess I am incapable; I should die of _ennui_.”
“But,” said Hamilton, “do you not think there is danger in a connection
of the kind?”
“Danger! not the least. He knows that I loved him formerly in a foolish,
girlish sort of way, and had we been in England, I have no doubt we
should have gone off together, and been miserable for life. The Doctor
is a very kind, indulgent husband, but he has not time to be attentive,
and as I have no family to occupy my time, I require someone to talk to,
and amuse me. Theodor is well educated, clever, honourable, and all the
sermons of my relations and friends together will not make me give him
up. The world may talk, and perhaps condemn me—I care not, for I know
that I never have done, and never mean to do anything wrong.”
“And,” said Hamilton, “if Biedermann were to marry?”
“Not very probable for many years; but if he were, I should find someone
else. You, for instance, would suit me very well, if you were likely to
remain here; though I am afraid I should find you troublesome.”
“I am afraid you would,” said Hamilton, as he drew up his horses before
the Iron Works.
Hildegarde ran out expecting to see her sister; her disappointment
changed into surprise when she heard what had occurred, and she said at
once that she would go to meet her. Perhaps she expected Hamilton to
accompany her, but he either was, or pretended to be, too much occupied
with Madame Berger to hear what she said, and she set out alone.
More than an hour elapsed before Crescenz, Major Stultz, and Hildegarde
appeared, all a good deal overheated, for the day had already become
warm. They joined the others in the garden, and began to saunter up and
down the narrow gravel walks, or to seek the shade under the apple-trees
in the orchard. Mr. Eisenmann immediately gathered a bunch of fresh
roses for Crescenz, and Madame Berger, turning to Hamilton, desired him
to bring her some also.
“I don’t know whether or not I can obey you,” he answered, laughing; “I
have been forbidden to pull flowers without leave, ever since the day I
beheaded some scores of roses with my riding-whip.”
“Your punishment is at an end,” said Hildegarde, smiling: “I am glad to
perceive you have not forgotten it;” and, as she spoke, she pulled a
half-blown rose and gave it to him.
“Ah! that is just the one I was wishing to have,” cried Madame Berger,
holding out her hand.
“You shall have another, but not this one,” said Hamilton.
“_That_, and no other,” cried Madame Berger; and after some laughing and
whispering, he gave her the flower.
Hildegarde was surprised, although, by a sort of tacit agreement, she
and Hamilton usually avoided any exhibition of their intimacy or
friendship when Madame Berger was present; the latter continued, “I have
an odd taste, perhaps, but my favourite flower is the common scarlet
geranium. I do not see one here.”
“The only plant I had,” said Mr. Eisenmann, “I gave to Hildegarde, and
she gave it to Hamilton to put on his flower-stand.”
“Oh, if it belongs to you,” said Madame Berger, with a light laugh, “I
must have a branch of it directly,” and she bounded into the house as
she spoke.
“This is too much,” cried Hamilton, running after her. A minute or two
afterwards a violent scream was heard from his room, of which both
windows were open.
“Shall we go and see what has happened?” whispered Crescenz to her
sister.
“No, it is better to leave them alone.”
“Lina is growing worse and worse every day,” said Crescenz. “Blazius
does not at all like my being with her, since people have begun to talk
so much about her.”
“What do people talk about?”
“They say that Mr. Biedermann is now constantly with her; never out of
the house. In fact——”
At this moment Hans ran past them towards a shed, at the end of the
orchard, where garden utensils and flower-pots were kept, and having
taken one of the latter, was returning to the house, when Crescenz asked
what had happened.
“I don’t exactly know, ma’am; I believe Mr. Hamilton put a geranium on
the top of the wardrobe, and Madame Berger, in trying to take it down,
let it fall, and it is broken to pieces.”
“The pot or the plant?” asked Hildegarde.
“Both, I believe, mademoiselle,” answered Hans, hurrying into the house.
“How long is she likely to remain with him upstairs?” asked Crescenz.
“Until dinner-time, perhaps,” answered Hildegarde, carelessly; “he has
got a number of paintings on china and new books to amuse her. But now
you must come and see what a quantity of work I have done lately; you
have no idea how useful I can be; even mamma praises me sometimes!”
The afternoon amusement was, as usual, a walk in the oak wood. Hamilton
and Madame Berger soon wandered away from the sisters, and after waiting
for their return more than an hour near the little chapel, Hildegarde
and Crescenz began to walk home. “Well, Hildegarde, what do you think of
this?” asked the latter, looking inquiringly at her sister’s grave
countenance.
“Nothing,” she replied quietly.
“So Blazius was quite mistaken, it seems; he said that Mr. Hamilton has
long liked you, and that you were beginning to like him.”
“He was quite right,” said Hildegarde, “we do like each other very much,
especially since my father’s death; he was so very kind at that time.”
“Blazius said it was more than mere liking. Now if you cared for him as
Blazius supposed, his conduct to-day must vex you, you could not help
feeling jealous.”
“I have no right.”
“Oh, one never thinks of right on such occasions,” said Crescenz,
smiling; “I remember the time I used to suffer tortures whenever he
whispered and laughed with Lina. There was a time, too, when I could not
have endured his preferring you to me, but now——”
“Now?” repeated Hildegarde, inquiringly.
“Now, I don’t think about him, and I like Blazius so much that I never
think of comparing them. Mr. Hamilton is certainly very handsome, but,
as Blazius says, one gets so accustomed to good looks, that at last it
makes no impression at all. By the by, how improved Peppy is since he
has been in the country,” she added, as the child ran to meet her; “I
declare he will be quite as handsome as Fritz—it is impossible not to
like such noble-looking creatures. I must say they are both a thousand
times more lovable than Gustle, who promises to be extremely plain, and
not in the least like either of us.”
Hildegarde smiled at the discrepancy between the commencement and end of
her sister’s speech, but took no notice of it, and they spent the rest
of the day in the arbour, talking over their school adventures,
Crescenz’s house affairs, and Hildegarde’s plans for the future.
Hamilton and Madame Berger did not return until just before supper-time;
they entered into no explanation, and made no excuses; the latter merely
observed, when arranging her hair in Hildegarde’s room, “I really never
spent a pleasanter day; Mr. Hamilton is positively charming—quite a
love. I must not forget to wear the wreath of ivy he took such trouble
to choose for me,” and, while speaking, she twisted a long light branch
with its deep green leaves among the tresses of her fair hair, and
pushing back with both hands the mass of ringlets which covered her
face, bestowed a glance of satisfied vanity on the looking-glass, and
flourishing her pocket handkerchief left the room.
“I never saw Lina look so pretty as she does to-day,” observed
Hildegarde.
“And do you really not feel angry with her?” asked Crescenz, as she put
her arm around her sister’s waist, and they began to descend the stairs
together.
“Angry with her for having taken a long walk with Mr. Hamilton?”
“Ah, bah! you know very well what I mean.”
“No, dear Crescenz, I am not in the least angry,” whispered Hildegarde,
with a gay laugh, as she entered the room where the others were just
placing themselves at table. Hamilton looked up, and beheld her clear
brow and cheerful smile with painful uncertainty; Madame Berger bent
towards him, and whispered “You were right.”
“How? when?”
“She does not care a straw for you. I never believed it until to-day.”
Hamilton bit his lip, and slightly frowned.
“Oh, don’t be annoyed about it; you cannot expect to succeed with all
the world, you know. I suppose, having nothing else to do here, you have
given yourself some trouble to please her, and it is disagreeable to
find one’s self mistaken; but you may remember I told you long ago that
she would exact a kind of love which few men are capable of feeling; a
sort of immaculate devotion not to be expected from your sex, now that
the times of knighthood are passed. She will never, in these degenerate
days, find anyone to love her as she imagines she deserves.”
“And yet,” said Hamilton, “she has so little personal vanity.”
“That I consider one of her greatest defects. What is a woman without
personal vanity? Avoid during the rest of your life all who have not, at
least, a moderate quantity of it; without it we are abnormous,
unnatural, and it is impossible to know how to manage us.”
“You have really given me a great deal of information to-day,” said
Hamilton, laughing; “a few walks with you, and I should become a perfect
tactician.”
“If you choose, however, to try Hildegarde further,” said Madame Berger,
“you must manage it yourself. She may think you now, for all I know, a
victim to my arts and wiles, and more worthy of pity than anger.”
Partly from pique, partly because he was amused, Hamilton devoted
himself altogether to Madame Berger for the rest of the evening. He drew
his chair beside hers after supper, and they continued together in the
little dark parlor, even after all the family had withdrawn to enjoy the
long warm July evening in the garden.
It was almost night when Crescenz came timidly into the room, and in an
embarrassed manner said that she was too much afraid of Mr. Hamilton’s
horses to drive home with him, and that Mr. Eisenmann had offered his
carriage——
“His cart, my dear, you mean,” said Madame Berger, interrupting her,
without moving a feature of her face. “I recommend you to have a few
bars of iron laid at the back, the horses will be all the quieter; they
are accustomed to the sound, you know.”
“I—I thought,” said Crescenz, “that you would, perhaps, prefer going
home with me instead——”
“Oh, not at all, my dear; I would not separate you and Major Stultz for
the world; besides, I am not in the least afraid either of Mr. Hamilton
or his horses. You see,” she added, turning to Hamilton, “I take it for
granted that you will leave me at home.”
“Of course. I am only sorry,” said Hamilton to Crescenz, “that you will
not go with us; I can almost promise that the horses will be quieter
than in the morning.”
“Thank you,” said Crescenz, rather stiffly, “but even if they were I
should now decline your offer, as Lina has shown so plainly that she
does not wish for my company, or, indeed, for anyone’s excepting yours.”
“I am overpowered at the severity of your remarks,” cried Madame Berger,
catching her arm, with a light laugh; “how fortunate that the darkness
hides my blushes. I say, Cressy,” she added, in a lower voice, “is it
for yourself or for Hildegarde that you have entered the lists?”
“I—I—don’t understand you,” said Crescenz, releasing her arm, and
hurrying out of the room.
“Order your carriage,” said Madame Berger, turning back for a moment to
Hamilton: “order your carriage as soon as possible, or I shall get a
lecture from Madame Rosenberg, and I am not in a humour for anything of
the kind just now.”
The carriages were at the door together. “Hans may drive,” cried
Hamilton, springing into the phaeton after Madame Berger; and as long as
they were in sight he seemed to be wholly occupied with the arrangement
of her shawl.
“Hildegarde! Hildegarde! where have you hidden yourself?” cried Madame
Rosenberg, about an hour afterwards, and a voice from the very end of
the orchard answered, “Here, mamma, I am coming directly;” but even
while speaking, Hildegarde turned again, and with folded arms and
lingering steps continued her sentinel-like walk.
The next day Hamilton felt very uncertain whether or not he had acted
wisely. Hildegarde was so upright and free from coquetry herself that he
feared she would not easily understand his motives were he, in
exculpation, to explain them; and even if he made them evident, she
would condemn them. He met Madame Rosenberg on his way to breakfast;
heard the half-joking, half-serious expostulations he had expected, and
replied to them as usual, with a mixture of petulance and impertinence.
He approached Hildegarde, hoping sincerely that he should find her
angry, or at least offended, but all his efforts to discover anything of
the kind failed; she was, perhaps, a little less cheerful than usual,
but not enough to admit of his questioning her. Before dinner she
received a letter; the handwriting was unknown to him, but though
burning with curiosity to know from whom it came when he saw her unusual
trepidation on receiving it, he dared not ask her, though he would not
have hesitated to have done so the day before. In the afternoon, when he
expected her to walk, she sent Gustle to tell him that she had a long
letter to write, and could not go out. The next few days she chose to
assist her mother in preserving fruit, and then appeared an interminable
quantity of needlework to be done. Hamilton felt the change which had
taken place in their intercourse without being able to cavil at it. He
felt that he was to blame, but he nevertheless got out of patience, and
began to drive into Munich every day. No one seemed to think he could be
better employed, and many and various were the commissions given him by
different members of the family.
One day, just as he was telling Hildegarde that he should not return
until late at night, as he intended to go to the opera, Madame Rosenberg
entered the room; she held in her hand a silver hair-pin of curious
filigree work, and exclaimed rather triumphantly, “Well, here is Lina
Berger’s silver pin, after all; not found in the garden, where she said
she lost it, but in your room, under the wardrobe. Monica saw it when
she was scouring the floor.”
“Very likely,” said Hamilton; “Madame Berger mounted a chair to get at
my scarlet geranium, which I hoped to have placed out of her reach on
the top of the wardrobe; by making a spring she caught the flower-pot,
but descended on the edge of the chair, which fell with her to the
ground. I was greatly alarmed, as after the first scream of fright she
became unusually quiet, and although she said she was not hurt, she lay
on the sofa without moving or opening her eyes long after I had
transplanted my poor geranium, and mourned over it,” he added, looking
towards Hildegarde.
Madame Rosenberg laughed. “That was a trick to prevent you from scolding
her about the plant, which she saw you rather valued.”
“Perhaps it was,” said Hamilton, colouring, “and I never suspected it.”
“Well, you can tell her your present suspicions to-day when you give her
the hair-pin, you know;” and she held it towards him as she spoke.
“I never go to Madame Berger’s,” said Hamilton, and he was glad to be
able to say so, “but if you choose to give it to Hans, he can leave it
at her house when I go to the theatre.”
“Hildegarde, make a little parcel of it, and write her a line,” said
Madame Rosenberg.
Hildegarde took her brother Gustle’s pen, and on a leaf of his copy-book
wrote her a few severe words, which not even the usual “dear Lina,” or
the schoolfellow _tutoiment_ could soften.
Hamilton smiled, and unconsciously pulled his glove towards his wrist
until he tore it. “These are the worst gloves I have ever had,” he
cried, impatiently throwing them on the table; “that is the second pair
I have spoiled to-day.”
“The gloves seem to be very good,” observed Madame Rosenberg, taking
them up, “and as they are a very pretty colour, Hildegarde may as well
mend them for you, but while she is doing so you must seal and direct
this parcel to Lina,” and leaving them thus employed she walked out of
the room.
“Permit me,” said Hamilton, half jestingly, a few minutes afterwards, as
Hildegarde returned him the gloves, “permit me to kiss your hand;” and
then he added, “this seals our reconciliation I hope?”
“We have had no quarrel, and require none,” answered Hildegarde.
“Yet you have been displeased—angry with me—have you not?” asked
Hamilton.
“I have had no cause—I have no right——”
“But you know what I mean?”
“I think I do,” replied Hildegarde, half smiling, and quite blushing.
“And what did you suppose were my motives? What did you think of me?”
“I thought, after all your professions of regard for me, you might have
waited until you reached England before you began a new—flirtation.”
“Then you were a little—a very little jealous, perhaps?”
“I think not—I hope not,” said Hildegarde, quickly, “for it would be
very absurd, most ridiculous. In fact,” she added, frankly, “I did not
care how much you devoted yourself to Lina, until I perceived that you
wished me to observe it.”
“I did wish you to observe it. I hoped to have elicited some spark of
feeling from you in that way, after having failed in all others.”
“And Lina Berger was the person chosen as assistant—as confidant,
perhaps?”
“I had nothing to confide. I have never made any secret of my feelings
towards you.”
“So you wished to show Lina Berger and everyone else what you supposed
were my feelings towards you? It was an ungenerous intention, Mr.
Hamilton, all things considered, as any weakness on my part would have
merely served to give you a useless triumph; but,” she added, with
heightened colour, “I am not offended, not in the least angry with
you—or jealous; and for the short time we are likely to be now together,
I hope we may be as good friends as we have been for the last few
months. The whole affair is really not worth talking about.”
“I hope, however, you do me the justice to believe me perfectly
indifferent to Madame Berger?”
“About as indifferent as she is towards you. You flatter each other, and
vanity draws you together.”
“And you do not mind our being drawn together?”
“Not in the least,” said Hildegarde, composedly.
“I believe you, I believe you. I am thoroughly convinced of your
indifference, and require no further proof. I am sorry for it,
but—perhaps it is all for the best.” At the door he turned back, and
added, “We have not quarrelled, Hildegarde? we are friends at least?”
“Friends! oh, certainly, though ever so far apart,” answered Hildegarde,
with a forced smile. “One so poor in friends as I am grasps even at the
name.”
Hamilton noiselessly closed the door, and she bent over her work until
some large tears began to drop on it, and a choking feeling in her
throat induced her to go to the open window, where she leaned out as far
as the numerous plants would permit, and gazed long into the orchard
without distinguishing a single object that lay before her.
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