path: root/58908-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 58908 ***












                              THE INITIALS

                         A Story of Modern Life

                                   By
                         THE BARONESS TAUTPHŒUS
                   AUTHOR OF “QUITS,” “AT ODDS,” ETC.

                    [Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]

                              PHILADELPHIA
                        J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY




  ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA,
                                 U.S.A.


                         ---------------------




                                PREFACE.

                             --------------


_Initial_, adj. [_Initial_, Fr.; _initialis_, from _initium_, Lat.]

1. Placed at the beginning.

2. Incipient; not complete.—JOHNSON’S _Dictionary_.

_Initial, ale._ adj. Il se dit des lettres, des syllables qui commencent
un mot. En termes de calligraphie et d’imprimerie, on appelle plus
particulièrement _lettre initiale_, la lettre qui commence un livre, un
chapitre, etc.

Il s’emploie aussi substantivement, au feminin, pour lettre initiale.
_Il n’a signé ce billet que de l’initiale de son nom, que de son
initiale. Dans ce manuscrit, les initiales sont en rouge._—_Dictionnaire
de l’Académie Française._


I THINK these quotations authorise me to call the following pages “THE
INITIALS.” According to Dr. Johnson, they would be intended to be
“placed at the beginning;” would be “incipient; not complete.” It is the
public who have now to decide whether what has been placed at the
beginning is to have a continuation, whether what is incipient, and not
complete, is to be formed and completed.

_Un billet signé d’une initiale_ gave rise to all the events here
related; proving the truth of the words of Bayley, in his _Essays on the
Formation and Publication of Opinions_, that, “In everything we do we
may be possibly laying a train of consequences, the operation of which
may terminate only with our existence.” Had those initials not excited
curiosity or interest, the so-signed _billet_ would have been thrown
aside and forgotten, or directed to the post-town from whence it came,
there to seek the writer, or to be consigned to the dead-letter office.
And so it will be with these “Initials,” should they awake no interest,
nor excite a wish to know more; they too will be thrown aside and
forgotten, or it may be that the manuscript will be redirected to the
place from whence it came, thence to be consigned to merited oblivion in
the dead-letter drawer of an old writing-table, among a number of truths
dressed in fiction, which had been intended for publication under the
names of Journals, Reminiscences, Tales, Novels, or whatever else they
may have been entitled.

My greatest consolation, in case of failure, will be that I have
neglected no business or duty for the purpose of scribbling; it has only
been with me the means of beguiling some idle hours, with no pretension
to any other object; the wish to give a slight sketch of German
characters and life, such as I have myself, in the course of many years,
been familiar with, or have heard them described by others, can scarcely
be considered a more serious occupation.

I have, perhaps, seen and heard enough to furnish me with ample
materials for something better. That I cannot use them for the benefit
of either myself or others, is my misfortune, not my fault. With this
excuse, (if it be one,) I commend myself to my publisher; and, supposing
so adventurous a person to be found, through him to the public.


                         ---------------------




                               CONTENTS.

                      ----------------------------


         CHAPTER                                           PAGE

              I. THE LETTER                                   7

             II. THE INITIALS                                29

            III. A. Z.                                       36

             IV. A WALK OF NO COMMON DESCRIPTION             45

              V. AN ALP                                      61

             VI. SECULARISED CLOISTERS                       71

            VII. AN EXCURSION AND RETURN TO THE              89
                   SECULARISED CLOISTERS

           VIII. AN ALPINE PARTY                            108

             IX. SALZBURG                                   129

              X. THE RETURN TO MUNICH                       139

             XI. THE BETROTHAL                              143

            XII. DOMESTIC DETAILS                           160

           XIII. A TRUCE                                    176

            XIV. A NEW WAY TO LEARN GERMAN                  187

             XV. THE OCTOBER FÊTE, AND A LESSON ON          195
                   PROPRIETY OF CONDUCT

            XVI. THE AU FAIR, AND THE SUPPER AT THE         220
                   BREWERY

           XVII. LOVERS’ QUARRELS                           235

          XVIII. THE CHURCHYARD                             247

            XIX. GERMAN SOUP                                251

             XX. THE WARNING                                263

            XXI. THE STRUGGLE                               268

           XXII. THE DEPARTURE                              281

          XXIII. THE LONG DAY                               286

           XXIV. THE CHRISTMAS-TREE, AND MIDNIGHT MASS      292

            XXV. THE GARRET                                 310

           XXVI. THE DISCUSSION                             318

          XXVII. THE SLEDGE                                 323

         XXVIII. A BALL AT THE MUSEUM CLUB                  339

           XXIX. A DAY OF FREEDOM                           353

            XXX. THE MASQUERADE                             362

           XXXI. WHERE IS THE BRIDEGROOM?                   374

          XXXII. THE WEDDING AU TROISIÈME                   381

         XXXIII. A CHANGE                                   388

          XXXIV. THE ARRANGEMENT                            395

           XXXV. THE DIFFICULTY REMOVED                     403

          XXXVI. THE IRON WORKS                             407

         XXXVII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING AND ITS              414
                   CONSEQUENCES

        XXXVIII. THE EXPERIMENT                             423

          XXXIX. THE RECALL                                 436

             XL. HOHENFELS                                  442

            XLI. THE SCHEIBEN-SCHIESSEN (TARGET SHOOTING    450
                   MATCH)

           XLII. A DISCOURSE                                459

          XLIII. ANOTHER KIND OF DISCOURSE                  464

           XLIV. THE JOURNEY HOME COMMENCES                 468

            XLV. WHAT OCCURRED AT THE HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE    474
                   IN FRANKFORT

           XLVI. HALT!                                      481

          XLVII. CONCLUSION                                 495


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             THE INITIALS.

                         ---------------------




                                   I.

                              THE LETTER.


ABOUT twelve years ago (before the building of the Bayrischen Hof), the
Golden Stag, kept by an old and very corpulent Frenchman, of the name of
Havard, was considered the very best hotel in Munich. It was there that
all crowned heads and royal personages took up their abode; and many and
bitter were the complaints of English families obliged to turn out of
their apartments to admit of the turning in of an emperor, king, or
archduke! In the month of August, however, such guests were unusual;
and, accordingly, a young English traveller had remained for a week in
undisturbed possession of one of the most comfortable rooms in the
house. He seemed, however, thoroughly dissatisfied with it or with
himself, walked impatiently up and down, looked long and listlessly out
of the window, and then, with evident effort and stifled yawn, concluded
a letter which he had previously been writing. A few lines of this
letter I shall transcribe.

“I have continued to take notes most carefully of everything I have seen
or heard since I left you; but I fear, my dear sister, the travels or
wanderings, or sketches with which I intended to astonish the world on
my return home, must be given up; for in the present day one can travel
from London to Jericho without a chance of seeing anything not already
succinctly described in the guide-books! I thought I had discovered why
my brother John never met with any amusing adventures when my father
sent him abroad. He spoke wretched French, and no German. Poor fellow; I
did him great injustice. For even I, who, from not being the first-born,
have a sort of natural claim to intellect—even I, who have studied
German for six years, and can speak French fluently—even I must write
stupid, commonplace letters, and acknowledge that composing a book is
not so easy as I thought. I left home three weeks ago, and, excepting
that lucky explosion of the steam-engine after we left Cologne, nothing
has occurred worthy of notice. I must endeavour to get among these
Germans; for travelling through a country without becoming intimate with
some of the inhabitants, though it may enable me to judge of the beauty
of the scenery, will leave me perfectly unacquainted with the manners
and habits of the people. The Erskines are not here at present, so all
hopes from that quarter are at an end. I am told that the Munich world
is in the country, and I believe it; for nothing can be more
deserted-looking than the streets which represent the _west_ end. After
all, one cannot go on forever looking at pictures and statues, etc.”

The young man folded up and sealed his letter, with a look of infinite
vexation, and putting it in his pocket while he murmured something about
“taking it himself to the post-office, for want of other occupation,” he
slowly left the room and sauntered down the staircase, drawing his cane
along the iron stair-railing as he went.

Hamilton, on his return, sprang lightly up the stairs, followed by a
waiter, who lit the candles and prepared to assist him in taking off his
rather tightly-fitting coat. The operation had proceeded about half-way,
when his eyes fell on a letter which was placed conspicuously on the
table. In a moment the coat was again on his shoulders and the letter in
his hand.

“When did this come?”

“To-day, sir. Mr. Havard desired me to say it was carried by mistake to
a gentleman’s room who left this morning early.”

Hamilton hastily opened the letter and read as follows:

    “DEAR MR. HAMILTON,—I have this moment read your name among the
    arrivals in Munich, and write to tell you that we are for the
    present at Seon, a short journey distant from you. Our house is
    not at present habitable, and we have made this old monastery
    our headquarters. It was some years ago a tolerably frequented
    bath, but being no longer so, I shall have no difficulty
    whatever in procuring an apartment for you. We shall be
    delighted to see you, and show you the beauties of our
    neighbourhood. Perhaps, too, we can arrange a tour in the Tyrol
    together. John, I know, has joined his regiment; therefore I do
    not expect to see him. But probably Mrs. Hamilton is with you;
    in which case I am quite sure you will not leave Germany without
    having visited your sincere friend,

                                                              A. Z.”

“How far is Seon from Munich? What sort of a place is it?” asked
Hamilton.

“I am sorry I cannot give you any information, sir. Since I have been
here no traveller has left for Seon.”

“Is there no mail or stage-coach to any place near it? There must be a
post-town, or something of that sort.”

“I really do not know, sir.”

“Try and decipher the post-mark,” said Hamilton, impatiently handing him
the envelope.

“I think it is Altenmarkt, but I am not quite sure.”

“Give me my maps, if you please, and tell Mr. Havard I wish to speak to
him for a few minutes.”

When he had left the room, Hamilton turned the letter in every
possible direction, examined the seal, which was a small coronet with
the initials “A. Z.,” read it five or six times over, and in thought
mustered his tolerably numerous acquaintance. Not an “A. Z.” among
them all! How very provoking! “And yet the letter may be intended for
me,” he murmured, twisting it around his fingers: “It is not
impossible that the writer may have thought that I was travelling with
my aunt—why not? And John has actually joined his regiment very
lately!—or—or—it may be some friend of my father’s; in which case, as
I do not know the name, and cannot explain by letter, I consider it a
sort of duty to go to Seon, and in his name thank the good-natured
person for the invitation. But what if it were not intended either for
me or for my father? No matter. The letter is addressed to A.
Hamilton, Esq.; if the writer intended it for an Abraham, an Achilles,
or an Anthony, the fault is not mine. Alfred also begins with A.; the
address is to the Golden Stag; my correspondent has seen my name or my
father’s in the newspapers;—mentions my mother and my brother. What
more can I require?”

And Hamilton required nothing more, for on this occasion he was disposed
to be easily satisfied. Besides, he was not going to force himself upon
any person or persons unknown; he was merely going to Seon instead of
Kissingen. Seon was also a place of public resort, quite as desirable
for him as any other; nor could he see anything wrong in making some
inquiries about this A. Z. when he arrived there.

Mr. Havard entered his room just as he was resolved what course he
should pursue. “Pray, Mr. Havard, can you tell me how far Seon is from
here?”

“A day’s journey, if you travel with a _voiturier_; half a day with
post-horses.”

“If I engage a _voiturier_—are the carriages good?”

“Generally, especially if you don’t require much place for luggage. I
think I can procure a light carriage and tolerable horses for you.”

“Thank you. To-morrow morning, at six o’clock, I should like to be off,
if possible.”

An unpleasant idea just then occurred to him, and it required an effort
on his part to add, with affected indifference:

“By-the-by, Mr. Havard, perhaps you can tell me if there have been any
persons here lately whose names were the same as mine?”

Mr. Havard looked puzzled.

“My name is Hamilton.”

“Hameeltone—Hameeltone!” he repeated, thoughtfully. “We have a great
many Hameeltone in our book. You shall see directly. I will send it to
you.”

“So,” muttered Hamilton, as he walked up and down the room, “so, after
all, the letter was not intended for me or my father! This is in
consequence of having such a common name! And yet the name in itself is
good, but the Hamiltons have multiplied so unconscionably of late, that
I have no doubt we shall in time be quite as numerous as the Smiths!
Should, however, no Hamilton have been here for the last week or ten
days, I conceive that I have a right to appropriate this letter; for A.
Z. says distinctly that he or she had that moment seen my name among the
arrivals in Munich, and with every allowance for irregularity of post in
an out-of-the-way place, chance, or unexpected delays, reference at
least is made to some paper of a tolerably recent date. Oh! thank you,”
he exclaimed, hurrying towards the waiter, who at that moment entered
the room with the strangers’ book. “Before you go, show me the name of
the gentleman into whose room my letter was taken by mistake.”

He pointed to the name of “Alexander Hambledon, from London.”

Hamilton turned back the leaves, six, eight, ten days, and no Hamilton;
before that time, as Mr. Havard had said, “A great many Hamiltons.” He
wished them, their families, and suites very agreeable journeys, closed
the book, put A. Z.’s letter carefully into his writing-case, and, after
having desired the waiter to call him very early the next day, hurried
to bed.

The next morning proved fine, and Hamilton felt in better spirits than
he had done since he had left home, for he flattered himself he was now
about to diverge from the traveller’s beaten path, and had a chance of
seeing something new. The rather shabby carriage and sleepy-looking
horses had not power to discompose him, and the _voiturier_, with his
dark-blue linen blouse and short pipe, overshadowed by a bush of
mustache, he thought absolutely picturesque. Most careful he seemed,
too, of his horses, for they had scarcely left the suburbs of Munich
when he descended from his box to walk up a small acclivity, and
Hamilton then began to protest vehemently, but in vain, against the
carriage being closed. The coachman continued to walk leisurely on,
while he assured his impatient employer that he had purposely so
arranged it to prevent his being annoyed by the dust or sun, and that
from the open side he could see quite as much as would be agreeable of
the flat country through which they were to travel.

“Is, then, the country so very ugly?” asked Hamilton, anticipating
nothing less than an American prairie.

“Flat—very flat; but in the evening we shall have the mountains nearer.”

“You seem fond of the mountains!”

“I am a Tyrolean, and used to them. Life is not the same thing in these
plains,” he answered, cracking his whip, but not touching his horses.

“A Tyrolean!” exclaimed Hamilton; “oh, then you can sing your national
songs, of course. Do, pray, let me hear one of them.”

“What’s the use?” he said, shrugging his shoulders; “there’s no echo for
the _jodel_.”

“No matter; try it at all events, and you shall have an additional glass
of beer at dinner-time.”

On the strength of this promise he “lifted up his voice in song,” and
shouted out a melody which there was no manner of doubt would have been
“by distance made more sweet;” but which, as he leaned on the door of
the carriage, and poured the whole force of his stentorian lungs into
Hamilton’s face, almost made him vibrate on his seat.

“Thank you,” cried Hamilton, hastily, “thank you—that will do. I have
long wished to hear a Tyrolean _jodel_, and am sure it must sound very
well in the mountains!”

“There’s no music like it in the world,” said the man, as he seated
himself again on the box; and laying aside his pipe, he continued
singing for more than an hour, interrupted only by an occasional
“Ho—he—hot!” addressed to his horses.

The country was indeed flat, but highly cultivated, and thickly wooded
alternately—the absence of all walls or fences giving to German scenery
in general the appearance of a domain; they passed through, and saw in
the distance, many pretty villages, while the mountains were becoming
more distinct and the scenery more interesting every hour. Had not the
day been intensely sultry, Hamilton would have insisted on the head of
the carriage being thrown back, and the odious rattling windows opposite
to him being removed; as it was, however, the shade was agreeable, and
the almost imperceptible current of air, produced by the motion of the
carriage, as it blew on his face, had the somniferous effect attributed
to the vampire’s wing—he slept, and so soundly that until the carriage
stopped suddenly before a house on the roadside, not all the jolting and
consequent thumping of his head against the hard side of the carriage
could waken him; he then rubbed his eyes, stretched out his legs, and
was endeavouring once more to compose himself to sleep, when the
coachman informed him that they were to remain there two hours to rest
and dine. He looked at his watch—it was twelve o’clock; then at the inn;
it did not promise much; but near the door he caught a glimpse of a
carriage in form and colour exactly resembling his own, containing,
however, a number of packages which denoted female travellers. The blue
bandboxes and embroidered bags decided his movements. He sprang from the
carriage, and almost unconsciously ran his fingers through his hair as
he entered the house. Passing through a large room filled with peasants,
he reached a smaller apartment containing some narrow tables furnished
at each side with benches covered with black leather cushions. At one of
these tables sat three ladies, and an equal number of little boys.
Hamilton had learned to bow civilly on entering a room to any persons
who might be in it; after which he generally contrived to commence a
conversation, and let people know that he was an Englishman; having
ascertained that being one was a sort of recommendation, or at least an
excuse for all sorts of eccentricity. On the present occasion his bow
was returned, but no further notice taken; scarcely even a look bestowed
on him; this was, however, not at all what he wished, for two of the
party were young and remarkably pretty.

She who seemed to be the mother of the children, a tall, gaunt person,
had her head and chin bound up with a large pocket-handkerchief, and
seemed to be suffering from toothache, which rather puzzled Hamilton
when he had discovered that she had apparently lost all her teeth,
though by no means old, as appeared from her fresh-coloured features and
hair untinged with gray. The other two were very young and perfect
personifications of German beauty—blue eyes, blooming cheeks, red lips,
and a profusion of brown hair most classically braided and platted. That
they were sisters scarcely admitted of a doubt, so remarkable was their
resemblance to each other—a nearer inspection made it equally evident
that one was much handsomer than the other. They were both tall and very
slightly formed, and their dark cotton dresses were made and put on with
an exactness that proved they were not indifferent to the advantages
bestowed on them by nature.

Hamilton stood at the window, an object of interest, as it seemed, to no
one excepting the three little boys, who, with their mouths full of
roast chicken, turned round on their chairs to stare at him,
notwithstanding the repeated admonitions of their mother, enforced by an
occasional shake of the shoulder. The young ladies, to Hamilton’s
infinite astonishment, took the chicken-bones in their fingers and
detached the meat from them with their teeth! He felt at once convinced
that they were immeasurably vulgar, thereby forming an erroneous
conclusion very common on the part of his travelling countrymen, who are
not aware that the mode of eating is in Germany no such exact criterion
of manners as in England. His dinner was now ready, and as he seated
himself at the table one of his pretty neighbours glanced shyly towards
him in a manner that proved that he had not been so unobserved as he
imagined. With all the vanity of youth he determined in his turn to play
indifference, traced diligently his route on the map which he had placed
beside him, and made inquiries about Seon. The lady with the bound-up
head tapped at the window and asked her coachman if he were ready to put
to the horses; the answer was indistinct, but the words “late enough”
and “Seon” reached Hamilton’s ears. Bonnets, gloves, and handkerchiefs
were sought, and the children given in charge of their maid to be packed
into the carriage.

“I think we had better get in with the boys and arrange ourselves
comfortably,” observed the elder lady, following them out of the room.

“Comfort!” exclaimed one of the girls, in a melancholy voice, as she
tied on her bonnet; “comfort is quite out of the question. I wish with
all my heart we were at Seon! On such a day as this seven in a carriage
is anything but agreeable.”

“I should not mind,” answered the other, half-laughing, “if Peppy did
not insist on sitting on my knee; he kicks so incessantly that I
suffered tortures on my way here.”

Hamilton advanced towards the speakers, and observed that he was
travelling to the same place, and his carriage was quite at their
service. They blushed, and one of them seemed disposed to laugh, which
encouraged him to add that he would promise to be perfectly quiet, and
on no pretence whatever to kick! Either his words or manner, or both,
perhaps, displeased them, for, having exchanged looks, they murmured
something unintelligible, and hastily left the room. He followed, and
saw them get into their carriage, which was already more than
sufficiently filled with children and boxes; the maid endeavoured to
follow, but was obliged to remain long in the doorway while a place was
being prepared for her. Wishing to prove that he had made his
proposition with the intention of being civil, he now approached the
party and addressed the elder lady—told her he was going to Seon, was
travelling alone, had scarcely any luggage, and had places for as many
persons and parcels as she chose to transfer to his carriage. She
thanked him, and hesitatingly regretted that her boys were so
unmanageable—perhaps he would be so kind as to give her maid a place.
This was not exactly what Hamilton had intended; nevertheless he acceded
with a good grace, and assisted the spruce-looking servant-girl to
descend. One of the boys instantly commenced roaring, and declared he
must and would go with her. He was lifted out of the carriage, and, with
many apologies, Hamilton was asked to take charge of Peppy the kicker!
But Peppy was not yet satisfied; he insisted so vociferously on his
sister Crescenz accompanying him, that his mother was at length obliged
to consent; and when Hamilton looked at the pretty blushing face of this
new addition to his party, he thought her mother’s apologies not only
tiresome but quite unnecessary. He had to wait some time before his
coachman thought proper to depart, and made an attempt to express the
pleasure he felt at having obtained so desirable a travelling companion;
but the fair Crescenz seemed so overcome with _mauvaise honte_ that he
thought it advisable for the present to avoid all conversation. When
once fairly off, he rummaged out a couple of books, offered her one, and
took the other himself. This proceeding seemed to surprise her, but had
the effect he wished, of making her feel less embarrassed. She turned
over the leaves with a listlessness which at once convinced him that she
was no reader, and he ventured to make a few remarks. The answers were
at first merely monosyllables, but they required explanation, for he
purposely misunderstood her. One subject of conversation led to another,
and in about an hour they were talking as if they had been acquainted
for months. She informed him that her father had a situation which
scarcely ever admitted of his leaving Munich. That she and her sister
had lost their mother when they mere children, and they had been sent to
school when their father had married again. They had returned home but a
few weeks ago, and their step-mother, having been ordered change of air,
had chosen Seon, because the baths there had been of use to her on a
former occasion. They had been very happy to leave school, and were
equally happy to go to the country—especially to Seon.

“And why especially to Seon?” asked Hamilton.

“Oh, because I have heard so much of it from one of my school friends.”

“Perhaps, then, you can give me some information. I have not the least
idea what sort of a place it is.”

“I believe it is a great old monastery, with long corridors, where one
might expect to meet the ghosts of the monks stalking about—and the
windows look into dark courts—and on a moonlight night it is quite
romantic walking in the cloisters!”

“And did your friend wander about quite alone and by moonlight in such a
place?”

“Oh, she was not _alone_,” said Crescenz, smiling, and shaking her head
slyly.

“So I imagined—probably her mother or her sister walked with her.”

“Her mother was not there, and her brother-in-law would not allow her
sister to walk by moonlight.”

“What a barbarian he must have been! Who, then, could have been her
companion? It could hardly have been her father?”

Crescenz laughed outright. “Oh, no; had it been her father, Lina would
not have been sent back to school again. They said she had done all
sorts of wild things at home; that her head was full of nonsense, and
she must be cured.”

“And was she cured?”

“I suppose so, for some time after she left us again she married an ugly
old doctor. Oh, he is so ugly! His chin sticks out _so_!” In explanation
she thrust out her full red underlip, forming thereby a better
personification of a pretty naughty child than an ugly old doctor. “I
was allowed to be her bridesmaid,” she continued, “and as I knew all
about Theodor, I asked her if she really were as happy as she seemed to
be. And—can you believe it?—she said that all the fine things she had
told me of Seon and first love was stuff and nonsense—that she had
invited Theodor to her wedding, and intended to dance with him in the
evening!”

“In fact, the affair with Theodor was merely a flirtation,” observed
Hamilton.

“I don’t know what that means,” she answered, looking inquiringly in his
face; “it is an English word, I suppose.”

“Quite English,” said Hamilton, laughing; “but your friend seems to have
understood the meaning perfectly.”

“And yet she did not take any lessons in English,” said Crescenz,
thoughtfully; “but I remember her saying to me at school that, if she
could not marry Theodor, she would go into a nunnery! And then to be
satisfied with ugly old Dr. Berger?”

“You would not have acted so?” inquired Hamilton.

She was about to answer, when her eyes caught that of the servant
opposite to them; she coloured and remained silent. Hamilton had long
thought this personage a bore, although she had been too much occupied
with little Master Peppy to have heard much of their conversation. It
suddenly, however, occurred to him to repeat his question in French, and
this removed all difficulties, for the young lady spoke so remarkably
fluently that the conversation proceeded more flowingly than before.
From the specimen given, it may be supposed that a sufficient quantity
of nonsense was talked; however, they contrived to amuse themselves so
well that they actually drove up to the _ci-devant_ monastery without
having seen a chimney to warn them that their journey was drawing to a
close. Crescenz’s step-mother was waiting to receive them, and
overwhelmed Hamilton with thanks, while he, taken completely by
surprise, had only time to whisper hurriedly to his travelling
companion—“I shall certainly see you again, even if I should decide on
leaving Seon to-morrow;” and, as he assisted her out of the carriage, he
added, “We positively must try the cloisters by moonlight.”

But no answering smile played round her coral lips. Crescenz seemed to
be metamorphosed. No sooner had her feet touched the ground than one
glided gently behind the other, and a profound curtsy, such as very
young ladies are taught to make by a dancing-master, was performed to
his infinite astonishment; a few neat and appropriate words of thanks
were added, which, had they not been accompanied by a burning blush, he
would have considered the most consummate piece of acting he had ever
witnessed. Hamilton bit his lip, and coloured deeply, as he mechanically
followed the landlady through a side-door into the monastery.

He was conducted up a back staircase to a long corridor, at the end of
which was a small passage leading into a tolerably large, cheerful room,
to his great disappointment not bearing any perceptible marks of
antiquity. On expressing some surprise, he was told that the monastery
had been twice almost burnt to the ground, and that only some parts of
the original building remained. His room was the most modern of all, and
had been the apartment of the abbot before the secularisation.

“Have you many people staying here at present?” asked Hamilton.

“Not many; several left this morning, but we expect others next week.”

“And the names of those who are still here?” asked Hamilton in
considerable alarm.

“Still here,” repeated the landlady; but at this instant the sounds of
wheels and horses’ hoofs made Hamilton rush to one of the windows. A
small open carriage and its dust-covered occupant attracted his
attention so completely that, without waiting for an answer to his
former question, he added, “Who is that?”

“Ah, the Herr Baron!” cried the landlady, looking out of the window, and
then quickly leaving the room.

The traveller started up in the carriage and looked around him. He was
dressed in a sort of loose shooting-jacket of gray cloth, which
completely concealed his figure; and his dark-green felt hat was
slouched over his face, leaving little visible excepting the mustache,
surmounted by a well-formed aquiline nose. “Is no one here?” he cried,
exhibiting some very unequivocal signs of impatience; and a servant in
plain livery came at full speed, followed by half a dozen men and women,
who were soon all employed unpacking the carriage. Carpet-bag,
meerschaum pipes of different forms and dimensions, newspapers,
cigar-cases, boots, powder-horn, umbrella, double-barrelled gun,
sketch-book, a very old pistol, a very new rifle, and some rolls of
bread, followed each other in odd confusion. Some one at a window not
distant from Hamilton laughed heartily; the traveller looked up, laughed
also, and flourished his hat in the air. “What a dusty figure!”
exclaimed the invisible. “Have you brought no trophy? No venison for our
landlady?”

“The chamois hunt was unsuccessful, although I remained out all night;
but my new rifle performed wonders at the _Scheiben schiessen_.”

Another laugh from the window made him seize his rifle, and jestingly
point it upwards—it was, however, directly thrown aside, while he
half-apologetically exclaimed, “It cannot go off, I assure you. Look
here, it is not even loaded,” and he grasped the ramrod to prove his
assertion; but some unexpected impediment in the barrel caused him to
grow suddenly red—he raised the offending weapon as if with the
intention of firing it off, but after a hasty glance towards the window,
he gave it to one of the bystanders, requesting him to draw out the
charge, and then ran quickly into the house.

In the meantime, Hamilton’s coachman had brought up his luggage, and a
chambermaid waited to know whether or not he intended to sup below
stairs. Supper would be in the little room through which he had passed
on his entrance, as there were too few people for the saloon. Perhaps he
wished to sup in his own room?

“By no means, I always prefer a _table-d’hôte_. Pray, can you tell me
the names of some of the people here? I may, perhaps, have an
acquaintance among them.”

“Major Stultz, from Munich. The family who have just arrived are the
Rosenbergs, from——”

“I know—I know,” cried Hamilton, nodding his head.

“Then there is Mr. Schmearer, landscape-painter, and Count Zedwitz—his
wife and daughter——”

“Who do you say?” said Hamilton, suddenly recollecting A. Z.

“Count Zedwitz and the Countess, and——”

“Can they speak English?”

“Oh, no doubt; and French, too, quite perfectly; they speak a great many
languages.”

“They are not, however, invalids? That is, they are not here on account
of the baths?”

“No; I believe they came to meet some friends whom they intended to have
visited. I heard the Count’s servants saying that their house, or the
Baron’s, was full of masons and painters.”

“Ah! exactly——”

“But the old Countess does take baths,” continued the chambermaid, “and
finds great benefit from them, too. The Count is a favourer of
Preissnitz and the Water Cure; and when he does not go to Graefenberg,
all places are alike to him where water is good and in abundance.”

“And his daughter?” asked Hamilton, now convinced that he had found A.
Z.

“Oh, his daughter springs from her bed every morning into a tub of cold
water with a great sponge in it, to please him; but I never heard of her
having sweated, or——”

“Her having what?”

“Sweated! The Count sent his bed and tubs here the day before he came,
and his servant Pepperl must tie him up every morning.”

“You never heard of mademoiselle’s being tied up by Pepperl?” asked
Hamilton, gravely.

“I believe she never had the rheumatism; but one day, when she had a
headache, I saw her sitting with her feet in a tub of cold water, and
wet towels around her head.”

Some one just then knocked gently at the door. “Come in!” cried
Hamilton, and, to his no small surprise, Crescenz appeared in the
doorway. She blushed, and so did he, and then he blushed because he had
blushed; and to conceal his annoyance he had assumed a cold, haughty
manner, and waited for her to speak. She stammered something about a
reticule and pocket-handkerchief, as, with the assistance of the
chambermaid, she moved his carpet-bag, and shook his cloak in every
possible direction. Nothing was to be found, and she was just about to
leave the room when Hamilton perceived the lost property under his
dressing-case. As he restored it, and held the door open for her to
pass, he took advantage of the opportunity, and returned her former
curtsy with an obeisance so profound that it amounted to mockery; and as
such she felt it, too, for the colour mounted through the roots of her
hair, suffusing with deep red both neck and ears as she bent down her
head, and hurried out of the room, followed by the chambermaid. Hamilton
was so shocked at his rudeness that he felt greatly inclined to run
after her and apologise; and had she been alone he would certainly have
done so, for it directly occurred to him that she had come herself to
seek her handkerchief in order to have an opportunity of explaining to
him the cause of her sudden and extraordinary change of manner. This
made him still more repent of his puerile conduct, and wish he had
spoken to her. He looked out of the window to see if he were likely to
meet her should he perambulate the much-talked-of cloister, but instead
of the rising moon, angry thunderclouds were rapidly converting the
remaining twilight into darkest night. His hopes of a romantic interview
and explanation were at an end; there was no chance of moonlight, and
the acquaintance was much too new to think of a meeting in thunder and
lightning! The supper-table seemed a more eligible place, and, spurred
both by contrition and hunger, he determined to repair to it with all
possible expedition.

On leaving the small passage conducting to his room, he entered the long
corridor which he had traversed with the landlady; on turning, however,
as he thought, to the staircase by which he had ascended, he suddenly
found himself in a small but lofty chapel. It was too dark to see
distinctly the decorations of the altar, but it seemed as if gilding had
not been spared; two small adjoining apartments he next examined, and
then completely forgetting whether he had entered from the right or left
hand, he walked inquisitively forward until a broad gloomy passage
brought him to a corridor, which he instinctively felt to be the place
where on moonlight nights one might perchance be disposed to romance.
The doors opposite to him, placed close to each other, had probably
belonged to cells; over each was a black-looking picture, portraits of
the abbots, the faces and hands looking most ghastly in their
indistinctness. A broad staircase was near, but fearing to lose his way
completely, he contented himself for the present with reconnoitring the
garden and a lake from a sort of lobby window. Woods and mountains were
in the distance, but every moment becoming less distinct; the oppressive
calm had been succeeded by a wild wind which bent the trees in all
directions, and ruffled the surface of the water. Interested in the
approaching thunder-storm, he stood at the window until his revery was
interrupted by the sound of footsteps, voices, and the clapping of
doors. He turned quickly from the window, walked to the end of the
corridor, turned to the left, and entered a very narrow passage looking
into a small quadrangular court, which seemed once to have been a
garden; it still possessed a few trees, a fountain, and a luxuriant
growth of rank grass. He mounted a flight of stone steps, which brought
him into the organ loft, whence he had a full view of the monastery
church. The lamp which hung suspended before the altar threw fitful
gleams of light on the objects in its immediate vicinity—all the rest
was in shadow; behind the organ was a sort of vaulted, unfinished room,
containing nothing but a most clumsy apparatus for filling the bellows.
Just as he was about to leave this uninteresting place, two persons
entered the adjoining loft; recognising the voice of his travelling
companion, and perceiving she was accompanied by her sister, he
commenced a precipitate retreat by another entrance than that next the
organ; in his haste, however, he entangled his foot in the rope
communicating with the belfry, so that his slightest movement might
alarm the whole household. While endeavouring, as well as the darkness
would permit, to extricate himself, he was compelled to become auditor
to a conversation certainly not intended for his ears.

“And you don’t think him at all good-looking?” asked Crescenz.

“I cannot say that his appearance particularly pleased me, but you know
I only saw him eating his dinner; he seemed, however, to have an
uncommonly good opinion of himself!”

“At all events,” said Crescenz, “it was very obliging of him to take us
in his carriage. I am sure if _you_ had travelled with him instead of
me, you would think quite differently.”

“Dear Crescenz! I have no doubt that he was agreeable, as you say so;
and I agree with you in thinking him very civil, and all that sort of
thing, but you cannot force me to think him handsome.”

“I did not say that I thought him handsome,” cried Crescenz,
deprecatingly.

“No! Something very like it, then. Let me see, hum—a—most interesting
person you ever saw; brilliant dark eyes, with long eyelashes;
magnificent teeth, beautiful mouth, refined manners, and ever so much
more! Now, I think him an effeminate-looking, supercilious boy, and——”

“Oh, I might have foreseen,” cried Crescenz, interrupting her sister, “I
might have foreseen that he would find no favour in your eyes, as he is
not an officer with a long sword clattering at his side.”

“Sword or no sword,” answered the other, laughing, “he would not look
like anything but an overgrown schoolboy, perhaps a student, or—an
embryo _attaché_ to an embassy.”

Hamilton’s blush of annoyance was concealed by the darkness.

“I intended,” began Crescenz, hesitatingly, “I intended to have told you
something, but you seem to be so prejudiced against him that——”

“Prejudiced! Not in the least. I do not think him particularly handsome,
that’s all!”

“Well, you know I told you we talked a great deal during our journey,
and—and a—in short, just as we reached Seon he said something about
meeting me in the corridor by moonlight.”

“Just what I should have expected from him!” cried the other, angrily.
“How presuming on so short an acquaintance?”

“He is an Englishman,” said Crescenz, apologetically; “and certainly did
not mean anything wrong, for his manner did not change in the least when
he saw mamma, while I was so dreadfully afraid that she might
observe—Oh! Hildegarde! What is that? Did you not hear something
moving?”

“I think I did; let us listen.” A pause ensued. “It’s only the
thunder-storm, and”—taking a long breath—“the ticking of the great
clock.”

“How like someone breathing heavily,” exclaimed Crescenz, anxiously.

“And how dark it is! We can hardly find our way out,” said Hildegarde.

Hamilton did not venture to move; they were so near him that he heard
the hands feeling the way on the wall close to where he stood. One
reached the narrow passage in safety, the other stumbled on the stairs;
and, as Hamilton unconsciously made a movement to assist her, the
lightning, which had once or twice enabled him to distinguish their
figures, now rendered him for a moment visible. It was in vain he again
drew back into his hiding-place. With a cry of terror, Crescenz raised
herself from the ground, and rushed into her sister’s arms, exclaiming,
“I have seen him! I have seen him! He is here!”

“What! Who is here?”

“The Englishman! the Englishman!”

“Impossible! How can you be so foolish? Come, come, let us leave this
place.”

“I saw him, and the lightning played upon his face, and he looked as if
he were dead. I saw him, indeed I saw him!” cried Crescenz, sobbing
frantically.

“Crescenz—dear Crescenz!” said her sister, vainly endeavouring to calm
her.

Hamilton was inexpressibly shocked, and conceiving his actual presence
would relieve her mind from the fear of having seen something
supernatural, he came forward and explained, as well as he could, the
cause of his being there. In the excess of his anxiety he seized her
hand, called her Crescenz, and talked he knew not what nonsense. Her
efforts to control her emotions were desperate. She forced a laugh, but
the attempt ended in a scream, which echoed wildly through the building.

“Crescenz! Crescenz! have you lost your senses?” cried her sister. “You
will bring the whole house about us!”

Her words seemed likely to be verified, for lights began to glimmer in
all directions.

“Mamma will come, and we may make up our minds to return to Munich
to-morrow,” cried Hildegarde, impatiently.

Hamilton’s situation now became uncomfortable; it was, to say the least,
not favourable for a first appearance among strangers; and the thought
that “A. Z.” might be among them was so overpowering that he stood
perfectly petrified, and still unconsciously holding Crescenz’s hand.
“As to you, the Englishman,” continued Hildegarde, angrily, “your
standing there can only increase our embarrassment. Begone! It is still
possible for you to escape observation.”

He turned mechanically towards the organ-loft.

“Not there! Not there!” she cried vehemently. “One would really think
you a fool!”

Roused by this somewhat uncivil observation, Hamilton asked, in about as
gentle a tone of voice as her own, “Where the d—l shall I go, then,
mademoiselle? You don’t wish me to face all those lights, do you?”

“Go! go! go!” she cried, with increased violence, and stamping the
ground with her feet. “You can cross the corridor before they reach the
entrance to this passage.”

He ran, crossed the passage, stumbled up some two or three steps to a
door, which charitably yielded to his hand, and afforded him a retreat
into—the church—for there he was again! Now completely confused, and
feeling as if under the influence of nightmare, he threw himself into a
seat, and covered his face with his hands. Steps and inquiring voices
came nearer and nearer. He heard scolding, wondering, expostulating;
then all was quiet, and only Crescenz’s subdued sobs reached his ear.
All at once, to his no small dismay, the church became lighted; some
persons with candles were in the organ-loft opposite to him; he could
see them, however, in tolerable security, for his place of refuge proved
to be the enclosed gallery formerly occupied by the monks. In the
meantime the storm had increased; one flash of lightning was followed so
immediately by thunder so loud that it seemed to shake the very
foundations of the monastery. It served to disperse the assembly, for
Hamilton heard soon after the retreating steps passing the door of the
gallery, the opening and shutting of several doors, voices lost in the
distance, and all was again still. He waited merely to assure himself
that no one was in the way, and then cautiously commenced his retreat. A
juvenile reminiscence made him smile as he now moved from his
hiding-place; he remembered the time when he had hoped his “new boots
would creak,” and had even tampered with the boot-maker’s apprentice
when he had been so lucky as to have his measure taken without
witnesses. And now, what would he not have given for a pair of slippers,
or anything but creaking boots! He had scarcely made six strides on
tiptoe when a door opened, and a head protruded itself. He trusted to
the darkness for concealment, and leaned against the wall; the head had
no sooner disappeared, than, seizing the favourable moment, he rushed
into a dark passage, and ran, unconscious whether he turned right or
left, until he reached a large open window. He looked out, and saw the
traveller’s little green carriage being pushed towards the coach-house.
Here was a sort of compass to steer by; his windows had the same aspect,
_ergo_, that door must lead to his room. Before, however, he undertook
another expedition, he thought it prudent to get a light. This caused a
few minutes’ delay; and when he again sallied forth he seemed destined
to be more fortunate. Hildegarde and her step-mother walked before him,
as if to point the way. They disappeared at the end of the passage, and
he quickened his steps in order to overtake them on the stairs. The
latter was speaking loudly, it seemed in continuation of a previous
discourse. “You may rest assured that your father shall have a full
account of the whole affair! Such a disgraceful scene! Count Zedwitz
sent his servant to inquire what was the matter, and recommended
immersion in cold water. A good ducking would have most effectually
quieted Crescenz’s nerves, and I shall certainly try it next time. My
health is not likely to be much benefited by a residence here, if I have
to act duenna to you and your sister! Remember, I strictly forbid your
walking in these passages after sunset in future. Do you hear?”

“Yes, madame.”

“As to Crescenz being so afraid of lightning, that’s all nonsense! I
should like to know if all the young ladies at school scream in that
manner whenever they see a flash of lightning!”

“The thunder was very loud,” began Hildegarde; “and, besides, you have
not heard that she saw——”

“Well, well,” cried her mother, interrupting her, to Hamilton’s great
satisfaction, “thunder or lightning—or both—there was no occasion for
such a noise, and I give you warning that the very first time I have
cause to be dissatisfied with you or your sister, back you shall go to
school. Health is my object at present, and every irritation of the
nerves has been expressly forbidden by my medical adviser.”

To this speech no answer was made, and Hamilton followed them at a
distance into the supper-room. He had lost so much time in the
organ-loft that almost all of the guests were already gone. The
traveller, whose arrival he had witnessed, was in the act of lighting a
cigar, with which he immediately left the room. An elderly, red-faced,
stout gentleman, with a tankard of beer beside him, he soon discovered
to be Major Stultz; nor did it require much penetration to recognise Mr.
Schmearer, the painter, in the emaciated, sentimental-looking young man
beside whom he seated himself. Hildegarde and her step-mother were
nearly opposite; the former, after bestowing on Hamilton a look which
might appropriately have accompanied a box on the ear, fixed her eyes on
the table; the latter bowed most graciously, and commenced an
interesting conversation about the weather, the barometer, and her
dislike to thunder-storms in general. When these topics had been
completely exhausted, Hamilton hoped something might be said of the
present inmates of Seon; but a long and tiresome discussion on the
merits of summer and winter beer followed. Strauss’s beer was
delicious—bock had been particularly good this year. “Bock!” cried Major
Stultz, enthusiastically, “bock is better than champagne! Bock is——”
Here he looked up with an impassioned air to the ceiling, and kissed the
first two fingers of his right hand, flourishing them in the air
afterwards. Words, it seems, were inadequate to express the merits of
this beverage.

“Did you see that picture at the Kunstverein[1] in Munich, representing
a glass of foaming bock, with the usual accessories of bread and
radishes?” asked Mr. Schmearer. “It was exquisitely painted! I believe
his majesty purchased it.”

Footnote 1:

  Society of Arts.

“There is some sense in such a picture as that,” answered Major Stultz.
“I went two or three times to see it, and could scarcely avoid
stretching out my hand to feel if it were not some deception.”

“A judicious management of reflected lights produces extraordinary
effect in the representation of fluids,” observed Mr. Schmearer.

A pause ensued. Major Stultz did not seem disposed to discuss reflected
lights; the picture had evidently had no value for him excepting as a
good representation of a glass of bock; and his attention was now
directed towards Hildegarde, whose flushed cheeks and pouting lips
rather heightened than detracted from her beauty.

“Perhaps you would like to see the newspapers, madame?” he asked,
politely offering the latest arrived to her step-mother.

“Thank you; I never read newspapers, though I join some acquaintances in
taking the _Eilbote_, on condition that it comes to us last of all, and
then we can keep the paper for cleaning the looking-glasses and
windows.”

“There are, however, sometimes very pretty stories and charades in the
_Eilbote_. Young ladies like such things,” he observed, glancing
significantly towards Hildegarde.

“My daughters must read nothing but French, and I have subscribed to a
library for them. Their French has occupied more than half their lives
at school, and now I intend them to teach the boys.”

“_I_ should have no sort of objection to learn French from such an
instructress,” said the Major, gallantly.

“Indeed, I don’t think anyone will ever learn much from her,” said
Madame Rosenberg, severely; “but her sister Crescenz is a good girl, and
the children are very fond of her.”

“You have two daughters!” exclaimed the Major.

“_Step-daughters_,” she replied, dryly.

“That I took for granted,” he said, bowing, as if he intended to be very
civil. “The young ladies will be of great use to you in the
housekeeping.”

“That is exactly what has been neglected in their education; if they
could keep a house as well as they can speak French, I should be
satisfied. When we return to Munich, they must both learn cookery. I
intend afterwards to give the children to one and the housekeeping to
the other, alternately.”

“You will prepare the young ladies so well for their destination that I
suspect they will not remain long unmarried!”

“There’s not much chance of that! Husbands are not so easily found for
portionless daughters!” replied Madame Rosenberg, facetiously; “however,
I am quite ready to give my consent, should anything good offer.”

Hamilton looked at Hildegarde to see what impression this conversation
had made on her. She had turned away as much as possible from the
speakers, and with her head bent down seemed to watch intently the
bursting of the bubbles in a glass of beer. Had it been her sister, he
would have thought she had chosen the occupation to conceal her
embarrassment—but embarrassment was not Hildegarde’s predominant
feeling; her compressed lips and quick breathing denoted suppressed
anger, which amounted to rage, as her step-mother in direct terms asked
Major Stultz if he were married, and received for answer that he was “a
bachelor, at her service.” With a sudden jerk, the glass was prostrated
on the table, and before Hamilton could raise his arm its contents were
deposited in the sleeve of his coat.

“_Pardon mille-fois!_” cried Hildegarde, looking really sorry for what
had occurred.

“You irritable, awkward girl!” commenced her mother; but for some
undoubtedly excellent reason, she suddenly changed her manner, and
added—“You had better go to bed, child; I see you have not yet recovered
from the recent alarm in the church.”

Hildegarde rose quickly from her chair, and with a slight and somewhat
haughty obeisance to the company, left the room in silence. Madame
Rosenberg continued volubly to excuse her to Hamilton, and, what he
thought quite unnecessary, to Major Stultz also!

The Major listened with complacence; but Hamilton’s wet shirt-sleeve
induced him to finish his supper as quickly as possible and wish the
company good-night.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER II.

                             THE INITIALS.


HAMILTON thought there were few things so disagreeable as going to bed,
excepting, perhaps, getting up again. He was incorrigibly indolent in
this respect, and nothing but the most fresh and beautiful of mornings,
aided perhaps by the transparent muslin curtains, which had admitted
every ray of light from daybreak, could have induced him to get up and
be dressed at six o’clock; and that, too, without any immediate object
in view, for three or four hours at least must elapse before he could
venture to intrude on “A. Z.” He was not a little surprised to find
Crescenz and her sister already in the garden; but having no inclination
for a renewal of the organ-loft scene, he turned towards a row of
clumsy, flat-bottomed boats, sprung into one of them, and in a few
minutes was far out in the lake, where he quietly leaned on his oars,
and began to look about him.

Seon was originally built upon an island and received its name from this
circumstance, as is quaintly enough recorded in the _Introductio ad
Annales Monasterii Seonentis_, of Benonne Feichtmaejr, Ejusdem
Monasterii Professor—“When God saw that the wickedness of man was great
in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart
was only evil continually, he threatened the earth with destruction; and
said unto Noah, ‘Make thee an ark,’ etc., etc., etc. So our blessed
founder, _Aribo_, seeing in what unrighteousness mankind had again
fallen, resolved also to build an ark, and to receive into it not only
his own household, but all others who were willing to quit the
wickedness of the world and save themselves from the deluge of sin.
Accordingly he changed his castle called Buergel into a monastery under
the seal of the holy patriarch Benedictus, and recommended the same to
the protection of the holy martyr Lambertus. The monastery was then
named Seon, as the letters composing this word being reversed form the
name of _Noes_ (Noah); and the monastery representing the ark appeared
to float in the midst of the lake, a place of refuge for all willing to
seek it.”

Of the original building of 994 nothing remains but the church, now
converted into a cellar, and the cloisters,—the other parts having been
consumed by fire in the year 1561. In the course of time, however, and
even before the secularisation of the monastery, it had been found
convenient to connect Seon with the mainland by means of a road, over
which Hamilton must have driven the evening before. And now, when viewed
from the outside, Seon much more resembled a middle-aged German castle
than a monastery. This impression it made on Hamilton, too, as he
watched the numerous groups of people who had begun to enliven with
their presence the pretty garden extending from it to the lake.

Crescenz and her sister continued to walk up and down, talking
earnestly, and so often bestowing a look on the “overgrown schoolboy,”
that he felt convinced he was the subject of discourse. Their brothers
soon after joined them, and a very outrageous game of romps ensued
between them and Crescenz. Hildegarde still turned towards the lake, her
eyes fixed on him and his boat. “Perhaps,” he thought, with the vanity
inherent to very young men—“perhaps she regrets her rudeness to me last
night. I like her all the better for not playing with those unmannerly
boys; and at supper, too, I observed that, although strongly resembling
her sister, she is infinitely handsomer!” He rowed to the landing-place,
moored the boat, and approached her quietly; but it did not require long
to convince him that he had not been in the least degree an object of
interest to her, for she still gazed on the lake, though his bark no
longer floated on its surface, and not even the sound of his voice when
he spoke to her sister could induce her to turn round. He looked at his
watch, and found that by the time he had breakfasted he might prepare to
visit A. Z.—that is, learn what chance he had of making a useful or
agreeable acquaintance. He inquired for the landlady, and found her in
the kitchen sending forth detachments of coffee and rolls to the garden.
To his great surprise and pleasure, she ordered his breakfast to be
carried to the arbour, where the Countess Zedwitz and her daughter were
breakfasting, saying it was the only place unengaged in the whole
garden. With mixed feelings of anxiety and curiosity he followed. While
it was being deposited on the table, he observed that a question was
asked by a comfortable-looking dowager, and the answer seemed
satisfactory, for she nodded her head and then looked towards him. He
bowed, and was received with a good-humoured smile. “She knows me,” he
thought, “and this is A. Z.” It did not, in fact, signify—but—he would
have preferred the daughter, who, although not in the least pretty, had
a merry expression of countenance, and looked so fresh that he
involuntarily thought of the tub of cold water out of which she had
probably sprung half an hour before.

“I fear, madame, you will think me an intruder,” he began, with an
affection of diffidence which he was far from feeling.

“Oh, by no mean,” cried the elder lady, in English, nodding her head two
or three times; “by no mean! You are an Englishman; I am very glad to
have occasion to spick English. Man lose all practice in both! I
estimate me very happy to make acquaintance with you.”

Hamilton assured her he felt extremely obliged—hoped, however, to prove
that he had a better claim to her notice than his being an Englishman.
This she did not comprehend, for, like most Germans who are learning
English, she seldom understood when spoken to, and preferred continuing
to talk herself to waiting or asking for an answer in a language which
she knew by sight but not by sound. Accordingly, “We have a very fine
nature here!” was the reply he received to an observation which he had
intended to have led to an interesting discovery of his being the son of
her Munich correspondent. “We have a very fine nature here!”

Hamilton looked puzzled, or she thought him a little deaf, for she spoke
louder as she said, “A very beautiful nature!”

He bowed, and coloured slightly.

“Mamma will say, our prospects are very good,” said the younger lady, in
explanation.

“Ha!—prospects!” he repeated.

“What you call lanskip—_paysage_? Is not good English? No?”

“Oh, very good English,” he answered, looking round him, prepared to
admire anything or everything he could see. Now, they were in an arbour
thickly covered with foliage in order to render it impervious to the
sun’s rays, and the entrance being from the garden, there was no view
whatever deserving the name of prospect. Hamilton knew not what to say,
and was beginning to feel embarrassed, when the Rosenbergs luckily
appeared and made a diversion in his favour. Crescenz and her sister
advanced to meet their step-mother, who now entered the garden dressed
in a most unbecoming dark-coloured cotton morning-gown partly covered by
an old shawl thrown negligently over her shoulders, and her hair still
twisted round those odious leather things used for curling refractory
ringlets.

“Who is that?” asked the Countess, to his great relief speaking German.
“Who is that person?”

“I believe her name is Rosenberg,” he answered; “she came from Munich
yesterday.”

“Ah, I know. That is the person who screamed in the gallery last night.”

“No, mamma, it was one of her daughters who screamed.”

“Oh, one of her daughters! They are very pretty,” said the Countess,
raising her double _lorgnette_ to her eyes—“really very pretty! and I
think I have seen them somewhere before, but where I cannot recollect——”

“Oh, mamma, I know where you have seen them; they were in the same
school with my cousin Thérèse, and we saw them at the examinations last
year. Don’t you remember the two sisters who were so like each other?
And as we drove home with the Princess N——, she said that one of them
was the handsomest creature she had ever seen! I think, too, she said
she had known their mother!”

“Not that person in the odious dishabille! You are dreaming, child!”

“No, no—_their_ mother was _noble_—she was a Raimund, had no fortune,
and married a nobody, when she was old enough to have been wiser; her
relations never forgave her, but after her death they offered to educate
these two girls for governesses; their father would not part with them;
but when he afterwards married a rich goldsmith’s daughter, she
immediately insisted on his sending them to school.”

“I believe I do remember something of this—most probably a sister of our
friend Count Raimund, Agnes?”

“Mademoiselle’s name is Agnes,” said Hamilton, quickly. “Then, perhaps,
you are the person who was so kind as to write me the letter which—” and
he searched in his pocket for A. Z.’s letter.

“What!—what is that about a letter?” asked the old lady, hastily.

“Some mistake, mamma.”

“But he says you wrote to him, my dear.”

“No, mamma, I did not write to him; but I think it extremely probable
that papa did. I know he wrote lately to an Englishman in Munich. He
will be glad to see you, I am sure,” she added, turning to Hamilton;
“for although he speaks English very tolerably, he finds writing it
extremely difficult; and the little note in question occupied him nearly
an hour. When you have breakfasted, I can go with you to his room.”

Hamilton pushed away his coffee-cup, and stood up directly.

“Agnes, Agnes!” cried her mother gravely, “you know your father is
sweating!”

“Yes, mamma, I know; but papa wishes very much to see his English
correspondent. You have, probably, just returned from Graefenberg?” she
said, addressing Hamilton. “Have you no letter from Preissnitz?”

“Letters from Preissnitz! I have no letter except that which I received
the day before yesterday from Count Zedwitz.”

“You wish, perhaps, to speak to papa before you decide on going to
Graefenberg?”

“I—I have no intention whatever of going there, mademoiselle,” said
Hamilton, who did not exactly know who Preissnitz was, or where
Graefenberg might be situated; for ten years ago, Preissnitz’s name was
little known in Germany, and scarcely at all in England.

“Well, at all events, you had better speak to papa: I know he expects to
see you.”

“If that be the case,” said Hamilton, “I am sure I shall be very happy
to make his acquaintance—I only feared the letter might have been
intended for my father, as he has foreign acquaintances, and I have as
yet none.”

“It is quite the same thing, I should think,” said the young Countess,
as she led the way out of the garden. “You can let your father know that
you have seen us here. Papa was only sorry that he could not receive you
at home; but our house is not at present habitable, and——”

“Ah!” cried Hamilton, springing up the stairs after her, “that is
exactly what he said in his letter.”

“Wait here until I have told him that you have arrived,” she said,
tapping gently at one of the doors, which closed upon her immediately
afterwards.

She did not return, but a tall, gaunt servant appeared to conduct him to
Count Zedwitz’s apartment. On entering, he perceived that a figure lay
on a bed, but so wrapped in blankets and covered with down beds, that
nothing was visible but the face, down which the perspiration rolled
copiously. A reading-desk was placed on the breast, and a long quill,
tightly pressed between the teeth, served to turn over the leaves of his
book. Hamilton would have required some time to discover the use of the
quill, had it not been performing its office as he entered.

“I am rejoice to see you—very glad you have become my letter, and seem
to profit by it. You are good on the feet again?”

“Thank you,” said Hamilton, rather puzzled by this address, and
half-disposed to refuse the chair placed for him by the servant.

“You have been to Graefenberg?—No?”

“No.”

“You have recover without Preissnitz?”

“Recover!” repeated Hamilton; “I have never been seriously ill in my
life, colds and all that sort of thing excepted—mere trifles, after
all!”

“Trifles! well, you Englishmen have odd idea!—Rheumatism is trifle!”

“Gout is more common with us,” observed Hamilton, somewhat amused.

“Well, gout, chicagra, podagra, rheumatism, what you will, is no trifle
at all! You have had the gout?”

“No; but I suppose I shall in time: it is hereditary in our family—my
father has two or three attacks every year.”

“Your father! is it your father who has had the gout?”

“Yes, and I suspect my father is your correspondent, too. I really fear
I am not the person you suppose me to be.”

“What! what, what do you mean?” he cried, endeavouring to raise himself
in his bed, and looking precisely like a writhing caddice-worm.

“I mean that I received a letter the day before yesterday, inviting me
to come here; the seal was a coronet, and it was signed A. Z. I arrived;
made inquiries, and too hastily, it seems, concluded that Count Zedwitz,
or one of his family, had written to me. Your daughter confirmed me in
my error by saying that you had lately written to an Englishman in
Munich, and wished very much to see him.”

“Hum, ha!—very odd!” murmured the Count, fixing his eyes sharply on
Hamilton. “May I ask your name?”

“Hamilton,” replied the Englishman, with an ill-concealed attempt to
repress an inclination to laugh.

“I have not the honour of knowing any one of that name,” said the Count,
endeavouring, as well as his blankets would permit him, to look
dignified. “I am surprised, sir, you did not perceive the mistake
sooner!”

“So am I,” replied Hamilton, his rising colour betraying the
embarrassment he endeavoured to conceal; “but every moment some remark
of yours made me doubt again; besides,” he added, moving towards the
door, “I must confess, I wished to hear something of this water-cure,
which is quite new to me; I never heard of it until yesterday. However,
I am extremely sorry for having forced myself upon your acquaintance,
and can only regret that my correspondent had not written his name in
full; from these initials, it seems, I have but a small chance of
discovering the writer!”

“I don’t know that,” cried Count Zedwitz, suddenly changing his manner;
“it is by no means improbable that the letter is from Baron Z—; his wife
is an Englishwoman. I should recommend your seeing them before you give
up your search. And—and,” he added—hesitatingly—“as you seem interested
on the subject of hydropathy, I shall have great pleasure in lending you
some books and giving you every information in my power about Preissnitz
and Graefenberg. In the mean time, look over this little work—it is not
necessary to be a physician to understand it. You will find here a
description of Graefenberg, the establishment of Preissnitz, who
discovered this most rational mode of curing all diseases; and, I doubt
not, you will soon be convinced of the uselessness of physicians and
apothecaries, and place, as I do, all your reliance on cold water. Read
what is said about perspiration, cold water drinking, and bathing; read
and judge for yourself. I shall see you at dinner-time.”

Hamilton received the book with expressions of gratitude which were
really sincere. The happy termination of this interview made him feel
that he had gained an acquaintance, who might, perhaps, turn into a
friend, if he submitted to the ordeal by water.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER III.

                                 A. Z.


AS Hamilton was on his way to his room to procure his credentials, viz.,
A. Z.’s letter, he chanced to meet one of the chambermaids, who offered
to conduct him to Baron Z—’s apartment. To prevent the necessity of an
explanation, he sent her before with one of his cards, and she returned
almost immediately, saying that Baron Z— would be very happy to see him,
and begged he would come to him as soon as possible. Hamilton
immediately obeyed the summons, and found himself in presence of the
traveller with the long rifle. In the middle of a large room was a round
table completely covered with shooting implements, beside which stood
Baron Z—, examining the identical rifle which he had pointed upwards the
evening before. He advanced towards Hamilton with great cordiality,
extended his hand, and exclaimed in English:

“Mr. Hamilton, I am very glad to see you; my wife and I have been
anxiously awaiting your arrival; for we are obliged to leave Seon after
dinner to-day, to go to Berchtesgaden. Now all is quite easy to
arrange—you go with us—you admire the beautiful mountains—you see the
salt mines, and then we arrange an Alp-party or a chamois-hunt together.
Are you a good shot?”

“No, I regret to say I am not,” answered Hamilton, not a little
embarrassed, for his deficiency in this respect had furnished his
brother John, greatly his inferior in other respects, with unceasing
subject for ridicule; and he half-expected some scoffing remark in
answer.

“You like to fish, or hunt on horseback, better than chamois-hunt,
perhaps?”

Hamilton acknowledged, much relieved, that he was very fond of a hunt on
horseback; he could ride, he said, much better than he could shoot.

“And I,” answered Baron Z—, good-humouredly laughing, “I can shoot
better than I can ride. I thought it would be interesting for you to be
acquainted with our sports, and——”

“It would interest me of all things to see anything of the kind, even as
a mere spectator,” exclaimed Hamilton, eagerly. “I accept your
invitation with many thanks.”

Baron Z— now desired his servant to let his wife know that “Mr.
Hamilton, the Englishman she expected, had arrived. And Joseph,” he
called after him, “take one of the carriage-boxes to Mr. Hamilton’s
room; he goes with us to Berchtesgaden.”

They were in the midst of a very animated discussion of what Hamilton
knew very little about, viz., the latest improvements in fire-arms, when
the real A. Z. entered the room. How shall we describe her? Most easily,
perhaps, by negatives. She was not tall nor short, nor stout nor thin,
nor handsome nor ugly, nor—nor—in fact, as well as Hamilton could define
his ideas at such a critical moment, he thought the impression made on
him was, that a pale, dark-haired person stood before him, whose
countenance denoted sufficient intellect to make him conscious that he
had better produce his letter and enter into an explanation at once. The
absence of all recognition on her part made him at once conscious that
he was not the person she had expected, and he stood before her blushing
so intensely that she seemed to feel at length a sort of commiseration
for him. She bit her lip to conceal a smile, and after a moment’s pause,
held out her hand, saying, “I confess I expected to have seen your
father, and am a little disappointed. You were such a mere child when I
saw you last, John, that you have completely outgrown my recollection.
You promised, indeed, to be ‘more than common tall,’ but I was not
prepared for such a specimen of—— You seem to be an inveterate blusher,
and very shy; perhaps that was the reason your father wished to send you
abroad before you joined your regiment? By-the-by, I must have been
misinformed, but I heard you had already joined! Now, pray don’t waste
another blush on me, but try to feel at home as soon as you can, and
prepare to tell me directly everything about everybody!”

Hamilton moved mechanically towards the sofa, completely confused in
every sense of the word, but at the same time greatly relieved in his
mind. So, after all, the letter had been intended for his father, and
she merely mistook him for his brother John—a common mistake, which he
could easily explain. What a fool he would have been had he not come in
person to inquire about this “A. Z.,” who was evidently an old friend of
his father. He began to breathe more freely, and overheard a few words
which she addressed to her husband in a very low voice, in German: “Did
you ever see such a long-legged, bashful animal? He is, however,
handsome, and would be decidedly gentlemanlike if he were less
diffident. We must take him with us to Berchtesgaden Herrmann.”

“I have already arranged everything,” he answered, nodding his head. “He
wishes to see a chamois-hunt, and he shall, if I can manage it; at all
events, he may stretch his long legs on one of our mountains.”

“Are you a sportsman?” she asked in English, turning towards Hamilton,
and seating herself on the sofa.

“Not the least in the world, as far as shooting is concerned,” he
answered, stooping to arrange her footstool, and feeling once more
unembarrassed, “but I should like extremely to see a chamois-hunt.”

“If you are not what is called a good shot,” said A. Z., “I should
recommend the ascent of a mountain or alp instead of a chamois-hunt,
which is very fatiguing, and I should think must be uninteresting to a
person who cannot shoot remarkably well.”

“Anything that is new or national will be acceptable to me,” answered
Hamilton. “I am anxious to profit by my residence in Germany, and see
and hear as much as possible; most particularly, I wish to become
acquainted with some German family, in order to see the interior of
their houses, and learn their domestic habits.”

While he had been speaking, A. Z. had bent over a small work-box, with
the contents of which she absently played. She now looked up, and
repeated his last words: “Domestic habits! Does that interest you?—But I
had almost forgotten; your father wrote to me on that subject, and I had
very nearly entered into an engagement for you with a family of Munich.”

“How very odd!” exclaimed Hamilton. “My father never mentioned a word of
anything of the kind to me; I do not think even my mother was acquainted
with this plan.”

“You are mistaken. She referred to it in the only letter I have received
from her for years. Indeed, I began to think, as my last letter had
remained so long unanswered, that I was quite forgotten by you all, and
the letter which you received in Munich was sent on chance. I purposely
wrote in general terms, and signed with my initials, knowing that either
your father or mother would recognise the handwriting, and you, or one
of your brothers would have no difficulty in filling the blank and be
glad to have our address.”

“I assure you, however, I was extremely puzzled when I received your
letter; nor can I conceive why my father made such a secret of an
arrangement which naturally interests me so much. He seemed indifferent
whether I passed next winter in Munich or Vienna, and left me perfectly
free to choose which I preferred.”

“Perhaps because he knew that I had left Munich.”

“But he never spoke of any German friend or acquaintance in the least
resembling you! He never, I am sure, mentioned your name!”

“It seems, then, I am quite forgotten; but, as I have expatriated
myself, I have no right to complain, and it would be unreasonable to
expect people to remember me now, or speak of me to their children.
Nevertheless, I cannot forget that I have experienced much kindness from
your father and mother in former times, and that I have spent months in
their house when you were at school. I shall be very glad if I can in
any way be of use to you.”

“Thank you. I _cannot_ imagine what motive my father could have had for
secrecy and mystery on this occasion,” said Hamilton, musingly. “The
idea is excellent, if I could only put it in practice. Perhaps you will
be so kind as to give me your advice and assistance?”

“Most willingly; and I shall begin by giving you my advice to wait until
you know something about your commission before you negotiate with any
family whatever.”

“I am not going into the army—my uncle will not allow me to go to India,
so my father intends me to try my fortune in the diplomatic line, and my
principal object is to perfect myself in speaking German. A respectable
family, could one be found willing to receive me, would answer all my
purposes and fulfil all my wishes.”

“A diplomat! Then you must endeavour to conquer the _mauvaise honte_
with which you seem overpowered when speaking to strangers, or it will
never do. You are now natural and at your ease, and I tell you honestly,
I can scarcely imagine you to be the same person who a quarter of an
hour ago stood before me, blushing and squeezing his hat as if in an
agony of embarrassment?”

“And I was in an agony of embarrassment,” answered Hamilton, laughing.
“I perceived when you entered the room that you did not know me. I
fancied that, perhaps, you had not written this letter; or, that it was
not intended for me nor for my father; and as I had already had one
scene about it this morning, I had no wish for another, fearing that a
_dénouement_ with you might not prove so amusing as with old Count
Zedwitz.”

Hamilton now gave a short account of that little adventure, which amused
her so much that she related it in German to her husband before he left
the room. There was something in A. Z.’s manner towards him which
peculiarly invited confidence; a sort of mixture of friend and relation.
She appeared so interested in all his plans, understood so exactly what
he meant, without asking unnecessary questions, that before half an hour
had elapsed he had confided to her his intention of writing a book! She
exhibited no sort of astonishment at the monstrous idea; he could not
even detect a particle of ridicule in her smile as she approved of his
intention; hoped he had taken notes, and asked him what was to be the
subject of his work.

“‘Germany, and the Domestic Manners of the Germans,’ or something of
that sort.”

“I hope, however, you speak German well enough to understand and join in
general conversation, and to ask questions and obtain information, if
necessary? It is unpardonable, people writing about the inhabitants of a
country when they are incapable of conversing with them.”

“I understand it perfectly when it is spoken, and I generally contrive
to make myself intelligible.”

“A little more than that is necessary; but, perhaps, you are too modest
to boast of your proficiency.”

“I scarcely deserve to be called modest, although I am subject to
occasional fits of diffidence. I believe I speak German with tolerable
fluency, and only want opportunities of hearing and seeing. May I ask
the name of the family with whom you were in treaty?”

“I heard of two families, either of them would have answered; but”—she
hesitated.

“But what?”

“After everything had been arranged, and I was on the point of writing
to your father, I found that only one member of the family wished for
you, and that was the person who on such an occasion was of the least
importance. I mean the gentleman. He wished for your society to have an
opportunity of speaking English, but as he spent the greater part of the
day in his office, and went out every evening, you would naturally have
fallen to the lot of his wife; and, although I praised you as much as I
could without knowing how you had grown up, she told me plainly that she
should consider you a bore, and that I could not oblige her more than by
breaking off our negotiations. Under such circumstances I had no
choice.”

“And the other?” asked Hamilton.

“The other was a professor at the university. I wrote to your father
about him, but never received any answer.”

“A professor! that does not promise much, nor would it answer my
purpose. I should see little or nothing of domestic life.”

“You are mistaken; I was half afraid you might see too much, for he had
a wife and five sons.”

“Did his wife enter no protest?”

“I did not see her; but as they were not rich, and had already five
young persons in their house, I concluded one more or less could make
little difference.”

“But a—if another family could be found, I must say I should prefer it,
and would rather not apply to the professor, excepting as a last
resource.”

“We have no longer the option, for he has left Munich. I heard, indeed,
of another family—but the objections were insurmountable.”

“On the part of husband or wife?”

“This time the objections were on my side; there were unmarried
daughters in the house.”

“Oh, that would be no objection at all—on the contrary——”

“I considered it a very serious objection,” said A. Z., quietly.

“I understand what you mean; but surely you do not think me such a fool
as to fall in love with every girl I happen to live in the house with? I
assure you I am by no means so inflammable.”

“Very possibly; but as I could not answer for your not being
inflammatory, and am aware that German girls do not understand the word
‘flirtation,’ and are much too serious on such occasions, I thought it
better to avoid leading you into temptation. Do not, however, be vexed;
I have many friends in Munich, and have no doubt of being able to find
some family——”

“Where there are five unlicked cubs in the house,” cried Hamilton,
petulantly, interrupting her.

“Then, John, you will make the half-dozen complete,” she answered,
laughing. “But now listen to reason. A family who would consent to
receive a young man as inmate in their house, and who, without any
degree of relationship or connection with his family, could enter into
pecuniary arrangements with him about board and lodging, and all that
sort of thing, must either be in straitened circumstances or in a much
lower rank of life than yours. I acknowledge that such arrangements are
common here, and in some cases they are very judicious; but when the
proposal, as in this instance, came from a widow with three unmarried
daughters, I found it very injudicious, indeed, and refused at once.
Without thinking you either a fool, or disposed to fall in love with
every girl you happen to reside with, I do think there is some danger of
your forming an attachment which might cause you, and perhaps another
person, great pain to break off, or which might hereafter prove
embarrassing. Living in the house with three girls, who very probably
would vie with each other in their endeavours to please you would be a
severe trial for the impenetrability of so very young a man as you are,
and I doubt your standing the test.”

“But I assure you——”

“No doubt you will assure me that you have a heart of stone, and that at
all events nothing could induce you to form a connection with a person
beneath you in rank, unworthy the name of Hamilton, or who would be
displeasing to your father; but as you have had the good fortune to be
the firstborn, and consequently will inherit——”

“Pardon me for interrupting you, but I really must set you right on that
point—I am only number two.”

“What, are you not John?” she asked, hastily.

“Had my name been John, I should not have opened your letter; it was
directed to——”

“To Archibald Hamilton——”

“Excuse me; the address was to A. Hamilton, Esq., Goldenen Hirsch,
and——”

“True, I ought to have thought of that before,” she said, mustering him
from head to foot, while he began to feel some very uncomfortable
misgivings. “Is it—no, it is not possible that you are little Archy?”

“I am _not_ little Archy,” cried Hamilton, starting from his seat, and
instinctively looking towards the door.

“Then, pray, may I ask what is your name?” she said, leaning her arm on
the table, and fixing her eyes on his face with a look of cool
deliberation which completely deprived him of all remaining
self-possession.

“Alfred—Alfred Hamilton is my name,” he cried, in a voice which he could
scarcely recognise to be his own; and unable any longer to endure so
unpleasant a situation, he seized his hat, and a pair of gloves, which
he afterwards found belonged to her, and rushed like a madman out of the
room. He heard, or thought he heard, a stifled laugh—no matter—she might
laugh if she pleased, he would laugh, too, and he attempted it on
reaching his room, but the effort proved totally abortive; and after
gasping once or twice for breath, he commenced striding up and down the
room, talking angrily to himself. “This is too much! I certainly did not
deserve such annoyance! Could I do more to prevent mistakes than send my
card and show the letter? The disappointment, too! I rather took a fancy
to this A. Z.; had even persuaded myself that I remembered having seen
her when I was a child! Pshaw! after all, she must be an artful person.
That sort of motherly, good-natured manner, was all affectation to draw
me out; and what a precious fool I have made of myself, telling her all
my intentions! Of course, she and her husband will laugh at me
unmercifully, and tell everyone in the house. I must leave Seon
directly—I—but no, she was not artful! What on earth could be her
motive? No, I was altogether to blame myself, or rather that letter—the
letter, the odious letter was the cause of all!” and he tore it angrily
to atoms. At all events, this should be a lesson to him; he never would
place himself in such a position again as long as he lived.

At twelve o’clock the great bell tolled, and Hamilton knew it was time
to descend to dinner. He was busily employed writing, when some one
knocked loudly at the door. “Come in,” he cried, collecting the papers
scattered about him, and Baron Z— entered the room. He burst into a
violent fit of laughter on seeing Hamilton’s dolorous countenance, shook
him heartily by the hand, and assured him he thought him a capital
fellow, and had not the smallest doubt that he would make an excellent
diplomat.

“But, indeed, Baron Z—, I never meant—You must not think I
intentionally——”

“Don’t explain—pray, don’t explain—I am so obliged to you! My wife
thinks herself clever! She write what she call ‘general terms.’ Ha! ha!
ha! And when she explain to me what meant ‘general terms,’ I told to her
that pass for our Mr. Hamilton so good as another—but she always think
herself so clever!”

“I am extremely distressed—disappointed, I must say, at the frustration
of all my hopes. I entreat you to apologise for me—I leave Seon as soon
as possible after dinner——”

“Yes; we leave Seon as soon as possible. I send Joseph to pack for you
while we go to dinner.”

“Am I to understand that you renew your invitation to me after what has
occurred?” asked Hamilton, with a feeling of inexpressible pleasure.

“And why not? My wife write and I invite in general terms; and now, Mr.
A. Hamilton, Esquire, let us go to dinner.”

“I should wish beforehand to explain——”

“To my wife? Oh, very well; we call for her on the way.”

“Here,” he cried, throwing wide open the door of her apartment, “here I
come to present my friend, Mr. A. Hamilton, Esquire; he wish in general
terms to explain to you, and to kiss your hand.”

“The latter part of your speech is composed, Herrmann,” she answered,
laughing. “Mr. Hamilton does not yet know enough of the ‘domestic
manners of the Germans’ to be aware that kissing a lady’s hand is a very
common action. Here is my hand—it is not, however, worth while blushing
about it,” she added, drawing it back again; “and Herrmann shall be your
deputy. It would be difficult to bring a perceptible addition of colour
to that sunburnt face.”

He took both of her hands, and, as he pressed them to his lips, declared
he was very content to have such a clever wife!


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER IV.

                    A WALK OF NO COMMON DESCRIPTION.


“DO you smoke, Mr. Hamilton?” asked Baron Z—, as he assisted his wife
into the carriage.

“I rather like a cigar sometimes.”

“I merely wish to explain to you, that if you wish to smoke now, you had
better mount up here,” he said, seating himself on the front seat of the
carriage. “My wife is quite German in every respect, but she has not yet
learned to like the smell of tobacco.”

“Nor ever will,” said A. Z.; “nor shall I ever learn to like having guns
so near me. Why are they not packed, as usual, in the long case?”

“You forget you have changed all arrangements since you find that Mr.
Hamilton is called Alfred,” said Baron Z—, laughing.

“I only hope they are not loaded,” she said, carefully avoiding their
contact, even with the hem of her garment, “for I have no fancy whatever
to have my death announced in the newspapers, after the words, ‘dreadful
accident!’”

“They are not loaded,” said her husband, puffing strongly from his
newly-lighted cigar, as they drove off.

Hamilton was extremely amused at his comical situation, or rather at the
events which had led to it, and after a few ineffectual efforts at
suppression, he indulged in a fit of laughter, in which A. Z. joined;
and it was some time before she could answer Baron Z—’s repeated
inquiries as to the cause of their mirth.

“I really don’t know, Herrmann, excepting that perhaps Mr. Hamilton is
amused at finding himself in our company. By-the-by, you do not perhaps
know that he speaks very good German.”

“Like an Englishman, eh?”

“His German will prove a better medium of communication than your
English, perhaps; but,” she added quickly, changing the subject, and
speaking German, “tell me, did you observe the new arrivals at the
_table d’hôte_ to-day. Who are those two pretty girls?”

“Rosenthal, or Rosenberg, I believe, is their name.”

“A decided acquisition, so far as appearance is concerned. The one who
sat beside Major Stultz at dinner is decidedly beautiful. Don’t you
think so?”

“Yes, and Major Stultz thinks so too, I should think; he made prodigious
efforts to be agreeable, but could neither obtain a smile nor look
during dinner. Had I been in his place, I should have tried the other,
who is very nearly as pretty, and seems quite disposed to receive any
attentions offered to her. I saw her looking towards our end of the
table more than once, but could not ascertain whether she looked at me
or your friend there.”

“My friend seems rather disposed to appropriate the looks, if I may
judge from that rising blush.”

“By no means,” cried Hamilton; “my acquaintance with the young lady is
of very recent date.”

“I did not know there was any acquaintance whatever,” said A. Z.

“It scarcely deserves the name. We travelled part of the way from Munich
together; their carriage was dreadfully crowded, and I proposed taking
some of the travellers. Mademoiselle Crescenz, the nursery-maid, and a
kicking boy, called Peppy, were consigned to my care.”

“Such civility was very unusual on the part of Englishmen; at least, our
countrymen are here generally supposed to be selfish when travelling,”
observing A. Z.

“Perhaps my motives were not quite free from an alloy of selfishness; I
rather dreaded the _ennui_ of a long afternoon alone in an uncomfortable
carriage; and, besides, I was in search of an adventure.”

“How did it turn out?”

“Oh, we got on famously until we reached Seon; but from the moment
Mademoiselle Crescenz saw her step-mother, her manner totally changed;
so I concluded she intended to decline my acquaintance, now that I could
be of no further use to her.”

“Your conclusion proved how very little you know of German girls in her
rank of life.”

“Should one interpret these German girls by contraries?”

“_Cela depend._”

“Perhaps, then, her sister intends to be very civil to me—our
acquaintance began by her calling me a fool; and I overheard her saying
to her sister that I seemed to have an uncommonly good opinion of
myself, and looked like an overgrown schoolboy.”

“There is no possibility of mistaking such demonstrations,” said A. Z.,
smiling, and evidently controlling an inclination to laugh, extremely
displeasing to Hamilton.

“You seem,” he said, somewhat distrustfully, “you seem amused—perhaps at
my expressing your thoughts in the words of another person.”

“What I thought of you on your first appearance——”

“I already know. You thought me a long-legged, bashful animal; at least
you said so to Baron Z—.”

“At that time I fancied I had a sort of right to criticise; and had you
really proved to be John or Archy, as I had supposed, you might have
often been favoured with equally flattering observations; I should have
considered you a sort of relation, and you would, undoubtedly, have
thought me a great bore. Now, the case is different, and I shall treat
you with all possible respect; but you must allow me to laugh, and
promise not to be offended at every idle word——”

“Offended!—oh, no! I should be extremely delighted if you would act
towards me as if I were John or Archy.”

“You are too young to appreciate such treatment—and—I don’t feel
disposed unnecessarily to undertake the part of mentor.”

“You fear the task would prove too troublesome?”

“Not exactly that—I rather like giving advice; but——”

“You think I should do you no credit!”

“I really do not know, nor do I mean to try. Your search for adventures
may bring you into some embarrassments which may not always turn out so
well as on the present occasion.”

“My good fortune on the present occasion has been so extraordinary, that
I shall tempt fate no further; my plan is formed. I shall spend the
winter in Munich, studying German and the Germans. In the domestic
circle of a private family——”

“Where there are no boys?” asked A. Z.

“As a proof of my deference to your opinion, I shall make no objection
even to five boys; and also promise to avoid a widow with unmarried
daughters.”

“I have some hope of you now!”

“Will you then be my mentor during my sojourn in Germany?”

“No.”

“But you said you liked giving advice?”

“And so I do; it is, you know, the only thing that everybody is disposed
to give, and nobody likes to take. Ask my advice, and I shall give it;
although I know beforehand you will not make use of it.”

“Just as much as either John or Archy.”

“No such thing! My advice to them would have been enforced by a little
delegated parental authority, not to mention the probability of their
having, from hearsay, very exalted ideas of my wisdom.”

“I doubt if their ideas on that subject could possibly be more exalted
than mine.”

“Very appropriately answered—you really are an extremely promising young
man.”

Hamilton bit his lip and blushed; there was something in her manner so
mocking, so unequivocally ironical, that he felt mortified—his silent
irritation betraying itself in spite of all his endeavours at
concealment.

“You are offended,” she observed, quietly, after a pause, “and offended
without any cause. I have, all my life, had a particular antipathy to
very young men—it is quite impossible to talk to them without making
remarks which they consider derogatory to their dignity. I did not mean
to annoy you, and recall my words; instead of a _promising_, I now think
you an _irritable_ young man. Does that please you better?”

“Infinitely better,” he answered, laughing; “if not the words, certainly
the manner is preferable. I can bear anything but being turned into
ridicule.”

“What you now call ridicule will a few years hence take the name of
badinage; but let us talk of something else, or still better—suppose we
read. Here is the _Allgemeine Zeitung_, or _Blackwood’s Magazine_.”

“Do you take _Blackwood’s_?” inquired Hamilton.

“I get it and any books I wish for from the royal library. No one can be
more magnificently liberal than the King of Bavaria, in this respect.
When you go to Munich, your banker can sign papers making himself
answerable for any books which may be lost or injured while in your
possession; and this is the only formality necessary to insure you the
unlimited use of a library containing upwards of eight hundred thousand
volumes.”

“But you do not mean to say that I, a foreigner, may take the books home
with me?”

“Your ideas are too English to comprehend such liberality, and so were
mine when I first came to Munich; but the fact is, you may take the
books to your own apartment and read them at your leisure. Of course you
must be careful not to injure them in any way.”

“But if many people enjoy this privilege, the books must be spoiled in
time.”

“You think, perhaps, it would be wiser if the eight hundred thousand
volumes were put into glass book-cases, and merely exhibited to
strangers, instead of being placed at their disposition? As far as I can
judge, however, from personal observation, the books are not either
spoiled or even soiled; at least, none I have ever required; and, you
see,” she said, removing a paper cover from one of them, “they are very
nicely bound.”

“Do you read a great deal?” he asked.

“I once thought so, but on referring to the list of books actually read
at the end of the year, it was so insignificant that I now make no
pretension to being what is called a reader—a few memoirs, travels, an
occasional novel, and the newspapers, fill up my time completely. But
now you really must take a book, or admire the country in silence, for I
cannot allow my _Allgemeine Zeitung_ to remain longer unread. I have
only time for one each day, and I get into a fit of despair when they
accumulate.”

“I think if you won’t talk to me I should like to smoke a cigar.”

“A most excellent idea! Take the coachman’s place beside Herrmann, who,
I am sure, will willingly drive in order to have the pleasure of your
company. You can talk over your intended expedition, and boast of the
quantity of grouse you would have shot had you been at home this
August.”

The day had already closed as they drew near the little village of
Siegsdorf; lights glanced gaily from the windows of the houses, and from
the small inn the sound of singing and laughter was wafted far and wide.

“I don’t think we could do better than stop here for the night,”
observed Baron Z—, turning abruptly to his wife.

“I expected some such proposition as soon as I heard the sound of the
zither,” she answered.

“May I?” he asked, playing with the whip; while the horses, apparently
unwilling to pass by a stable, the comforts of which they had probably
experienced on a former occasion, turned of their own accord into the
roughly-paved yard, and stopped at the door of the inn.

The landlady made her way with some difficulty through the passage,
which was crowded with peasants, to the door, where she stood to receive
the travellers, her rotundity of figure placed in strong relief by the
light behind her. Baron Z— merrily returned the innumerable salutations
made him, as, followed by his wife and Hamilton, he led the way to a
room reserved for guests of the higher classes. One table was still
unoccupied, and the landlady, having with her apron swept away the
crumbs of bread, and removed some empty glasses which were upon it,
placed chairs, asked what they chose for supper, gave the necessary
directions to a girl who was standing near her, and then, with a sort of
contented sigh, seated herself on a bench at the other end of the table,
evidently waiting to be spoken to. Baron Z— looked round him as if in
search of some one, and then said:

“Well, how goes the world with you? Are all the children well?”

“All in good health, thank you.”

“Where is my old friend Hauser? I miss him when he is not seated at the
head of the table.”

“He is out shooting to-day.”

“Is there, then, a chance of my getting a shot, if I remain here
to-morrow?”

“Indeed I cannot promise much. They say the game is getting very scarce.
I am sometimes a whole week without venison. You expected better news, I
know, for I saw your rifle in the carriage.”

“Not here,” said Baron Z—; “but I am on my way to Reichenhall and
Berchtesgaden, and at one place or the other I hope to have a
chamois-hunt. A friend of mine wishes to see the sport.”

“Ah, so,” cried the landlady, looking intelligently towards Hamilton. “I
have part of a chamois in the house; perhaps the gentleman would like a
ragout of it?”

“Should you like some chamois for supper,” asked A. Z., turning to
Hamilton.

“Oh! of all things,” he answered eagerly.

“It is rather a dry kind of meat,” she continued, “I have eaten it but
twice myself; once from curiosity, the second time from—necessity. You
remember, Herrmann?”

“Yes; when we came out of Tyrol and went to the _Klamm_. I think we
ought to show, at least, one of the _Klamms_ to Mr. Hamilton. An
expedition of that kind will be something new to him, and a day more or
less is of no consequence to us.”

“I am sure you are very kind,” said Hamilton, delighted at the word
“expedition,” but not in the least knowing what he was to see.

“We might have the carriage to meet us at Unken, and our landlady will
get us a key of the woodman’s house.”

The landlady nodded assent.

“And cold chickens, and tongues, and coffee, and all those sort of
things. I shall take guides from Ruhpolding.”

“Herr Baron,” cried a tall peasant, who had been leaning against the
half-open door and listening attentively to every word that had been
said—“Herr Baron, you promised to employ me the next time you went
there. I could go to Frauenstein for the key to-night, and meet you in
Ruhpolding to-morrow.”

“Off with you, then,” cried Baron Z—, “and be sure to be there at five
o’clock to-morrow.”

“Or at half-past six,” said A. Z.; “and don’t forget to take the largest
bags you can find.”

The man nodded his head, scraped one of his heavy shoes upon the floor,
and disappeared.

Baron Z—, who was one of the most restless beings Hamilton had ever
seen, now walked up and down the room, looked out of the windows as well
as the thick leaves of the numerous cactus plants would permit, played
with all the ugly, strange dogs in the room, and after having seated
himself for a minute or two on every unoccupied chair he could find, he
finally joined the guests at the other table, and in a few minutes was
discussing politics with an elderly man who had been poring over the
pages of the newspapers; then he listened and related sporting anecdotes
to another, who from his dress he knew must be a _Jäger_; with the
wood-ranger he talked of timber, the drifts of wood in the
neighbourhood; and during the first pause in the conversation, he took
up a guitar which was lying on the table and commenced singing Tyrolean
songs, with such spirit and humour that his audience unanimously joined
in chorus, each taking the part suiting his voice with a precision so
surprising to Hamilton that he asked A. Z. if they had often sung
together before.

“Never that I am aware of,” she answered examining more attentively the
singers; “I do not think Herrmann is acquainted with even one of them.”

The music within seemed to inspire some musicians without, for no sooner
had it ceased than the gay notes of a zither were heard—an instrument
which Hamilton had never seen, and which A. Z. told him was well worth
the trouble of an examination. He was about to leave the room for the
purpose, when he met the landlady carrying in the soup for supper; he
stopped embarrassed, but Baron Z—, without further ceremony, called in
the peasant, who was the best performer, and gave him a place beside him
at the table. The man tuned his zither and began to play what he called
“_Laendlers_,” perhaps from the word land or country, simple waltzes to
which the peasants dance, and which A. Z. assured Hamilton, when
accompanied by a guitar, and the time beaten by the dancing of feet and
the snapping of fingers, at a target-shooting match, or a wedding, was
the very gayest music she had ever heard.

They were all in high spirits the next morning, when they met soon after
sunrise, for the weather promised to be extremely fine, indeed sultry,
if an unclouded sky at so early an hour might be depended upon. Hamilton
was, therefore, not a little surprised at the number of cloaks and
shawls with which the carriage was lumbered, and at Baron Z—’s dress. He
had on the same grey shooting jacket and green felt hat in which he had
first seen him—but he had also black knee-breeches, and worsted
stockings drawn half-way up his thighs, but which were so elastic that
they could be pushed below the knees, where clinging to the legs, they
formed folds at a distance resembling top-boots. A large pouch hung at
his side, and in his hand he carried a long pole with an iron point.
Hamilton was also given one as he got into the carriage, and they drove
off amidst the heartiest wishes for good weather and their enjoyment of
it.

“Mr. Hamilton would have got on better without straps and with thicker
boots,” observed Baron Z—.

“It is of no consequence, for to-day we have scarcely any ascent, if I
remember right,” answered his wife.

“I ought to have equipped him,” cried Baron Z—, laughing. “How do you
think he would look?”

“As he is considerably taller than you are—there would be at least half
a yard of leg uncovered.”

“The dress is certainly very becoming,” observed Hamilton, “but I cannot
imagine it particularly comfortable.”

“If you had to climb, you would find it as comfortable as becoming,”
answered Baron Z—; “and that it is judicious admits of no doubt; all
mountaineers have something similar; and you may be sure the dress was
originally adopted for its convenience. It is unquestionably
advantageous, having the knees uncovered in ascending and descending
mountains.”

“And the monstrous shoes”—begun Hamilton——

“Give a steadier footing and preserve the feet from the pointed stones
or rocks.”

“I remember,” said A. Z., “the first time I ascended an alp, I wore thin
shoes and open-work silk stockings; I came home nearly barefoot, of
course, and with quite a new idea of an alp.”

“Oh, pray do give me some idea of one,” cried Hamilton; “I—I must
confess I have none whatever; for when people talk of alps, I cannot
help thinking of _the_ Alps.”

“I am not surprised at your question, for I doubt if the word be in the
dictionary with the meaning attached to it here. People call the
pasture-lands on the hills or lower parts of the mountains, ‘alp.’
Almost every farmer of any importance has one to which he sends the
greater part of his cattle during the summer months, and there butter
and cheese are made for the winter. Where the alps are extensive, they
are held by several persons, and instead of one little wooden residence,
there are sometimes twenty or thirty.”

“A sort of inhabited common, perhaps?”

“By no means. They are inherited or bought, or given in leases, and are
sometimes very valuable.”

“The view from them is, of course, very extensive,” observed Hamilton.

“Generally, or I should not have been on so many.”

“And I,” said Baron Z—, “always endeavour to pass the night on one when
I am on a hunting expedition; for, besides the chance of a few hours’
sleep in a hay-loft, one can warm one’s self at a good fire, and
breakfast before daybreak. You shall see an alp, and a chamois-hunt,
also, if I can manage it, before you return to Seon.”

“I have no doubt of being able to mount any alp you please,” said
Hamilton; “but for a person who is not a good shot to undertake anything
so dangerous as a chamois-hunt——”

“Danger! There is none whatever.”

“No danger! Why, I have read frightful accounts of chamois-hunts!”

“Read! Oh, so have I—and I don’t deny that an accident may occur
occasionally. In Switzerland, for instance, where the chase is free, the
chamois have become so scarce and shy that they have taken refuge in the
highest parts of the mountains. There, and perhaps in those parts of
Tyrol where they are only nominally protected, they are difficult to be
got at—but in the neighbourhood of Berchtesgaden, Ischl, and Steyermark,
a chamois is not much more difficult to shoot than a stag or a roebuck.”

“But,” said A. Z., “you must confess that people always think more of a
chamois-hunt than of any other. You would rather, I am sure, shoot a
chamois than a deer.”

“That is true, but there is no use in making more of it than is
necessary. Mr. Hamilton, with his present ideas, will be greatly
disappointed, I fear.”

“No, for I was just going to tell him that I have been on mountains
where the chamois have been seen springing from rock to rock in places
to which I could easily have mounted if I had put on a pair of
_Steigeisen_.”

“What is that? What are they?”

“I scarcely know how to describe them; they look like pattens at a
distance, and are buckled over the shoes in the same manner, but they
are provided with four strong iron spikes, to enable you to plant your
feet steadily in the ground, or in the fissures of the rocks.”

“That’s it!” cried Hamilton. “_They_ were also in the description which
I read.”

“Do not have too exalted an idea of the danger on that account,”
answered A. Z., laughing; “for I have heard that many people who inhabit
the mountainous parts of this country use them when they walk on the
snow in winter.”

“So, after all,” said Hamilton, “a chamois-hunt is quite a common sort
of thing.”

“You are falling into the contrary extreme now,” said Baron Z—; “for,
though it is no uncommon thing, strong sinews, good lungs, a quick eye,
and a steady hand are always required in order to be successful.”

They arrived at Ruhpolding, and found their guides waiting for
them—tall, strong-looking men, with sunburnt faces and bushy mustaches.
Their dress was of coarser materials, but in other respects quite
resembling Baron Z—’s, excepting that their grey stockings, with a
fanciful pattern in green, were short, and left their knees perfectly
bare. On their shoulders were slung canvas bags, into which they
immediately packed the cloaks, shawls, and provisions of every
description.

A couple of miles beyond Ruhpolding the carriage was abandoned, and the
party commenced their expedition on a footway through the Fishbach
valley. The vegetation around them was of the richest colouring, the
mossy grass under the trees of the deepest green; and wild berberry
trees, with their delicate leaves and pendent crimson berries grew
luxuriantly in every direction. A variety of beautifully delicate
wild-flowers pleased Hamilton’s eye, but he looked on with some
impatience, while A. Z. and her husband leisurely gathered and examined
some, took others up by the roots, and placed all in a tin box,
evidently brought for the purpose. Long and serious too were the
discussions about them, which, as Hamilton did not understand, he was
glad when, in contrast to this scene of fertility, their way brought
them to the immediate base of the mountains, where it ran parallel with
the dry bed of a torrent almost deserving the name of river when in
spring it rushes from its snowy source, sweeping away heaps of stones
and trunks of torn-up trees, which, thrown high on either side, leave
the valley between a scene of stony desolation. They continued for a
considerable time between the almost perpendicular sides of the
mountains, sometimes climbing over colossal masses of stone, at others
enjoying the shade of the thick pine-trees or over-hanging rocks, when,
on passing an abrupt turn, a foaming waterfall seemed suddenly to
prevent all further progress; for, after passing over the very path they
were pursuing, it bounded from the rocks, which sometimes arrested, but
could not impede its progress, until having half-exhausted itself in
spray, it reached a solid bed of stone, and finally disappeared among
the dark-green fir-trees of the narrow valley below.

While Hamilton looked in silent admiration down the precipice, A. Z.,
her husband, and the two guides disappeared in the cavity of the rock
behind the waterfall, and seemed greatly to enjoy his surprise when he
discovered them sitting under the trees at the other side. While one of
the guides unpacked his canvas bag, and laid the contents on the nearest
rock, Hamilton joined them, and they remained beside the waterfall more
than an hour, enjoying their frugal repast while resting in the shade,
and tranquillised almost to laziness by the sound of the rushing waters.
Baron Z— was, of course, the first to move.

“Ah, there is a _châlet_!” exclaimed Hamilton, pointing towards some
small wooden buildings on a green hill before them; below which a second
waterfall, forming natural cisterns in the rocks, fell in cascades from
one to the other. “A _châlet_ at last!”

“We call them _Senner_ huts here,” said A. Z. “When men have the charge
of the cattle, they are called _Senners_; when women, _Sennerins_. Let
us go to where that girl is standing at the door of her hut; she seems
an acquaintance of our guide’s. These _Sennerins_,” she continued,
looking attentively at the one who was now about to supply them with
cheese and butter—“these _Sennerins_ are the theme of almost all the
national poetry and songs here in the mountains.”

“They would not inspire me,” said Hamilton, laughing. “I see nothing
very poetical about them, if this one may be taken as a specimen.”

“You do not understand their manners or mode of life,” said Baron Z—.
“Their isolated situation and primitive occupations are poetical—these
mountains and endless forests are poetical—there is poetry in the sound
of the bell, which answers to every movement of the grazing cow—in the
tinkling of the little bells, which, like castanets, denote the quicker
motions of the goats!”

“True,” said A. Z.; “and you would find that round-faced, thick-legged
girl picturesque, if not poetical, could we remain long enough for you
to hear her singing to assemble her herd, and see her surrounded by her
cows and goats this evening.”

“Shall we not pass the night in one of these sorts of huts?” asked
Hamilton.

“Not in a _Senner_ hut,” replied Baron Z—. “It is the woodmen and
foresters’ _châlet_ to which we are going; the ground is Austrian, but
the woods are Bavarian; and it is through the _Klamm_ that the wood is
drifted for the salt-works at Reichenhall.”

“Through the _Klamm_,” repeated Hamilton, slowly and musingly.

“You look as if you did not know what the word _Klamm_ meant,” observed
A. Z.

“I must confess I do not, although I looked for it yesterday evening in
my pocket dictionary. The explanation was a spasm in the throat; or,
close, solid, narrow——”

“Exactly,” said A. Z. “The _Klamm_ which we are now going to see is a
long, narrow passage, made by a stream of water through a mountain of
solid rock; but now let us move on, or we shall have to inspect it by
torchlight.”

They all hurried forward towards the ascent before them, and would
probably have felt considerably fatigued had not the continual change in
the scenery created unceasing interest. Far as the eye reached, all was
green; and beyond, the deep-blue sky, unbroken by a single cloud. A new
and gigantic world of mountains rewarded them for the toil of the
ascent. Here and there a peasant’s house, with its over-hanging wooden
roof, gave life to a picture that, with all its sunshine, would
otherwise have been desolate in its loneliness, for no human being was
visible. It seemed extraordinary that the ground was so highly
cultivated, for road there was none; nor did there seem to be any
communication with the world but by a narrow and in some places rather
dangerous footway. Cattle were to be seen further up the mountains, on
those green spots of turf described by A. Z., and which are to be found
sometimes even among the bare crags. These pastures can only be used for
a short time in summer; and, as the weather grows colder in autumn, the
cattle are driven down lower, until finally they are brought home for
the winter, covered with garlands of wild flowers! While Baron Z— was
enthusiastically describing “A re-return from the alp,” they had begun
to descend into the valley, and already heard the sound of rushing
water. Magnificent masses of rock prepared them for the cavern, into
which they entered by a natural arch, over which, carved in the stone,
are the words

         “‘Gutta cavat lapidem, non vi sed sæpe cadendo,’ 1833.”

“So the cave is altogether formed by the action of the water,” observed
Hamilton, looking upwards.

“Altogether, as you will soon perceive,” replied Baron Z—. “Some years
ago this was a wild place, and frightful accidents often occurred, until
our king had a way made through it for the convenience and safety of the
persons employed in the drifting of the wood.”

The narrow bridge-like way of which he spoke was composed of strong
beams and planks; and in the twilight which always reigns in the vaulted
tunnel, it appears to hang suspended in the air, being supported by iron
cramps driven into the solid rock underneath. The water rages, and above
the daylight enters sparingly by a few small isolated openings.

“One could fancy this the abode of the ‘Wild Huntsman,’” said A. Z.

“I know nothing of the Wild Huntsman,” said Hamilton, “excepting from
the scenery in _Der Freyschutz_. Everything I have seen to-day, but most
of all this wild cavern, reminds me of it. I should rather like to be
here on a stormy night, to hear the wind whistling through these arches.
Although not very imaginative, I could almost bring the Wild Huntsman to
my view, just here where the sky begins to be visible.”

“Instead of the Wild Huntsman, substitute the forester when he opens the
sluices to let the wood drift through,” said Baron Z—. “Fancy the
rushing and roaring of the pent-up torrent, the dashing of the trunks of
trees against these rocks, the terrific noise increased by the echo——”

“Oh! how I should like to see it,” exclaimed Hamilton, eagerly.

“I prefer a quiet sunset, like the present,” said A. Z., beginning to
ascend the steps which led out of the cavern. “I can imagine what you
have described, and acknowledge that wild weather heightens the effect
of scenery such as this; but still just in such places I particularly
enjoy the repose of nature. There is no tameness in it, for the possible
change which may take place is ever unconsciously before the mind’s
eye.”

“That may be true,” said Hamilton, thoughtfully. “I have seen but little
wild scenery—never anything resembling this, excepting, as I said
before, at the theatre, where I looked upon everything as very fine, but
very impossible.”

“Few people in England are aware how very true to nature the
_Freyschutz_ is. Put the Wild Huntsman and the charmed bullets aside,
and every target-shooting match in the mountains will bring the scenery
and actors before you. Weber was in the habit of frequenting such
places, and listening for hours to the untutored singers and
zither-players.”

“Who have we here?” cried Baron Z—, as they came within view of the
woodman’s house, and he perceived several persons moving backwards and
forwards.

“Another party!” exclaimed A. Z. “I only hope they are not too numerous,
and that we may be able to join them. I have no fancy for going on to an
alp this evening.”

“But if they are all strangers——” began Hamilton.

“If they are, we shall make their acquaintance. I think I see a couple
of ladies—a most fortunate circumstance for me, as they will be sure to
offer to make our coffee and arrange everything. I am not at all useful
on parties of this kind, but very thankful to anyone who takes care of
me.”

They were strangers, and considered themselves such in a double
sense—for they were Austrians! While A. Z. was explaining the
extraordinary fact of Bavarians considering themselves foreigners in
Austria, and _vice versa_, Baron Z— had entered into conversation with
them, and a few minutes sufficed for him to guess the name of one who
said he was there on business; and from him he heard all he required
about the others. As to A. Z., she lost no time in seeking two ladies
who were standing at the door of the _châlet_, and having confessed her
want of experience in all culinary art, they, without hesitation, made
the offer she desired, and were given the bags, which the guides were
just taking from their shoulders.

The supper, composed of the most heterogeneous materials, was eaten
under the trees near the house; and it was not until late that they took
refuge from the night air in the kitchen of the _châlet_, where a bright
fire burned on the high, open hearth, which, like a long table, occupied
the middle of the room, with wooden benches round it. A zither was found
in the house, and a young student, with long, fair hair flowing over his
black velvet coat, who had brought a guitar, slung, troubadour-fashion,
over his shoulders, sang directly he was requested. A quartette was also
soon arranged; and Hamilton, seated in a corner, out of the glare of the
fire, contemplated the party for a long time in silence.

At daybreak the next morning, long before the sun’s rays could reach
them, they were again in the _Klamm_; and, passing through it, found
another and much easier way than that of the previous day, which brought
them to Unken. There they parted from their acquaintance of the evening
before, who surrounded their carriage, bowing and shaking hands, with a
mixture of formality and friendliness which afforded A. Z. and Hamilton
subject of conversation for some time, the former observing that had two
English parties met in the same way, they would never have joined so
cordially; and, instead of conducing to each other’s amusement, would
most probably have sat apart, reciprocally watching to detect whatever
was disagreeable or vulgar. “I, for my part,” she continued, “was
exceedingly well satisfied with my companions, who were very
communicative, and related a great many interesting particulars of their
mode of life in Tyrol. I have promised to visit them should I ever be in
their neighbourhood. Their father is a forester, and the eldest is
engaged to be married to that silent, shy man, in the green
shooting-jacket. However, he was not too shy to wait for her at the foot
of the ladder, when he supposed we were all asleep.”

“So they really did take a walk by moonlight!”

“The moonlight did not last long; and I do not believe they went farther
than the bench outside the door, where they found more company than they
expected. Romantic feelings and sentimental contemplations are not
confined to German women; there are few men here who would not sacrifice
a few hours’ rest on an occasion like yesterday, to sit—and smoke in the
moonbeams.”

“How ingeniously you always contrive to alloy your praise of us,” said
her husband, laughing.

“And yet I am strict to truth, for the fumes of cigars ascended with the
murmuring of voices, last night, to my window, and obliged me to close
it.”

“Well, we shall have nothing of the kind to-night, as we are likely to
be alone on the alp.”

“I have been thinking it would be as well if we were to go to
Berchtesgaden, and sleep comfortably in beds; I do not feel quite equal
to another night passed on the hay.”


                         ---------------------




                               CHAPTER V.

                                AN ALP.


TO Berchtesgaden they went. We shall not follow Hamilton, either when he
inspected the salt-works, or visited the beautiful lakes in its
immediate neighbourhood; nor would we accompany him to the alp, which he
afterwards ascended, were it not to give our readers a slight idea of
those excursions so common in the mountainous parts of Bavaria, and of
the little importance attached to a chamois hunt. They were
unceremoniously joined in their expedition by a number of hunters,
foresters, and some officers who were on leave of absence. A. Z. went
with them very willingly, as she heard that an acquaintance of hers was
spending a few weeks on the alp for her health, enjoying what is called
“_Sommer frisch_”; and, in fact, on reaching the _châlet_, which was
situated in the midst of the mountains, they found a very nice-looking,
sunburnt person, sitting with her maid before the door. She was
surprised to see the Z—’s, but not in the least to see the others, as
she said scarcely a week passed that someone did not come to hunt; and
on hearing that Hamilton spoke German she pointed upwards towards the
rocks before the house, and said that in the evening he would see the
chamois leaping about there.

“She is destroying all the mystery of a chamois-hunt,” said Hamilton,
turning to A. Z. “I could run up that mountain, I think.”

“I would not advise you to try it; nor, indeed, can I consent to your
making any excursion on the mountain alone, as long as you are
travelling with us. Violent deaths are not at all uncommon here; it is
not long since a girl, gathering herbs, fell over a precipice and was
dashed to pieces; and a man was found nearly starved to death, in a
place to which he had climbed, but from which he found it impossible to
extricate himself. That old man,” she added, lowering her voice, “that
old _Jäger_, who is now speaking to Herrmann, had some dispute with his
only son when they were on a chamois-hunt together; people say that a
push from him, in the heat of argument, precipitated the young man
thousands of feet below; his body was found in a dreadfully mutilated
state, but there was no evidence against the old man, for they had been
alone; and as such accidents are but too common, the exact state of the
case has never been ascertained, and his confessor alone knows what
happened.”

“Well, Hamilton, are you disposed to try a shot this evening?” asked
Baron Z—; “three or four chamois have been seen in the neighbourhood.”

“I shall go with you as a looker-on; but as I am a very bad shot, I
think one of these poles will be of more use to me than a rifle.”

“We shall send some men up to beat them down to us,” said Baron Z—.
“There is no use in climbing more than is necessary.”

“Can you not use dogs?” asked Hamilton.

“They could never be properly trained; for although the chamois do not
in the least mind the clattering of stones or gravel, any unusual sound
immediately attracts their attention. A solitary hunter has only to
avoid this, and to take care that the wind blows in his face, or, at
least, not from him in the direction where he expects to find them.
Their scent is something almost incredible, and only equalled by their
shyness.”

“It is, after all, a very difficult shot,” said Hamilton.

“Yes, in Tyrol and Switzerland, where they have been hunted until they
have taken refuge in the most inaccessible places—though even there, I
doubt the truth of most of the wonderful stories related of them,
especially of their so maliciously forcing the hunters down the
precipices. It has been proved that the chamois have no remarkable
preference for very high or cold mountains; they only choose them in
order to have a good retreat among the rocks when pursued.”

“That I observed, too, last year,” said an officer, who was of the
party, “at Prince Lamberg’s, where there is the best chamois-hunting in
Germany, perhaps. They were there so well preserved that they were not
more shy or difficult to shoot than other game; and instead of their
only being to be found in the evening, or at dawn, they rambled about
all day; and when the weather was mild, did not even seek the shade.”

“I have heard of Prince Lamberg’s mountains,” said Baron Z——; “he has
fifteen or sixteen hundred chamois on them, I hear; but, after all, when
one can have them without much trouble, one does not value them so
highly; for instance, I shot a chamois some years ago, in Bayrishzill,
but was out nearly twenty-four hours before I got a shot—here is his
beard, which I have preserved and worn ever since,” he added, taking off
his hat and showing a little fan-like ornament, which Hamilton had
before observed without knowing its value.

“Then they have beards like goats?” said Hamilton.

“No,” replied Baron Z—. “This is called a beard, but it is the hair
which grows along the back.”

“I see something very like a chamois up there,” said the officer, who
held a small telescope to his eye.

Everyone wished to look—some could not find the place—others imagined
they saw _something_—one thought it was the stump of a tree—but some
practised eyes having pronounced it to be the desired animals feeding,
the party broke up and the chase began.

Hamilton climbed with an ease and lightness which surprised his
companions; but he so often stopped to admire a handsome beech-tree, or
to “seek for fresh evening air in the opening glades,” that they by
degrees went on, and he found himself at last alone in a spot where some
convulsion of Nature had split the mountain partly asunder. He saw far,
far beneath him, the road into Tyrol; the heavy-laden wagons, which a
few days before he had thought packed dangerously high, now wound,
pigmy-like, along, the motion of the endless team of horses scarcely
perceptible. Hill rose beyond hill, until the prospect was bounded by
the grotesque masses of rocks which, rising from the wooded mountains,
increase their gigantic appearance by their partial concealment behind
those light wreaths of clouds which seldom entirely desert their
summits. For the inhabitants of the valley, the sun had long
disappeared; but around Hamilton everything was in the glow of sunset:
he seated himself on the mossy turf and deliberately resigned himself to
contemplation. No place could have been better chosen, and he was
therefore surprised and disappointed to find that the sublime thoughts
which he had expected did not present themselves to his mind. He admired
the surpassing luxuriance of the vegetation in the valleys, the
different-coloured foliage of the trees; the wild irregular course of
the foaming river;—he tried to think of the greatness of the Creator in
His works, the insignificance of man and his endeavours—in vain. An
agreeable feeling of general satisfaction stole over him, while fancy
conveyed him home to his family, to his youthful friends. A handsome
English residence rose before him, with well-kept lawns, gravelled
walks, and shrubberies; groups of well-dressed people were visible among
the trees, and on the steps leading to the hall-door a large party was
assembled. Carriages and riding-horses were there; laughing girls, in
their long habits, young men carelessly loitering near them.

They were to visit a well-_preserved_ ruin in the neighbourhood—so often
seen, it is true, that everything was thought of more than the nominal
object. Camp-stools, servants in livery, champagne and pine-apples began
to chase each other in pleasing confusion before Hamilton’s mind’s
eye—when the distant report of a gun destroyed the “baseless fabric” of
his “waking vision,” and he started up, remembering with some amazement
that he was engaged in a chamois-hunt! “It is of little consequence,” he
thought; “for had I fired ten times, I should never have hit one.”

He plunged into the wood, and commenced a regular and steady ascent,
which he continued even after the fir-tree had begun to dwindle into a
dwarfy shrub, and the beautiful wild rhododendron had disappeared
altogether. His path became steeper and more rocky, and at length he was
reduced to the necessity of creeping round the intervening obstacles,
and of supporting himself by the few plants which vegetated among the
fissures of the rocks. Not a sound broke the silence around him; the
moon slowly rose above the darkening horizon, which was slightly
streaked with a faint crimson tinge, leaving on the dim grey of the
mountain tops the still perceptible reflection of the fading sunlight.
The valleys were in the deepest shade, and from the dispersed
peasant-houses lights began to twinkle. Hamilton looked carefully round
him, to ascertain, if possible, his position, before he descended into
the thick wood which lay beneath him. The falling of some loose stones
and a fragment of rock in his vicinity made him start; but immediately
supposing it to be some of his former companions, he called out that if
anyone were there he wished they would wait for him: a clattering of
stones and scampering ensued, accompanied by a sharp sound, perfectly
incomprehensible to him, until on a projecting rock far above him he
perceived three chamois, standing in strong relief between him and the
cloudless sky, and gazing irresolutely around them. They allowed him to
examine them for some time, as the distance and moonlight would admit;
but as he endeavoured to approach nearer, they suddenly sprang up the
rocks, and sending a shower of stones, and sand over him, disappeared in
a few seconds. By this time he had lost all idea of where he might be,
and although extremely unwilling to increase his distance from the
_châlet_, he saw the absolute necessity of still climbing in order to
see into the Alpine valley, in which it was situated. Perfectly
unacquainted with the irregularities of the mountain, he kept as much as
possible in the light, following occasionally what he supposed to be
paths, but which were in fact the stony beds of the mountain rivulets,
formed by the thawing snow in spring. He wandered on in this manner,
sometimes ascending, sometimes descending, for more than two hours,
looking around in every direction, but not a trace could he find of the
_châlet_, nor, indeed, at last, of any habitation whatever. On reaching
a part of the ridge of the mountain, he was somewhat startled to find
that the other side descended in a perpendicular precipice of rock,
apparently so smooth and destitute of verdure that it might be supposed
a wall. He stopped—and all A. Z. had said to him recurred at once to his
memory. The moon was still too young to remain visible to him much
longer, and it would be totally dark by the time he reached the wood; he
saw no alternative but to stay where he was until morning, and had
actually chosen a place of repose, when the distant sound of guns fired
at regular intervals, made him imagine that he, and no longer the
chamois, was the object of pursuit. A faint echo of human voices too
reached his ear, and he shouted loudly in answer. A frightfully distinct
echo from the mountain opposite made him desist; he feared that his
deliverers might be misled, and he now hurried along in the direction
from whence the welcome sounds had first reached him. Keeping on the top
of the mountain, and avoiding any place where the shadows of the rocks
prevented him from seeing his way distinctly, he walked and ran, and
sprang and vaulted with his long pole, until the moon, disappearing
behind a mountain, created a sort of half-night, which again forced him
to a halt. Suspecting that the echo had misled him, and fearing that he
was farther than ever from his companions, he perceived without regret
the gradual cessation of the treacherous sounds, and at length, with a
sort of desperate English calmness, he seated himself on the ground, and
after a few not very successful efforts to place himself comfortably
against a sandy bank, he took a cigar, lighted it, and crossing his
arms, resigned himself to his fate. The night proved darker than he
expected, and he gazed on the starry firmament until his thoughts became
confused, and his eyes closed in heavy slumber, which remained unbroken
until the cold breeze of breaking day caused a chill to pass through his
stiffened limbs. He rose, and looked about him with astonishment for
some minutes, and then, with long strides, began a rapid descent.

Great was afterwards his annoyance to find that, instead of arriving, as
he had expected, at the _châlet_, he had quite reached the base of the
mountain, and that merely a narrow ravine separated him from another of
precisely the same description. He stood for a moment irresolute, and
felt—very hungry. The sun had begun to colour vividly the eastern sky,
and after a little consideration, he found that returning to the alp
would oblige him to mount again, and he was still very uncertain in what
direction it lay; whereas, if he took another course, he would probably
in an hour or two find some opening into one of the surrounding roads,
where he could enter the first peasant’s house he should see, and
procure something to eat. In this conjecture he was perfectly right.
Sooner than he had dared to hope, a cheerful house, prettily situated on
a green hill, and surrounded by fruit-trees, rejoiced his eyes. Some
wild sunburnt little boys and girls announced his approach, and when he
came to the door he found a large family assembled. His wants were soon
made known; and a table, placed before the wooden bench which ran along
the front of the house, was soon covered with a rustic, but not frugal
breakfast—an enormous loaf of dark-brown bread, a basin of milk, covered
with thick yellow cream, some pounds of butter, honey, cheese, fried
eggs, and a sort of mashed-up _omelette_, called _Schmarn_. While
Hamilton was eating, the peasant’s wife stood near, her youngest child
on her arm, and a couple of others leaning against her. She assured him
if he had not been in such a hurry she could have made some coffee for
him; she always bought coffee at the fair, and drank it every Sunday!
She was so sorry her husband was not at home, but she expected him every
moment; he had gone up to the alp at daybreak, with fresh rolls for the
breakfast of the gentlemen who had been out shooting.

As she spoke, a loud gay voice was heard in the distance, jodling, and
the children all rushed down the hill and disappeared in the wood.

“That is probably your husband,” said Hamilton; “I shall be glad to hear
what sport they have had on the alp.”

“Oh! you were there, too,—perhaps—I have been thinking and thinking
where you could have spent the night; you did not look as if you had
come from the town!”

“I dare say not,” said Hamilton, laughing; “most probably I look as if I
had spent the night among the rocks, and that is actually the case; I
lost my way yesterday evening.”

The peasant soon after joined them, and to Hamilton’s eager inquiries as
to the result of the hunt, replied that a chamois had been shot in the
evening, but that the disappearance of a young Englishman who had gone
out with them had spoiled everything; they had searched for him until
dark, and that Baron Z— had been out to look for him before daybreak;
even the ladies had joined in searching, and one of them had been up
nearly to the top of one of the mountains with the goatherd.

“Good heavens!” cried Hamilton, springing on his feet, “they are
searching for me. I must go to them directly.”

“It will do just as well if I send Peter to let them know you are here,”
said the peasant calling one of his sons, and giving him the necessary
directions: after which, murmuring the words, “with your leave,” he
seated himself at a little distance, and glancing towards Hamilton’s
outstretched feet, he observed with a smile, “You would never have got
up and down the alp again with those boots!”

“I believe you are right,” answered Hamilton, listlessly moving them so
as to have a better view; “they certainly do look the worse for wear. I
never was so ill shod in my life!”

“I dare say yesterday you might have danced at a wedding in them, but
for the mountains they are not the right sort.”

“Most true,” said Hamilton; “and if I ever make an excursion of this
kind again, I shall not forget it. This is the first time in my life
that I have been in a mountainous country.”

“And yet England is a fine country, they say?” observed the peasant,
interrogatively.

Hamilton assented with a nod.

“I have heard it said at the Golden Lion in the town, that there is no
end to the riches of the English!”

“Some are very rich, and some are very poor,” answered Hamilton. “I
believe the means of living—the necessaries of life—are more equally
divided among the inhabitants of Germany.”

“Well, that I have heard too,” said the man: “and now that you tell me
there are no mountains——”

“Stay,” cried Hamilton, laughing. “I did not say there were no
mountains; I only said that I had never seen them.”

“But all the Englishmen I have ever spoken to——”

“Are not very many,” said Hamilton, interrupting him.

“More than you think, perhaps. Before my father gave up the house and
ground to me, I was for many years with a relation in Berchtesgaden, and
used to row most of the strangers across the lake. Queer people they
were, too, sometimes! One gentleman used to sit for hours under a tree
near the back lake, and went there regularly every day for several
summers. The last time I saw him, he said when he died his spirit would
hover around that tree—or something of that sort. I made inquiries about
him lately, and as he has not been seen for a long time, I suppose he is
dead, and should not at all like to go to that part of the lake alone of
an evening; for though I don’t mind taking my chance against living men,
I am mortally afraid of the dead—and that Englishman always looked half
dead, with his pale face and sunken cheeks. It was dreadful to hear him
cough; and the people at the inn said he never was quiet at night, but
wandered incessantly up and down his room. They said he must have been
crossed in love——”

“Most probably he was dying of consumption,” said Hamilton.

“Very likely; that was what the doctor called it. He said it was a very
common complaint in England—like the rheumatism here, I suppose. What my
poor grandfather suffered from rheumatism the last forty years of his
life is incredible; but he walked about and lived all the same to be
past ninety years of age—and celebrated his golden wedding too!”

“His golden what?”

“Wedding. Perhaps you have no golden or silver wedding in England?”

“I confess I never heard of anything of the kind,” said Hamilton.

“Oh, the silver wedding is only on the twenty-fifth anniversary, and
most people can celebrate that; but to be fifty years married, and to
have a golden wedding, is a sort of event in a family. Though but a boy
at the time, I shall never forget that day. This house was quite covered
with garlands, and all the neighbours from far and near were assembled;
and my grandfather and grandmother, dressed in their wedding dresses,
walked in procession with music to the church, and the priest married
them over again, and preached such a sermon that everyone had tears in
their eyes. We had a dinner, too, at the Lion, and such dancing and
singing; and in the evening there was no end to the noise and shouting
when they drove off together for the second time as bride and
bridegroom!”

“How I should like to see such a wedding! Is there no chance of one now
in the neighbourhood?”

“Not that I know of. It is a rare thing, for generally a year or two
before the fifty years are at an end one or the other dies. The very
wish to live it out, carries the old people off, I believe.”

“Do people marry early here?”

“Not often, for they must get the consent of the parish, and prove that
they can support a family. I was past forty before my father resigned
the house and land to me.”

“So he gave it to you during his lifetime? Is that often done?”

“Very often. I was to pay him a pension, and he intended to remove to
the town; but he could not leave the place, and so we all lived together
until his death. My mother is still alive. You may have seen her on the
alp: she is always wandering about there.”

“Was your father obliged to ask the consent of your landlord when he
resigned?”

“He was obliged to get the consent of government, and I had to pay the
usual fine of five per cent. of the value of my house and ground.”

“Then you have no lease?”

“Lease? No, we have no lease.”

“And your land is hereditary in your family?”

“Yes; we have the usual taxes to pay, and we have fines in cases of
death, succession, or exchange of land.”

“Could you sell your property if you wished it?”

“No doubt—if I obtained the consent of government; but who would sell
their land and be without house or home?”

“I suppose it is always the eldest son who inherits?”

“No; we can make whichever child we please our heir; but we generally
choose the eldest son, who pays the other children what is left them by
will.”

The peasant’s wife drew near, and afterwards the children gathered round
them; their mother, in the pride of her heart, telling them to fetch
their copy-books, and show the gentleman how well they could write. He
had not finished the inspection or praised them half as much as they
deserved when the Z—s and their companions advanced from the wood, when
joyful recognition and long explanations completely changed the current
of his thoughts.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER VI.

                         SECULARISED CLOISTERS.


WHEN Hamilton returned to Seon he found there an addition to the guests
he had left, in the person of Count Zedwitz’s son, a young officer who
had come to spend part of his leave of absence with his family. His
appearance was prepossessing, notwithstanding his very decided ugliness;
for his yellow hair, impertinently degenerating into red in his bushy
mustachios, nearly concealed a mouth of enormous proportions, and
heightened the whiteness of his teeth of faultless purity, but unusually
large and of irregular form. The almost flaxen eyebrows protruded far
beyond eyes which were small and light-coloured, but full of
intelligence; the nose thick, of indefinite form, and a forehead which
would have delighted Gall, Spurzheim, or Combe, but from which a
painter’s eye would have turned away to seek some more pleasing object.
His figure was tall and well-proportioned, but, notwithstanding his
youth, already denoted an inclination to stoutness.

Hamilton found him an agreeable companion; indeed, everyone seemed to
like him, especially Mademoiselle Hildegarde, who, Hamilton imagined,
received his unobtrusive attentions with undisguised satisfaction; nor
was it long before he discovered a sort of avoidance of his society on
the part of both sisters. Crescenz, indeed, looked at him sometimes, but
the moment her eye caught his it was averted, and a blush was sure to
follow. Hildegarde never looked at him at all. They whispered together
continually, took long walks alone, and became every day more
melancholy. In short, there was something mysterious in their manner
which excited Hamilton’s curiosity, and he determined to see Crescenz,
if possible, alone for half an hour, and question her on the subject;
but this was not easily managed, for Hildegarde seldom left her side,
and were she present there was no chance of hearing anything. He
commenced a system of watching, which Crescenz unfortunately
misinterpreted, while Hildegarde remained perfectly unconscious of it;
he did not apparently interest her sufficiently to make her observe his
movements; but Crescenz’s blushes increased daily, and even her sister’s
presence could not prevent her from sometimes entering into conversation
with him. He asked her once if Seon had disappointed her—if she were
tired of it; and then, in a low voice, why she looked so sorrowful. A
blush, a reproachful look, and eyes suddenly full of tears was the only
reply he received. Hildegarde, who had partly heard the questions, drew
her sister’s arm within hers and left him alone to think over all
possible causes, but in vain; he then turned his observations towards
her step-mother, but there he was completely at fault. She was very kind
in her manner to Crescenz, while to Hildegarde she seemed to have
increased in severity.

One day Crescenz descended to dinner with eyelids so swelled from crying
that her eyes were almost closed, her sister so pale that Hamilton
expected every moment she would faint; after a few ineffectual efforts
to swallow, they rose suddenly and left the room together. Madame
Rosenberg, who was sitting beside Major Stultz, made some hasty remark,
and followed them. She had not, however, been absent more than a few
minutes when she returned with Hildegarde, and pointing angrily to her
place at the table desired her “to sit down there, and leave her sister
in peace.” She obeyed, but made no attempt whatever to eat. Young
Zedwitz, who had established a sort of right to sit beside her,
endeavoured to begin a conversation; without raising her eyes, she said
a few words in a low voice which at once made him desist, and he
scarcely looked at her again during the time she remained at table.

It was a magnificent afternoon, and Hamilton was burning with curiosity
which he had determined to satisfy by some desperate effort during the
course of it; his dismay was, therefore, great, when he found himself
seized upon by old Count Zedwitz and carried off to his room for a
dissertation on the water-cure! As a reward, or rather punishment, for
the exaggerated expressions of interest lavished upon cold water on a
former occasion, a manuscript was confidentially produced, written by
himself, intended for publication, and of which he proposed Hamilton’s
making a translation for the benefit of his countrymen! He commenced
slowly reading aloud, occasionally stopping to make alterations and
corrections, while Hamilton gazed wistfully out of the open window at
the sunny landscape, his thoughts wandering unrestrainedly to Crescenz
and her sister. They would have gone out to walk, and he should probably
not see them until supper-time. Zedwitz would, of course, contrive to
join their party, as he was evidently getting up a serious flirtation
with Hildegarde; he, for his part, rather preferred Crescenz, who he was
sure he could persuade to give him a rendezvous—perhaps even in the
cloisters! Five minutes—only five minutes without her sister—he composed
the most appropriate speeches, and the running accompaniment to his
thoughts, formed by Count Zedwitz’s manuscript, almost made him laugh in
spite of himself and his annoyance.

At length the sound of gay voices in the garden beneath brought his
impatience to a crisis; he sprang from his chair, placed his head in his
hands, and declared he had such a violent headache that he must beg to
defer the conclusion of the manuscript until the next day.

“Headache! My dear sir, if you would not think me unfeeling, I should
say that I rejoice to hear it! I shall now be able to make a convert of
you at once. Headache, be it nervous or rheumatic, can be cured by
placing the feet in a tub of cold water, and rolling wet cloths round
the head.”

“I think a quick walk would set me to rights in a very short time; and
as I hear your son singing in the garden, perhaps I shall be able to
persuade him to join me.”

“If you don’t like the foot-bath, try a little sweating in
cloths—indeed, it will cure you—pray, try it.”

“My dear Count—my headache is of a very peculiar kind; I am subject to
it, and have given it the name of ‘bored headache.’ I know from
experience that nothing but a walk can cure me.”

“Bored headache! To bore—to penetrate—to pierce—to bore with a gimlet!
You feel, perhaps, as if some one had been boring at your head,” and he
suited the action to the words.

“Precisely—exactly. In such cases I require violent exercise——”

“But, I assure you,” he persisted, “the cold stupes would have the same
effect; I should still, merely to convince you, recommend sweating in——”

“Excuse me this time,” said Hamilton, hurriedly, “and to-morrow, if you
will have the kindness to read me your manuscript, I shall be able to
appreciate its merits as it deserves.”

While the Count was taking off his spectacles, Hamilton, with his hand
pressed on his forehead, left the room as if he were suffering tortures.
It was fortunate that the old man’s rheumatism prevented his looking
after him, as he ran along the corridor and bounded down the staircase
into the garden! Young Zedwitz was gone, and his mother and sister were
standing so near the door that, in the eagerness of flight, Hamilton
stumbled against them. He apologised, and then asked for Count Max, whom
he said he expected to have found in the garden.

“He was here a minute ago,” answered she, “but is gone to look for
somebody or something; I did not quite understand what he said.”

“It is very unkind of Max not to walk with us,” observed the young lady,
with some irritation; “he knows how dreadfully afraid I am of cows and
dogs.”

Hamilton thought she looked at him as if she expected that he should
offer to accompany her in the character of protector. This, however, he
resolved not to do, and was in the act of retiring when the old Countess
exclaimed: “Oh, Mr. Hamilton, if you are not otherwise engaged, perhaps
you will accompany us in our walk? My daughter is so easily frightened
that she cannot go any distance without someone to chase away the
cattle.”

Hamilton felt doomed. The request had not been made in the most
flattering terms, it is true, but he could not do otherwise than
acquiesce. The thought that young Zedwitz was at that moment, perhaps,
walking with the sisters, did not make him feel amiably disposed, and he
was considerably out of temper when he commenced his walk. This could
not, however, continue, for both his companions were agreeable; and
though the old Countess suffered considerably from asthma in ascending
the hills, she contrived, nevertheless to commence a conversation, as it
appeared to Hamilton at first, in order to learn something of him or his
family. Not, however, finding him disposed to be communicative, she
desisted from anything but indirect observations, which rather amused
him than otherwise, and then spoke unreservedly of her own affairs.

“They lived on one of their estates, in the neighbourhood of Munich, but
they had spent the last two winters in the latter place, on account of
their daughter. It had not agreed with the Count, and as her daughter
was now braut (a bride), that is, engaged to be married, they should in
future live altogether in the country. They had another residence in the
mountains, near Baron Z—, which she would greatly prefer, but the Count
fancied the mountain air increased his rheumatism. She supposed her son
had told him all this, however.”

“Our conversation has been principally about Munich, and he has
persuaded me to spend next winter there.”

“Were your movements so uncertain? Do your parents leave you completely
at liberty?”

“Completely. I can spend the winter at Vienna, Berlin, Dresden, or
Munich.”

The conversation was changed, and Hamilton was so pleased with both his
companions that he was actually sorry when they reached Seon, though the
walk had been long, and it was so late that the guests were assembling
for supper.

“Where are my girls? Are they not yet returned?” asked Madame Rosenberg.

No one had seen them.

“They were with me the whole morning,” she continued, “and only went out
half an hour ago to the church on the other side of the water. Perhaps
Mr. Hamilton will be so kind as to call them to supper.”

“Let me go with you,” cried young Zedwitz, starting from his chair.

“Thank you—I can find them without your assistance,” he replied; and
then added, maliciously laughing, “I know you have been lounging about
this little lake all day, my good fellow, and must be as tired of it as
a sentinel of his post.”

Zedwitz laughed too, but he was not so easily put off—he took Hamilton’s
arm, and they sallied forth together.

“You were long on guard to-day, Zedwitz, from dinner-time until now!”

“How did _you_ like being caught to drive away the cows? I saw you being
led off.”

“At first I did not like it at all—afterwards, very much. I have taken a
great fancy to your mother—still more to your sister.”

“My sister is the dearest little soul in the world. If you but knew her
as well as I do! I am very sorry she is to be married so soon—her loss
will to me be irreparable, and our house so intolerably dull without
her, that I shall be under the necessity of choosing a wife with as
little delay as possible.”

“Your mother told me she expects you will make a most desirable
marriage.”

“With my ugly face?—that is not probable.”

“I understand from the Countess, that you, as well as your sister, were
already engaged.”

“By no means—certainly not,” cried Zedwitz, with a vehemence
incomprehensible to Hamilton; “joining hands for the purpose of joining
estates is not at all to my taste.”

“I should suppose not,” observed Hamilton, carelessly; and a long pause
ensued. At length Zedwitz observed, abruptly: “My parents are anxious
for me to quit the army, and marry; and, yet, I am convinced, that when
I propose doing so they will object to the person I have chosen. In
spite of my ugliness, or rather, perhaps, on account of it, personal
beauty has a value in my eyes beyond what it deserves. I could not marry
an ugly woman—could you?”

“I have never thought much on the subject,” replied Hamilton, laughing.
“My parents have strictly forbidden all such thoughts on my part for the
next ten years at least.”

They now began to cross the shallow part of Seon Lake, on a narrow,
wooden bridge, so narrow that it was inconvenient for more than two
persons to walk abreast. When they had reached the slope leading up to
the church on the other side, Hamilton suddenly stopped and asked Count
Zedwitz what “Hildegarde had said to him at dinner which had so
effectually silenced him?”

“She told me not to speak to her, as she could not answer me.”

“Was that all?”

“But she gave me some hope that she would tell me why on some future
occasion, and I was satisfied.”

“There is some mystery in the family! Don’t you think so?” asked
Hamilton.

“I am quite convinced of it. Those poor girls seem very unhappily
situated. I really pity them.”

“I both pity and admire them,” cried Hamilton; “and moreover, I am
exceedingly anxious to find out this same mystery. Let us start fair and
see who will first obtain information.”

“Agreed.”

“My chances are but small,” observed Hamilton; “with me both the young
ladies are shy, and I myself am still more so.”

“You shy!” exclaimed Zedwitz, laughing.

“What! You don’t believe me! You must have observed how I blush for the
merest trifle.”

“Oh, yes—you blush, but it seems to be constitutional, however, for I
never saw anyone of your age so self-possessed.”

“My dear Count, you quite mistake my character, I assure you—it is a
sort of—anomaly; a mixture of modesty and assurance——”

“Assurance, perhaps—sometimes—the modesty I have never observed.” He
stopped and pointed to the two sisters, who were sitting on the trunk of
a prostrate tree in a neighbouring field, their hands clasped firmly
together, and each separately exhibiting a picture of grief which,
independent of the youth and beauty of the mourners, was interesting
from the difference of its expression. Crescenz seemed quite subdued
from excessive sorrow, her whole form drooped, and she wept in silence,
the tears coursing each other over her youthful cheeks unrestrainedly.
Hildegarde held a letter tightly pressed in her hand, and looked
upwards. She might have been praying; but it seemed to Hamilton as if
the eyes remained upturned to prevent the falling of the tears which had
gathered in the underlids—an occasional almost imperceptible movement of
the corners of the mouth, and an evident difficulty of swallowing,
confirmed this idea.

“Beautiful creature!” exclaimed Zedwitz, enthusiastically.

Hildegarde stooped towards her sister, and, it seemed, whispered some
words of comfort, for the other looked up and attempted to smile.

“Hamilton, let us return towards the lake; it would be cruel to take
them by surprise. We must talk loud, or in some way give them notice of
our approach.” He turned away as he spoke, and so effectually did he put
his intentions in practice, that when they again approached the sisters,
they were walking apparently unconcernedly towards the church, and on
hearing that they were expected to supper, quietly led the way to the
wooden-bridge. Zedwitz and Hamilton now commenced maneuvring; but as
their intentions were similar, and the object not to engage the same
person, they were almost immediately successful. Zedwitz seemed, indeed,
at first determined that Hamilton should lead the way with Crescenz; but
the latter soon gave him to understand that that would never answer, and
after a few frowns, and shrugs, and shoves, he followed Hildegarde, who
was already on the bridge.

Hamilton approached Crescenz and whispered hurriedly: “What is the
matter? Why are you so unhappy? What on earth has occurred during my
absence from Seon?”

“Nothing, nothing! Nothing has occurred which can in any way interest
you,” she replied, walking quickly on.

“You are unkind, mademoiselle,” said Hamilton, slowly and
reproachfully—“unnecessarily unkind. From the commencement of our
acquaintance, short as it has been, I have felt the greatest interest in
all that concerns you. I see you unhappy—wish to offer any consolation
in my power—and am treated with disdain.”

“I did not mean to treat you with disdain,” said Crescenz, softening,
and walking more slowly.

“Your sister is not so cruel to Count Zedwitz.” In fact, they were just
then speaking rather earnestly. This had great effect.

“What do you wish to know?” she asked, gently.

“I wish to know the cause of your unhappiness. I wish to know why you
avoid me.”

“That I cannot tell you so easily! You will hear, perhaps—but you will
not understand what—that is—how—I mean to say why I could not refuse.
I—I cannot tell you,” she cried, bursting into tears, and walking on so
quickly that she had nearly reached her sister before Hamilton could say
in a whisper, “To-night, at the foot of the broad staircase leading to
the cloisters—may I expect you?”

“No, no, no!”

“There will be moonlight; at nine o’clock I shall be there.”

“Oh, no—not for the world!”

“The staircase is quite close to your room; grant me but five minutes
only.”

Her sister looked round, and, to prevent further discussion, he added
urgently, but looking at the same time with affected unconcern across
the lake—

“You _must_ come, or I shall spend the whole night in the cloisters
waiting for you.”

It was in vain she now endeavoured to refuse; he was deaf to all
excuses, and walked purposely so near her sister that she was obliged to
give up the attempt.

Before they entered the house, Zedwitz whispered triumphantly: “I shall
know _all_ to-morrow morning.”

“And I to-night,” replied Hamilton.

“What? when? how? where?”

“That is my affair, not yours.”

“I shall find out, you may depend upon it.”

“I defy you,” cried Hamilton, laughing; but the next moment, heartily
regretting his foolish boast, he thought for a moment of telling him his
purpose, but the fear of compromising Crescenz deterred him, and soon
afterwards perceiving him earnestly engaged in conversation with
Hildegarde, he hoped he would forget all about the matter.

After supper, Madame Rosenberg, as usual, produced her knitting, and
Hamilton began a listless sort of conversation with her, which lasted
until her daughter had left the room; it suddenly, however, took a turn
which rendered it to Hamilton interesting in the extreme. She had,
according to her own account, a most particular fancy for all
Englishmen. They were such agreeable companions; gave no trouble at all;
she had now reason to know, for she had had Englishmen lodging in her
house for the last three years. She had two furnished rooms, which she
always let, and from experience she now knew that Englishmen were in
every respect desirable lodgers. Need it be said that “on this hint”
Hamilton had spoken, and that in a very short time an arrangement for
board and lodging was concluded to their mutual satisfaction. It was
then that she launched into praises of his nation, ending with the
remark that nothing would induce her, now that her step-daughters were
at home, to receive any but Englishmen under her roof. “They were
accustomed to domestic life, to female society, and did not think it
necessary to talk nonsense to every girl with whom they happened to be
five minutes alone. Did he know Mr. Smith?”

Hamilton believed he knew two or three Smiths.

“I mean a Mr. Howard Seymour Smyth.”

“No;” Hamilton knew more Howards and Seymours than Smiths, he was happy
in the consciousness.

“Perhaps you know Captain Black?”

“I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance.”

“He was a most delightful person; lodged with us last year; dined,
however, at Havard’s _table d’hôte_. You will be the first who has
actually become a member of the family, as I may say. I wonder what
Rosenberg will think of the arrangement?”

“May I beg of you to write to him to-morrow on the subject, as I have
already given a sort of commission to the Baroness Z— and——”

“Oh, dear! there’s no necessity for writing; I always arrange these
things alone; you have nothing whatever to do with him!”

“In that case I may consider the affair as arranged,” said Hamilton,
rising and going towards the side-table for his candle. She rose, too,
and they ascended the stairs together.

“I shall do everything in my power to make you comfortable and at home
in our house,” she said, when wishing him good-night.

As he entered his room, the great clock struck nine. He placed, with
some natural trepidation, his candle behind the stove, and locked his
door carefully, to prevent Zedwitz, should he come, from ascertaining
whether he were there or not. “He will think, perhaps, that I am in bed
and asleep if he get no answer,” was his wise reflection, as he dropped
the key into his pocket, and commenced walking on tiptoe towards the
place of appointment. A few moments’ thought convinced him that there
was no necessity, whatever, for concealment, until he had reached the
lower passages, where there were flower-stands, gardening tools, old
doors, casks, and all sorts of lumber heaped up, as if on purpose to
make places of retreat for gentlemen in his situation. He ensconced
himself behind a spacious beer-barrel and waited patiently until he
heard a step on the stairs. Keeping carefully in the dark, he whispered,
“I am here, give me your hand.” But no hand was given; on the contrary,
a scampering up stairs, three or four steps at a time, ensued, which was
at first perfectly incomprehensible. Hamilton afterwards supposed that
Crescenz had heard some noise in the corridor, and must wait for a
better opportunity. Again he placed himself behind the friendly cask,
and waited upwards of a half an hour. At the end of that time an odd,
rustling noise among the lumber made him start; but muttering the word
“rats,” he flung an old rake in the direction from whence it came, and
all was still again. It had become so much darker that he now took up
his post near the staircase, and soon after Crescenz appeared, looking
timidly down into the obscurity. “I am here, do not be afraid; there is
no one near,” cried Hamilton, softly advancing towards her.

“I have only come—to say—that—that I cannot come.”

Hamilton in vain endeavoured to repress a smile. “Well, come down the
stairs, and at least tell me why!”

She descended a few steps.

“Well! why?”

“Because I have not courage; I am always afraid in the dark.”

“But it is not dark in the cloisters; there is the most beautiful
moonlight imaginable! Come.”

“Would not to-morrow at six o’clock, in the garden, do as well?”

“I cannot hear you,” answered Hamilton, becoming suddenly deaf; “and you
had better not speak too distinctly, as you may be heard by some one
crossing the passage.”

“To-morrow morning in the garden,” she softly repeated, descending close
to where he stood.

“I have been waiting nearly an hour!” was the answer which he gave, in
order to change her thoughts.

“I could not help it; Hildegarde has only just fallen asleep.”

“We must not remain here, or we shall certainly be overheard. Come,” he
whispered, drawing her arm within his.

“I cannot—I cannot—to-morrow before breakfast, or when you will; but not
now. Let me go! oh, let me go!”

And he would have let her go; but the thoughts of Zedwitz’s raillery
made him resolute. His first thought was to carry her off; but that
appearing too strong a measure, he contented himself with holding her
hand fast while pouring forth a volley of reproaches.

“And now,” he concluded with an affectation of reasoning, “now that you
are so far, why retreat? Everyone is in bed; no human being in the
cloisters. I ask but five minutes, but I would speak with you
alone—unrestrained.”

And while he was speaking he had contrived to make her move along the
passage. A moment after, they had reached the quadrangle, and stood in
silent admiration of the calm seclusion of the spot. The echo of their
footsteps was the only sound they heard; and the bright moonbeams not
only lighted the monuments erected against the wall, but rendered almost
legible the epitaphs of those whose tombstones composed the pavement.

He led Crescenz to a seat near the monument to the founder of the
monastery, Count Aribo, and waited for her to speak; she had, however,
no inclination to begin, but sat in a deep revery, looking fixedly on
the ground; and, as it seemed, more inclined to be sentimental than
communicative.

Hamilton, more conscious than she was of the impropriety of her
situation, and fearing that they might be seen by some of the servants,
at length exclaimed, with some impatience:

“Do not let us lose these precious moments, but tell me at once what has
occurred.”

Crescenz became agitated, covered her face with her hands, but remained
silent.

“For heaven’s sake tell me what is the matter?”

“I am very, very unhappy!” sobbed the poor girl.

“But why—why are you unhappy?”

“Because I—I am going to be married!”

“Married!—To whom are you going to be married?”

“To—to Major Stultz.”

“Major Stultz!—Why, this must be a very sudden business, indeed. Before
I left Seon he seemed much more inclined to marry your sister than you!”

“Oh, of course he would rather have Hildegarde, because she is so much
cleverer and handsomer than I am; but she would not listen to him, and
called him an old fool!”

“I admire her candour,” said Hamilton.

“And then she got into a passion when he persevered, and slapped him on
the mouth!”

“Slapped him on the mouth!”

“Yes, when he attempted to kiss her hand; at least he says so; and
Hildegarde thinks it may be true, as she was angry and struggled very
hard to release her hand. He told mamma that he would not marry her now
if she were ten times handsomer, and a princess into the bargain!”

“She seems of rather a passionate temperament.”

“Passionate! yes, she sometimes gets into a passion, but it is soon
over, and then she can be so kind to those she loves! No one knows her
so well as I do, excepting, perhaps, papa, and he says, if she were not
passionate, she would be faultless; with me she is never in a passion.”

“Perhaps because you yield implicit obedience to all her commands? But
tell me why did not you follow her example, and refuse Major Stultz, if
you did not like him?”

“He did not ask me, he spoke to mamma, and wrote to papa; and when all
was arranged, I had not courage to refuse; and he is forty-six years
old, and I shall not be sixteen until next year!”

“That is a considerable disparity, certainly.”

“I should not mind the thirty years so much if his face were not so red
and his figure so stout. I hate red-faced, stout men!”

“If he could change his appearance to please you, I have no doubt he
would do so,” observed Hamilton, smiling.

“Hildegarde also dislikes red-faced men,” she added, pettishly.

“Whatever Hildegarde says must be right, of course,” said Hamilton,
ironically; “but I have not discovered that she dislikes Count Zedwitz,
and he rather comes under the denomination red-faced.”

“Hildegarde says Count Zedwitz is very agreeable, and not in the least
presuming.”

“And who does she say is presuming, if I may ask?”

“She says you are—or would be, if you were allowed.”

“I think she is wrong. And were she to meet Zedwitz here alone——”

“Hildegarde would never do such a thing—never! And I ought not to have
come, either,” she cried, starting from her seat and looking anxiously
round. Then, laying her hand heavily on his arm, and straining her eyes
as if to see something more distinctly, she asked, in a scarcely audible
voice, “What is that?”

“What?—I see nothing.”

“There—there—in the corner! The moon’s shining on it now—that figure.”

“Oh, that is a stone figure—a monument, or something of that sort. Let
us go and look at it.”

“Not for the universe—I saw it move.”

“You fancied it moved; one can imagine all sorts of things by moonlight.
Will you remain here and let me examine it?”

“Oh, no—you must not leave me! I—I think it may be something unearthly.
Oh, why did I come here?—why did I come here?”

“Don’t be unnecessarily alarmed; I am convinced it is nothing but——”

“There, there—it moved again!” She grasped his arm and hid her face on
his shoulder.

“Come,” said Hamilton, encouragingly; “let me take you to your room—to
your sister.”

She trembled violently, but endeavoured to walk. The figure, however,
seemed to possess the power of fascination—she would or could not remove
her eyes from it; and though Hamilton assured her he remembered having
seen it by daylight, and at first really thought so, he was soon
unpleasantly convinced of his error. They saw the outline more and more
distinctly every moment—could even distinguish the large folds of the
drapery in the moonlight. Hamilton tried to hurry her forward; but at
that moment the figure, slowly and stiffly raising an arm, pointed
threateningly towards them. This was the _acme_. Crescenz clung to him
in an agony of terror, and while Hamilton whispered to her, “For
heaven’s sake, not to scream—to think of the consequences were she to be
discovered,” she writhed as if in strong convulsions, gasped frightfully
once or twice for breath, and then sank on his arm perfectly insensible.

Shocked beyond measure, but now convinced that someone had been amusing
himself at their expense, Hamilton called out angrily, “Cease your
mummeries, whoever you are—and see what you have done!”

The moonlight fell on Crescenz’s lifeless form while he spoke, and in a
moment Count Zedwitz stood beside him. He endeavoured to exculpate
himself by avowing that he had no idea of playing ghost when he had
followed them.

“I don’t care what you intended,” cried Hamilton, still more angrily;
“but I wish, at least, you had spared this poor girl such unnecessary
terror.”

“I did not think of the consequences. It was very foolish—it was very
wrong, if you will. But you must not think I was a listener; I declare
most solemnly I did not hear one word of your conversation.”

“The whole world might have heard it!” cried Hamilton, impatiently
shaking off the hand which Zedwitz had placed on his shoulder; “the
whole world might have heard it. But what is to be done now? She shows
no sign of life, and is as cold as a stone. Perhaps you have killed
her!”

“Oh, no, she has only fainted; let me go for a glass of water.”

“Are you mad?” cried Hamilton, detaining him forcibly; “no one must ever
know that she has been here with me—with us——”

“Oh, I thought I could——”

“I wish you would think rationally, and repair the mischief you have
done.”

“Let us take her to her sister; she will never betray her, and will know
best what means to employ for her recovery.”

And between them they carried Crescenz along the passage and up the
stairs. Fortunately, the first door led to her room, and Hamilton
desired Zedwitz to knock gently, lest other people in the neighbouring
rooms might be awakened. But it was in vain he knocked; Hildegarde
seemed to be enjoying what is called a “wholesome sleep”; and at length,
finding their efforts fruitless, Zedwitz volunteered to go in and waken
her.

Hamilton heard the sleepy voice change into a tone of alarm, the anxious
questions, and finally a request that he would leave the room. He did
so, and in less than a minute Hildegarde opened the door in a state of
great agitation. While Hamilton laid Crescenz on the bed, Zedwitz struck
a light, and Hildegarde then asked him earnestly to tell her what had
happened.

“My odious cloak has been the cause of all,” he answered, evasively;
“she saw me standing in the moonlight, and thought I was a ghost.”

“Saw you standing in the moonlight?—when?—where? Oh, go away, both of
you,” she cried, vehemently, as the candle lighted her sister’s pale
features; “go away, and leave me alone with Crescenz.”

They left the room, and walked towards one of the windows looking into
the quadrangle. After some delay, Hildegarde appeared, and a dialogue
ensued which Hamilton thought unnecessarily long, as he was not able to
hear what was said. The moment, however, that he approached the
speakers, the door was closed, and he was left to make his inquiries of
Zedwitz.

“How is she?”

“Better, or quite well, I forget which; she fancied at first that she
had been dreaming, but now she knows the contrary.”

“Hum! No doubt you exaggerated splendidly when explaining to Hildegarde
just now!”

“Not I! I was thinking the whole time of that bewitching little
nightcap, and how lovely she looked in it.”

“Pshaw! if you have any fancy for such caps, I recommend you to go to
London. In any street you please, and at any hour, you can see half a
dozen such caps on as many Bavarian girls, whose employment is to scream
‘buy a broom,’ and who are just the most good-for-nothing creatures in
the world.”

“And how do you know they are Bavarians? I think it much more probable
that they are Dutch girls.”

“In London people call them Bavarians; and I must confess they never
interested me sufficiently to induce me to make inquiries.”

“Very likely; but when I tell you that Bavarians do not lightly forsake
their country, that they are seldom so poor as not to have enough to
live upon—our marriage-laws provide against that; that London is a long
way from Bavaria, and the steam-packets make it an easy matter for Dutch
girls to transport themselves there, you will also think with me that
they are more probably Dutch than Bavarian.”

“How warmly you defend your countrywomen and their hideous caps,” cried
Hamilton, laughing. “But, really,” he added, opening the door of his
room, before which they stood, “really, the matter is not worth a
dispute. The girls are Dutch, if you will have it so, but the caps are
ugly, say what you will.”

“It depends so entirely on the wearer of the cap! For instance, to-night
I thought that cap the most becoming thing I ever saw!”

“Perhaps you also prefer one foot in a slipper and the other bare.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the fair Hildegarde could only find one slipper in the
dark, and pattered about with her bare foot, as if it were the most
comfortable thing possible!”

“I did not look at her feet; but even if I had, I should only have
admired her forgetfulness of self in her anxiety about her sister.”

“You are right, Zedwitz,” cried Hamilton, with unusual warmth; “quite
right. And though I will not, cannot, say that I think the nightcap
pretty, I must acknowledge that I admired Hildegarde to-night more than
anyone I ever saw. She is superlatively handsome, and it is the greater
pity that she is such a devil.”

“A devil! Are you raving?”

“Not a bit of it. I advise you to take care how you make advances to
her; she will slap you on the mouth for the slightest misdemeanour.”

“Slap me on the mouth!”

“Not the smallest doubt of it. She buffeted poor Major Stultz when he
innocently made her a proposal of marriage, until his face, from deep
red, turned to the richest purple.”

“Nay, now I know you are inventing—joking.”

“Not so much as you think, I assure you. Her sister is my authority. She
softened the recital in some degree, it is true, by saying that
Hildegarde was not often in a passion, and never with _her_.”

Zedwitz seated himself at the table, drummed on it with his fingers, and
looked at Hamilton as if he expected to hear more.

“Perhaps, after all,” said Hamilton, “she is only a little hot-tempered.
I have heard it asserted that passionate people were always
good-hearted—in fact, most amiable, when not actually in a passion!”

“Who would have imagined that?” said Zedwitz, thoughtfully; “and with
such an angel’s face!”

“Never trust an angel’s face!” cried Hamilton, laughing. “My brother
John, who understands such things, says that angelic-looking women are
very often devils, and, if not, they are bores; and of the two I prefer
a devil to a bore, any day—even for a wife.”

Zedwitz rubbed his hand across his forehead, and looked dissatisfied.

“So you think her ill-tempered?” he observed.

“I cannot exactly say ill-tempered; but I have already seen her in
something very nearly approaching to a passion.”

“You!—where?”

“No matter. But she called me a fool, and stamped with her foot, until I
ran away for very fright.”

“I dare say you had provoked her past endurance; and I have now had an
opportunity of judging how shy and modest you are. Not that I mean to
blame you for supporting Crescenz, as you did to-night, in the
cloisters. You saved her, no doubt, from a severe fall, but you took
very remarkable good care of her.”

“It was very natural that Crescenz should cling to me when she was
frightened,” said Hamilton, seriously; “and equally natural that I
should endeavour to protect her.”

“Oh, it was altogether extremely natural; only don’t talk any more
nonsense about being shy. You were anything but shy at the foot of the
staircase——”

“Were you there, too?”

“Not very distant from you, disguised as a rat.”

“If I had managed to hit you with the rake, all this scene would have
been avoided.”

“Perhaps; but do you know that you invited me yourself to come? I did
not know where you were until you said, in the most insinuating manner,
‘I am here—give me your hand.’”

“So you were the person who scampered up the stairs?”

“Yes, and scampered down at the other side, and found another way into
the passage.”

“Well, I hope I shall not remain long in your debt, that’s all.”

“Oh, your anger is over for this time, I hope. Rather let us now swear
an eternal friendship. The thing is possible, as we are not rivals.”

“Perhaps we may be, though—I rather took a fancy to Hildegarde to-night.
Crescenz is almost too childish.”

“You are not serious, I hope,” cried Zedwitz, with what Hamilton
imagined an affectation of alarm.

“I really don’t know whether I am or not. I am only trying to get up a
sort of flirtation to make the time pass agreeably while I am studying
German; for that purpose, in fact, one sister is as good as the other;
indeed, Crescenz suits me, perhaps, better, because the affair will have
a respectable termination when she marries Major Stultz.”

“Is she to marry Major Stultz?”

“So Hildegarde has not even told you that?”

“Not a word.”

“Well, let us open the window and smoke a couple of cigars in the
moonlight, and you shall hear all about it, and have a full and true
account of the boxing-match between Hildegarde and the gallant Major.”


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER VII.

         AN EXCURSION AND RETURN TO THE SECULARISED CLOISTERS.


MADAME ROSENBERG “wondered” unceasingly, the next morning, why Crescenz
was not well enough to appear at breakfast. Zedwitz looked at Hamilton,
and Hamilton looked at Zedwitz, and then they both looked at Hildegarde,
whose eyes were fixed on the ground, leaving nothing but the long
eyelashes, which rested on her cheek, visible. About the corners of her
mouth played an expression which it was impossible to define; but it
seemed that Zedwitz was able to interpret it to his own advantage, for
he seated himself beside her, and began a conversation in the very
easiest manner possible. Major Stultz was fully occupied with a
monstrous edition of a meerschaum pipe, and Hamilton turned to Madame
Rosenberg, who showed every disposition to be friendly and confidential.
From sundry winks and witticisms which she exchanged with Major Stultz,
Hamilton perceived that she wished to excite his curiosity, and longed
to tell him of Crescenz’s engagement. But he pretended stupidity, and
carefully avoided all leading questions. Suddenly it occurred to him to
propose a party to the Chiem Lake the next day, and he was immediately
warmly seconded by Zedwitz. Major Stultz took his pipe from his mouth to
say that the weather was so warm they might expect a thunder-storm,
which on that lake would be dangerous. Madame Rosenberg, with a few wise
nods, observed that, “under existing circumstances,” she thought that
Crescenz might be allowed a little amusement, and the party was decided
upon. Hamilton took Zedwitz aside, and asked him if he could not
persuade his mother and sister to join them; told him, however, at the
same time, what had been said about the Z—’s.

“My dear fellow,” was his answer, “the Z—’s are just the people who
would have joined the party at once; she likes being in all sorts of
company, and he amuses himself everywhere; but nothing in the world
would induce my mother or sister to go with these people.”

“These people! Why, are they not respectable?”

“Respectable! Oh, perfectly. Come, don’t play innocence, and force me to
explain what you understand as well as I do. The two girls are
treasures, and would be presentable anywhere, if they had but a ‘_Von_’
before their name; but their step-mother is vulgarity personified, and
Major Stultz, you know, was a common soldier!”

“I know nothing at all about Major Stultz, excepting that he is a
red-faced, jolly-looking, elderly man. He must have distinguished
himself during the war, or he could not have obtained his present rank.”

“Yes, his personal bravery is undoubted; he was also an excellent
officer——covered with wounds—made the campaign in Russia, and was one of
the few Bavarians who returned home to relate the horrors of the
retreat. I advise you, however, to avoid the subject when he is present,
as he is rather diffuse about it. His brother, a Nuremburger tradesman,
died about six months ago, and left him a good deal of money; his wounds
afforded him a good excuse for retiring from the service and applying
for a pension. And he told me honestly, that he has been looking for a
wife ever since, as he does not know what to do with himself.”

“The idea of taking Hildegarde to wife, in order to dispel _ennui_, was
a proof of great discernment,” observed Hamilton, ironically.

“Rather say, most unpardonable effrontery,” replied Zedwitz, growing
very red.

“A man of his discrimination,” continued Hamilton, provokingly, “must be
aware that Crescenz is but a bad substitute for her sister; Hildegarde,
too, would have suited him much better; she would have kept him in order
by——” Here he waved his hand significantly.

“How you harp on that subject, Hamilton!”

“I shall never mention it again if it distresses you. I was really not
aware——”

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, impatiently, turning away.

“As to Crescenz, poor girl,” continued Hamilton, “I really pity her.
Such a fearful difference of age and person makes it an odious
sacrifice!”

“Not so much as you think, perhaps,” said Zedwitz, quietly; “Stultz is a
good-hearted man, and will let her do whatever she pleases. You will see
how soon she will be satisfied with her lot in life! Perhaps even before
her marriage!”

“It is at least to be hoped so,” observed Hamilton, dryly.

“The _trousseau_ will soon occupy her mind completely, and while
exhibiting it to her friends and receiving their congratulations, she
will learn to like the cause of all the preparations, and end, perhaps,
by fancying herself a singularly fortunate person!”

Crescenz entered the garden while they were speaking, and blushed deeply
as she passed them. Hamilton felt the blood mount to his temples, and
turned away that Zedwitz might not observe it.

“This is the beginning of the comedy,” cried the latter, after a
moment’s pause, touching Hamilton’s arm to make him look round. He
turned, and, through the foliage of the arbour, saw Major Stultz
clasping a massive gold bracelet on Crescenz’s arm. She appeared for a
moment embarrassed and shy; then played with a padlock or heart, or some
such thing which dangled from the bracelet, and finally she looked up at
him and smiled.

“She is a thorough-bred coquette!” exclaimed Hamilton, indignantly.
“Zedwitz, I throw down the gauntlet, and enter the list as your rival. I
prefer running the chance of occasional chastisement from the fair hand
of Hildegarde, to having anything more to do with such a silly, vain
creature as this Crescenz seems to be.”

“Seems to be, Hamilton—and only _seems_. The circumstances must also be
taken into consideration. She must marry this Stultz, whether she like
him or not. That he is not the _ideal_ of a girl of her age, one can
easily imagine. He suspects this, perhaps, and wisely commences by
giving her a handsome present. That is probably the first gold bracelet
she has ever had clasped on her arm. She is very young—childish, if you
will—but neither silly nor very vain for feeling a little pleasure, and
honestly showing what she feels. I see nothing reprehensible in her
conduct.”

“Had you but heard her last night telling me how unhappy she was!”

Zedwitz shrugged his shoulders.

“How she talked of his forty-six years, and declared her hatred of
red-faced men!”

Zedwitz laughed.

“She mentioned, also, that her sister had the same antipathy.”

“Sorry to hear it,” cried Zedwitz, picking up a handful of flat pebbles
and pitching them one by one with considerable skill into the lake,
watching them skimming along the surface, with an interest that half
provoked Hamilton.

“You seem to have a thorough contempt for my rivalship by daylight.”

“What do you mean? Did you not tell me last night that Crescenz suited
you exactly, as you only wished to amuse yourself for a time?”

“Such _were_ my intentions. May I ask what were yours? Or rather, what
are yours?”

“Oh, certainly you may ask, but you must forgive my not answering you,
as I have not the most remote idea what I may be induced to do. I shall
most probably be guided altogether by circumstances.”

He put an end to the conversation by walking towards the arbour, where
the arrangements for the next day’s party were soon made—Major Stultz
not venturing, before Crescenz, to say a word about storm or danger.

They left Seon at a very early hour the next morning in two carriages.
Madame Rosenberg, as usual, took her three boys with her, in order, as
she said, to keep them out of mischief. Fritz, the eldest, on finding
himself separated from her, immediately found amusement in climbing from
the carriage to the box, and from the box into the carriage again,
causing Hildegarde, who had charge of him, such anxiety lest he should
fall on the wheel that she could scarcely remain a moment quiet. Zedwitz
assisted her so sedulously that he did not perceive an attack which
Gustle directly commenced on the buttons of his coat with a blunt
penknife; and Hamilton, alone unoccupied, half listened to the desultory
conversation of his companions, while admiring in silence the scenery,
than which nothing could be more beautiful to an English eye. The fine
old trees in the domain-like meadows which were bounded by extensive
woods; the splendid lake, appearing at intervals through openings which
seemed made as if to show to advantage its extent, and the magnificent
range of mountains beyond. The rippling of the water on the sandy shore
brought at last such a crowd of home-recollections to his mind that he
leaned back, forgetful of all around him; Fritz’s irritating gymnastics,
Gustle’s mischievous pertinacity, Hildegarde’s angelic face, and
Zedwitz’s amusingly enamoured expression of countenance! The sudden
stopping of the carriage made him once more alive to everything going on
about him. The little maneuvres of Madame Rosenberg to place Major
Stultz near Crescenz; the determination with which she insisted on
Hildegarde’s sitting between two of her brothers; the third she gave in
charge to Zedwitz, and Hamilton had the honour of being reserved for
herself.

Hildegarde and Crescenz were, for the first time in their lives, in a
boat, and neither of them was at her ease. Crescenz exhibited her fear
by various little half-suppressed screams, sometimes catching the side
of the boat, sometimes the arm of Major Stultz. Hildegarde sat perfectly
quiet, not venturing to look to the right or left, her colour varying
with every movement of her unruly neighbours, who amused themselves by
adding to the fears of their sisters by balancing the boat from side to
side.

They landed first on the _Frauen Insel_ (Woman’s Island), hoping to be
allowed to see the nunnery. While waiting for the necessary permission
to enter, they wandered through the churchyard and into the church.

On the appearance of a tall, haggard, austere-looking man, in the long
garment of a priest, Zedwitz advanced towards him and begged admittance
for the ladies, the scowling countenance convincing him at once that for
him there was no chance whatever. He was volubly seconded by Madame
Rosenberg, who, with that want of tact not unusual on the part of
uneducated women, actually attempted to be jocular with the awful
looking personage; but neither the polished address of Zedwitz nor the
jocularity of Madame Rosenberg could prevail. He refused without
ceremony, and in very few words told them that without bringing a
permission from the _Ordinariat_ in Munich they could not be admitted;
the entrance of strangers disturbed the nuns, and was against the rules
of the convent.

They turned away, Crescenz observing timidly that she would not like to
be a nun where there was such a severe confessor.

“I hope you have no thoughts of being a nun anywhere,” observed the
Major.

“I should have no objection to such a confessor,” said Hildegarde; “I
rather prefer one who has something imposing in his appearance; it gives
me the idea that he is above the weaknesses of human nature.”

“What nonsense you talk, Hildegarde!” cried Madame Rosenberg, with
evident irritation. “It is only a spirit of contradiction which makes
you pretend to admire a man who has been so disagreeable and uncivil to
us all.”

Hildegarde walked more slowly, and Zedwitz, who had been lingering
behind, immediately joined her.

“So you like stern-looking men!” he observed, in a low voice.

“I said I liked a confessor who had something imposing in his manner.”

“Oh! for a confessor merely? But for a friend, a lover, or a husband,
you prefer something quite different, don’t you?”

“Perhaps I should,” she answered carelessly.

“Or, perhaps,” said Hamilton, “you think of entering the nunnery here
out of pure admiration for that long, gaunt man! There is no accounting
for taste.”

“I do not intend to take the veil until you have become a monk.”

“When I become a monk it will not be here; I shall choose a more
hospitable place and jolly companions, such as one generally reads of.
The incivility of your friend with the austere countenance has greatly
disgusted me.”

The buildings on the other island were very extensive. The church had
been turned into a brew-house, and not long after its desecration it was
burned. “A very proper judgment,” as Madame Rosenberg observed, glancing
meaningly towards Zedwitz. Handsome broad marble stairs led to the upper
apartments, of which a few have been lately modernized. The carved wood
on the doors of the cells and the picture-frames in the refectory were
admirable.

“Altogether,” said Hamilton, looking out of one of the windows across
the lake, “altogether a place where one could spend a fortnight very
agreeably with a gay party.”

“Or with Hildegarde and her sister,” said Zedwitz, in a low voice.

“If Crescenz were not so insipid, with all her prettiness.”

They adjourned to the garden and dined under the trees. Hamilton
studiously avoided Crescenz’s vicinity, although he saw she was half
disposed to be angry at his neglect. She endeavoured, in her simplicity,
to pique him by listening with affected complaisance to Major Stultz’s
commonplace remarks. She laughed, and encouraged him to give her
brothers beer when her mother was not watching them. This childish
conduct, perhaps, Hamilton would have forgotten, had not the
consequences been somewhat remarkable. The boys, unaccustomed to drink
anything but water or milk, soon became almost intoxicated, and on their
way to the boat Fritz, a good-humoured, handsome boy, swaggered, sang,
and shouted most boisterously; Gustle became quarrelsome, and pinched
and pummelled him unmercifully. It was in vain Madame Rosenberg scolded
and threatened punishment; they had not left the shore more than ten
minutes when a regular scuffle took place; Gustle flung Fritz’s cap into
the water, and Fritz, merely taking time to knock down the offender,
leaned over the side of the boat, snapped at his cap, and went heels
over head into the lake! The screams of the ladies were beyond all
conception piercing; Zedwitz, with an exclamation of horror, and
regretting that he could not swim, leaned anxiously and with
outstretched arms over the side of the boat. Madame Rosenberg started up
and, with clasped hands, called for help in a voice of agony.

The danger was imminent. Hamilton sprang into the water and caught the
boy, as he rose for the second time, at some distance from the boat; he
was still conscious, and grasped his preserver’s arm manfully. The scene
which ensued it is impossible to describe. Gustle was boxed, and Fritz
was kissed, and Hamilton was thanked and blessed alternately. He
declined entering the boat again, but partly held it and partly swam to
the shore, where he heard with some surprise that the fishers who had
rowed them, although they had spent half their lives on the lake, could
not swim, so that had he not been there Fritz would inevitably have been
drowned.

From the commencement of his acquaintance with Madame Rosenberg, she had
been disposed to like him; but from this event may be dated a sort of
implicit reliance on her part which afterwards caused him occasional
qualms of conscience, as he felt that he was trusted sometimes beyond
his deserts.

Fritz’s clothes were dried at the inn. Hamilton’s, however, not being
composed of such light materials, he was obliged to leave there, and
borrow whatever he could get from an obliging old peasant, who was
profuse in the offers of his wardrobe. It was amusing to see him in the
brown trousers, a “world too wide,” intended to be long, but which,
after tugs innumerable, could only be persuaded to half conceal the
calves of his legs, whose proportions were rendered somewhat doubtful by
the capacious gray worsted stockings in which they were enveloped; a
long waistcoat of red cloth, and a remarkably short-waisted, long-tailed
coat, in which a second edition of himself could have found place. These
garments altogether formed a costume more original than becoming.
Crescenz and Major Stultz laughed unrestrainedly; Madame Rosenberg
repeated her thanks with a suppressed smile; but Hildegarde, without
speaking, made a place for him beside her in the carriage, of which he
incontinently took possession. He imagined that she spoke more to him
than to Zedwitz on their way home.

Crescenz’s efforts to bring Hamilton back to his allegiance were, for
some days, as unremitting as they were various. She would never have
succeeded had Hildegarde been one jot less quarrelsome; but either from
a naturally irritable temper, or some unaccountable antipathy on her
part to Hamilton, they never spoke to each other without saying as many
disagreeable things as possible. Hamilton felt that she disliked him and
misinterpreted his every word and action, and this conviction, and the
fear that she might discover how much he had begun to admire her, made
him, perhaps, ready to meet her more than half way when she was disposed
for battle. Their conversation generally began civilly on his part, but
something in her manner, or some unnecessarily sharp answer, was sure to
provoke an ironical remark and a slighting gesture, which invariably led
to the commencement of hostilities.

It was after one of these engagements, in which she had exhibited more
than usual vehemence, and he had excelled himself in the art of
tormenting, that he found Crescenz alone in the garden. The contrast was
irresistible for the moment; it was calm and sunshine after a storm!
There she sat, busily employed knitting a stocking, which, from its
dimensions, might probably be intended for Major Stultz! Her fingers and
elbows moved with a rapidity perfectly inconceivable; and as she had for
the last four-and-twenty hours been enacting the sentimental and
offended, he was allowed to admire her pretty face uninterruptedly as
long as he chose, her heightened colour all the time convincing him that
she knew he was looking at her. After a few significant coughs, which
remained unnoticed, he turned to go away. She looked up and—sighed. This
he imagined to be a sort of encouragement; perhaps it was intended for
such, as the look which accompanied the sigh was reproachful. He seated
himself beside her, while he admired the rapidity with which her work
proceeded. The praises were unheeded.

“And who is the happy person destined to wear this?” he asked, playing
with the huge piece of work.

“That cannot in any way interest you,” she answered stiffly; but she
sighed again.

“Everything concerning you interests me; from the time I first saw you
eating roast chicken even to the present moment——”

“You have an odd way of showing your interest, then. Hildegarde says you
are always laughing at me!”

“What do you mean?” he exclaimed, though knowing perfectly what she
meant, and prepared for the answer which he immediately received, and
the implied reproaches for his neglect, which he had expected.

“But, mademoiselle, you have told me yourself of your engagement——”

“Well, and what of that?”

“I could not think of interfering with Major Stultz. I dare not
monopolize——”

“But, at least, you might speak to me sometimes.”

“There might be danger for me were I to do so.”

Crescenz looked immensely delighted and flattered, and her fingers moved
faster than ever.

“Is it not customary here to consider an engagement almost as binding as
a marriage?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, innocently; “I never was engaged until now.
But,” she added, hastily, “but we are not yet affianced; that will not
be until the day after our arrival in Munich.”

“Then you are still at liberty to amuse yourself with others?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And I may talk to you without Major Stultz having any right to be
jealous?”

“Jealous!” she repeated, blushing.

“I meant to say angry. Men at his time of life are difficult to manage;
but it seems you get on famously with him, and have already forgotten
all you said in the cloisters.”

“What did I say?” she asked, looking up.

“Merely something about being very unhappy, and so forth.”

“What’s the use of being unhappy?” she asked, peevishly. “Mamma says I
must marry some time or other; and such a man as Major Stultz is not to
be found every day.”

“I know not which is most to be admired—your astounding resignation or
her excellent reasoning.”

She looked at him for a moment, and then having satisfied herself that
he was not laughing, said, confidingly—

“Mamma has been very liberal, and promises me everything in fifties and
hundreds.”

“Fifties and hundreds!” repeated Hamilton.

“The smalls in hundreds—the large in fifties.”

“You will undoubtedly think me very stupid, but I have not the most
remote idea of what you mean.”

“I am to get a _trousseau_ such as mamma herself had; all the smaller
things, such as pillow-cases, towels, and stockings, a hundred of each!
Table-cloths, and such things, in fifties.”

“Ha! That must naturally have made you think quite differently of Major
Stultz!”

Again she looked at him inquiringly.

“No; it did not make me think differently of him. But what can I do?”

“You cannot do better than try to like him as fast as possible.”

“If he had only a _von_ before his name!” she observed sorrowfully.

“Why, what difference would that make?”

“If he were _noble_, I should not mind the difference of age. _My_ mamma
was a countess!” she added, proudly.

“Then, why not wish him to be a count at once?”

“No; that I could not expect, as I have no fortune, and papa is not a
_von_.”

“I should like to know the exact meaning of this _von_.”

“It is the first grade of nobility; then comes ritter or chevalier; then
baron, count, prince, duke. I wonder how mamma could have married any
one who was not a count or baron; but then papa was so very handsome,
and that makes a great difference!”

“Most undoubtedly! A handsome face is a good letter of recommendation.”

“Are you noble?” she asked, abruptly.

“I have no _von_ before my name,” answered Hamilton, laughing.

“Are you not count or baron?”

“Neither.”

“So you are only Mr. Ham_eeltone_?”

“Only Mr. _Alfred_ Hamilton.”

He perceived that he had fallen deeply in her estimation, and—he fell in
his own, a few minutes afterwards, by a fruitless attempt which he made
to explain to her the nature of the English peerage, and which he ended
by the assurance that had he been born in Germany, where every member of
a family inherits the paternal title, he should undoubtedly have been a
baron or a count. She did not understand him; and he was glad of it, for
he felt keenly the absurdity of his oration, and the silly boast
contained in the concluding remark. Where the _noblesse_ is so extensive
as in Germany, and where so many members of it are so extremely poor,
one would naturally think it would fall in some degree into disrepute,
or, at least, that it would be regarded with indifference. This is,
however, by no means the case; and there is no doubt that, had her
red-faced major been a count or baron, she would have willingly
overlooked the other discrepancies. Even a _von_ before his name would
have been a consolation, when combined with the happiness of having had
a countess for her mother. These were Hamilton’s thoughts during a pause
in the conversation, and he partly continued to think aloud, when he
asked—

“Was she handsome?”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

“I don’t know—I cannot remember her.”

“Are you—is your sister like her?”

“Hildegarde is very like papa, and people say I am very like
Hildegarde.”

“You are extremely like each other, especially at first sight.”

“Oh, I know that Hildegarde is a great deal handsomer than I am!”

This was a fact, and Hamilton was puzzled for an answer, when she added,
after a pause—

“But Major Stultz says I am much more lovable than she is!”

“Major Stultz is a man of discrimination,” said Hamilton, looking around
him listlessly.

“He says, too, we shall be very happy when we are married!”

“I hope so, most sincerely.”

“He gave me a great deal of good advice the day we were at Chiem See.”

“Indeed! On what subject?”

“He said it was very foolish to trust very young men—that they were very
faithless, and good for nothing.”

“All! Did he say all?” cried Hamilton, in a tone of mock deprecation.

“Yes, all,” she answered, petulantly. “He advised me neither to trust
them in words nor actions!”

“What extraordinary knowledge of the world he must have! Altogether a
remarkable person!”

“You are laughing at me—or—at him.”

“Laughing! What an idea! Only look at me for a moment, and you will be
convinced of the contrary.”

And she did look at him, and her eyes filled with tears as they met the
calm, unembarrassed gaze of his. A heavy step on the gravel-walk
announced the approach of someone, and on turning round they perceived
Major Stultz blowing the ashes out of his meerschaum pipe, as he
leisurely walked towards a bank in the garden. Crescenz started as if
she had been detected committing a crime, and, with heightened colour,
rose to join him.

“I thought you said you were at liberty to talk to me as much as you
please,” observed Hamilton, ironically.

“And so I am,” she replied, seating herself again, while she glanced
furtively towards her future husband. “What have you got to say to me?”

“Oh, a—what were you talking about? Major Stultz’s excellent advice, was
it not? I should really like to hear all that he said to you, for I can
hardly think he spent his whole time in railing at men who have the good
fortune to be a score of years younger than he is.”

“Oh, we spoke of other things also.”

“It would have been very odd if you had not.”

“We—spoke—of love!”

“Very naturally. I really should like to know the opinion of such a man
as Major Stultz on so important a subject.”

“He said,” she began with a sigh, “he said that people, especially
women, seldom had the good fortune to marry their first love.”

“Rather a trite observation, and, on his part, unnecessary. Surely, if
any man may hope to be the object of a first love, it is Major Stultz!
You have only left school a few months—are not yet sixteen years old.
What could he mean by talking to you about first love?”

She was silent.

“Perhaps it was as a preliminary to his confessions. Did he give you a
history of his loves? Have they been very numerous?”

“No,” she exclaimed, almost angrily; “he told me, on the contrary, that
I was the first person he had ever wished to marry.”

“Did you remind him of his proposal to your sister?”

This contradiction to his words seemed to have entirely escaped her
memory; she coloured violently, and the ready tears again prepared to
flow. Hamilton felt that he was amusing himself unpardonably at the poor
girl’s expense, teasing her beyond what she could bear, and was
preparing to set all to rights again by playing a little sentiment, when
she arose precipitately, and with such ill-concealed annoyance, to walk
towards Major Stultz, that instead of picking up her large ball of
thread, she drew it rashly after her, jerking it over the flower-beds,
and entangling it so effectually in a rose-bush as she moved quickly on,
that Hamilton ran to her assistance, and, as he restored it to her,
said, in a low voice, in French,—

“This evening I shall be in the cloisters _before_ sunset. Meet me
there, I entreat you. I wish to ask your pardon, if I have offended
you.”

The shadows of evening had no sooner begun perceptibly to lengthen, than
Hamilton repaired to the cloisters, and amused himself endeavouring to
decipher the epitaphs on the various tombstones, until a light step
close beside him made him look up, and he beheld, not Crescenz, but
Hildegarde, standing before him. He was about to pass her with a slight
inclination, when she stopped suddenly, and, while she slightly blushed,
said firmly,—

“I am the bearer of a message from my sister.”

“The willing bearer of her excuses, no doubt.”

“I understood it was you who were to have made excuses,” she answered,
coldly.

“Very true. I had to ask forgiveness for having offended her in the
garden to-day; as, however, the excuses are only intended for her ear,
let us consider them made, and talk of something else.”

“I have neither time nor inclination to speak on any subject but the one
which brought me here.”

“The communication must be important, if I may judge by the solemnity of
your manner,” said Hamilton, looking calmly into the quadrangle.

“My sister desires me to say that she feels the impropriety of her
former interview with you here most deeply, and that nothing will induce
her to consent to another. She has told you of her intended marriage; it
is almost unnecessary to say that, under such circumstances, a
continuation of your present attentions will only serve to embarrass and
annoy her.”

“Your sister never desired you to say that,” cried Hamilton, fixing his
eyes steadily on her face.

“Of this you may be assured,” she continued, colouring deeply, “that my
sister will not again meet you alone, unless—unless——”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you are more explicit, and give her the power of choosing
between you and Major Stultz. It is not yet too late.”

This was what may be called coming to the point at once, and Hamilton
was so taken by surprise that he could only stammer something about the
shortness of his acquaintance, and believing that he did not quite
understand what she meant.

“I believe Crescenz does not quite understand what you mean,” cried
Hildegarde, indignantly. “How I wish she could see with my eyes, and
learn to despise you as you deserve!”

“You are really too flattering,” observed Hamilton, laughing, “much too
flattering; but may I not be allowed to wish that you would see me with
your sister’s eyes, and value me as I deserve? However,” he continued,
glad of an opportunity to change the subject, “although you have just
deprived me of a meeting with your sister, I shall not interfere with
your intended _tête-à-tête_ with Count Zedwitz.”

The Count advanced towards them as he spoke.

“Your good opinion is of too little importance to induce me to disclaim
or enter into any explanation,” she replied, turning quickly from him;
and bowing slightly to Zedwitz, she disappeared through one of the
entrances to the cloisters.

“Hameeltone, that is not fair play,” cried the latter, laughing; “your
presence here was not expected.”

“You do not mean to say you came here to meet Mademoiselle Rosenberg?”

“And why not? You have met her sister here. Why may not I hope to be
equally fortunate?”

“Because—because——”

“Because you’re handsome, and I’m ugly; you think I have no chance?”

“That was not what I meant. The difference between the sisters would
rather form the obstacle——”

“Difference, indeed!” exclaimed Zedwitz.

“The difference is in intellect,” observed Hamilton; “in person they are
extremely alike.”

“You mean, perhaps, in figure?” asked Zedwitz.

“In feature, too,” persisted Hamilton.

“Why, they have both brown hair, blue eyes, and red lips, if that
constitutes likeness; but while one has the mere beauty of extreme
youth, the other is the most perfect model of female loveliness I ever
beheld.”

“You are very far gone,” observed Hamilton, gravely.

“I am giving my opinion as an artist,” he replied, smiling. “You will
understand my enthusiasm when I tell you that I spend all my leisure
hours studying portrait-painting.”

“You came here just now, probably, to take a sketch of this most perfect
model! But tell me, honestly, did she promise to meet you here?”

“How can you ask such downright questions? There are different kinds of
beauty, and different kinds of dispositions. I did not exactly judge it
expedient to say, ‘Meet me this evening in the cloisters’; but I talked
of the beauty of the shadows here about sunset, and of my intention to
finish a little _aquarelle_ drawing of the said cloisters, with a
Benedictine monk issuing from one of the adjoining passages—something
just adapted for a lady’s album. I came. Had you not been here, I have
no doubt I should have obtained a few minutes’ attention in spite of my
ugliness.”

“She came here, however, expressly to meet me,” observed Hamilton,
maliciously.

The Count stopped suddenly, and looked inquiringly in his companion’s
face.

“She came with a message from her sister,” added Hamilton, quietly, and
they again walked on together. “In fact,” he continued, “when you joined
us, we were in the midst of a kind of altercation, which made your
presence, to me at least, a great relief.”

“An altercation! About what, may I ask?”

“About her sister. She asked me in pretty plain terms what my intentions
were, proposed my entering the lists fairly and honourably with Major
Stultz; and, when I demurred, she talked angrily of despising me, and so
forth. Depend on it, she will call you to account before long.”

“I am quite ready to be called to account.”

“You do not mean to say you think seriously of marrying!”

“I should be but too happy! There is no such luck in store for me!”

“You think she would refuse you?”

“I don’t know; but I know my father would refuse his consent.”

“Run off with her, and ask his consent afterwards.”

“I wish I could, but that is impossible here. Marriage is with us a
civil as well as a religious act. You have no idea of the formalities
attending it, or the certificates necessary to make it valid; besides
which, my being in the army increases the difficulty. That cursed
caution-money!”

“Caution-money? What is that?”

“About nine hundred pounds of your money without which no officer can
obtain leave to marry. It is considered a sort of provision for his wife
and children in case of his death, and is, probably, a very wise
regulation, but is also sometimes a source of great vexation. I am by it
completely placed in my father’s power, for although I receive from him
at present, in addition to my pay, ten times as much as the interest of
the necessary sum, and though I know at his death I shall have more than
a comfortable maintenance, yet as Hildegarde has no fortune, and I am
not independent, our marriage is at present utterly impossible!”

“I advise you at all events to speak to your father.”

“I shall carefully avoid such a communication. Why, I cannot even hope
for my mother’s assistance, as the connection would be in every respect
disagreeable to her. I have but one hope. Through my sister’s influence
something may be done; she is a good child, and about to marry to please
papa and mamma; first of all, however, I must speak to Hildegarde
herself.”

“There you have every thing to hope, for she is absolutely _civil_ to
you sometimes! You will probably enter into some interesting secret
engagement?”

“That would be worse than folly. I could not be so ungenerous as to ask
her to refuse, perhaps, an eligible establishment, should one offer, on
the chance that I should marry her, should I live to become a second
edition of Major Stultz! Suppose I wait ten years, Hildegarde’s and my
ideas would both be changed. I do not feel quite sure that at the end of
that time I might not prefer some gentle, simple Crescenz, who would
overlook my age and ugliness provided I made her handsome presents, and
supplied her liberally with _bon-bons_. I wish you had seen her face of
delight just before I came here, when Major Stultz gave her a box of
_bon-bons_, which evidently had been ordered from Munich expressly for
her, as it contained nothing but sugar hearts and darts, and kisses
wrapped up in pink and blue papers, and doves billing, while almost
bursting with the liquor with which they had been ingeniously filled by
the confectioner!”

“So! Now I know why the little coquette did not come to meet me! After
having called me to account for my neglect so innocently, and talking
such mysterious nonsense about her first love, she amuses herself eating
sugar-plums, and sends her sister to me now. These German girls are
inexplicable; one cannot talk to them without quarrelling, or being
entangled in a labyrinth of sentimentality.”

“You must not judge of all from your slight acquaintance with two,”
observed Zedwitz, laughing. “You may say what you please, but you cannot
deny that they are fine specimens of the species.”

“Hildegarde is undoubtedly handsome, but then she is only amiable
towards you,” said Hamilton, leaning against the side of one of the
arches. “I believe,” he continued, after a pause, “I believe I am
getting very tired of Seon, and were I not engaged to these Rosenbergs,
I should start at once for Vienna. Suppose we make a tour in the Tyrol
together?”

Zedwitz looked embarrassed, and said, with some hesitation, “I—a—am—half
engaged to join the Rosenbergs in a party to an alp, and afterwards to
Salzburg.”

“What! and I have never heard a word about it?”

“Oh, you will be invited as a matter of course. I had some trouble to
manage it, as I do not enjoy the good graces of Madame Rosenberg. She
expects her husband to-morrow, who comes here for one day to make the
acquaintance of his future son-in-law. The day he leaves is fixed for
our excursion.”

“How do we travel—boys, of course, inclusive?”

“In whatever carriages we get from here. In Traunstein we take a
_char-à-banc_, which will accommodate us all. For such parties it is a
very agreeable vehicle, as we can all remain together; for when a
division takes place, the chances that one gets a disagreeable companion
are too great.”

“_Videlicet!_” cried Hamilton, laughing. “Count Zedwitz wishes to be
quite sure of enjoying the society of a certain young lady for three
whole days.”

“You are right,” he answered, taking Hamilton’s arm to leave the
cloisters. “Quite right. I trust you have given up all idea of being my
rival?”

“I believe I must give up all such idea, if I ever had it, for
Hildegarde told me just now that she despised me; had she said she hated
me, I might have some chance; but I am not equal to a struggle against
indifference and scorn. I believe,” he added, laughing, “I must make her
hate me.”

“But you won’t interfere with me, I hope?”

“Not at all. You will appear more amiable by the contrast.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“Were I to continue my present line of conduct,” answered Hamilton,
affected with solemnity, “it is possible that hate might be produced in
time; but, in order to hurry matters, I shall be obliged to make
desperate love to her sister. Hildegarde seems very vulnerable on that
point. It will not also cause me much trouble, as Crescenz gave me a
fair challenge to-day in the garden, and cannot reproach me hereafter.”

“Hamilton,” cried Zedwitz, stopping suddenly, and looking at him
attentively, “you are certainly older than you acknowledge to be.”

“I understand the implied compliment,” replied Hamilton. “You conceive
my intellect beyond my years. My father always said I was no fool; I am
glad to find that others are inclined to agree with him in this negative
sort of commendation.”

“You are indeed anything but a fool; and if you fall into good hands, I
have no doubt——”

“Good hands!” cried Hamilton, interrupting him; “I have no idea of
falling into any hands, good or bad; I intend to judge and act for
myself.”

“Then you will pay dear for your experience, as others have done before
you.”

“We shall see,” replied Hamilton.

“You will feel,” said Zedwitz, seizing with both hands the ends of his
long moustaches, to give them a peculiar twirl towards the corners of
his eyes before he entered the room where the company were assembled for
supper.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                            AN ALPINE PARTY.


THE next evening Madame Rosenberg invited Major Stultz and Crescenz to
join her in a walk to meet her husband. Hildegarde was desired to remain
behind, and take care of the children. Poor girl! she was not yet
forgiven the atrocious crime of having refused Major Stultz; and this
punishment she seemed to feel more than Hamilton could comprehend; for,
as the trio walked off together, and left her alone, her eyes filled
with tears, and she seated herself on the stone steps of the entrance to
the church with an air of such utter despondency that he turned towards
the lake in order not to annoy her by his presence, and even played with
the two elder boys, to prevent them from tormenting her, until he heard
the sound of wheels and horses’ feet, when, looking towards the road, he
saw, at no very great distance, a carriage, which stopped as it reached
the pedestrians, and out of which sprang a man apparently much too young
to be the father of either Hildegarde or Crescenz. The children,
however, cried “Papa! papa!” and rushed towards him. Hildegarde—(pardon
the horrible idea)—Hildegarde moved backwards and forwards like a chafed
tigress in a menagerie, not daring to disobey her step-mother by
quitting the place assigned her, and yet exhibiting anger and impatience
in every limb.

As the party drew nearer, Hamilton observed that Mr. Rosenberg was
indeed extremely youthful looking, and must have been eminently
handsome. That he was a kind father was evident at a glance, for the
children clung to his knees so that he could scarcely walk, and Crescenz
had taken complete possession of one of his arms. Just as he reached the
place where Hamilton stood, and after being introduced to him as “our
English friend,” his eyes turned towards the spot where Hildegarde was
so uneasily perambulating. Releasing himself at once from his
companions, he advanced hastily a few steps, calling out, “Why, how’s
this, Hildegarde? Why don’t you come to meet me?” With a cry of joy she
rushed into his arms, and whispered in a voice almost suffocated with
emotion, “I dared not—I dared not.”

“You feel that you deserve to be scolded? Is it not so? Naughty girl!”

“But you have forgiven me—I know you have.”

Another embrace, and a look of evident forgiveness, not unmixed with
pride and admiration, was the answer.

Madame Rosenberg bit her lip, and observed, angrily—

“You really encourage Hildegarde to give way to her violence of temper,
instead of pointing out to her the impropriety of her conduct, as I
expected.”

“What is past, is past,” he answered; “and Major Stultz is satisfied.”

“Satisfied! I am the happiest man in the world!” exclaimed Major Stultz.

Crescenz smiled and blushed.

“Well, then, we are all happy. You take Crescenz, who is, if anything,
too good and gentle, and I must for the present retain this passionate,
good-for-nothing girl!”

He played with her hand as he spoke, and the dullest looker-on must have
observed that she was his favourite child.

“You will very probably retain her all your life,” observed Madame
Rosenberg.

“I don’t think I shall. Somebody will be sure to find out that she is as
good-hearted as she is passionate—ill-tempered she is not—the darling!”

“Oh, she is very good-tempered when she has every thing her own way. And
papa to spoil her! I don’t envy the man who may get her.”

“I shall not pity him,” said her father, gently pressing her hand; and
then turning to his wife and Major Stultz, seemed determined to change
the conversation.

Hamilton left them, and when he found himself alone in the garden,
unconsciously began to consider—was or was not Hildegarde amiable? or
was she merely a spoiled child, whose father, dazzled by her extreme
beauty, thought her faultless? Her sister certainly loved her, and the
children, although they preferred Crescenz, assuredly did not dislike
her—in fact, her step-mother alone seemed to think her ill-tempered, and
he felt strongly inclined to come to the conclusion that her father’s
evident partiality had provoked the jealousy of that apparently little
indulgent person.

On the ensuing day, Zedwitz and Hamilton had agreed that they would not
give the Rosenbergs so much of their society as usual, but, knowing that
they could make up for lost time afterwards, leave them to discuss their
family affairs during the sojourn of Mr. Rosenberg. They prepared, with
a very good grace, to spend the morning with Zedwitz’s mother and sister
in the garden, and to the infinite surprise of both ladies, they seated
themselves at the table in the arbour which they were in the habit of
occupying. Agnes, who continued working with unnecessary assiduity,
submitted for some minutes to be tormented, in a boyish manner, by her
brother. He wrote upon the table with the point of her scissors,
entangled her coloured wool and silk, upset her needle case, and finally
attempted to twitch her work out of her hand.

“You overpower me with your attentions to-day, Max,” she at length
observed, with heightened colour; “I am no longer used to them.”

“You do not mean that you are annoyed at my playing with this trumpery?”
he cried, moving from her with affected anxiety.

She pushed aside her work with a contemptuous shake of the head, and
then, leaning her little fresh-coloured face in the palm of her hand,
she gently but seriously reproached him for his long neglect of her, and
his totally changed manner since he had come to Seon. He assured her,
laughingly, that he had been only trying to wean himself from her
society, as he was about so soon to lose her altogether. His mother said
that moderation should be observed in all things, and though she did not
require from him the attentions he had been in the habit of lavishing on
his sister, yet she must say the contrast between his former and present
manner was too striking not to be most painful to poor Agnes; and, for
her part, she thought there must be some secret reason for such conduct.
Here she moved uneasily on her chair and coughed.

“Secret reason!” he exclaimed; “what can you mean? I am utterly at a
loss to——”

“Come, Max, you must greatly underrate my intellect or powers of
observation, if you imagine that I have not seen what has been going on
for the last three weeks.”

“Going on?” he repeated.

“Yes, going on. You have been paying the most marked attentions to one
of those Rosenbergs——”

“Which of them?” he asked, with an effort to look unconcerned.

His sister laughed and said, “Confess honestly, Max, for if you really
are in love, I think I must forgive your neglect.”

“Thank you, dear. You know I once forgave you the same offence when
proceeding from the same cause.”

“It is unnecessary,” she said, glancing towards Hamilton, and growing
perceptibly paler; “it is unkind to remind me so lightly of the most
painful event of my life.”

She was about to leave them, when her brother seized her hand, saying
eagerly, “Stay, you dear good creature, and forgive me. I quite forgot
that Hamilton was present, but never mind him—pray stay. I confess that
I am desperately in love with Hildegarde Rosenberg, and I want you to
tell my mother, and ask her to give me her assistance and advice.”

His mother, of course, had heard what he had said, and now answered,
quickly, “Assistance, Max, you cannot expect from me; my advice is, that
you return to Munich to-morrow.”

“I am engaged to ascend an alp with the Rosenbergs; indeed, I have
promised to make an excursion with them which will last three days.”

“You will not find us here on your return,” said his mother, resolutely;
“I totally disapprove of your conduct in every respect, and will not
afford you the excuse of passing your time with us, in order to continue
it.”

“But, my dear mother——”

“I thought you were too honourable,” she continued, “to pay attentions
which could lead to nothing. You know your father will never consent to
such a connection!”

“I hoped—through your influence—in time, perhaps——”

“Hope nothing, in this case, from me; much as I desire to see you
happily married, such a daughter-in-law——”

“I defy any one to point out a single fault,” cried Zedwitz, eagerly;
“she is beautiful—Agnes, you, who understand so well what beauty is,
tell me—is she not beautiful?”

“She is the most beautiful person I ever saw,” answered Agnes, warmly;
“indeed, mamma, there is some excuse for Max’s admiration.”

“I don’t blame him or any one for admiring her; but Max spoke just now
of more than admiration. He must not forget that she is _not noble_, and
that her family are odiously vulgar.”

“But she is not vulgar,” observed Agnes, kindly; “I have spoken to her
two or three times, and think her a very nice person.”

“Max knows that his father will never consent to such match,” answered
the mother; “therefore there is no use in talking more about the
matter.” She rose and prepared to leave them. “Want of fortune I could
have overlooked, and you might have been sure of my assistance, although
my hopes have long been fixed on another object; but—such a connection
as this—I never can—I never will sanction.”

Zedwitz waited until his mother was out of hearing, and then, drawing
nearer his sister, said:

“Well, Agnes, what is to be done now? Do you think she will tell my
father?”

“I think not directly; she knows you can do nothing without his
consent.”

“Agnes, I have a right to your assistance, and claim it; your reproaches
led to this premature discovery——”

“Not at all; mamma has been watching you the last three weeks.”

“And pray, why did you not tell me so?”

“I did not know it until a few days ago; and as you never come near me,
or even look at me now, I had no opportunity of speaking to you on that,
or indeed on any other subject.”

“How well you women know how to mix up reproach and excuse together. If
you had only just called me aside——”

“If I had, you would have given me the answer which I have so often
received from you lately.”

“And what may that be?”

Agnes rose playfully from her seat, with an appearance of extreme
impatience, and exclaimed, while she looked around her, as if seeking
someone else—

“My dear creature! any other time; but you see—just now, in fact, I am
particularly engaged!”

Hamilton and Zedwitz laughed.

“You little actress!” exclaimed the latter, drawing her towards him, and
making her again sit down on the bench beside him. “I acknowledge that I
have neglected you unpardonably, Agnes; but you have promised to forgive
me, and I now require your assistance—come, tell me, what shall I do?”

“You really wish to marry this Hildegarde?”

“Most undoubtedly, if I can; but you know I am wholly in my father’s
power, and she has no fortune whatever.”

“The case seems rather hopeless at present,” said Agnes, seriously.
“Have you spoken to her? Would she wait a few years?”

“I have not spoken to her,” he answered, impatiently; “and as to waiting
two or three years, I would rather give up the idea at once.”

“That would indeed be the wisest thing you could do,” cried his sister,
eagerly; “for you may expect the strongest opposition both from papa and
mamma. Do not join this alp party; you can easily find some excuse; and
let us all go to Hohenfels together before these Rosenbergs return
here.”

“How lightly you talk, Agnes! just as if it only required a visit to the
Z—s at Hohenfels to make me forget the last four weeks! I tell you I can
never love another as I do Hildegarde; so you must propose something
else.”

“Are you quite determined to go with them to-morrow?”

“Quite.”

“Suppose when you are gone I speak to papa; mamma will at all events
tell him when she finds that you are actually off; but you know I can
generally make papa do whatever I please, and if I explain to him that
you are very unhappy, absolutely miserable——”

“Tell him that I am in the depths of despair, or in a state to commit
any kind of excess! Say that I talked of emigrating to America with
Hildegarde; tell him whatever you like, you dear little mediatrix! if
you can only obtain his consent.”

“Suppose I succeed with papa, and mamma remains inexorable?”

“Oh, leave me to manage my mother; I have no fear of serious opposition
from her.”

“There I fear you are quite mistaken,” said Agnes; “but,” she added
gaily, “let us hope the best.”

“Yes; and let us now take a walk, and you shall hear all my plans for
the future.”

As they sauntered away together, Hamilton heard Zedwitz say, “I shall,
of course, quit the army. My father will, probably, give me Castle
Wolfstein, as he dislikes the mountains as much as I like them. We shall
be near Hohenfels and Z—s, which will be agreeable. As a married man,
the father of a family, and all that sort of thing, I don’t know any
people I should like so much for neighbours.”

At a very early hour in the morning they all assembled to drink coffee.
Mr. Rosenberg left at the same time for Munich. Hamilton concluded that
he was satisfied with his wife’s arrangement respecting him, as he shook
his hand warmly at parting, and hoped to see him again in the course of
the ensuing week. Madame Rosenberg gave various parting directions and
commissions, which Hamilton did not quite understand; neither did Mr.
Rosenberg, he suspected, though he listened to his wife’s orders with a
patience which made it evident that he resembled Job in more respects
than in having daughters, than whom “no women in all the land were found
so fair.”

The _char-à-banc_ which they were so fortunate as to obtain in
Traunstein had five seats, and accommodated the whole party.

At the first respectably steep hill, both young men sprang out of the
carriage, and when it halted to take them up again, Hamilton had no
difficulty in ceding his place beside Hildegarde to Zedwitz, who looked
the personification of gratitude; and well he might, for poor Hamilton
had got a most riotous companion, and was so placed that he could
scarcely avoid overhearing the whispered plans of future happiness which
were made, revised, and corrected behind him; while before, he could
observe the tactics of Zedwitz, who, with no inconsiderable skill, was
reconnoitring the ground previous to the grand attack which he was
meditating.

The afternoon was far advanced before they reached the peasant’s house,
where the coachman and his horses were to pass the night, while they
pursued their way on foot. The ascent was steeper and longer than they
had expected, and the heat intense. Hildegarde, Crescenz, and the two
boys proved excellent pedestrians; Major Stultz toiled wearily after
them—his effort to appear vigorous deserved more success—but alas! after
having wiped the drops of perspiration from his crimson face at least
twenty times, and even removed his stiff, black stock, in order to
breathe more freely, he sank exhausted on a fragment of rock, declaring
that since his Russian campaign of 1812, he had never been able to
recover the right use of his feet. Madame Rosenberg looked for a moment
undecided what she should do; she wished to be civil, and offered, after
some hesitation, to remain with him until after he had rested, but on
his declining, she said at once that she would go on before, and prepare
the supper. Poor man! he looked wistfully towards Crescenz. Madame
Rosenberg understood him, but shook her head disapprovingly, said she
would leave him one of the guides, and begged he would not hurry himself
in the least. Crescenz, who had been amusing herself with her two
brothers, gathering flowers and picking wild raspberries, now turned to
Hamilton, and giving him a handful of the latter, told him she would
show him where to get more. The invitation was irresistible, and after
telling her mother that they intended to overtake Hildegarde, who was
still in sight, they hurried off together.

The conversation was at first desultory, interrupted by the scrambling
through the bushes, and mutually offering the largest raspberries; by
degrees, however, the fragrant fruit was neglected, and the flowers—even
the beautiful pyrolas and sweet-scented cyclamen, gathered for and given
to Major Stultz—were thoughtlessly picked to pieces, and thrown away,
while she listened to Hamilton’s remarks, or answered his numerous
questions. She spoke without reserve of her mode of life at school;
attached a girlish importance to her former companion’s opinions and
most trifling acts; complained of not having been allowed to speak
during school-hours, and of being obliged to run and jump about at
recreation-time, when she would rather have sat in a corner to talk to
her friend Lina; of having to listen to reading when at dinner; but most
of all, of having had all her long hair cut off the day of her entrance,
“I was quite inconsolable about it,” she said, laughing, “and cried for
several days, but Hildegarde did not care in the least; perhaps,” she
added, “because she was a year older.”

Hamilton thought there might be another reason—the absence of personal
vanity—but, of course, he did not say so. They had been ten years at
school, without ever having been allowed to spend a day at home.

“So,” she continued, “we knew nothing at all of my step-mother, and very
little of papa, though he used to come and see us often, and talk to
Mademoiselle Hortense about us. At the examinations they generally both
came, and mamma used to bring us an iced tart; but Hildegarde would
rather she had stayed away, as she was ashamed of her.”

“And why was she ashamed of her?”

“Oh, because all the other girls had such nice mothers and aunts, and
Hildegarde thinks mamma so very vulgar.”

“She seems, however, a good kind of person.”

“Oh, I dare say—but Hildegarde does not like good kind of persons.”

“Indeed! Pray, what kind of persons does she like then?”

“I don’t know whether she would like me to tell you or not.”

“And I don’t think you are obliged to ask her.”

“That is true; and, besides, it is no harm to like counts and barons
better than other people!”

“Not at all. You rather said that you had a fancy of the same kind
yourself, a few days ago.”

“Yes—I confess I should like to be a _von_, or a baroness, or a
countess—but still there is a difference, for _I_ am afraid of fine
people, and Hildegarde likes them; I saw her getting books from Baroness
Z—, and speaking to those proud Zedwitzes, the other day.”

“You think it, then, probable that she rather likes the attention of
Count Zedwitz?”

“I—don’t—know. Hildegarde never speaks about such things when they
concern herself, though she expects me to tell her everything! I saw
that old Countess Zedwitz talking to her in the garden yesterday—the
Countess looked very red, and kept nodding her head continually, and
Hildegarde was very pale and haughty. I asked her what they had been
speaking about, but she did not choose to tell me. I dare say it was
something disagreeable.”

“That is not impossible,” said Hamilton, musingly; “in fact, rather
probable. So you don’t know whether or not your sister likes Zedwitz?”

“No. She only observed once, when we were speaking of beauty, that she
did not think it necessary for a man to be handsome.”

“That was rather applicable to him; but he is so devoted that I should
imagine him irresistible.”

“I don’t think that is the way to please Hildegarde.”

“I should have thought devotion must have been pleasing to every woman.”

“But Hildegarde has such odd ideas! I remember hearing her say to
Mademoiselle Hortense, just before we left school, that she rather
thought she should like a man of whom she could be afraid.”

“Strange girl,” said Hamilton.

“Strange girl, indeed!” repeated Crescenz; “and others think so
differently! I should not like to be afraid of anyone I loved, and that
is one of the reasons why I think that only people of nearly the same
age should marry!”

Hamilton turned quickly to his companion, whose deep blush gave a
special meaning to her last observation.

Hildegarde, Zedwitz, and Fritz were far before them; Madame Rosenberg,
with Gustle, and two guides, loaded with provisions, equally far behind.
They became sentimental, often looked back to admire the view, which
every moment increased in beauty and extent. She wished to be the
inhabitant of one of the peaceful, pretty peasant-houses which were
scattered in the valley beneath them. Hamilton, of course, wished to
bear her company. She sighed and murmured something about his
understanding her, but fearing that Major Stultz never would. Hamilton
declared, with unusual warmth, that it was dreadful to think of such a
marriage! Such a sacrifice! And he was sincere, too, for the moment, for
thought of the Major as he had last seen him, while he looked on the
blooming, youthful face before him; and never had Crescenz looked so
pretty! A few commonplace expressions of admiration were received with
such evident pleasure, that Hamilton found the temptation more than he
could withstand, and from admiration glided almost imperceptibly into a
most absurd, but rather indefinite, declaration of love. The words,
however, had scarcely passed his limps before he became conscious of his
folly. His dismay is not to be described, when Crescenz, cover with
blushes, confessed that she had loved him from the commencement of their
acquaintance, and added, that she was willing, for his sake, to brave
both her father and mother’s anger by dismissing Major Schultz!

Hamilton was perfectly thunderstruck, and for some moments quite
incapable of uttering a syllable; as soon, however, as he could collect
this thoughts, he began, in a constrained voice, and with a manner as
agitated as her own, to explain that he was a younger son, totally
dependent on his father, and that he could not, by any possible chance,
think of marrying for at least then or twelve years.

Crescenz looked at him for a moment reproachfully, and then, covering
her face with her hands, burst into tears.

Hamilton had never been so angry with himself as at that moment; his
fault was, indeed, unpardonable, and he felt that Crescenz was right
when she pushed him from her, and refused to listen to his excuses. The
fact was, he had never thought she cared more for him than for any other
person willing to pay her attention; and she had appeared so perfectly
happy the day before—nay, that very day—that he had naturally imagined
her now quite satisfied with her future prospects, and had expected her
to understand what he had said more as a tribute to her youth and beauty
than as a serious proposal, the more so, as he had not made the most
distant allusion to marriage in all that he had said. He now walked
sorrowfully after the weeping girl, whose secret he had learned by such
unwarrantable thoughtlessness. It was in vain that he tried to exculpate
himself, by thinking she was an arrant flirt, and would soon forget him;
he began seriously to doubt her being one; everything in her manner that
had led to that conclusion could now be interpreted otherwise; her
receiving Major Stultz’s presents, and her apparent contentment, might
have been affected to provoke his jealousy; her sister’s words in the
cloisters confirmed this idea. He did not give her credit for sufficient
intellect to feel annoyed at having “told her love,” but even that
consolation was denied him; for on distantly hinting that it was
unnecessary any person should ever be made acquainted with their late
conversation, she wrung her hands, and exclaimed bitterly:

“Oh, how could I be such a fool as to betray myself so?”

They walked on long in silence; but Crescenz was too good and gentle to
be inexorable, and before the end of their walk he had obtained pardon
and a promise of secrecy—the latter without difficulty, as she
innocently confessed she was equally afraid of her mother’s anger and
her sister’s contempt.

They reached the alp, both totally out of spirits. Crescenz’s melancholy
face was a sort of reproach from which Hamilton would gladly have
escaped; and he now heartily repented his having made an engagement with
Madame Rosenberg. Until Crescenz’s marriage had taken place he saw no
chance of peace of mind or enjoyment of any kind, and many were the vows
he internally made to be more circumspect in future.

“Come, Hamilton, you must look at the sunset,” cried Zedwitz, seizing
his arm and leading him away. He was in oppressively high spirits, and
talked on without waiting for an answer, or even perceiving that his
companion paid no sort of attention to what he said. They stood on the
top of the alp; behind, and on each side of them, forming a sort of
crescent, were mountains of every possible form, from the gigantic rocky
peaks on which the snow lay, to the richly wooded mountain and green
alp; with mountains, valleys, forests, rivers, lakes, towns, villages,
in view; more than it was possible for the eye at once to enclose or the
mind to comprehend.

Hildegarde and Crescenz joined them as the evening-prayer bell tolled.
At Seon this bell had generally been tolled while they had been at
supper. The clatter of knives and forks and tongues had instantly
ceased, and an awful stillness had taken place, which had not been
broken by word or movement until the last sound of the bell had died
away; when, as if a spell had been broken, each person had wished his
neighbour a good evening, and renewed, with increased vigour, the
interrupted occupation. It had always struck Hamilton as something very
Mohammedan-like, this praying to the sound of a bell, especially when it
occurred in the midst of conversation, where the difficulty of
commanding the thoughts must be tenfold increased. Not so did it appear
to him this evening; as village after village and every church-spire far
and near sent their tranquil chimes over the plain, a feeling of
enthusiastic devotion was irrepressible; it seemed as if the solemn
tones, on reaching the mountains, paused to vibrate in the air while
they collected the prayers which they were about to bear to heaven on a
thousand echoes. Zedwitz stood with his head uncovered and arms folded;
Crescenz clasped her hands and moved her lips in prayer. Hildegarde’s
eyes were fixed so steadfastly on the golden clouds above her, that it
was impossible not to think that at the moment she wished for the “wings
of a dove to flee away and be at rest.” A messenger from the _châlet_
waited respectfully for the last sound to die away in the distance
before he summoned them to supper. The interruption was unwelcome to
them all; but before they descended it was agreed that they should
return again with the guides and make a bonfire. They found Madame
Rosenberg, as usual, bustling about, ordering and directing everybody
and everything; Fritz and Gustle stealing cake and sugar; and Major
Stultz, who seemed to have but lately arrived, was sitting in his
shirt-sleeves, wistfully eyeing a glass of beer which he was afraid to
drink in his state of heat, while to hurry the operation of cooling, he
was fanning himself with a red and yellow pocket-handkerchief. Hamilton
glanced towards Crescenz, but as their eyes met he regretted that he had
done so, and determined that nothing should induce him to look either at
her or Major Stultz for a long time again. Something, however, he must
seek to interest him, and he turned towards Hildegarde. A more dangerous
study he could scarcely have found. She was seated on the grass, outside
the door of the wooden pavilion, beside her brothers, and, for the first
time since he had known her, seemed occupied with them. There was a
quiet avoidance of Zedwitz on her part, which, in contrast to the
coquetry of her sister, particularly interested Hamilton. This scarcely
perceptible avoidance was, however, unnoticed. Zedwitz was too
completely wrapt up in admiration, and had eyes and ears for her alone.
Weariness prolonged the meal, and twilight was deepening into night
before they thought of moving. Madame Rosenberg and Major Stultz said at
length that it was time to retire to rest; the others remembered that
they intended to make a fire on the top of the hill, and insisted on
putting their plan into execution. Major Stultz, afraid to oppose,
followed Crescenz; the guides were put in requisition, and in a short
time everyone was collecting wood and piling it in a heap.

The fire burned brightly, and coloured picturesquely the different
members of the party, as they lay dispersed around, some seated on the
stumps of trees, others extended on the grass; all weary, yet all
interested in their novel situation. Hamilton, apart from the others,
looked on without mixing in the careless conversation which was kept up.
It was to him like a scene in a play; he understood the double plot, and
had decided on making Hildegarde the heroine; but was Zedwitz the hero
who, at the end, was to obtain her fair hand? No—unaccountably enough,
he found that to suit his plan the old count must be perfectly obdurate.
Zedwitz was to give up the affair as hopeless; and Hildegarde!
Hildegarde was to—to—remain at home; yes, that would do—an inmate still
of her father’s house; and now, unconsciously, Hamilton, from supposing
himself a spectator, became, in thought, an actor. He was also in that
house. Hildegarde was to become insensibly aware of his good qualities
and good looks—was, in fact, to become desperately in love with him! he,
all the while, stoically indifferent. A feeling of honour was to make
him explain to her, in a most interesting scene, the impossibility of
a—she—Crescenz—Zedwitz. Here the party round the fire broke up. The boys
had fallen asleep, and were now being carried by the guides to the
_châlet_. Madame Rosenberg, Hildegarde, and Crescenz followed; Major
Stultz remained to finish his pipe, and the two young men commenced
fresh cigars. They did not exchange a word until their companion had
left them, when Zedwitz, pitching his cigar into the still glowing
embers, asked abruptly,—

“Do you know where you are to sleep to-night?”

“Not I,” answered Hamilton. “But I do not expect the accommodation to be
even tolerable.”

“We are to sleep together in a hay-loft.”

“I have done that before; and for one night it does not signify; but
Major Stultz?”

“Sleeps also in the hay-loft.”

“And the boys?”

“In the hay-loft.”

“And the ladies?”

“In the hay-loft?”

“Nonsense, Zedwitz—you are joking.”

“I am perfectly serious; there is but one bed in the house, and it is so
little inviting that no one has courage to make use of it. We are all to
sleep together in the hay-loft. I rather enjoy the idea. Shall we go?”

“By all means.”

“This,” thought Hamilton, as they descended the hill together, “is
something quite out of the common course of things. I wonder what sort
of a loft it is?”

The only light in the house proceeded from the kitchen fire, which still
burned on the high, open hearth; beside it were seated one of the guides
and a peasant girl, who had come from one of the houses in the valley,
and so wrapt up were they in the evidently confidential discourse, that
they were unconscious of the presence of strangers until Zedwitz
laughingly asked the way to the hay-loft.

“This way, if you please,” said the man, looking a little embarrassed.
“Take care you don’t stumble, it is so dark.”

He was followed closely by Hamilton, and they both quietly and
cautiously mounted the somewhat rickety ladder which led to the loft,
and entered it by a trap-door. It was very full of hay, and by the light
which was sparingly admitted through the solitary gable-window, they
could see several figures stretched in different positions around them;
but they could not tell whether or not they were sleepers. Major Stultz
was alone communicative on that point—he lay with his mouth wide open,
and was snoring profoundly.

“I suppose, Hamilton, we ought to take the places near the entrance?”
whispered Zedwitz.

“I cannot bear a draught,” replied the other, moving towards the end of
the loft, where Madame Rosenberg and the children were lying. At his
approach, two figures began slowly to roll away from him; a stifled
laugh and an angry hush betrayed at once the sisters; and no sooner had
he and Zedwitz chosen their places, than they perceived a partition-wall
of hay was being built in their neighbourhood. Soon convinced that
Madame Rosenberg and the children slept, Hamilton felt greatly inclined
to commence a conversation with the two girls; but which of them should
he address? From Hildegarde he had little hope of an answer—from
Crescenz he felt that he deserved none. It was in vain he urged Zedwitz
to begin, telling him that he could not sleep; that the hay was too hot,
and the loft too cold and too uncomfortable; that he could not remain
quiet, etc., etc., etc.; his companion moved away from him, saying, in a
low voice, that he knew Hildegarde would not speak, and that he had
nothing to say to her sister. In a few minutes he, too, was fast asleep,
leaving Hamilton to compose himself as he best could. After having tried
all possible positions, he at length resigned himself to his fate, and
determined not to move again.

After half an hour’s silence, Hildegarde and her sister began to whisper
to each other.

“Is not that man’s snoring dreadful, Hildegarde? Confess he looked
odious this evening at supper, sitting in his shirt-sleeves like a
shoemaker or tailor?”

“You see him to great disadvantage in a party of this kind, dear; at
home I am sure he is quite different—and as to his snoring, you know
even papa snores sometimes.”

“I know you are determined not to see any thing that does not place him
in an advantageous light, and I only regret you did not discover his
perfections sooner—it would have saved me a world of misery!”

To this speech no answer was made, and a long pause ensued.

“Hildegarde, are you angry?” asked Crescenz, timidly.

“No; I am only tired of always hearing the same thing.”

“Forgive me, dearest, and I promise you have heard it for the last time;
but now I expect that you will give me an answer to a plain question.
You cannot pretend any longer to be blind to Count Zedwitz’s
attentions—what answer do you intend to——”

The whisperers had hitherto spoken inaudibly, but this question, from a
change of position in the speaker, distinctly reached Hamilton’s ears.
Great was his curiosity to know the answer, but without a moment’s delay
he moved and coughed. Not a sound more was heard, not a whisper even
attempted, during the whole two long hours that he still lay awake and
motionless, waiting for morning.

And when the morning came, Hamilton slept soundly; he saw not the
sisters as they passed his couch on tiptoe; he heard not the proposal of
Fritz to cover him with hay, or of Gustle to tickle him, or the
admonitions of Madame Rosenberg, and her threats of leaving them always
at home in future, should they dare now to make a noise. When he awoke
he found himself the sole occupant of the loft, and had at first some
difficulty in recollecting how he had got there. It was still very
early, and in the hope of seeing the sun rise from the top of the alp,
he hurried out into the fresh morning air. The sun was, however, beyond
the horizon, and bright day-beams already tinted the mountain-tops. A
few minutes brought him to the spot where they had all sat round the
fire the preceding evening; the charred wood marked the spot, and had
Hamilton found there the society he expected, he would probably have
taken time to have once more admired the prospect which had so delighted
him a few hours before, and which was now even more beautiful in the
distinctness of early morning; but he was a gregarious animal, and
finding himself unexpectedly alone, a hasty glance of admiration was all
he now bestowed on the diversified plain which lay beneath him, and
then, with hasty steps, he retraced his way to the _châlet_. One of the
guides met him at the door, and informed him that Madame Rosenberg and
the others had been gone some time, and were to dress and breakfast at
the farm-house where they had left the carriage. A short time sufficed
to enable him to overtake the last detachment, consisting of Madame
Rosenberg, Crescenz, and Major Stultz, and they pursued their way
leisurely together. Hildegarde had been sent on before to order
breakfast, and on finding that Zedwitz intended to accompany her, had
taken her two brothers. On reaching the farm-house, they found her
busily occupied at a table placed under the trees, preparing bread and
milk for the children—Zedwitz officiously assisting her.

“What! are you already dressed for Salzburg, Hildegarde?” cried Madame
Rosenberg. “You must have walked very quickly; I hope the boys are not
overheated!” and she carefully placed her hand on their foreheads to
ascertain the fact.

“Oh, mamma,” cried Fritz, boastingly, “we could have walked much faster!
We could have been down the mountain in half the time! It was Zedwitz
who was tired; he wanted us twice to rest on the way.”

“It would have been better than running the risk of giving the children
colds,” observed Madame Rosenberg, glancing towards Hildegarde.

“Oh, we did not wish to rest, or Hildegarde, either, though Zedwitz said
he had ever so much to say to her.”

“Indeed!” cried his mother, looking inquisitively from one to the other;
“indeed!” She turned to Hamilton, who stood beside her, and whispered,
“I shall not be five minutes dressing; you will greatly oblige me by
remaining here until I return.”

Hamilton made no answer; waited, however, only until she was fairly out
of sight, and then, nodding good-humouredly to Zedwitz, walked into the
house. Madame Rosenberg’s ideas of five minutes for dressing were not
very defined. She was one of those persons who, at home the most
incorrigible of slatterns, when they go out make it a point to be almost
overdressed. Hamilton, Crescenz, and Major Stultz had long been waiting
for her before she appeared, and to begin breakfast without her would
have been an unpardonable offence. The delays seemed to have no end,
for, as she approached the table, Zedwitz, who had been standing apart,
went towards her and requested to speak a few words to her alone. Major
Stultz proposed waiting until after breakfast, but Zedwitz persisted in
his request with a seriousness which scarcely admitted of a refusal, and
the audience was accordingly granted. Hamilton wished to look at
Hildegarde, but he refrained: had he done so, his conjectures might have
taken another turn, for surely had Hildegarde imagined herself the
subject of conversation, she could not have leaned so calmly on her
elbow without exhibiting the slightest particle of emotion! Crescenz did
not seem to think her sister’s imperturbability a conclusive
argument—her eyes anxiously followed her step-mother’s form, and nothing
but the shortness of the conference and ocular demonstration that they
were simply arranging accounts, could have convinced her that she had
been mistaken in her supposition that Zedwitz was formally asking
permission to pay his addresses to her sister. She had dressed in a room
at the front of the house, and from the window had seen them standing at
the spring together. Zedwitz had spoken long and eagerly, and Hildegarde
had apparently listened very calmly, but with evident interest, to what
he had said. Her answer was short and decided, and she had left him
abruptly to interfere between her brothers, who were flinging the
remains of their bread and milk at each other. It had cost both sisters
considerable trouble to purify their garments before their mother saw
them.

A small carriage was now drawn up to the front of the house, and a
youthful peasant led out a young, strong-built gray horse, and began to
arrange the harness. Zedwitz advanced quietly towards the party, and
surprised them not a little by saying that he was about to take leave of
them—he did not feel well, and would return to Seon.

“You are ill!” cried Hamilton, starting up from the bench where he had
been reclining; “you are ill, and think of returning alone!—that must
not be allowed. I am quite ready to accompany you.”

“It is not necessary,” replied Zedwitz, laying his hand heavily on his
arm, while he continued to take leave of the others, and hoped their
tour might prove in every respect agreeable. “The fact is,” he said,
drawing Hamilton towards the little carriage, which it appeared had been
got ready for him; “the fact is, I am ill in mind, but not in body.
Hildegarde has refused my suit so decidedly that I dare not renew it.
The best thing I can now do is to return to Seon, and perhaps I may
arrive in time to prevent my sister from speaking to my father. My rash
haste may have injured my cause. How could I expect her to get
accustomed to my ugliness and to care for me in so short a time?”

“I think,” said Hamilton, “it is more than probable that her fear of the
opposition of your family may have caused her refusal.”

“Not a bit of it; she never referred to my family, nor, indeed, had I
time to mention them. She said she liked me very well as an
acquaintance, but nothing more; she was sorry if her manner had led me
to think otherwise. Now I was obliged, in justice, to exonerate her from
even a shadow of coquetry, which in this case was disagreeable, as it
was tantamount to charging myself with egregious vanity; but the most
annoying and disheartening thing in the whole business was her coolness
and decision of manner; it led me at once to form the conclusion that I
was not the first person who had spoken to her on the same subject. Do
you think it possible that her affections are already engaged?”

“I neither think it possible nor even probable. Why, she has not left
school more than two months.”

“Her sister left school at the same time, is a year younger, and yet has
contrived to fall in love with you, and to promise to marry another in
exactly half the time,” said Zedwitz, bitterly.

“Pray do not imagine anything of that kind,” said Hamilton, colouring
deeply; “she is merely one of those soft, yielding sort of beings, who,
with a more than sufficiency of vanity and coquetry in their nature, are
ready to fancy themselves and others in love without rightly knowing
what the feeling is. This Hildegarde is worth a hundred such. I like her
decision of character, and she is certainly very handsome.”

“Handsome! she is perfectly beautiful!” cried Zedwitz; “and I am
convinced she is as amiable as beautiful!”

“If you are convinced of _that_, you are very wrong to give her up as
you are doing. Try what time and perseverance will do.”

“My dear Hamilton, if you had spoken to her, if you had even seen her
when I pleaded my cause, you would think differently. When we meet
again, it will be as common acquaintances. But every moment is precious,
and I must now be off. I shall take post-horses at the next town, and
hope to reach Seon in the afternoon. I hope most sincerely that my
sister has had no opportunity of speaking to my father. I shall scarcely
be at Seon when you return; but you know my address in Munich, and I
shall expect to see you directly you arrive there. Adieu!”

He sprang into the carriage, bowed to the occupants of the
breakfast-table, and drove off, while Hamilton, leaning against the door
of the house, looked after him. “So,” he thought, “this is the man I
fancied full of German romance and enthusiasm! Why, my brother John
could not have resigned himself to his fate more easily; but then he
would have made a parade of his indifference. Englishmen are fond of
doing so, while Germans, I suspect, are disposed to pretend to more
feeling than they possess. Yet, after all, what could he have done?
Shoot himself, like Werter? Absurd? What should I have done? I have not
the most remote idea; but, then, I have never got beyond temporary
admiration for anyone. Very odd, too. Jack says he was in love before he
was twelve years old. Precocious fellow! Zedwitz was right the other day
when he said that my feelings and ideas were not those of a man of my
time of life. However, I flatter myself that what I have lost in what he
calls freshness of feeling, I have gained in other respects, and can
now, in spite of my youth, calmly contemplate what is going on about me,
while Zedwitz, so many years my senior, has been acting with all the
rash impetuosity of a boy.”

In all the proud consciousness of premature knowledge of the world,
Hamilton seated himself at the breakfast-table, and allowed Madame
Rosenberg to pour out his coffee, and wonder without interruption what
could be the matter with the Count, who, she insisted, had been quite
well all the morning. His eyes glanced mischievously towards Hildegarde,
but she apparently did not observe it. Madame Rosenberg now began
deliberately to pack up the remaining sugar in her reticule. Half an
hour later they were seated in the _char-à-banc_ on their way to
Salzburg. Zedwitz’s absence was greatly felt, for he was cheerful and
good-natured. Hamilton had determined not even to look at Crescenz,
while Hildegarde appeared to have formed the same resolution with regard
to him. A sort of discontent seemed to pervade the whole party for some
time, but by degrees it yielded to the beauty of the scenery. Madame
Rosenberg, having once spent some months at Salzburg, was now able to
name each mountain as it appeared in the fore-ground, or made itself
remarkable by its form in the distance. But the Untersberg interested
her two sons more than anything else. This mountain, which here rises
abruptly out of Walser fields, and is of enormous extent, was, she told
them, the prison and tomb of Frederick Barbarossa, or, as the peasants
said, of Charlemagne. The questions and answers on this fruitful subject
lasted until they reached Salzburg.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER IX.

                               SALZBURG.


WHILE waiting for dinner at the hotel, Hamilton amused himself turning
over the leaves of the “strangers’ book,” and saw among the latest
arrivals the name of an uncle he had wished much to meet when he had
been last in Salzburg; he would then have been glad to have had an
opportunity of presenting some respectable relations to Baron Z—, after
the old manner in which their acquaintance had commenced. He now wished
to see his relations from more natural motives, without either the wish
or intention of making them acquainted with his travelling companions.
There is something peculiarly agreeable in hearing the voices of one’s
countrymen speaking one’s own language in a foreign country; even if
they be merely common acquaintances, they rise at once to the rank of
friends: if friends, to relations—if relations, we are astonished at the
excess of our affection for them! Something of this kind Hamilton
experienced as he heard his uncle saying, “A young gentleman inquiring
for me! What is his name?” In a moment he had quitted the table, and was
in the lobby before the question could be answered. The surprise,
perhaps, heightened the pleasure felt by his two young and pretty
cousins, and their reception of him was so unreservedly affectionate,
that as they came near the door of the dining-room, Hildegarde and
Crescenz exchanged glances, and then fixed their eyes on them with a
slight expression of curiosity.

“What a pity you did not arrive earlier, Alfred; we have spent the whole
morning sight-seeing, and now the horses are being put-to, and we have
scarcely ten minutes to ask each other the thousand questions which——But
come to our rooms—we cannot possibly talk before these people.”

“They would not understand us,” said Hamilton, following them up the
stairs, by no means displeased with the arrangement.

Madame Rosenberg soon became impatient at the duration of his absence,
and leaving word with the waiter that Mr. Hamilton might follow them to
St. Peter’s cellar, she proposed herself as guide, and they set out on
their excursion.

Hamilton accompanied his uncle and cousins to their very handsome
travelling-carriage, and as he bade them adieu for the twentieth time,
his uncle called out, “God bless you, Alfred! I shall tell your father
and uncle Ralph that I found you greatly improved. If they had kept you
in London, your brother John would have spoiled you, and made you just
as good-for-nothing as he is himself. Nothing like travelling for
enlarging the ideas. Good-by!”

The waiter informed Hamilton that the ladies were gone to St. Peter’s
cellar.

“Major Stultz, you mean?” said Hamilton.

“No, sir—the ladies—perhaps they have gone to look at the excavation in
the rock. The cellar is in the mountain, and is worth seeing.”

The monks of St. Peter are the actual proprietors of this cellar, which
adjoins, and in fact is still a part of the monastery; it is the wine
from their Hungarian vineyards which is there sold, and the entrance to
the drinking-rooms is from the principal quadrangle. Arrived there,
Hamilton immediately accosted a man who, in a jacket and apron, and with
a green velvet cap on his head, stood before the entrance of the
excavation.

“Ladies! Oh, ha—yes—they are within,” he answered, leading the way,
through a small, dark passage, to two low rooms, filled with the fumes
of tobacco. Hamilton entered, and found his travelling companions
actually seated at a table, drinking wine, in a room crowded with
Hungarian officers, who seemed equally surprised and amused at the
unusual appearance of such an addition to their society. Madame
Rosenberg was quietly sipping her wine, and talking earnestly to Major
Stultz near a window, quite unconscious of the sensation which she and
her party had created and the by no means whispered exclamations of
admiration which were echoed on all sides, and which produced most
opposite effects on the objects of them. Crescenz looked
half-frightened, half-pleased, and blushed incessantly. Hildegarde’s
countenance denoted annoyance, bordering on anger, as she sat biting her
under lip, while every trace of colour had forsaken her face. Hamilton
felt extremely irritated, and looked round the room with a portentous
frown, to see if any _one_ had been more forward than the others; but in
vain—broad, sallow, good-humoured faces, and small, sparkling black eyes
met his angry glance wherever he turned; and as the conversation was now
principally carried on in their native language, he could only surmise,
but no longer be certain of, the subject of discourse. The eyes of all
were still turned on the two sisters; and Hamilton, after a moment’s
hesitation, proposed escorting them to the Maximus chapel, which was
near, and where they could wait for their mother. Hildegarde started up
without asking the permission, which, however, was accorded without
difficulty; and the two boys, to their infinite annoyance, were also
ordered off. On perceiving their mother engaged in confidential
conversation with Major Stultz, they had freely helped themselves to
wine, and were now in outrageous spirits. On entering the St. Peter’s
churchyard, they commenced springing over the graves in a most
irreverent manner, declaring they had never before seen so jolly a
churchyard! Crescenz looked infinitely shocked, entreated they would not
make so much noise; and finding her remonstrance useless, she turned to
the St. Margaret’s chapel, a small building in the middle of the
burying-ground, and leaning against the iron railing which formed at
once its door and gable-end, she folded her hands reverently, and
prayed. The custom in Roman Catholic countries of leaving the
church-doors constantly open, most certainly conduces to promote piety.
Many a giddy girl whose thoughts have wandered as unrestrained as her
glances down the crowded aisle, has sought the same spot afterwards in
solitude, to offer up supplications and thanksgivings as fervent,
perhaps, as ever were breathed. Much as has been said of the imposing
ritual of the Church of Rome—of the almost irresistible effect of high
mass, when properly celebrated—it is nothing in comparison to the solemn
silence of a week-day afternoon, when the stillness around makes the
solitary footfall echo, and those who come to pray can bend the knee and
clasp the hand, without exciting the inquisitive gaze of a less piously
disposed neighbour.

Hamilton had gone in search of the person who had the keys of the
Maximus chapel. On his return he found Hildegarde standing thoughtfully
opposite a newly-made tomb, on which a placard was placed, with the
words:—“This tomb is to be sold.”

“I should like extremely to know your thoughts,” he said, quietly
placing himself beside her.

“Should you? They would scarcely repay you for the trouble of
listening.”

“I am quite willing to make the trial.”

“But I am much too lazy to attempt collecting all the scattered thoughts
of the last ten minutes.”

“The very last I can guess, perhaps,” said Hamilton; “your eyes were
fixed on that placard, and you thought——”

“Well, what?”

“Where are now the future occupiers of that tomb? Am I not right?”

“Quite right. Wherever they are, and whoever they may be, they certainly
have no wish to enter here. The buyers of _tombs_ are seldom disposed to
enter into actual possession. But where is this Maximus chapel? You said
it was in the mountain, and I see nothing in the least like an entrance,
although there are three windows and a wall up there.”

“The windows were formerly mere holes made in the rock, and ought never
to have been glazed. Through the largest of them fifty monks, who had
taken refuge with Maximus, were thrown headlong down the mountain by the
barbarians who took possession of Salzburg in the fifth century.”

“And Maximus?”

“He was hung.”

“That was a pity—I dare say he would have preferred being thrown over
the precipice.”

“Do you think so? As it all came to the same in the end, I should
imagine it must rather have been a matter of indifference to him.”

“But I do not,” cried Hildegarde, stopping suddenly. “I think the manner
in which one is put to death of great importance; I am sure you would
prefer being beheaded to being hung.”

“The choice would be distressing; but I believe you are right; I should
certainly choose being beheaded, as the more gentlemanlike death of the
two, though I remember reading in some book of the horrible
hypothesis—that the eye could see, the ear hear, and the brain think,
for some moments after the head had been severed from the body.”

The guide jingled his keys. He probably thought the discussion of such
subjects might be deferred until he had received his _Trinkgeld_, and he
now threw open the gate and motioned to them to ascend. The tolerably
numerous steps leading to the former abode and chapel of the anchorite
were hewn in the mountain, the passage somewhat dark, and Hildegarde
having declined any assistance, Hamilton, notwithstanding all his good
resolutions to avoid Crescenz in future, turned towards her, was greeted
with a soft smile, and his arm accepted as willingly as it was offered.
He now took upon himself the office of guide, exhibited the chapel with
its solitary Roman pillar, the sleeping-room of Maximus, and the place
from which his companions had been precipitated. He was obliged to hold
Crescenz, while she childishly stretched as far as possible over the
mountain side, all the while declaring that she could not stand on the
brink of a precipice without feeling an almost irresistible inclination
to throw herself down it. No sooner had her two brothers heard this,
than they rushed forward and thoughtlessly pushed her with a violence
that might have had most fatal consequences had not Hamilton at the
moment thrown his arm quite around her and drawn her back. Crescenz
screamed violently, Fritz and Gustle laughed immoderately, Hildegarde
remonstrated angrily, and in the midst of the clamour Madame Rosenberg
and Major Stultz joined them. Crescenz blushed deeply, and, with a voice
trembling from agitation, related what had occurred, and complained
bitterly of her brothers’ rudeness. Madame Rosenberg scolded her for
having looked down the precipice; Hildegarde for not having watched her
brothers and prevented such a scene in such a place; and concluded by
seizing both the brothers by the shoulders and shaking them violently,
while she declared that she had a great mind to send them back to the
inn, and not let them see either the Don church or the fountain. She
turned to thank Hamilton for having taken charge of so riotous a party,
but he had disappeared, annoyed at what had occurred, and internally
vowing never to take charge of Crescenz or her brothers again.

Major Stultz had suddenly become jealous and out of temper; all the
efforts of Madame Rosenberg to turn “the winter of his discontent” to
“glorious summer” were vain; he followed her, half whistling, with his
hands clasped behind him, intending to look extremely unconcerned; while
his heightened colour, as they overtook Hamilton, betrayed to all the
cause of his annoyance. Crescenz seemed perfectly indifferent, or
rather, half disposed to brave his anger; for as they stood by Haydn’s
monument, in the St. Peter’s church, she placed herself beside Hamilton,
and spoke to him in French. It is true, the conversation was about the
skull of Haydn, and the black marble urn which contained it; but Major
Stultz could not be aware of this circumstance; and, with increased
anger, he strode down the aisle, seeming disposed to quit them, had not
Hamilton, weary of these misunderstandings, and provoked by Crescenz’s
coquetry, said that he would meet them at the hotel in an hour; he was
going to the cavalry stables to see the horses, which, of course, would
not be interesting to them, and without waiting for an answer, he walked
away.

Hamilton’s absence did not seem to have much improved the state of
affairs, for on his return to the inn, no one but Madame Rosenberg
seemed disposed to be loquacious; and when they got into the
_char-à-banc_, which was to take them to Berchtesgaden, Crescenz
absolutely maneuvred to avoid Major Stultz; and on being ordered by her
mother to sit beside him, pouted in the most significant manner. Madame
Rosenberg chose this time to take charge of her two sons herself; she
thought their vicinity might interrupt the reconciliation between Major
Stultz and Crescenz, which she evidently wished to promote, but which
seemed less likely than ever to take place, as Crescenz chose now to
appear or to be excessively offended. This line of conduct had the
effect of making poor Major Stultz imagine that he had been, perhaps,
too hasty—unjust—uncivil—in short, he very soon accused himself of being
a savage! and as these thoughts passed through his brain, his manners
and words softened; he became humble, and even entreated forgiveness for
the unknown offence; but all in vain—Crescenz scarcely answered him—in
fact, she had not heard him, for her whole attention was absorbed in the
conversation of her sister and Hamilton, who were immediately before
her; she fancied that neither had disliked the arrangement which had
placed them together. The latter, especially, seemed determined to amuse
and be amused, and for more than an hour and a half the conversation
never flagged. Madame Rosenberg occasionally joined in it, and Major
Stultz also chimed in when he found all his efforts to obtain answers
from Crescenz fruitless. They had nearly reached Berchtesgaden, and
Hamilton had just begun to congratulate himself on having at length
discovered the possibility of talking to Hildegarde without quarrelling,
when Major Stultz abruptly asked him if he had been to see the summer
riding-school.

“Can you doubt it? It is the prettiest thing of the kind I have ever
seen—the _beau ideal_ of an ancient theatre. That the tiers of seats for
the spectators are hewn out of the mountain, enhances its grandeur, and
makes one forget that it is only a riding-school. What a place for a
tournament! or for gladiators; or what an arena for wild beasts!”

“Exactly what we all said when we were there to-day,” exclaimed
Hildegarde.

“Yes,” said Crescenz, for the first time joining in the conversation;
“we all said that; but Hildegarde and I thought of Schiller’s _Ballad of
the Glove_; didn’t we, Hildegarde?”

Hildegarde nodded.

“It is odd enough, I thought of it too,” said Hamilton; “the tiger
attacked by the two leopards; the lion rising to join in the combat—I
saw it all in imagination—fancied myself the Knight Delorges, and looked
round to see if no Cunigunde were there to throw her glove amid the
combatants.”

“Did you think of any particular person as Cunigunde?” asked Crescenz,
softly, and with a slight blush.

“Perhaps I did,” replied Hamilton, laughing.

“Oh, I should like so much to know whom you thought of! Should not you,
Hildegarde?”

“If Mr. Hamilton wish to tell——” began Hildegarde.

“I prefer walking up the hill into the town,” said Hamilton, springing
out of the open side of the carriage.

“Let us all walk,” cried Madame Rosenberg, desiring the coachman to
stop; “my feet are quite cramped.”

Hamilton had hoped to escape further questioning, but Crescenz commenced
again as they walked along together.

“Your avoidance of my question has raised my curiosity, and you
positively must tell me of whom you thought in the riding-school,
to-day.”

“Pray, Crescenz,” said Hildegarde, “do not force Mr. Hamilton to give an
answer; it must be totally uninteresting to you—remember the number of
acquaintances he must have in England whose names are unknown to us.”

“If it had been anyone in England, or anyone unknown to us, he would
have answered my question at once, and without hesitation,” replied
Crescenz, with unusual decision of manner.

Hildegarde, struck with the reply, experienced herself a feeling of
curiosity which greatly surprised her. She walked on in silence, and
soon heard her sister continue in a very low voice—

“I am sure you did not think of _me_!”

“Certainly not,” he replied, in the same tone; “you are too kind and too
gentle to place the life even of an enemy in such jeopardy.”

Crescenz seemed not quite to know whether she were satisfied or
disappointed. She would have liked to have been his lady-love, would
have wished to imagine that he would have picked up her glove at such an
imminent risk; yet his manner and words implied nothing flattering to
the supposed Cunigunde; and although she did not quite understand his
meaning, she knew that he had said that she was kind and gentle, and she
felt that she ought to be satisfied. Not so Hildegarde; she understood
well the vanity and callousness of the character sketched in a few words
by Schiller; she fancied that Hamilton disliked her, and an irresistible
impulse made her turn on him, and say, abruptly, “You thought of _me_!”

The blood mounted to his temples, and seemed to take refuge in his hair,
as he returned Hildegarde’s glance, yet hesitated in answering; but he
could not deny it, and replied, after a moment’s consideration:
“Thoughts are not subject to control; you have no right to make me
answerable for them.”

“I have no intention of doing so,” she replied; “I care too little about
you to give myself the trouble of convincing you that you do not
understand my character in the least. On the contrary, I confess that
were you disposed to play the part of the knight, perhaps I might throw
down my glove, and be glad to get rid of you on any terms.”

“Even were I to be torn to pieces in your presence by the wild beasts? I
did not think you were so cruel!” said Hamilton, amused at her irritated
manner.

“The danger for you would not be very great. You are the last person in
the world to do any thing of that kind.”

“Do you doubt my personal courage?”

“No; but I doubt your possessing knightly feelings.”

“I am, it is true, no ‘Don Quixote,’ no knight of the sorrowful
countenance——”

“No, indeed; you much more deserve the name of the knight of the
scornful countenance—that is, if one could fancy you a knight at all.”

“I have no doubt, mademoiselle, that were your fancy to form one, he
would in no respect resemble me; however, we need not quarrel on the
supposition of what we should have done had we been born a few hundred
years sooner; it is evident you would not have chosen me for your
knight—nor I—perhaps—you, for my lady-love.”

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Crescenz, “if I had thought that you two would
have quarrelled, I would not have asked any questions; though I do not
understand why Hildegarde is so offended at being thought like
Cunigunde, who, I dare say, was the handsomest lady present.”

“Your sister is not satisfied with being merely handsome; she wishes to
be thought amiable also, and seems disposed to force people to say so,
whatever they may think to the contrary.”

Hildegarde walked haughtily towards her step-mother, and reached her
just in time to hear the concluding words of what appeared to be Major
Stultz’s remonstrances.

“His being an Englishman does not, in my opinion, alter the case, or
make him a less dangerous companion for your daughters. I do not presume
to dictate. I merely offer advice, which you do not seem disposed to
take; and nothing now remains for me but to beg of you to hurry as much
as possible the preparations for Crescenz’s marriage. A few scenes such
as we have had to-day would soon cure me of all fancy for her. You told
me she was good-tempered, and I have found her so sullen since we left
Salzburg, that it is impossible to obtain a word from her.”

“My dear Major, you may depend upon my reprimanding her severely for
such conduct——”

“By no means, madame; I don’t wish her to be reprimanded. I shall speak
to her myself, and tell her that I have a comfortable home to offer her;
that I am supposed to be an indulgent husband, but that I am too old to
play lover, and altogether decline entering into competition with such a
rival as that tall Englishman, who, however, I can also tell her, has no
more idea of marriage than the man in the moon!”

“But, my dear Major, I really must beg of you not to mention the
Englishman to her. It will only put an idea into her head which I am
convinced has never entered it. You forget what a mere child she is—not
yet sixteen!”

Major Stultz turned round suddenly to look at his betrothed; the moment
was unpropitious for removing jealous doubts. She was walking alone with
Hamilton, and speaking with an earnestness totally foreign to her
character, while the expression of her upturned eyes denoted anything
but childishness.

“This will never do!” exclaimed Major Stultz, angrily.

“You wrong her most assuredly,” cried Madame Rosenberg, with a sort of
blind reliance on Crescenz’s childishness, which this time, however, did
not deceive her: “You wrong her, and I will prove it by asking her what
she is talking about. Crescenz, my love, we wish to know the subject of
your discourse—it seems to be interesting.”

Crescenz answered without hesitation, “I am defending Hildegarde; Mr.
Hamilton and she have quarrelled about the _Ballad of the Glove_. He
says she was rude; and I think he was rude; for he said if he had been a
knight he would not have chosen her for his lady-love. I do not think of
being angry, and he did not choose me either,” she added, glancing half
reproachfully.

On another occasion Madame Rosenberg would have inquired further, and
given, perhaps, an edifying lecture on politeness and propriety of
language; she was now too well satisfied with Crescenz’s answer to think
of anything of the kind, and turning triumphantly to Major Stultz, she
whispered, “You see I was right. I cannot answer for Hildegarde.
Rosenberg says I do not understand her; but Crescenz _is_ a good
girl—almost too good and docile. You can make whatever you please of
her.”

They all walked together to the inn, and _The Glove_ seemed to be quite
forgotten.


                         ---------------------




                               CHAPTER X.

                         THE RETURN TO MUNICH.


HAMILTON’S journey to Munich proved more agreeable than the commencement
had promised. Hildegarde, the maid, Peppy, and Fritz were his
companions; the others occupied the second carriage and chose to be
together, as Fritz sapiently observed, in order to talk secrets about
Cressy’s wedding. Hildegarde exhibited her dislike to Hamilton so
artlessly that he could scarcely preserve a serious countenance, while
he endeavoured to overcome it. The averted head, short, careless
answers, and pertinacious discourse with brother Fritz, could not,
however, long resist his efforts. He was possessed of no inconsiderable
advantages, both of mind and manner, and of this he was, perhaps, but
too well aware, sometimes unnecessarily under-valuing the intellect of
others, while he indulged in a vein of satire most displeasing when it
became evident. Hildegarde had noticed this in his intercourse with her
sister, and was at first extremely guarded in her answers; but his
manner was so unconstrained, his account of himself and his ideas so
amusing and simple, that at length she also became communicative, and
unconsciously displayed an extent of intellect for which Hamilton had
not been prepared—her acquirements were considerable for a girl of her
age, and she spoke with enthusiasm of the continuance of her studies
when she returned to Munich. Her father had quite an excellent library
of his own, which he had promised to let her use, and her mother
intended to subscribe to a circulating library, on condition that none
but French books should be sent for or read. On Hamilton’s inquiring
further, she said, with a slight blush, that she was extremely fond of
novels and poetry.

“Poetry!” he exclaimed, thrown off his guard; “poetry! I should have
imagined that more suited to your sister’s taste than yours.”

No sooner had the word “sister” passed his lips than he saw a sudden
change in the expression of his companion’s countenance; he had, in
fact, awakened a train of unpleasant reflections, rendered more
disagreeable by a feeling of self-reproach for previous forgetfulness.
Hildegarde retired from him as far as the limits of the carriage
permitted, looking out of the window, without noticing his remark, and
rendered all his attempts to renew the conversation abortive by entering
into a disquisition with her brother on the impropriety of bringing
snow-balls into the house in winter! With a smile, which Hildegarde
would perhaps have denominated a sneer, had she seen it, Hamilton leaned
back in the carriage, and was soon occupied in mental speculations on
the change which one word had been able to produce, although the cause
was by no means difficult to surmise. They did not speak again until
they entered the inn where they were to dine. Madame Rosenberg was his
companion in the afternoon, and so effectually did she contrive to
beguile the time with a history of herself and her family, that he was
actually sorry when, at a late hour in the evening, their journey ended,
and both carriages began somewhat tumultuously to pour forth their
contents.

The apartments were on the third story, and on bounding up the stairs to
them, Hamilton was received by Mr. Rosenberg with almost as much
cordiality as his future son-in-law, who had followed more slowly. A
good deal of calling and running, and dragging about of furniture
ensued, but at the end of an hour, or thereabouts, they were all
comfortably seated round a supper-table, which, although of the plainest
description, and lit by a couple of tallow candles in brass
candlesticks, more than satisfied Hamilton; and nothing could exceed the
pleasure with which he looked around him. The novelty of the situation,
and the realization of his wish to be domesticated in a private family,
aided, no doubt, considerably to produce this frame of mind, for he was,
by nature and education, fastidious; and had he not had an object in
view, it is more than probable that the extreme homeliness of the house
arrangements would have more disgusted than amused him. Madame Rosenberg
stood with a napkin pinned over the front of her dress while she carved
a large loin of veal, and distributed to each, beginning with her
husband, the portion which she judged sufficient for their supper; a
potato salad, which she had also prepared in their presence, with oil
and vinegar, was added; and Hildegarde and Crescenz carried around the
plates, to Hamilton’s surprise and, indeed, discomfort; it was in vain
he jumped up and offered to assist them. Madame Rosenberg begged him to
sit still, that Hildegarde would bring him all he wanted, and Crescenz,
as in duty bound, would see that the Major had every thing he required.
With a coyness which would have been graceful had it not been slightly
tinctured with affectation, Crescenz performed the required services,
Major Stultz declaring he had never in his life been so waited upon;
that she was a perfect Hebe, and ending by catching her hand and kissing
it passionately. Crescenz looked across the table, and on finding
Hamilton’s large dark eyes fixed upon her, drew back, and, behind the
chair of her lover, impatiently wiped the kiss, and with it some portion
of gravy and potato, which had probably adhered to his moustache, from
her fair hand. On again looking towards Hamilton, half expecting some
sign of approval, she found that he had turned to her father, and seemed
altogether to have forgotten her presence. With some indignation she
took her place at the table, and commenced her supper, internally vowing
never to bestow either a word or look more on him; and, if possible, to
convince him, without delay, of her extreme dislike to him. She listened
with apparent interest, while her mother and Major Stultz settled the
day but one after for their solemn betrothal, which was to give her the
name of bride, a title only used in Germany during the term of
engagement, and never after the ceremony of marriage has been performed.

Major Stultz rose to take leave, whispered a little while,
ostentatiously with Crescenz, and retired. Hamilton was accompanied by
the whole family when he took possession of the two rooms appropriated
to his use at the back of the house; they looked into another street,
and were accessible by a back staircase, which Madame Rosenberg informed
him was considered a great convenience for single gentlemen, especially
as she would give him a skeleton-key which would open the house-door and
admit him at all hours without the servants being obliged to sit up for
him. Crescenz scarcely answered when he wished her good-night, and he
divined pretty accurately what was passing in her mind. He was heartily
glad that she had adopted this line of conduct; was fully prepared to
believe in her indifference; in fact, he gave her more credit for
coquetry than she deserved, and determined in no way to interfere with
her good resolutions or Major Stultz in future.

The next morning was wholly occupied by a visit to his banker, the
library, securing a place for six months at the theatre, and purchasing
some toys for Fritz, Gustle, and Peppy. He reached home some time after
twelve o’clock, and found that they had waited dinner for him—Madame
Rosenberg delicately informing him of the fact by shouting from the
nursery-door—

“You may bring in the soup now, Wally, for Mr. Hamilton is come.”

As far as Mr. Hamilton was concerned, the soup might have remained in
the kitchen all day; he had not yet learned to eat ordinary German soup,
which, when not thickened into a “family broth,” very much resembled the
weak beef-tea decocted by careful housekeepers for invalids; he
therefore played with his spoon until the boiled beef, which invariably
succeeds, had made its appearance, and finished his repast with a piece
of _zwetschgen_ cake, which he found excellent, and much more easy to
eat than to pronounce. The whole family rose from table at the same
moment, and Hamilton was in the act of opening the door leading into the
drawing-room, when he heard Madame Rosenberg call out—

“Hildegarde, pick up Mr. Hamilton’s napkin; don’t you see it lying on
the floor?”

Hamilton sprang forward, raised, and threw it with a jerk across the
back of his chair, not clearly understanding what possible difference it
could make, and thinking Madame Rosenberg very unnecessarily particular.
His surprise was therefore great when he saw Hildegarde take the
crumpled towel and, having endeavoured to lay it in the original folds,
bind it with a piece of blue ribbon which had been placed on the table
beside him for the purpose.

“Mr. Smith told me that people did not generally use napkins in
England,” said Madame Rosenberg, sagaciously nodding her head.

“Not use napkins! you surely must have misunderstood him; perhaps he
said people did not use the same napkin twice!”

“Not use a napkin twice!” cried Madame Rosenberg. “If that were the case
I should have a pretty washing at the end of the three months! Rosenberg
gets but two a week, and has moustaches. I expect that you will be able
to manage, like the girls, with one.”

“I shall certainly cultivate a moustache forthwith, if it were only for
the purpose of getting the two napkins a week!” said Hamilton,
good-humouredly laughing as he left the room.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XI.

                             THE BETROTHAL.


THE afternoon of the next day the betrothal took place. Hamilton had
expected an imposing ceremony, but not one of the many persons assembled
appeared to consider it as anything but an occasion for drinking wine or
coffee and eating cake. Crescenz and her sister must be excepted; they
both looked greatly alarmed; and when the certificates of birth,
baptism, vaccination, and confirmation had been laid on the table, and
the marriage contract read aloud and presented for signature, Crescenz
fairly attempted to rush out of the room. She was brought back with some
difficulty; and it was from Hamilton’s hand that she received the pen
with which she wrote her name. A present of a very handsome ring from
Major Stultz seemed in some degree to restore her equanimity, and a
glass of champagne, judiciously administered by her father, enabled her
to receive the congratulations and enjoy the jokes of her bridesmaids.
As evening drew on, the pianoforte was put in requisition, and dancing
proposed. Hamilton immediately engaged Hildegarde; he was in England
considered to dance well, and was, therefore, not a little surprised and
mortified when, after a few turns, she sat down quietly, saying he was a
most particularly disagreeable dancer.

“You are the first person who has told me so,” he observed, somewhat
piqued; for Englishmen are vulnerable on this point.

“Others have _thought_ so, perhaps,” said Hildegarde, carelessly, and
following with her eyes Crescenz and Major Stultz; the latter, forgetful
of the hardship of his Russian campaign, and unmindful of the stoutness
of his figure, was whirling round the room with a lightness which would
have done credit to a man of one-and-twenty.

“How very well Major Stultz dances!” said Hamilton, when Crescenz and
her partner soon after stopped near them.

“And you—why do you not dance?” asked Crescenz.

“Your sister says I dance badly.”

“I said you were a disagreeable dancer,” said Hildegarde; “other people
may think differently; but I particularly dislike being held so close,
and having——”

Hamilton’s face became crimson, and she left her sentence unfinished.

“Perhaps people dance differently in England,” suggested Crescenz.

“Most probably they do not waltz at all there,” said Major Stultz.

Hamilton explained with extraordinary warmth.

“Well, at all events—it is—and will ever remain, a German national
dance; and, so I suppose, without giving offence, I may say that we
Germans dance it better than you English. I have no doubt that you dance
country-dances and Scotch reels perfectly, but——”

“I have never danced either the one or the other,” said Hamilton, with a
look of sovereign contempt.

“Well, Francaise’s quadrilles, or whatever you call those complicated
dances now coming into fashion here.”

Hamilton did not answer; he had turned to Crescenz, and was now
insisting on her waltzing with him, that she might tell him the fault in
his dancing. She murmured the words, “_Extra tour_,” which seemed to
satisfy Major Stultz and then complied with his request. It was singular
that Crescenz did not complain of being held too closely; she was not
disposed to find any fault whatever with his performance; and it was
with some difficulty that he induced her to say that there was something
a little foreign in his manner, and that she believed he did not dance
_quite_ so smoothly as a German.

“Your sister’s personal dislike seems to influence her judgment on all
occasions,” said Hamilton, glancing towards Hildegarde, who, still
seated in the same place, was watching them with evident
dissatisfaction.

“Hildegarde, come and help me to put candles in the candlesticks,” cried
Madame Rosenberg; “we cannot let our friends grope about in the dark any
longer.”

Hildegarde rose; as she passed Hamilton, she said, in a low voice—

“For personal dislike, you may say detestation, when you refer to
yourself in future.”

“Most willingly, most gladly,” cried Hamilton, laughing. “I wish you to
hate me with all your heart.”

“Then your wish is gratified; I feel the greatest contempt——”

“Halt!” cried Hamilton, still laughing, for her anger amused him. “I did
not give you leave to feel contempt; I only said you might hate as——”

“Hildegarde! Hildegarde!” cried Madame Rosenberg, impatiently—“Why, what
on earth is the girl about?”

“Quarrelling as usual,” muttered Major Stultz, shrugging his shoulders.

“Oh, she is not quarrelsome!” exclaimed Crescenz; “you don’t understand
her; she is right—quite right.”

“Right to hate me without a cause!” cried Hamilton, pretending great
astonishment.

“I did not exactly mean—that is—I think—I believe—I am sure Hildegarde
does not hate you or anybody,” said Crescenz, confusedly, and retiring
hastily to that part of the room which seemed by common consent
appropriated to the unmarried female part of the company. At this moment
the door opened, and Madame Rosenberg, followed by Hildegarde and the
cook, entered the room, carrying lighted candles. A loud ringing of the
house-bell was heard, and the cook, having deposited her candles, rushed
out of the room to open the door.

“I dare say it’s the Bergers,” said Madame Rosenberg, as she walked
towards the pianoforte with her candles. “Better late than never. I’m
glad she’s come, for she plays waltzes charmingly; and as such days as
this do not often occur in a family, we may as well keep it up.”

Hamilton looked towards the door, and saw an elaborately dressed and
extremely pretty person, with very long and profuse blonde ringlets,
leaning on the arm of an elderly man with a protruding chin. His
recollection of having heard something about her companion was brought
more distinctly to his mind, when he saw Crescenz start forward and
embrace her, while she eagerly exclaimed,—

“Oh, Lina! I have _so_ longed to see you! _so_ wished for your advice!”

After she had spoken with great animation to the Rosenbergs and other
acquaintances, she turned to Crescenz, who, continuing to hold her hand,
reproached her for having neglected her.

“My dear creature! I have been in Starnberg, or you should have seen me
long ago. The Doctor came for me this afternoon, and I have not been
more than an hour in town. On such an occasion I was obliged to make
myself smart, and you have no idea how I hurried! Isn’t this dress a
love? the Doctor’s choice—he bought it at Schultz, and surprised me with
it on my birthday! Conceive my being nineteen years old!” she continued
in a whisper, leading Crescenz apart; “I am really glad that I am
married; I should have been obliged to wait an eternity for Theodor; he
is now studying with the Doctor, visits the hospitals with him, and
dines with us every Sunday! Heigho!——”

“Is not the Doctor jealous?”

“Jealous! oh, dear, no—why should he be jealous? If Theodor had been
rich, I should have preferred him, of course! but a poor student!—the
thing was absurd! And yet I _did_ love him—with all my heart, too!”

“I can easily imagine it,” said Crescenz, pensively; “and in Seon, of
all places in the world!” and she sighed very expressively.

“Why surely, dear, you did not find anyone at Seon with whom you could
fall in love! I beg Major Stultz’s pardon, but—a—the company at Seon is
a——”

“Oh, there were some very nice people there this year; Count Zedwitz and
his family—his son, I am almost sure, proposed to Hildegarde, though she
won’t acknowledge it.”

“Count Zedwitz! why, surely, Hildegarde would not be such a fool as to
refuse such a——”

“Hush, dearest—it’s the greatest possible secret; and Hildegarde would
never forgive me if she knew——”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said the Doctor’s wife, arranging a
stray ringlet; “I don’t believe a word of it. Hildegarde would have
talked if there had been even a shadow of probability of such a thing.
As to her having refused him, that is out of the nature of things! I
suppose, dear,” she added, shaking back her curls, “I suppose he turned
to you when he was tired of Hildegarde? Did she frighten him with a fit
of fury, as she did me the day I read the letter from her father, which
she had mislaid in the school-room? Do you remember how she stormed and
called me dishonourable, and said I was capable of any horrible act? I
never forgave that Mademoiselle Hortense for not taking my part; but all
the governesses were so proud of Hildegarde’s beauty, after her picture
was painted, that she was allowed to do as she pleased.”

“Don’t talk of her,” said Crescenz, in a low voice; “I know you never
liked her.”

“They called us the rival beauties at school, you know, which was quite
enough to make us hate each other all our lives; but now that I am
married, all rivalry has ceased. I have got a position in society,
especially since the Doctor has been called in to attend the royal
family, and——”

“You don’t say so,” exclaimed Crescenz, interrupting her.

“Yes, my dear, he is not exactly appointed, but when the other
physicians were out of town, he was sent for to attend one of the ladies
of the court, who had been obliged to remain behind from illness, and
she promised to use all her influence for him; indeed, his practice is
so extensive that he does not require anything of the kind—but then for
appearance’ sake—and it sounds well, you know—it sounds well!” and she
played with her pocket-handkerchief, which was trimmed with very broad
cotton lace. “But I forgot, you were going to tell me that you had
fallen in love with somebody at Seon; if it were not this Count Zedwitz,
who was it?”

“Nobody,” said Crescenz, wiping her eyes with her little cotton
handkerchief, ornamented with a few coarse indigo-dyed threads for a
border; “Nobody!”

“I assure you, Cressy, as a married woman, I can give you much better
advice now than in former days, when I was silly as yourself. You had
better confide in me.”

“I have nothing to confide,” replied Crescenz, diligently biting the
before mentioned blue thread border of her handkerchief.

“Well, if you don’t choose to be confiding, perhaps you will be
communicative, and tell me who is that very tall, very young, and
singularly handsome man talking to your father near the window?”

“That’s he,” said Crescenz, blushing.

“Who?”

“The Englishman.”

“What Englishman?”

“The Englishman that we met at Seon.”

“So!” whistled, rather than exclaimed, the Doctor’s wife.

“So!—hem!—a—some excuse for a little sentiment, I must allow, Cressy.
How does he happen to be here this evening?”

“He is living with us; he boards with mamma this winter.”

“So! Can he speak German?”

“Oh, yes, very well.”

“Introduce him; I should like to know him.”

“I _cannot_.”

“You cannot! Why I could have introduced Theodor to all the world, and
have ordered him about everywhere. Beckon, or call him over, like a
dear.”

“Not for worlds!”

“I do believe you are afraid of him!”

“Afraid of him! What an idea!” said Crescenz, laughing faintly.

“Yes, afraid of him,” persisted her friend; “and yet he is not at all a
person to inspire terror.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” said Crescenz; “I don’t think I am at all afraid
of him. Why should I?”

“Why, indeed! See, Crescenz, he is looking this way now; just turn
towards him and make some sign, or else I must apply to Hildegarde.”

“Oh, go to Hildegarde, if you like,” said Crescenz, half laughing; “but
most probably they have just been quarrelling, and, in that case, she
will send you to papa or mamma.”

“For that matter, I might as well go to your father at once, as he is
standing beside him; for a married woman it would be of no consequence,
you know; but, still, I should prefer the introduction to appear
accidental. Men are generally vain—especially Englishmen, they say.”

“Oh, he is not at all vain, though Hildegarde insists that he is; and
says, too, that he ridicules everybody. She took an inveterate dislike
to him at first sight.”

“Well, that does surprise me, for his appearance is certainly
prepossessing; but I think also he _has_ a tolerably good opinion of
himself: in so far I must agree with her; but why should he not? He is
certainly good-looking, probably clever, and no doubt rich!”

“Oh, he is very clever,” said Crescenz; “even Hildegarde allows that.”

“Well, my dear, to return; will you introduce him or not?”

“Pray, don’t ask me.”

The Doctor’s wife shrugged her shoulders, shook back her blonde
ringlets, and walked, with an evident attempt at unconcern, across the
room.

“Hildegarde,” she said, tapping the shoulder which had been purposely
turned towards her, “Hildegarde, will you introduce me to your
Englishman? Crescenz says he is very clever; and you know I like clever
people, and foreigners. But you must maneuvre a little, and not let him
know that I particularly requested to make his acquaintance.”

“I never maneuvre,” replied Hildegarde, bluntly; “you might have known
that by this time.”

“I did not just mean to say maneuvre; I only wished you to understand
that you were to manage it so that he should not think I cared about the
matter; in short, it ought to be a sort of chance introduction.”

“Will you by chance walk across the room with me?”

“Impossible!”

“Shall I call him over here by chance?”

“Call—no, not call; but look as if you expected him to come. He will be
sure to understand.”

“He will not; for I do not expect him in the least. Crescenz could have
told you that we are not on particularly good terms. You had better ask
mamma.”

“_Mein Gott!_ What a fuss the people make about this Englishman. I think
you are all afraid of him. Crescenz certainly is.”

“I dislike him; but I am not afraid of him, as you shall see. Mr.
Hamilton,” she called out distinctly, and Hamilton, though surprised,
immediately approached her. Madame Berger shook her hand and the pocket
handkerchief most playfully, and then took refuge on the sofa at some
distance. Hildegarde followed, quietly explaining that Madame Berger
wished to make his acquaintance, because he was a foreigner, and
supposed to be clever. Hamilton smiled as he seated himself beside his
new acquaintance, and in a few minutes they were evidently amusing each
other so much that Crescenz observed it, and said, in a low voice, to
her sister, “You were quite right, Hildegarde; Lina is a desperate
flirt. Do look how she is laughing, and allowing Mr. Hamilton to admire
her dress.”

“He is making a fool of her. Now, Crescenz, if you are not blind, you
can see that expression of his face I have so often described to you.”

“I only see he is laughing, and pulling the lace of her handkerchief,
which she has just shown him. I dare say he is admiring it, for it is
real cambric, and very fine.”

“He is not admiring it; his own is ten times finer.”

“Indeed! I have never remarked that; how very odd that you should!”

“Not at all odd,” said Hildegarde quickly; “everyone has some sort of
fancy. You like bracelets and rings, and I like fine pocket
handkerchiefs.”

“Well, that is the oddest fancy,” said Crescenz, “the very last thing I
should have thought of. I don’t care at all for pocket handkerchiefs.”

“Nor I for rings or bracelets,” replied Hildegarde.

“Come here, girls,” cried Madame Rosenberg; “what are you doing with
your two heads together there? Come and help me to make tea. Hildegarde,
there is boiling water in the kitchen. Crescenz, you can cut bread and
butter, or arrange the cakes.”

Tea was then a beverage only coming into fashion in Germany, and, in
that class of society where it was still seldom made, the infusion
caused considerable commotion. Hildegarde and her step-mother were
unsuccessful in their attempt; the tea tasted strongly of smoke and
boiled milk. Everybody sipped it, and wondered what was the matter,
while Madame Rosenberg assured her guests that she had twice made “a
tea,” and that it had been excellent; the cook, Walburg, or, as she was
called familiarly, Wally, must have spoiled it by hurrying the boiling
of the water. Mr. Hamilton, as an Englishman, would, of course, know how
to make tea; he really must be so good as to accompany her to the
kitchen, and they would make it over again.

Hamilton agreed to the proposition with some reluctance, for he had
found his companion amusing; but, as she proposed accompanying him, he
was soon disposed to think tea-making in a kitchen as amusing as it was
new to him. Madame Rosenberg, Hildegarde, Crescenz, and Major Stultz
followed, forming a sort of procession in the corridor, and greatly
crowding the small but remarkably neat kitchen where they assembled. If
it had not been for the stone floor, it was as comfortable a room as any
in the house; the innumerable brightly shining brass and copper pans and
pots, pudding and pie models, forming the ornaments. Round the hearth,
or rather what is in England called a hot-hearth—for the fire was
invisible—they all stood to watch the boiling of a pan full of fresh
water, which had been placed on one of the apertures made for that
purpose. They looked at the water, and then at each other, and then
again at the water; and then Wally shoved more wood underneath. Still
the water boiled not; and Madame Rosenberg and Major Stultz returned to
the drawing-room, Madame Berger having undertaken, with Hamilton’s
assistance, to make the most excellent tea possible.

“It is an odd thing,” she observed, seating herself on the polished
copper edge of the hearth, and carefully arranging the folds of her
dress, “it is an odd thing, but nevertheless a fact, that when one
watches, and wishes water to boil, it won’t boil, and as soon as one
turns away it begins to bubble and sputter at once. Now, Mr. Hamilton,
can you explain why this is the case?”

“I don’t know,” said Hamilton, laughing, “excepting that, perhaps, as
the watching of a saucepan full of water is by no means an amusing
occupation, one easily gets tired, and finds that the time passes
unusually slowly.”

“All I can say is—that as long as I look at that water, it will not
boil——”

“Then pray look at me,” said Hamilton, who had seated himself upon the
dresser, one foot on the ground, the other enacting the part of a
pendulum, while in his hands he held a plate of little macaroni cakes,
which Crescenz had just arranged; “pray look at me. German cakes are
decidedly better than English—these are really delicious.”

“Oh, I am so fond of those cakes,” she cried, springing towards him, “so
excessively fond of them. Surely,” she added, endeavouring to reach the
plate, which he laughingly held just beyond her reach, “surely you do
not mean to devour them alone.”

“You shall join me,” said Hamilton, “on condition that every cake with a
visible piece of citron or a whole almond on it belongs to me.”

“Agreed.”

Her share proved small, and a playful scuffle ensued.

Crescenz turned towards the window, Hildegarde looked on contemptuously.
At this moment, Walburg exclaimed, “The water boils!” and they all
turned towards the hearth. “How much tea shall I put into the teapot?”
asked Madame Berger, appealing to Hamilton.

“The more you put in the better it will be,” answered Hamilton, without
moving.

“Shall I put in all that is in this paper?”

Hamilton nodded, and the tea was made.

“Ought it not to boil a little now?”

“By no means.”

“Perhaps,” said Walburg, “a little piece of vanilla would improve the
taste.”

“On no account,” said Hamilton.

“The best thing to give it a flavour is rum,” observed Madame Berger.

“I forbid the rum, though I must say the idea is not bad,” said Hamilton
laughing.

Hildegarde put the teapot on a little tray, and left the kitchen just as
her step-mother entered it.

“Well, the tea ought to be good! It has required long enough to make it,
I am sure!” she observed, while setting down a lamp, which she had
brought with her. “Crescenz, your father, it seems, has invited a whole
lot of people without telling me, and he wishes to play a rubber of
whist in the bedroom. I have no more handsome candlesticks, so you must
light the lamp; the wick is in it, I know, for I cleaned it myself
before I went to Seon, so you have only to put in the oil and light it.”
She took Madame Berger’s arm, saying, “This is poor amusement for you,
standing in the kitchen all the evening,” and walked away without
perceiving Hamilton, who was examining the construction of the hearth
and chimney with an interest which greatly astonished the cook.

“Oh, Wally—what shall I do?” cried Crescenz, “I never touched a lamp in
my life, and I am sure I cannot light it.”

“It’s quite easy, Miss Crescenz; I’ll pour the oil, and you light those
pieces of wood and hold them to the wick.”

Crescenz did as she was desired.

“Stop till the oil is in, miss, if you please,” said Wally.

The oil was put in, the wick lighted, the cylinder fixed, and Crescenz
raised the globe towards its place, but either it was too heavy for her
hand, or she had not mentally measured the height, for it struck with
considerable force against the upper part of the lamp, and broke to
pieces with a loud crash.

“Oh, heavens, what _shall_ I do!” she cried in her agitation, clasping
the pieces of glass which had remained in her hand. “What _shall_ I do!
Mamma will be so angry! I dare not tell her—for my life I dare not. What
on earth shall I do!”

“Send out and buy another as fast as you can,” said Hamilton. “Is there
no glass or lamp shop near this?”

“I don’t know,” said Crescenz, blushing deeply.

“Yes, there is,” said Walburg, “in the next street, just round the
corner, you know, Miss Crescenz—but a——” and she stopped and looked
confused.

“I _must_ tell mamma, or get Hildegarde to tell her. Oh, what a
misfortune! what a dreadful misfortune!”

“Go out and buy a globe, and don’t waste time looking at the fragments,”
said Hamilton, impatiently to Walburg. “There is no necessity for saying
anything about the matter.”

“But,” said Walburg, hesitatingly, and looking first at Crescenz, and
then at Hamilton, “but I have no money.”

“Stupid enough my not thinking of that,” said Hamilton, taking out his
purse.

“That is at least a florin too much,” cried Walburg, enchanted at his
generosity.

“Never mind, run, run; keep what remains for yourself, but make haste.”

“Oh, indeed I cannot allow this,” said Crescenz faintly; “it would be
very wrong—and——” but the door had already closed on the messenger.

“Suppose, now—mamma should come,” said Crescenz, uneasily.

“Not at all likely, as everyone is drinking tea.”

The drawing-room door opened, and the gay voices of the assembled
company resounded in the passage.

“I knew it, I knew it; she is coming,” cried Crescenz;—but it was only
Hildegarde, who brought the empty teapot to refill it.

She looked very grave when she heard what had occurred, and proposed
Hamilton’s accompanying her to the drawing-room, as he might be missed
and Major Stultz displeased; he felt that she was right, and followed
silently. His tea was unanimously praised, but Madame Rosenberg
exhibited some natural consternation on hearing that the whole contents
of her paper cornet, with which she had expected to regale her friends
at least half-a-dozen times, had been inconsiderately emptied at once
into the teapot!

“It was no wonder the tea was good! English tea, indeed! Anyone could
make tea after that fashion! But then, to be sure, English people never
thought about what anything cost. For her part she found the tea bitter,
and recommended a spoonful or two of rum.” On her producing a little
green bottle, the company assembled around her with their tea-cups, and
she administered to each one, two, or three spoonfuls, as they desired
it.

In the meantime Mr. Rosenberg sat in the adjoining dark bedroom at the
card-table—sometimes shuffling, sometimes drumming on the cards, and
whistling indistinctly. Hildegarde had observed an expression of
impatience on his face, and, to prevent inquiries about the lamp, she
quietly brought candles from the drawing-room and placed them beside
him.

“Thank you, Hildegarde,” said her father, more loudly than he generally
spoke; “thank you, my dear; you never forget my existence, and even obey
my thoughts sometimes.”

“Why, where’s the lamp?” cried Madame Rosenberg; “where’s the lamp? What
on earth can Crescenz have done with the lamp?”

“Broken it, most probably,” said Mr. Rosenberg, dryly. “Hildegarde,
place a chair for Major Stultz. She’s a good girl, after all, Major! a
very good girl, I can tell you.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” replied the Major, bowing over the proffered
chair.

“Go and see why your sister does not bring the lamp,” cried Madame
Rosenberg impatiently.

As Hildegarde slowly and with evident reluctance walked to the door, she
unconsciously looked towards Hamilton; he was listening very attentively
to the rhapsody of sense and nonsense poured forth by the Doctor’s wife,
who occasionally stopped to shake back, with a mixture of childishness
and coquetry, the long fair locks which at times half concealed her
face. Hamilton, however, saw the look, understood it, and gazed so
fixedly at the door, even after she had closed it, that his companion
observed it, and said abruptly: “Why did you look so oddly at
Hildegarde; and why do you stare at the door after she has left the
room?”

“If you prefer my staring at you, I am quite willing to do so.”

“You know very well I did not mean any such thing,” she cried with
affected pettishness; “can you not be serious for a moment, and answer a
plain question?”

“I dislike answering questions,” said Hamilton absently, and once more
looking towards the door.

“Now, there you are again with your eyes fixed on that tiresome——”

He turned around, took a well-stuffed sofa-cushion, and, placing it
before him, leaned his elbows upon it, while he quietly but steadily
fixed his eyes on her face, and said:

“Now, madame, if it must be so, I am ready to be questioned.”

“You really are the most disagreeable person I ever met.”

“That is an observation, and not a question.”

“You are the vainest——”

Hamilton looked down, and seemed determined not to interrupt her again.

“Are you offended at my candour,” she added, abruptly.

“Not in the least.”

“Put away that cushion, and don’t look as if you were getting tired.”

“But I thought you were going to question me?”

“No, I am afraid.”

“Well, then I must question you,” said Hamilton, laughing. “Why may I
not look at Mademoiselle Rosenberg, and why may I not look at the door,
if it amuse me?”

“You may not look at the door, because in so doing you turn your back to
me, which is not civil,” she replied readily.

“Very well answered; but now tell me why I may not look at Mademoiselle
Rosenberg?”

“Oh, you may look at her, certainly; but—but—but—the expression of your
face was not as if you disliked her.”

“And why should I dislike her?”

“I don’t know, indeed—only Crescenz told me that you often quarrelled
with her; and as Hildegarde knows no medium, she most probably hates you
with all her soul. You have no idea of the intensity of her likings and
dislikings!”

“Indeed?”

“At school she took a fancy to one of the governesses, the most severe,
disagreeable person imaginable; can you believe it? This Mademoiselle
Hortense was able to do whatever she pleased with her; her slightest
word was a command to Hildegarde. I have seen her, when in the greatest
passion, grow pale and become perfectly quiet when Mademoiselle Hortense
suddenly came into the room. It was, however, not from fear, for
Hildegarde has no idea of fearing anybody; she is terribly courageous!”

“Altogether rather an interesting character,” observed Hamilton.

“Do you think so? I cannot agree with you. At school we all liked
Crescenz much better.”

“Very possibly—I can imagine your liking the one and admiring the
other.”

“As to the admiration,” said Madame Berger, looking down—“as to the
admiration of the girls at school, that was very much divided:
Hildegarde headed one party and I the other.”

“You were rivals, then?”

“We were, in everything—even in the affection of her sister. It was
through Crescenz alone that I was able to tease her when I chose to do
so.”

“But you did not often choose it, I am sure.”

“Oh, I assure you, with all her love for Crescenz, she often tyrannised
over the poor girl, and scarcely allowed her to have an opinion of her
own on any subject. Crescenz was a little afraid of her, too, at times.
Cressy is the dearest creature in the world, but not at all brilliant;
we all loved her, but we sometimes laughed at her, too; and you can form
no conception of the fury of Hildegarde when she used to find it out.
Crescenz has confessed to me, when we were alone, that her sister had
often lectured her on her simplicity, and had told her what she was to
do and say when we attempted to joke with her. Nothing more comical than
seeing Crescenz playing Hildegarde.”

“Mademoiselle Rosenberg was considered clever?” asked Hamilton.

“Clever! why yes—as far as learning was concerned she was the best in
the school, and that was the reason that madame and the governess
overlooked her violence of temper; she is very ill-tempered.”

“That is a pity,” said Hamilton, “for she seems to have excellent
qualities.”

“I never could discover anything excellent about her,” said Madame
Berger, biting her lip slightly.

“Perhaps,” observed Hamilton, “she is more violent than ill tempered;
and you say that she can control herself in the presence of anyone she
likes.”

“But it is exactly these likings and dislikings that I find so
abominable; for instance, she loves her father—well, he is a very
good-looking, quiet sort of insipid man—she, however, thinks him
perfection, and is outrageous if people do not show an absurd respect
for all his opinions. What he says must be law for all the world! On the
other hand, she dislikes her step-mother; who is nothing very
extraordinary, I allow—rather vulgar, too; but still she has her good
qualities. Hildegarde cannot see them, and will not allow Crescenz to
become aware of them either! Is not this detestable?”

“It is a proof that she has strong prejudices; but——”

The door just then was opened, and Crescenz entered the room, carrying
the lamp, and smiling brightly. It was heavy, and Hamilton rose to
assist her in placing it on the table before the sofa where they sat.

“Thank you, oh, thank you!” cried Crescenz, with a fervency which Madame
Berger thought so exaggerated that she found it necessary to explain.

“That dear girl is so grateful for the most trifling attention! It is
generally the case with us all for a short time after we leave school.”

“There’s the lamp!” exclaimed Madame Rosenberg, “and not broken! What do
you say now, Rosenberg? I declare it burns better than usual;—the globe
has been cleaned, eh, Crescenz?”

“Yes, Wally cleaned it a little; it was very dusty,” replied Crescenz,
looking archly at Hamilton, and seeming to enjoy the equivocation.

Hildegarde blushed deeply, and walked into the next room.

Hamilton saw the blush, and looked after her, while Madame Berger
whispered:

“Did you see that?—she is jealous of the praise bestowed on her sister.”

“Jealous! oh, no!” said Hamilton, still following her with his eyes.

“I beg your pardon!” cried Madame Berger; “I was not at all aware that I
was speaking to an adorer; I really must go and tell her the conquest
she has made.”

Perhaps she expected him to detain her, or she feared a rebuff from
Hildegarde; for she waited a moment before she proceeded into the next
room. Hamilton followed just in time to hear Hildegarde say:

“Pshaw! you are talking about what you don’t understand,” as she turned
contemptuously away.

Madame Berger, to conceal her annoyance at Hildegarde’s
imperturbability, turned to Crescenz, who had been placed next Major
Stultz, at his particular request, in order to bring him _luck_. Her
presence, however, not having produced the desired effect, he was told
by Madame Rosenberg that those who were fortunate in love were always
sure to be unfortunate at cards, which seemed to afford him great
consolation; while Crescenz smiled and played with his counters and
purse.

“I am sure, Crescenz,” said Madame Berger, “I am sure you are thinking
what sort of purse you will make for Major Stultz this Christmas! You
cannot allow him in future to use leather. I can teach you to make a new
kind of purse, which is very strong and pretty.”

“Oh, pray do!” cried Crescenz, starting up; “you know I like making
purses, of all things. When will you begin it for me?”

“To-morrow, if you like. I say, Cressy,” continued Madame Berger, in a
whisper, “what makes Hildegarde so horribly savage this evening?”

“I did not observe it.”

“She is most particularly disagreeable, I can assure you. I attempted
some most innocent _badinage_ about Mr. Hamilton, and she——”

“Oh, about him you must not jest; she hates him so excessively——”

“Not a bit of it—and he does not hate her either.”

“You don’t say so?”

“I say so, and think so; and you will see that I am right. Why, he
already makes as many excuses as your father for her ill-temper. If you
had only heard him!”

“I did not think Hildegarde capable of playing double,” cried Crescenz,
with emotion.

“She is capable of anything. Had you but seen the look of intelligence
that passed between them when she left the room to inquire about you,
and the lamp, it would have convinced you at once. And then he watched
the door, and——”

“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Crescenz, apparently greatly relieved; “I
understand. No, Lina, this time I am right, and you are wrong, I know
why he looked at Hildegarde, and at the door.”

“You do!—do you? Then, come and tell me all about it. By-the-by, I
should like to have a long talk with you, to learn how matters stand.
This Mr. Hamilton is uncommonly good-looking and amusing; I should like
to know what brought him to Seon, and how it happened that he came to
live with your mother, and all that. If we have not time to-night, you
can tell me to-morrow, while you are learning the purse-stitch.”

An appointment was made for the next day, and the party soon after broke
up.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XII.

                           DOMESTIC DETAILS.


HAMILTON had gone out early to visit Zedwitz, and look at a horse
recommended by Major Stultz. On his return, when walking towards his
room, he heard some one singing so gayly in the kitchen that, as he
passed the door, he could not resist the temptation to look in. Crescenz
was standing opposite the hearth, a long-handled wooden spoon in her
hand, her sleeves tucked up, and her round, white arms embellished with
streaks of smut and flour; while a linen apron, of large dimensions,
preserved the greater part of her dress from injury. Her face was
flushed, partly from heat, but more from pleasure. As soon as she
perceived Hamilton in the doorway, she at once ceased singing, laughed
merrily, and invited him to enter. Now to this kitchen Hamilton had
taken rather a fancy; he thought it by many degrees the best furnished
room in the house; in fact, it was a pretty and cheerful apartment, and
kept with a neatness common in Germany, where it is usual to see the
female members of the burghers’ families employed in culinary offices.

“I have got my first lesson in cookery to-day,” she exclaimed joyfully;
“and I have assisted mamma to make a tart, and you see I am cooking
these vegetables,” she added, plunging her wooden spoon into one of the
pots.

“Oh, yes, miss,” cried the cook, “that’s the soup, and the noodles will
be all squashed if you work them up after that fashion.”

“Well, this is the _sauer-kraut_,” she said, eagerly drawing one of the
saucepans towards her; “this is the _sauer-kraut_.”

“I could have told you that myself,” cried Hamilton, laughing; “the
smell is too odious to admit of a doubt.”

“But the taste is very good,” said Crescenz.

“I cannot agree with you; taste and smell are horrible in the extreme.”

“I never heard of anyone who did not like _sauer-kraut_,” said Crescenz,
with some surprise; “do people never make it in England?”

“I never saw it, excepting at the house of a friend who had been long
ambassador at one of the German courts, and then it was handed about as
a sort of curiosity.”

“How odd! England seems to be altogether different from Germany?” she
half asked, while shaking her head inquiringly.

“The difference is in many things besides the eating or not eating of
_sauer-kraut_,” answered Hamilton; “but as you are such a famous cook, I
must beg you to give me something else to-day, for I cannot eat your
_kraut_.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Crescenz delightedly; “Wally, what shall we cook for
Mr. Hamilton? I am sure I never thought I should have liked this cooking
so much!” As she spoke, she with difficulty repressed an inclination to
dance about the kitchen.

“Indeed, as you are learning it, Miss Crescenz,” said Walburg, “it must
be very agreeable. To think that you will so soon have a house of your
own, and a rich husband who will let you have everything you like to
cook. Tarts and creams every day. The Major knows what’s good, or I am
greatly mistaken.”

This speech completely sobered Crescenz; had Hamilton not been present
she might have been loquacious; but she now looked confused, and turned
to leave the kitchen, saying it was time to wash her hands for dinner.

“But I thought you were going to find me a substitute for the
_sauer-kraut_.”

“Wally will send in something,” she answered, rubbing her arm with her
apron to avoid looking up as she walked into the passage. Hamilton was
so near to her as she entered her room that a feeling of politeness
prevented her from shutting the door, and he saw Hildegarde sitting at a
small deal table between her brothers Fritz and Gustle; a few books and
a slate were before her, and as the door opened she was returning a book
to the former, with the remark, “This will never do, Fritz. You have not
learned one word of your lesson!”

“_Kreuz!_ _Himmel!_ _Saperment!_” exclaimed Fritz, pitching the book up
to the ceiling; “this is exactly too much! when a fellow has been all
the morning at school, and comes home for an hour or so to eat and amuse
himself, to be set down in this way to learn French. I tell you what,
Hildegarde, I shall begin to hate the sight of you if you plague me with
these old grammars.”

“What shall I do with him?” asked Hildegarde, appealing to her sister.

“Fritz, learn your lesson—there’s a love!” interposed Crescenz; “see
what a good boy Gustle is!” and she carelessly placed her hand on the
shoulder of the latter, who was industriously rolling the leaf of his
book into the form of a trumpet, and yawning tremendously.

“I will give up all idea of ever entering the cadet corps, or ever being
an officer,” cried Fritz, kicking the book as it lay upon the ground,
“rather than write these odious exercises and listen to Hildegarde’s
long explanations.”

“But think of the sword and the uniform, Fritz,” said Crescenz,
coaxingly.

“_Donner und Doria!_—what is the use of a sword and uniform, when I must
learn vocabulary and write French exercises?”

“Come, Fritz,” cried Hildegarde, authoritatively, “let me hear no more
of this absurd swearing; it does not at all become a boy of your age. If
you will not learn your lesson, I can, at least, correct your exercise.”

She stretched out her hand for the slate. Fritz anticipated her, seized
and flung it up in the air, as he had done the grammar; but it did not
fall so harmlessly. Hamilton, who had been standing at the open door,
rushed forward, but was too late to prevent its descending with
considerable force upon her temple, where it made a wound, from which
the blood instantly began to trickle in large dark drops. Hildegarde
started up angrily, while Fritz, after the first moment of dismay had
passed, ran towards her, and throwing his arms round her, exclaimed,
“Forgive me, forgive me—indeed I did not intend to hurt you.”

“If papa has come home from his _bureau_,” said Crescenz, preparing to
leave the room, “I’ll go this moment and tell him.”

“Stay,” cried Hildegarde, hastily; “he says he did not do it on purpose;
and after all, I am not much hurt. You must not tell papa or mamma
either.”

“Well, you certainly are the best fellow in the world, Hildegarde,”
cried Fritz. “I declare I would rather be cuffed by you than kissed by
Crescenz.”

“And cuffed you would have been, had you been near enough,” said
Hildegarde, laughing, while she poured some water into a basin.

“Mamma will be sure to see the cut, and ask how it happened,” said
Crescenz.

“I can easily hide it under my hair when it has stopped bleeding.”

“Now just for that, Hildegarde,” cried Fritz, “I promise to learn as
many lessons as you please for the next fortnight.”

Madame Rosenberg’s step and the jingling of her keys alarmed them all.
Hamilton turned to meet her in the passage, saying, “Can I speak to you
for five minutes?”

“To be sure you can, and longer, if you like,” she replied, hooking her
keys into the string of her apron. “Just let me look how things are
going on in the kitchen, and I am at your service as long as you please.
Put a cover on that pot, Walburg, and tell Miss Crescenz not to forget
the powdered sugar for the tart, and the apples for the boys’ luncheon.
And now,” she said, turning to Hamilton, and leading the way to her
room, “what have you got to say? You look so serious that I suspect you
are going to tell me that you dislike your rooms, as they look into a
back street, and are near a coppersmith’s. Captain Black left me for
that reason, although I told him he could look out of the drawing-room
windows as much as he pleased, and receive all his visitors there. I
could not make the coppersmith leave his shop, you know; though this
much I must say, that in winter the nuisance is less felt than in
summer, when the workmen, during the fine weather, hammer away all day
in the lane, but in winter they work in the house, and shut the doors,
so that they are scarcely heard at all.”

“I have slept too soundly to hear the coppersmiths,” said Hamilton,
smiling; “and during the day I have been too seldom in my room to be
disturbed by them. In fact, I find so much to amuse—I mean to say, so
much to interest me as a foreigner in your house, that I do not think
half a dozen smiths could induce me to leave you at present.”

“I am glad to hear it, for I like you very much, and so does Rosenberg.”

“Then I hope you will not be offended if I request to have wax candles
in my room, and—a—fresh napkin every day,” said Hamilton, with some
embarrassment.

“This can easily be managed,” said Madame Rosenberg. “Neither Mr. Smith
nor Captain Black ever asked for wax candles; but I suppose you have
been brought up expensively. Now, don’t you think spermaceti candles
would do just as well for a young man of your age—such candles as you
may have seen in my silver candlesticks for company? Of course, I only
mention this on your account.”

“You are very kind. I shall be quite satisfied with spermaceti—but I
have still something to request.”

“I can save you the trouble,” said Madame Rosenberg, interrupting him.
“You are not satisfied with your dinner, and wish to go to a _table
d’hôte_.”

“By no means!” cried Hamilton, eagerly. “There you wrong me. I do not in
the least care what I eat.”

“But, indeed,” said Madame Rosenberg, “I don’t think it would be a bad
plan were you to do so, after all, for you see the girls must learn to
cook, and things will be spoiled sometimes. It is quite enough to have
Rosenberg discontented, without——”

“Oh, I promise never to be discontented,” said Hamilton, laughing
good-humouredly. “You have no idea how indifferent I am on this
subject.”

“I must say, Crescenz seems to have great taste for cookery,” observed
Madame Rosenberg, complaisantly; “very great taste indeed; but I rather
expect to find that Hildegarde has no talent that way. I suspect we
shall often have burned cakes and spoiled pudding when her turn comes.
But you were going to say something else, I believe.”

“I was going to say, that I have been looking at horses this morning
which I feel greatly disposed to purchase, if I were sure of finding a
stable near this, and a respectable groom.”

“Why, how lucky!” cried Madame Rosenberg. “There is now actually a
stable to let in this house; the new first floors don’t keep horses, so
you can have it all to yourself; and old Hans asked me only yesterday if
I could not recommend his son to some one who wanted a groom or
coachman! I will go down with you at once, and look at the stable, and
you can speak to old Hans about his son.”

The arrangements were soon completed, and as they ascended the stairs
together, they met two very well-dressed women, who bowed civilly, but
distantly to Madame Rosenberg. When they had passed, she observed to
Hamilton—

“The new lodgers for the first floor; they come on the 29th of this
month, and have been looking at their apartments, which are being
papered and painted. On the second floor we shall find our landlord, who
has the warehouse below stairs, as he has six or eight children, and
they make a tremendous noise; I am better pleased to live above than
below them, though it is not so noble.”

After dinner, Hamilton, finding himself alone with Crescenz in the
drawing-room, insisted on her giving him a lesson in German waltzing;
she had just completed her instructions, and they were whirling around
the room for the first time when the door was opened, and Hildegarde,
having looked in, closed it again without speaking.

“There, now!” cried Crescenz, walking with a look of great vexation
towards the open window; “was there ever anything so provoking! and
after our explanation last night, too, but she really requires too
much!”

“What does she require?” asked Hamilton, taking possession of the other
half of the window, and leaning on one of the cushions, which, as usual
in Germany, were conveniently placed for the elbows of those who
habitually gazed into the street. “What does she require?”

“That I should never, for one moment, forget that I have promised to
marry Major Stultz. I know quite well that she disapproves of my having
danced with you.”

“And if you were to go to a ball now, would you not be at liberty to
dance with whomsoever you pleased?”

“Oh, of course.”

“Then, why not with me?”

“Oh, because—because—she knows that—I—that you—”

“In fact,” said Hamilton, “you have told her of my inexcusable conduct
the day we were on the alp.”

“No,” replied Crescenz, blushing deeply, “I have only told her that you
cannot marry without your father’s consent—that the younger sons of
English people cannot marry—just what you told me yourself.”

“The recollection of that day will cause me regret as long as I live,”
said Hamilton, blushing in his turn; “thoughtless words on such a
subject are quite unpardonable. I hope you have forgotten all I said!”

“I cannot forget,” said Crescenz, looking intently into the street to
hide her emotion—“I cannot forget—it was the first time I had ever heard
anything of that kind, and was so exactly what I had imagined in every
respect.”

Hamilton bit his lip, and replied gravely: “It was the novelty alone
which gave importance to my words; I am convinced, had you considered
for a moment, you would have laughed at me as I deserved. Major Stultz
must often have said——”

“Major Stultz,” said Crescenz, contemptuously, “never speaks of anything
but how comfortably we shall live together, and what we shall have for
dinner, and how many servants we shall be able to keep, and all those
sorts of things, which make it impossible to forget one year of his age,
or one bit of his ugliness.”

“He is a very good-natured man,” said Hamilton, “and Zedwitz told me,
has been a very distinguished officer.”

“You are just beginning to talk like Hildegarde,” cried Crescenz,
impatiently, “and from you, who are the cause of my unhappiness, I will
not bear it.”

“The cause of your unhappiness!” repeated Hamilton, slowly; “if I really
could believe that possible, nothing would induce me to remain an hour
longer in this house.”

“Oh, no,” cried Crescenz, hastily, “no! I did not mean what I said. Oh,
no! you must have seen that I am not unhappy! I—I—am very happy,” and
she burst into tears as she spoke.

“Well, this is a punishment for thoughtlessness!”—exclaimed Hamilton,
starting from his place at the window, and striding up and down the
room. “Surely, surely, such vague expressions as mine were did not
deserve such a serious construction!”

“Vague expressions,” repeated Crescenz, looking up through her
tears—“serious construction? Did you not mean what you said?”

“By heaven! I don’t know what I said, or what I meant,” cried Hamilton,
vehemently.

Crescenz’s sobs became frightfully audible.

“Crescenz—forgive me,” he said hastily; “once more I ask your pardon,
and entreat of you to forget my folly. Let this subject never again be
mentioned, if you would not make me hate myself.”

“But,” sobbed Crescenz, “but tell me, at least, that you were not, as
Hildegarde said, making a fool of me. Tell me, oh, tell me, that you
love me, and I am satisfied.”

“You—you do not know what you are saying,” cried Hamilton, involuntarily
smiling at her extreme simplicity. “You are asking me to repeat a
transgression which I most heartily repent. Situated as you are, such a
confession on my part, now deliberately made, would be little less
than—a crime.”

“You mean because I am betrothed!”

He was spared an answer by Hildegarde’s entrance with a small tray and
coffee-cups. It was in vain that Crescenz turned to the window to
conceal her tears; Hildegarde saw them, and, turning angrily to
Hamilton, exclaimed:

“This is most unjustifiable conduct—dishonourable——”

“Oh, stop! Hildegarde!” cried Crescenz, beseechingly: “Pray stop! You
are, as usual, doing him injustice, and misunderstanding him
altogether.”

“Do not attempt a justification,” cried Hamilton, impatiently; “she will
not believe you. And,” he added in a whisper, “in fact, I do not deserve
it.”

Walburg interrupted them by half opening the door, and informing them
mysteriously, that an officer was without who had asked for Mr.
Hamilton.

“Show him into my sitting-room, and say I shall be with him in a
moment.”

“My visit is only partly intended for you, Hamilton,” said Zedwitz,
entering the room. “I wish also to pay my respects to Madame Rosenberg.”

He had scarcely time to glance towards Hildegarde before she left the
room, followed by her sister.

“The young ladies are not particularly civil to you,” observed Hamilton,
seating himself on the sofa.

“Why, you did not expect them to remain here with us, did you?”

“To be sure I did.”

“I did not, but I expect them to return with their mother.”

Crescenz did. Hildegarde did not. And in consequence Zedwitz’s visit to
Madame Rosenberg was very short, and he soon adjourned to Hamilton’s
room.

“Why, what’s this?” cried Madame Rosenberg, peeping into the coffee-pot.
“I do declare, Mr. Hamilton has forgotten to drink his coffee!”

“Let me take it to him,” said Crescenz, advancing towards the table.

“You will do no such thing,” said her step-mother, waving her hastily
back. “No such thing—and I think—that is, the Major—but it is not
necessary to explain. Call Hildegarde.”

Hildegarde came and was desired to carry the tray to Hamilton’s room.

“May I not send Walburg?”

“You may not, because I have sent her on an errand, and the coffee is
too cold to be kept waiting until her return, now that the fire is out
in the kitchen.”

“But—but——” hesitated Hildegarde, “Mr. Hamilton is not alone.”

“Count Zedwitz is in his room, but he won’t bite you, so go at once, and
don’t be disobliging.”

Half an hour afterwards Hamilton was in the corridor, looking for his
cane, which the children had mislaid. He turned into the nursery, and
while rummaging there, Madame Rosenberg joined him, and hoped he had not
found his coffee too cold.

“Coffee! no—yes! When, where did I drink it?”

“In your own room,” replied Madame Rosenberg, laughing. “Your memory
must be very short; I sent it to you by Hildegarde, about half an hour
ago.”

He looked inquiringly towards Hildegarde. She raised her eyes slowly
from her work, and looking at him steadily and gravely, said in French:

“I threw it out of the window rather than take it to you.”

“Next time I advise you to drink it,” said Hamilton, laughing, as he
left the room with Zedwitz. While descending the stairs, he observed:

“Well, that is the oddest girl I ever met—perfectly original. You have
no idea how she amuses and interests me.”

“I can easily imagine it,” said Zedwitz, dryly.

“But you can _not_ imagine how intensely she hates me.”

“That was what you desired, if I remember rightly; and for your sake I
hope you continue as indifferent as formerly.”

“Not exactly; I believe I rather feel inclined to like her unpolished
sincerity and straightforward vehemence; she really would be charming
sometimes, if she were a little less quarrelsome.”

“I never found her quarrelsome,” said Zedwitz.

“Of course not, when you were enacting the part of adorer. That makes
all the difference in the world! But what are you looking at?” asked
Hamilton, seeing his companion stop short at the street-door. “I see
nothing but a couple of officers lounging about the windows of that
brazier’s shop opposite, which cannot contain anything particularly
interesting, I should think.”

“Did you think they were admiring the coffee-pots and candlesticks?”
asked Zedwitz. “That’s only a feint—I saw them looking up at the
Rosenberg windows. It is a regular _window parade_, and they have been
here nearly an hour; for I saw them in the street, as I entered the
house. Let us cross over and see whether it be intended for Hildegarde,
or Crescenz.”

They crossed the street, looked up, and saw Madame Berger sitting at the
window, teaching Crescenz the promised pretty and strong purse-stitch.
Although the latter appeared extremely intent on her work, she was
evidently aware of what was passing in the street, for, as Zedwitz and
Hamilton saluted, she bowed and blushed deeply.

“_She_, at least, has not yet learned to play unconscious,” observed
Zedwitz, laughing; “Madame Berger can give her some instruction.”

“Do you know Madame Berger?” asked Hamilton.

“Of course; her husband is our physician. She is very pretty, and the
greatest coquette in Christendom. I say, Raimund, what are you admiring
in that shop?” said Zedwitz, stopping suddenly opposite the brazier’s
and addressing one of the officers.

“The kitchen utensils, Max! I shall soon be obliged to purchase such
things, and they have a kind of mysterious interest for me now.”

“You don’t mean to say that you are going to keep house—going to be
married?”

“My father says so, which is much more to the purpose,” replied Raimund.

“And who is the happy woman destined to make you a respectable member of
society?”

“They tell me she lives in that house,” replied Raimund, pointing to the
one they had just left.

“The third story?” asked Zedwitz, quickly.

“No, Max, for a _wife_ I do not look so high,” replied the other,
ironically.

“And when may I offer my congratulations?”

“Not just now, if you please, for, as I have never yet spoken to the
lady, something might occur to prevent the thing; but I have very nearly
made up my mind.”

Zedwitz laughed and walked on with Hamilton. “I hope he has told the
truth,” he said, musingly; “I hope he has told the truth, for I should
be very sorry if he made his way into the Rosenberg family. He is very
clever, but a great reprobate; has already seduced two girls of
respectable connections, and is not ashamed to boast of his success.”

“Were there no fathers, no brothers, no cousins, to compel him to make
reparation?” asked Hamilton.

“As it happened, there were none,” replied Zedwitz; “but even if there
had been, he has not the caution-money, and could not marry. If he were
serious just now, I suppose his father has discovered some rich _partie_
for him, and that he will succeed, I do not for a moment doubt. He
pretends to have a regular system of seduction, which consists in
several gradations of improper books—it is disgusting to hear him
descant on the subject.”

“But he will carefully avoid anything of that kind with his future
wife?” said Hamilton.

“I was not thinking of his wife, for I do not know her; I fear for the
Rosenbergs—Hildegarde would be sure to attract him.”

“He would, however, have no chance of success in that quarter, I am
sure,” said Hamilton.

“It is hard to say; her nature is passionate, and I should be sorry to
see her an object of attention to such a man. The fact is, I find it
impossible to forget her, and as long as I know her to be free, I cannot
cease to indulge hopes that she may eventually be mine. What I most
apprehend is a sudden and violent passion on her part for some person as
yet, perhaps, unknown; for I believe her capable of loving desperately.”

“And you very naturally wish to be the object of this desperate love?
But how are you to obtain your father’s consent to your union?”

“Of that I have no hope whatever; but as I am an only son, I have every
chance of pardon were I once married. My mother’s opposition is much
less violent, but quite as determined as my father’s, and the
astonishment of both was indescribable when I confessed that I had been
refused without explanation or chance of recall. All my hopes are now
centred in my sister, who is a dear, good little soul, and has promised
to assist me when she can. By-the-by, she made a remark which may,
perhaps, interest you.” Zedwitz stopped and looked very hard at
Hamilton.

“Pray let me hear it.”

“She said she was sure I should not have spoken in vain had not
Hildegarde loved another——”

“Well, that was your own modest idea, was it not?” said Hamilton,
interrupting him.

“Yes; but it was not my idea that _you_ were the object of her
preference.”

Hamilton laughed.

“Perhaps you are already aware of it?” asked Zedwitz, growing very red.

“No, indeed,” replied Hamilton, trying to look serious, “I am only
amused at your sister’s strong imagination; were she, however, to see us
together, and hear us speak, she would soon think differently.”

“You forget that my sister was at Seon, and had opportunities of making
observations.”

“But she is not aware how desperately we quarrel; she does not know——”

“I have told her all that, and she insists that Hildegarde likes you
without being herself conscious of it.”

“But I assure you she has told me more than once that she hates me.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Zedwitz, dryly, and immediately after he
changed the subject.

This conversation, notwithstanding the little impression it had
apparently made on Hamilton, took complete possession of his thoughts,
as he walked home late in the evening. However incredulous he might at
first have felt, the idea was too flattering to his vanity to be lightly
abandoned; and no sooner had he admitted the possibility, than it became
probability: nay, almost certainty. It is extraordinary what a
revolution these reflections made in his feelings. Hildegarde was so
remarkably handsome that he had been compelled to admire her person; her
odd decided manners had always amused him; but now that he imagined
himself so much the object of her preference as to cause her to refuse
the addresses of Zedwitz, his admiration began to verge towards love;
and the manners which had before caused him amusement became the subject
of deep interest, as affording a key to the mind which, with secret
satisfaction, he felt he had always considered of no common stamp.
Pleased with himself, and unconsciously prepared to be more than pleased
with the subject of his thoughts, he bounded up stairs, rang the bell,
and was admitted by Hildegarde herself.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, with some embarrassment, “I wish to speak to
you alone for a few minutes, if you are at leisure.”

“I am quite at leisure,” replied Hamilton, following her towards the
drawing-room. She walked directly to the window, and desired him so
haughtily to “shut the door,” that he felt half inclined to be angry.
After waiting some time in vain expectation that she would begin the
conversation, he observed, with some pique at her apparent
imperturbability—

“To what extraordinary event, or to what singular good fortune, am I
indebted for this interview, mademoiselle?”

No sooner had he spoken than he perceived that her composure had been
forced, that she was in fact struggling with contending emotions, and
quite unable to utter a word. After some delay, she at last began in a
constrained voice—

“Believe me, Mr. Hamilton, that nothing but my affection for my sister
could have induced me to trespass on your time, or,” she added more
naturally, “subject myself to your sneers.”

Hamilton remained silent, and she again commenced with evident effort.
“You are aware that my sister’s feelings towards you are more favourable
than——”

“Than yours?” he asked, interrupting her.

“I have not requested this interview to speak of my own feelings,” she
answered, sternly and turning pale. “I wish to point out to you how
ungenerous, how cruel your conduct has been to my gentle, confiding
sister. You know the influence you have acquired over her—you are aware
that she is on the eve of marriage with another, and that other person
she has yet to learn to love; instead of pointing out to her any
estimable qualities he may possess in order to reconcile her to her
fate, you turn him on all occasions into ridicule, and—and—not content
with changing her indifference for her future husband into positive
dislike, you take every opportunity of paying her attentions, which,
knowing the state of her feelings towards you, is a refinement of
cruelty that you must acknowledge to be unpardonable.”

“You speak like a book, mademoiselle! Your affection for your sister
makes you absolutely eloquent! but would it not have been better had
_you_ consented to marry Major Stultz, and so saved your gentle,
confiding sister from this unwished-for connection? You would, no doubt,
easily have learned to love him and esteem any amiable qualities he may
possess!” He spoke calmly and ironically; but the idea of the beautiful
creature before him, as the wife of Major Stultz, inflicted a pang of
jealousy which sufficiently punished him for his impertinence.
Hildegarde was perfectly unconscious of the feelings of her tormentor;
he had intended to have irritated her, for her self-possession wounded
his vanity, while her too evident dislike cut him to the quick. He
failed, however, for the first time, and most completely; either her
affection for her sister, or the consciousness of right, prevented her
from exhibiting even impatience when she again spoke.

“You seem to have forgotten that Major Stultz’s proposal to me was made
after a two-days’ acquaintance. I refused him because I did not like
him, and I knew it could give no pain to a man whose mere object was to
have a wife to manage his household concerns. It never occurred to me
that he would turn, half an hour afterward, to my sister, and that my
vehemence would only serve to make him more cautious, and her fate more
certain. You know he applied to my step-mother, and wrote to my father.
The answer was a letter, full of reproaches to me, and of entreaties and
commendations to Crescenz, which, to her yielding nature, were
irresistible; and I do believe, if given time, and were you not here,
she might be reconciled to her lot. However little Major Stultz may have
cared for Crescenz at first, it is impossible for him to remain long
indifferent to so much goodness. I think he already begins to be
sincerely attached to her; in time, gratitude and habit will enable her
to return his affection, and they may, eventually, be very happy. At all
events, my sister’s fate is now irrevocable.”

She paused for a moment, and then added: “Oh, Mr. Hamilton, be generous!
Spare her! Leave Munich—or, at least, leave our house——”

“You require a great and most unnecessary sacrifice on my part,
mademoiselle. Suppose I were able to convince you that my absence is
unnecessary?”

“You cannot do so,” replied Hildegarde, with a slightly impatient
gesture.

“I have listened to you with patience and expect in my turn to be
heard,” said Hamilton, handing her a chair, which, however, she
indignantly refused.

“Your sister has most probably told you——” he began.

“My sister has told me nothing,” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him
angrily, “excepting that you said you could not marry, or even think of
marriage! The conversation which preceded such a declaration I can
imagine!”

“Indeed! It seems you have had experience in these matters.”

Hildegarde bit her lip and tapped with her foot on the floor, while
Hamilton smiled provokingly, and watched her varying colour.

“Ungenerous, unfeeling Englishman!” she cried at length; “I—I see you
are trying to put me into a passion—but I am not angry, not in the
least, I assure you,” she said, seating herself on the chair he had
before placed for her. “You said,” she added in a constrained voice,
“you said you were able to convince me——”

“_You_ have convinced me that you are a consummate actress!” cried
Hamilton, contemptuously.

“I am no actress!” she exclaimed, starting from her chair with such
violence that it fell to the ground with a loud crash. “I am no actress!
For Crescenz’s sake, I have endeavoured to be calm, in the hope of
making some impression on you, but you are even more thoroughly selfish
than I imagined. This is the last time I shall ever speak to you!”

“Don’t make rash vows,” said Hamilton, coolly. “I dare say you will
often speak to me in time—perhaps condescend to like me!”

“Never! I do not think there exists a more unamiable being in the world
than you are! I now see you are determined not to leave our house, and
only wonder I could have been such a fool as to expect you to act
honourably.”

Hamilton turned to the window to hide his rising colour.

“You are vindictive, too,” she continued, “cruelly vindictive. It is
because you dislike me; it is in order to make me unhappy that you
trifle with my sister’s feelings. You do not, you cannot love her. She
is not at all a person likely to interest a man such as you are!”

“When did you discover that?” asked Hamilton, turning suddenly round.

“No matter,” she replied, moving towards the door, somewhat surprised at
the effect her words had produced on him. “No matter; I now see that
these conferences and quarrels are worse than useless, and——”

“I agree with you,” said Hamilton, quickly, “and am most willing to sign
a treaty of peace, on reasonable terms. Suppose I promise never by word
or deed to disparage Major Stultz in future, and totally to abstain from
all further attentions to you sister?”

“That—is—better—than—nothing,” said Hildegarde, slowly, “and as I am
acting for the benefit of another, I ought not to refuse a compromise.
If you promise,” she added, hesitatingly, “I—I think I may trust you.”

“And are you satisfied without my leaving the house?”

“I suppose I must be,” she replied, stooping to raise the chair she had
thrown down; Hamilton moved it from her, and leaning on the back of it,
asked if he might not now hope, in case he conscientiously performed his
promises, that she would in future be at least commonly civil to him.

“You have advised me to make no rash vows,” said Hildegarde. “The wisest
thing we could both do would be never to look at or speak to each other
again.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Hamilton, gravely, “but such wisdom is too
great for me——”

She left the room while he was speaking, without even looking at him.

“Zedwitz and his sister were totally mistaken,” thought Hamilton, “but I
am determined, since they have put it into my head, to make her like
me!”


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XIII.

                                A TRUCE.


“DOES Mr. Rosenberg never spend his evenings at home?” asked Hamilton,
after having waited three weeks in expectation of becoming better
acquainted with him.

“Oh, no; what could he do at home?” asked his wife, seemingly surprised
at the question.

Hamilton was silent; he remembered that he had never seen Mr. Rosenberg
converse with his wife.

“He never drinks his beer or reads the papers at home,” she continued;
“but you can go out with him whenever you like—I wonder you do not, for
it is very natural that you should find it dull here when you cannot go
to the theatre.”

“I do not find it dull,” said Hamilton; “and I should not go so often to
the theatre if I had not heard that it was the best means to perfect
one’s self in a foreign language. By-the-by, I received a letter from my
father this morning, and he desires me forthwith to engage a German
master; he expects me to write German as well as English when I return
home, and says I should study German literature. I wished to have asked
Mr. Rosenberg to recommend me to someone, for as I am not quite a
beginner, I should like to have a person really capable of directing my
studies during the winter. One can read a good deal in six months when
the dictionary is no longer in requisition.”

“If you wish to study French, Hildegarde could give you instructions,
for she understands it thoroughly; but German has been rather neglected
in her education. I really think I must let her take lessons at the same
time with you.”

“I shall be very much obliged to you,” said Hildegarde, bestowing, for
the first time, a look of regard on her step-mother; “very much obliged
indeed.”

“That will be delightful,” said Hamilton, eagerly. “I have always
received my German lessons with my sister, and am particularly fond of
learning in company.”

“May I not learn too, mamma?” asked Crescenz, timidly.

“What for?” asked her mother, with a laugh. “Have you not already
secured a good husband, who is satisfied with you as you are? It would
be time and money thrown away, and you have enough to do preparing your
_trousseau_ at present. The workwoman comes to-morrow, and we must then
begin in earnest. As to Hildegarde, she has thrown away an opportunity
which I hope she may not hereafter regret. Husbands will not fall down
from heaven to be picked up just when she is in the humour to marry; she
must try in every way to improve herself now, as a time may come when
she may be obliged to give instruction. Life is precarious; if anything
should happen to your father——”

“My father!” exclaimed Hildegarde, anxiously. “Has he been complaining
lately? Do you fear a return of——”

“Your anxiety is unnecessary; he is at present perfectly well,” answered
her mother dryly. “I wish, when I am really suffering, you would
sometimes show a little of the attention and anxiety which you bestow at
times so unnecessarily on him; it would become you better, Hildegarde,
than the cold heartlessness which you evince for everything that
concerns me. Crescenz is quite different, and therefore I feel for her
as if she were my own child.”

“But, mamma,” said Crescenz, in a very low voice, “you are always kind
to me!”

“Am I not kind to Hildegarde?”

Crescenz blushed, stammered, and looked anxiously towards her sister.

“No,” said Hildegarde, courageously, “you are not kind to me; perhaps I
do not deserve it. I have no right to expect you to love me, but I have
a right to expect you to be just.”

“I was disposed to be more than just to you at first, Hildegarde, if you
allowed me. Mr. Hamilton shall be judge between us.”

“Excuse me,” said Hamilton, “I do not feel competent to give an opinion
on such a subject.”

“Chance has, however, placed you exactly in a position to act as umpire;
we must be satisfied with your decision, because we know you to be an
unbiassed looker-on. My step-daughters were with me but a few weeks
before I met you at Seon; since that time you have been constantly with
us. Hildegarde, shall I go on?”

Hildegarde murmured something about “strangers” and “family
dissensions.”

“Mr. Hamilton is no longer a stranger; and as to the dissensions, such
as they are, he has been a witness to them. For my part, I should like
to explain, but if you acknowledge that you have been unjustly and
unnecessarily prejudiced against me, I shall be silent.”

“Mr. Hamilton is not so unbiassed an arbitrator as you suppose,”
observed Hildegarde, looking up steadily while she leaned on the table.

Madame Rosenberg looked from one to the other with a puzzled air, until
Hildegarde added: “He will find it difficult not to lean to your side,
and take your part, even if he wished to be just, because he dislikes me
personally.”

“Another argument against you, Hildegarde!” cried Madame Rosenberg,
triumphantly. “Why should he dislike you more than another, if you were
not less amiable? Your own words condemn you!”

“Be it so,” said Hildegarde, with some emotion. “No one loves me
but—but—my father.”

“_I_ love you, Hildegarde,” whispered Crescenz, gently taking her
sister’s hand, and, at the same time, looking timidly towards her
step-mother, “I love you too.”

“I shall soon see _your_ affection decline; it cannot be otherwise,”
said Hildegarde, bending over her work to conceal the large tears which
stood in her eyes, ready to fall when she could permit them to do so
unperceived.

Madame Rosenberg was not a person of much observation, although
possessed of a good deal of common sense. She heard the words, and
answered to them. “Of course, when Crescenz marries, you cannot expect
any longer to be her first object; Major Stultz will, and ought to take
your place in her affections—it is the way of the world—the law of
nature!”

Hildegarde’s work dropped from her hands. Hamilton, who was sitting
beside her, picked it up; and as she stooped to take it from him, the
tears which he had been watching in stolen glances, now, to his infinite
dismay, fell slowly on his hand. He started, as if they had hurt him;
and then, under pretence of seeking a book, left the room, hoping to
find the discussion at an end on his return. He was mistaken; on again
opening the door, Madame Rosenberg was speaking with even more than
usual volubility. “The fact is, Hildegarde, you cannot pardon my being a
smith’s daughter; although I was a much better match for your father
than his first wife, with all her fine relations! What’s the use of
being a countess when one is penniless? Your mother had not even a
respectable _trousseau_—there is scarcely anything remaining to be given
to Crescenz; and you know yourself, your relations have been so unkind
that your father never intends to allow you to visit them; and I am
quite sure were you to meet them in the street they would look away to
avoid bowing to you. Take my advice, Hildegarde, forget that your mother
was a Countess Raimund, remember that your father is plain Franz
Rosenberg; and though your mother is a smith’s daughter, you ought not
to forget that many of the comforts of your home come from her, and the
produce of the much despised iron works. Cease to fancy yourself a
martyr to a cruel step mother; I might be a great deal worse than I am;
if you find me sometimes a little strict, it is only for your good, and
necessary, too, at your age! As to your refusal of the Major, I shall
never mention it again—he has not gone out of the family, you know; if
he had not proposed to Crescenz, I could not have got over the loss or
forgiven you so easily. You must endeavour to correct your irritability
of temper, and I am sure in time everyone will like you; even Mr.
Hamilton will overcome his dislike to you.”

Hildegarde’s varying colour showed how much she suffered during this
speech; and Hamilton was again on the point of leaving the room, when
Madame Rosenberg called out: “You need not run away again, we have
talked the matter out, and intend to be good friends in future, eh,
Hildegarde? Come here and give me a kiss to prove that you bear no
malice.”

Hildegarde put aside her work, approached her step-mother, and received
her hearty kiss with an evident effort at cordiality.

“May I hope to be included in this reconciliation?” asked Hamilton,
holding out his hand, with a smile.

Hildegarde pretended not to understand him; and again took her place at
the table.

“Hildegarde,” said her step-mother, “you may give your hand to Mr.
Hamilton—he is an Englishman, and will put no wrong construction on the
action. Captain Smith told me that shaking hands is a common English
custom, and means nothing more than kissing a lady’s hand here.”

“I should think it must mean a great deal less,” said Hamilton,
laughing, while Hildegarde, after a moment’s consideration, placed her
hand in his, and unreservedly returned his firm pressure.

“Ah! here comes the Major,” cried Madame Rosenberg, as a slight knock
was heard at the drawing-room door. “Come in, Major, and tell us what
you have been doing with yourself the whole afternoon; we expected you
to supper, and I should not be surprised if Crescenz were to scold you a
little for your unusual absence.”

“I cannot imagine Crescenz scolding me, even if I deserved it, which,
however, in this instance, is not the case,” said Major Stultz. “I have
spent the whole day in lodging-hunting. The sooner I am established the
better, as Crescenz must assist me to choose our furniture.”

“Why, what a hurry you are in,” said Madame Rosenberg, with evident
satisfaction. “Quite an ardent lover, I declare. However, I shall not be
behindhand in performing my part. The workwoman comes to-morrow, and
then we shall work our fingers to the bone, eh, Crescenz?”

Crescenz blushed, and smiled faintly.

“I should like very much to talk over the different lodgings with you,
Crescenz,” said Major Stultz, growing very red. “I have noted them for
that purpose in my pocket-book. That is,” he added, in a whisper, “if we
can go to another table.”

Madame Rosenberg heard the whisper, pushed a candle towards him, and
pointed to a card-table at the other end of the room. No sooner were
they established at it than she jingled her keys once or twice, as a
sort of tacit excuse, and then left the room.

Hamilton, who was, as usual, sitting near the stove, pretended to be
wholly occupied with a book; his eyes, nevertheless, wandered
perpetually over it, towards Hildegarde, who now began strangely to
interest him. As the door closed on her mother, her hands fell
listlessly on her lap, and by degrees became clasped round her knee,
while she gazed steadfastly on the floor for several minutes. She then
raised her head, and having looked at her sister for some time, turned
towards Hamilton, but so slowly that he was able to fix his eyes on his
book, although he coloured violently in doing so; he thought she must
perceive his confusion, and continued pertinaciously to read the words,
although they conveyed no idea whatever to his mind. When he had reached
the end of the page, he became curious to know whether or not she was
still looking at him, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he half turned
over the leaf, and at the same time raised his eyes without moving his
head; he had given himself unnecessary trouble to catch her glance—her
eyes met his with the most unconcerned expression possible, and though
he felt that he continued to blush, she either did not observe it, or
attributed it to the heat of the room.

“I wonder that you can sit so near the stove, and that you can read at
such a distance from the candle,” she observed, quietly.

“I am rather surprised at it myself,” answered Hamilton, pushing his
chair close to hers, so as to form a _tête-à-tête_.

“Perhaps if I snuff the candle you will be better able to read.” She
snuffed the candle out.

“Thank you,” said Hamilton, vainly attempting to repress a laugh; “I
have no doubt I shall be better able to read now. Perhaps you have done
this on purpose to make me feel that I ought to have snuffed the candle
myself.”

“Oh, no, indeed,” said Hildegarde, joining half unwillingly in the
laughter, “I happened to overhear something which Crescenz said, and
then I looked up and——”

Crescenz rose from her chair, looked at them for a moment, and then, in
a voice of ill-suppressed emotion, stammered out: “They—they—are
laughing at me—at us!”

“No, oh no!” cried Hildegarde, eagerly, taking up the extinguished
candle to light it. “No, indeed, Mr. Hamilton is laughing because I have
snuffed out the candle, and I am laughing I don’t know what for,” she
added with a sigh. “I am sure I never felt less inclined to be merry in
my life.”

Crescenz sat down again, but followed her sister with her eyes as she
turned to her place. Major Stultz in vain talked of his yellow sofa and
six chairs, and asked her whether he should buy a long or a round table
for her drawing-room; or proposed purchasing both, if she wished it. She
heard him not, for Hildegarde was again beside Hamilton, and he was
leaning on the arm of his chair, and looking at her as Crescenz had
never seen him look at anyone before.

“Crescenz! you do not hear a word I am saying,” exclaimed Major Stultz
at length. “Not one word! If you wish it, we can return to the other
table, and then you can watch your sister playing with the snuffers and
the wick of the candle at your leisure.”

Crescenz did not answer.

“Perhaps,” he continued, yielding to an unconquerable feeling of
jealousy, “perhaps I have mistaken the object of your attention—I do
believe you are admiring the bold black eyes of that long-legged English
boy!”

Crescenz blushed deeply and turned away.

This was stronger confirmation than he had expected, and he now
continued, in the low voice of suppressed anger: “I have long suspected
something of this kind, Crescenz—your mother desired me to say nothing
to you about it, as she imagined you too innocent to be capable of such
perfidy—I cannot, at my age, expect you to love me as I do you—but I did
imagine that in time I should gain your affection—if this be not
possible, tell me so at once, for I will not be made a fool of by you or
any one else!”

“I don’t understand you!” cried Crescenz, terrified at his constrained
manner and flushed face, “I don’t in the least understand you!”

“Then I will speak to your mother,” he cried, rising hastily, and
pushing back his chair with great violence. “She will understand me
quickly enough.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t complain of me!” cried Crescenz
beseechingly, while the tears started to her eyes. “I will do anything
you please, and pay the greatest attention, if you will only promise not
to tell mamma.”

“Then you did understand me, and know what I was about to say to her?”
he asked, frowning.

“Oh, yes—you were going to tell her that I would not talk about the
furniture, and that I looked at Hildegarde playing with the
snuffers—and—Mr. Hamilton with his foot on the stove, instead of
listening to you!”

This speech was made with consummate cunning—a more common ingredient in
the composition of weak characters than is generally supposed. Major
Stultz’s manner had frightened Crescenz—she feared the anger of her
step-mother and the reproaches of her father, for she was essentially
timid, and the want of moral courage made her affect a simplicity which,
although in perfect keeping with her real character, was on the present
occasion mere acting, as she had perfectly understood Major Stultz’s
meaning. She could not have answered better; he was deceived, and while
wiping the perspiration from his crimson face, he begged her to forgive
his impatience, said that he had been guilty of entertaining odious
suspicions, and though Crescenz continued to blush while he spoke, and
would not raise her eyes from the table, he was too generous to distrust
her again, and attributed her subsequent embarrassment altogether to
timidity. Partly from a jealous recollection of the expression of
Hamilton’s eyes, partly from shame at her own duplicity and annoyance at
the unmerited praises now lavished on her by her lover, Crescenz began
to weep bitterly, and poor Major Stultz was obliged to talk a deal of
youthful nonsense in order to restore her equanimity, and induce her to
continue the interrupted conversation.

In the meantime, the unconscious cause of all the disturbance had
indulged in a long scrutiny of Hildegarde’s beautiful profile. She put
an end to it by turning to him, and saying with a glance at his book:
“You must have been reading French or English—our German letters at such
a distance from the light would have been illegible.”

“I have been reading Bulwer’s last novel. It is extremely interesting.”

“Indeed! I wish you would lend it to me before you send it back to the
library.”

“Is it possible you understand English, and have never spoken one word
to me!” exclaimed Hamilton.

“I do not see anything extraordinary in that,” replied Hildegarde,
smiling.

“You speak French so remarkably well, that I know you have a talent for
languages. I dare say you speak English perfectly!”

“I cannot speak a word.”

“You have not had enough practice, perhaps, but you understand it when
it is spoken.”

“Not a syllable.”

“Then may I ask you what you intend to do with this novel when I lend it
to you?”

“Read it from daybreak until seven o’clock, and at night as long as my
candle lasts,” replied Hildegarde, taking the book from him and looking
at the title page.

“If you can read that book, and understand it, you must be able to speak
a little,” observed Hamilton.

“I tell you I can neither speak nor understand English when it is
spoken, and yet I can read this novel, if you will lend it to me, quite
as well as if it were French or German.”

“You have had an odd kind of master!”

“I have had no master at all—mamma thought English an unnecessary study,
though I should have greatly preferred it to music. The master too was
expensive, so I was obliged to give up all hope of instruction; but I
had heard of some person who had learned to read and understand a
language perfectly without being able to pronounce a word, and who found
it very easy, when chance gave him an opportunity to learn the
pronunciation afterwards. I begged papa to buy me a grammar and
dictionary, borrowed all the English books I could get from my
school-fellows, learned them almost by heart from having read them so
often; and when the Baroness Z— lent me some English novels at Seon, I
scarcely missed my dictionary, which I had left in Munich.”

“What extraordinary perseverance!” exclaimed Hamilton, with undisguised
admiration.

“Mamma would call it obstinacy,” said Hildegarde quickly. “Nothing would
induce me to tell her that I had dared to learn English, after she had
refused to let me take lessons.”

“There is a great difference between obstinacy and perseverance,” said
Hamilton.

“The difference is sometimes difficult to define—my step-mother says I
am obstinate!”

“I really do think your organ of firmness must be tolerably well
developed,” said Hamilton, laughingly placing his hand on the top of her
head.

Hildegarde coloured, and hastily pushed back her chair—he saw she did
not understand him, but he was too lazy to explain. The thought passed
quickly through his mind, that it was odd his not as yet having met a
single person who understood or was interested about phrenology in
Germany—the country of Gall and Spurzheim!—while in England most people
had read Combe’s works, attended lectures on, or had at least heard
phrenology spoken of sufficiently to understand what he had just said.
“You can keep the book if you wish it,” he observed, in order to renew
the conversation.

“But you have not quite read it,” said Hildegarde, “and I can imagine
nothing more disagreeable than resigning a novel before one knows how it
ends. Perhaps other people do not feel the same degree of interest that
I do, but——”

“I have often sat up until four o’clock in the morning to read an
interesting novel,” said Hamilton.

“It must be very pleasant to have a light as long as one pleases at
night! Mamma is quite surprised when I ask for a candle oftener than
every three days, and then she always observes that sitting up at night
is very injurious to the health and eyes, and I get nothing but little
ends of candle for a fortnight afterwards.”

“I will give you as many candles as you can burn,” said Hamilton,
laughing.

“That was not what I meant,” said Hildegarde in great confusion. “I dare
say mamma is right. For in summer, though I only read in bed from
daylight until six o’clock, I have often felt terribly fatigued during
the day afterwards—I heard mamma tell papa, that if you were _her_ son,
she would go into your room every night at ten o’clock, and put out your
candles.”

“I do not exactly wish her to be my mother, for the sake of having a
living extinguisher, which I should consider rather a bore than
otherwise,” said Hamilton, “but if she were my mother, you would of
course be my sister, and I should have no objection to that
relationship.”

“Have you a sister?” asked Hildegarde, abruptly.

“Yes, an only sister, and I like her better than all my brothers put
together.”

“And do you not quarrel with her?”

“Never. She is my most intimate friend when I am at home, my principal
correspondent when I am abroad. She is the most amiable, the most
excellent of human beings!”

“Older? much older than you?” asked Hildegarde, with some appearance of
interest.

“Only a year or two,” replied Hamilton. “We learned French as children
together, and afterwards Italian and German. You will take her place
to-morrow or the day after, when we begin our studies, and if you wish
to learn to speak English, I am quite willing to assist you.”

“Oh, delightful!” cried Hildegarde, unconsciously moving her chair quite
close to his, and leaning her hand confidentially on the arm of it;
“delightful! that is exactly what I have long wished for; but,” she
added hesitatingly, “but I fear you will expect me to—to—that is, not
to——”

“What?” asked Hamilton, with a smile.

“Not to say what I think; or—or quarrel in future.”

“I made the offer unconditionally; we can fight our battles all the
same, whenever you feel disposed.”

“If that be the case,” said Hildegarde, apparently much relieved, “I
accept your offer, thankfully, and I hope I shall not give you much
trouble.”

“Suppose you take your first lesson now,” said Hamilton. “As you merely
require the pronunciation, let us begin with this book.” He laid it
before her as he spoke, and they both turned towards the table.
Hildegarde began at once to read, but with the most unintelligible
foreign accent he had ever heard. He used his utmost effort to suppress
his laughter, and did not venture to correct a single word. At the end
of the page she looked up rather surprised, and encountered Hamilton’s
eyes brilliant with suppressed mirth, while every other feature of his
face was drawn into a forced seriousness of expression, forming
altogether so extraordinary a distortion of countenance that she threw
herself back in her chair and burst into a fit of laughter.

“Why don’t you laugh out, if you feel inclined?” she asked, as Hamilton
half covered his face with his pocket-handkerchief.

“I really was afraid of offending you,” he replied.

“Oh! you never can offend me by laughing openly; it is only by speaking
ironically or sneering that you can annoy me, and make me feel almost
inclined at times to give you a box on the ear.”

“I give you leave to do so whenever you please,” said Hamilton; “but you
will incur a penalty of which I shall most certainly take advantage.”

“And what may that be?”

“If my lips may not explain otherwise than by words, they decline the
office.”

Hildegarde bent her face over her book, shaded her eyes, and remained
silent.

“Go on,” said Hamilton; “now that you have given me leave to laugh I
have lost all inclination.”

Hildegarde continued to read, looking up, however, at the end of every
sentence, and asking for the necessary corrections.

When Major Stultz stood up to take leave, he put an end to the first of
the English lessons, which were, however, continued with unfailing
regularity every day from that time forward. A young medical student,
recommended alike for his talent and poverty, was engaged to give German
lessons, and the drawing-room being found too subject to interruptions,
Hamilton’s sitting-room was converted into a study. The youthful
preceptor seemed to enjoy his pupil’s society, and often remained long
to discuss literary and philosophical subjects with Hamilton, and not
unfrequently to smoke a cigar, Hildegarde having had the complaisance to
profess to like the smell of tobacco when it was good.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XIV.

                       A NEW WAY TO LEARN GERMAN.


ONE day Madame Berger proposed spending the afternoon with the
Rosenbergs, as her husband was to be absent until late in the evening:
the offer was of course accepted, and she was received by Crescenz with
delight and conducted to her room. After removing her bonnet and
carefully arranging her hair and dress, Madame Berger repaired to the
drawing-room, seemed exceedingly surprised to find it unoccupied, and
having opened the door of the adjoining bedroom and finding it equally
deserted, she tapped Crescenz playfully on the arm, exclaiming, “Well,
my dear child, what have you done with your Englishman?”

“Nothing,” replied Crescenz despondingly. “I begin to think you were
right, Lina; he certainly admires Hildegarde, and she now scarcely ever
quarrels with him, and has even begun to ask his opinion on different
subjects. They do nothing but read English and German together, and talk
of their books until it is quite tiresome. Yesterday evening, when they
were both discussing Faust and Mephistopheles, which I remember papa
once said few people could altogether understand, I could not help
reminding them of Schiller’s _Ballad of the Glove_, about which they had
once quarrelled so desperately; and can you believe it? they both began
to laugh; but I saw that Hildegarde grew red, and I am sure she found it
difficult not to fight the battle over again!”

“My dear Crescenz, you must take my advice, and put this Englishman
quite out of your head. As to his studies, I know all about them, and I
have heard that he is extremely clever and possessed of extraordinary
information for his age; he can talk of history, politics, commerce and
all those sort of things, like a professor! I can set your mind quite at
ease with respect to Hildegarde; her whole mind is bent upon profiting
as much as possible by the instruction which she is receiving, and if
your Englishman has any fancy for her, she is as yet quite unconscious
of it. Heaven help him! when she finds it out, that’s all—she will be a
proper tyrant! For so far, however, nothing of the kind has become
apparent on either side, and I have repeatedly made the most particular
inquiries.”

“From whom? How did you hear all this? I don’t understand——”

“Why, my dear creature, who of all persons in the world do you think has
been engaged as teacher? Theodor! Theodor Biedermann! _my_ Theodor! he
has told me that the hours he spends here are his greatest recreation,
that Mr. Hamilton is the most noble, charming, intellectual person in
the world, and that he already feels a friendship for him which can only
end with his life.”

“And so Mr. Biedermann is Theodor,” said Crescenz; “I should never have
thought it.”

“Of course not, as I never spoke of him, excepting by his Christian
name; you could not know him by inspiration!”

“No—but he is not at all what I fancied.”

“And pray what did you fancy him?”

“Indeed, I don’t exactly know, but as you said he wrote beautiful verses
and sang to the guitar, I thought he must look like a poet, a
troubadour, or something of that sort.”

“Ha, ha, ha! what a child you are!” cried Madame Berger superciliously,
but at the same time colouring slightly. “What a complete child! and
pray, my dear, can you inform me how a poet or troubadour ought to
look?”

“Not in the least like Mr. Biedermann,” cried Crescenz, apparently
roused to something like anger by her friend’s manner. “Not in the least
like Mr. Biedermann, who is just the most commonplace of commonplace
students, with his open shirt-collar and long Henri-quatre beard, and
his light hair and eyes, and red face! and——”

“Stop—stop—my dear, I understand you now—Theodor is not tall enough to
please you—he ought to have dark hair, black eyes, long eyelashes, and a
pale complexion, all very interesting no doubt, but people answering to
this description cannot always write verses, or sing to the guitar; and
I can tell you that Mr. Hamilton can neither do one nor the other. Your
sentimental love and admiration are all thrown away on him, Cressy; he
does not think of you, and the sooner you put him out of your little
head the better.”

“You are unkind, Lina!”

“And you still more so, Crescenz, to disparage poor Theodor so
unnecessarily.”

“But he is nothing to you now?”

“Oh, of course not—and still I must always have a very sincere regard
for him—he, poor soul, is as desperate about me as ever! Heigho! I must
confess, I half feared he would waver in his allegiance when I heard
that he came here every day. Men are so fickle!”

“Why, surely, you did not think that I——”

“Oh, not at all, my dear—you are engaged, you know, so I never thought
of _you_, but Hildegarde——”

“I can tell you, Hildegarde would never think of _him_,” cried Crescenz,
triumphantly.

“Nor he of her, I assure you,” said Madame Berger; “he will scarcely
allow her to be handsome!”

“Well, to be sure!” said Crescenz. “That does surprise me. I never heard
of anyone who did not think Hildegarde handsome!”

“Beauty, my dear, is a matter of taste. Theodor does not deny her having
regular features, but it is exactly that which he cannot admire; he says
there is something statue-like in her whole appearance, a certain proud
expression in the drawn-down corners of her mouth—in short, he said she
was a person a man could admire, but never love. There is a great
difference, as you will understand a few years hence.”

“I should like to know,” said Crescenz, somewhat impatiently, “I should
like to know if I shall be as much changed by marriage as you are, Lina!
I am sure I hope not; for, instead of springing about or talking
good-humouredly as you used to, you are always lecturing and calling me
child, which, I must say, is very disagreeable. I shall soon be sixteen
years old, and married too; and I won’t be called child any longer.”

“I vow, Cressy, you have taken a lesson from your sister, and are
working yourself into a passion. The Doctor says child to me very often,
and I am not at all offended; but instead of quarrelling, you ought to
try and amuse me, as I am your guest to-day. Where are Hildegarde and
Mr. Hamilton?”

“They are studying German with Mr. Biedermann.”

“I know that already; but _where_ are they?”

“In Mr. Hamilton’s room.”

“Indeed! Oh, then, we may go there too, I suppose?”

“Better not—they left this room on account of the interruptions; and
mamma has desired me not to go there.”

“Very proper as a general rule; but when I am here to chaperon you, the
case is different.”

“I don’t think I ought to go,” said Crescenz, drawing back.

“Pshaw! nonsense! When Hildegarde is there, there can be no impropriety
for us!” and as she spoke she drew the only half-reluctant Crescenz
after her down the passage.

“Are not the large rooms at the end his?” asked Madame Berger.

“Yes; but indeed it is not right to interrupt them; I am sure mamma will
be angry.”

“Tell her I insisted on seeing Theodor,” replied Madame Berger, as she
knocked loudly at the door, but received no permission to enter.

“I told you they were too busy to receive visitors,” said Crescenz.

“What an odd noise they make!” cried Madame Berger, listening at the
door before she again knocked, “what a very odd noise!” Her curiosity
was excited, and without waiting for an answer to her second summons,
she opened the door and discovered Hamilton and his German master
completely equipped with foils and visors, fencing most energetically.
Chairs and tables were heaped up in a corner, and so well matched and
eager were the combatants that they long remained unconscious of the
presence of spectators.

“A new way to learn German!” said Madame Berger to Hildegarde, who was
sitting at the window reading.

“Our lesson is long ended,” she replied, closing her book.

“Then pray why did you not come to the drawing-room?” asked Madame
Berger.

“Because it is quieter here,” replied Hildegarde.

“Quieter! Do you call this quiet? I could not read a word if I heard the
clashing of swords.”

“They are only foils; and I have got used to the sound—boxing is
quieter; but they are not well matched, I believe, as Mr. Biedermann is
only a beginner.”

“Why, Theodor, is it possible you are learning to box like an
Englishman? I should like of all things to know what it is like. Pray do
box a little for me.”

“No, thank you; I do not appear to advantage. In fencing we are
well-matched,” he said, playing with the foil as he looked towards
Hamilton for confirmation; “but you must not forget that you have
promised to come to my room some day and try how you can manage a
sabre.”

“Your horse is saddled, sir,” cried Hans, in a loud voice, at the door.

“Well, come in,” cried Hamilton, “and put the chairs and tables in their
places; and, next time, when you see I have visitors, say nothing about
the horse.”

“Beg pardon, sir, I thought only our young ladies were in the room.”

“Oh, promise to ride up and down the street to show your horse to us,”
cried Madame Berger, “I am so fond of seeing horses. Come, Crescenz, let
us look out of the window—and you may come too,” she added graciously to
Theodor as she left the room.

When Hamilton was about to mount, he looked up towards the house, but
saw so many heads looking out of so many windows that he desired Hans to
parade the horse for him. It was in vain Madame Berger opened the window
and called out to him—he stood with his arms folded, admiring the animal
himself while it was being put through all its paces, and then quietly
mounting, rode very slowly from the door.

“Why, Theodor you told me he was a famous rider,” cried Madame Berger,
with evident disappointment.

“And so he is; but he does not like to show off, it seems.”

“It would have been a vast deal civiller if he had stayed at home to
amuse us to-day. It is going to rain, too, and I am sure he will be wet
through and through—it is a comfort to think he deserves it.”

“He does not mind being wet,” said Crescenz, stretching her head as far
as possible out of the window; “he sometimes goes out when it is
actually raining—Ah!” she exclaimed, faintly screaming, while she drew
back and covered her eyes with her hand, “his horse started frightfully
at the corner of the street—if he had been thrown on the pavement!”

“Let me see,” cried Madame Berger, pushing past her to take her
place—“how provoking, he has turned the corner! But Cressy, I say, come
here;” and she whispered a few words, and pointed downwards towards the
street, where the same officer who had been addressed by Zedwitz again
stood near the brazier’s shop, looking towards the window where they
were assembled.

“I wonder who he is!” exclaimed Madame Berger, returning his gaze with a
steadiness almost amounting to effrontery. “Do you know that officer,
Theodor?”

“No; but he will know you again,” he replied, laughing.

“I can pardon his looking towards this window,” said Madame Berger,
intending to be ingenuous, while her manner betrayed considerable
levity, “I can pardon his looking towards this window, for I dare say he
has not often seen three such pretty faces as ours together,” and she
attempted to draw Hildegarde towards her as she spoke.

“I don’t choose to be exhibited,” cried Hildegarde, drawing back. The
next moment she began to laugh, while she added, “I can inform you,
however, that you are quite mistaken if you think this window parade be
intended for you. I met that officer yesterday evening on the stairs
when I was coming from the cellar with Walburg, and she told me he is to
be married in spring to the daughter of the new lodger—so you may be
sure he is waiting to see Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, and not thinking of
either you or Crescenz.”

“I am not quite so sure of that,” said Madame Berger; “for you remember,
Crescenz, we saw him standing there more than a fortnight ago, and
before these Hoffmanns were in the house.”

“Very true,” said Crescenz, “but he is certainly looking at the windows
on the first floor now.”

“And he certainly _was_ looking up here when I first observed him,”
persisted Madame Berger. “Pray what sort of a person is this
Mademoiselle de Hoffmann? Has anyone seen her?”

“Walburg has seen her,” replied Crescenz, “and she says she is not at
all pretty; but the servants say she is very amiable and an excellent
housekeeper.”

“Probably not young,” observed Madame Berger, arranging her ringlets at
the glass—“probably not young, if she be amiable and a good housekeeper;
these qualities belong to riper years.”

“She is not very young, I believe.”

“I thought as much,” cried Madame Berger, laughing, “and he is certainly
not thirty—do you think he is?”

“He seems to be young,” said Crescenz, peeping carefully from behind the
muslin curtain.

“Crescenz, come away from the window,” said Hildegarde, authoritatively;
“it is not right to watch anybody in that way.”

“Well, Cressy, I can now congratulate you from my heart on your
approaching marriage,” said Madame Berger, maliciously, “for I can
assure you Major Stultz will not require half so much obedience from you
as Hildegarde; your marriage will be quite a relief from thraldom.”

“You are right,” said Crescenz, colouring. “Hildegarde certainly does
treat me as if I were a child,” and she walked resolutely towards the
window as she spoke.

“You are now acting like a child, and a silly child into the bargain,”
cried Hildegarde, with evident annoyance, as she left the room.

“Dreadful temper!” said Madame Berger, shrugging her shoulders; “if she
were my sister, I should soon teach her to pay me proper respect; but
look here, Crescenz, the officer has bowed to the first floor, and is
now crossing the street, as if he were coming into the house; I begin to
think Hildegarde was right.”

“I am sure she was right, and I ought not to have looked out of the
window—I will go at once and tell her so.”

“Before you go, let me give you a piece of advice. You have spoiled your
sister, and taught her to make a slave of you—don’t give your husband
such bad habits. Above all things—_never_ confess that you have been in
the wrong, and make him on all occasions beg _your_ pardon.”

“But when I feel that I have done wrong, I ought at least to confess
it.”

“No such thing; you must always insist on being right—yield once, and
you must yield ever after. I have had some desperate battles I assure
you, but the Doctor has been obliged to give way, and we now get on
charmingly together. Whenever I have been giddy or extravagant, he must
beg my pardon, ha, ha, ha!”

“But, Lina, how can that be? for the Doctor is a very sensible man, and
were he to act as you say, he must be a fool!”

“You do not understand me, child. You see, when I do anything he
disapproves, he remonstrates or lectures, and then I sulk until he begs
my pardon for having remonstrated or lectured. My offence in the
meantime is forgotten. Do you understand?”

“Partly,” said Crescenz, thoughtfully.

“Do not listen to such advice, mademoiselle,” said Mr. Biedermann. “I am
sure Madame Berger is joking.”

“I am not joking,” said Madame Berger, tossing back her head.

“Then you have taught your husband to treat you as if you were either a
simpleton or a spoiled child, to whom he yields for the sake of peace,
while he loses all respect for your understanding.”

“Theodor,” said Madame Berger, with a slightly scornful laugh, “I advise
you to keep your opinions on such subjects in future until you are asked
for them. You are talking of what you do not understand. Crescenz is
about to marry a man thirty years older than herself—I have done the
same, and speak from experience. Had I married a man of my own age, the
case and my advice would have been different. For instance, had I
married you, I should have been quite a different person.”

“I don’t think you would, Caroline—nothing would have made you other
than you are.”

“Am I not very charming as I am?”

“Charming? Yes, with all your levity—but too charming,” said Mr.
Biedermann, preparing to leave the room.

“Well, for that acknowledgment I am inclined to pardon your former
impertinence; but never while you live attempt a repetition of the
offence.”

“I thought our former intimacy gave me a sort of right to——”

“Our former intimacy,” said Madame Berger, laughing, “gives you no right
excepting that of being my very obedient humble servant.”


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XV.

        THE OCTOBER FÊTE, AND A LESSON ON PROPRIETY OF CONDUCT.


IT was the first Sunday in October, and Major Stultz had just driven up
to the door in a carriage, which he had hired to take his betrothed and
her family to the October fête. In order to increase Crescenz’s
pleasure, he had promised to take the three boys also, and though Mr.
Rosenberg had declared his intention to walk, their party was still
uncomfortably large. Fritz in his cadet uniform mounted the box, fully
convinced that the equipage had considerably gained in appearance by his
presence, and the others were endeavouring to wedge in the children
between them, when a servant came running to the door, bearing a message
from Madame de Hoffmann, who offered a seat in her carriage to one of
the young ladies, if they did not mind going a little later.

“Oh, dear,” cried Madame Rosenberg, “now really that’s very civil—before
I have returned her visit, too! Hildegarde, you will accept that offer,
of course; and to tell the truth, I am glad you do not leave home so
soon; Mr. Hamilton has not returned from church, and I wish you to see
that he gets his dinner comfortably served. I know you don’t mind being
an hour or so later, and the races don’t begin until three o’clock.”

Hildegarde descended from the carriage, seemingly satisfied with the
arrangement, and the others drove off. She stopped on her way upstairs
at the first floor, and requested to see the Hoffmanns in order to thank
them, and ask when they intended to leave. Mademoiselle de Hoffmann came
to meet her, and took her hand eagerly, while she exclaimed: “Ah, I knew
you would be the one to go with us. Your sister, of course, could not
leave Major Stultz—but surely you will come in and stay here until we
are ready to go—in fact we are ready now, and I am only waiting for my
bridegroom, who is to accompany us—I do not know if you are aware that
I, like your sister, am a bride.”

“I have heard so,” replied Hildegarde. “Mamma intends to offer her
congratulations in form to-morrow.”

“I don’t like being congratulated,” said Mademoiselle de Hoffmann
abruptly; “it would be better if people waited a year or so, until they
knew how a marriage turned out. It is, after all, an awful sort of
lottery for a woman, and if she draw a blank——but pray, come into the
drawing-room; this is no place to discuss such subjects.”

“I am sorry to say that I have some arrangements to make at home, but I
shall return as soon as possible.”

“Pray do,” said Mademoiselle de Hoffmann. “I may as well tell you that I
have taken such a fancy to you, that I cannot help hoping that we are
destined to be very good friends.”

“I hope so too,” replied Hildegarde with unusual warmth of manner, and
laughing gayly. Hamilton passed the door at the moment, on his return
from church, and seemed not a little surprised to find her bestowing so
much friendliness on a person he had supposed nearly a stranger.
Hildegarde followed him up the stairs, and on entering their apartments,
took off her bonnet, and prepared to obey her mother’s directions by
bringing in his dinner herself. Hamilton had already become accustomed
to these attentions, and therefore her appearance—with a napkin pinned
on her dress in the form of an apron, and carrying a little tureen of
soup—by no means astonished him. Having placed it on the table, she
walked to the window, took up a book, and began to read.

“Have you all dined?” asked Hamilton.

“Yes, and all are gone too,” replied Hildegarde.

“You don’t mean to say that you must remain at home?” asked Hamilton,
turning round quickly.

“Oh, no, I am to go with the Hoffmanns.”

“How did you happen to make that arrangement?”

Hildegarde came towards him to explain, stood for a moment behind his
chair, then seated herself at the table near him, and while performing
her office of waiter, entered into an unusually unrestrained
conversation. They talked long and gayly, Hamilton at length beginning
to think he would prefer staying at home with her to going to the
_fête_, and was actually as much annoyed as she was surprised, when the
Hoffmanns’ servant announced the carriage, and said they were waiting
for her.

The day was clear and warm, the sky cloudless, and of that deep blue
almost unknown in England. The sun shone brightly on the groups of merry
pedestrians, who still continued to pour out of the town and its
environs, towards the Thérèsian meadows. Notwithstanding the warm
sunbeams, each peasant carried under his arm an enormous red or yellow
umbrella. Many were furnished with cloaks, and some were dressed in the
mountain costume, with which Hamilton had become acquainted at
Berchtesgaden; but, in strong contrast to their picturesque appearance,
there were others from the plains, with their long coats almost reaching
to their heels—two large buttons between their shoulders, as if to mark
the waist, and broad-brimmed, low-crowned hats. The cloth of which these
most ugly garments were made was good, and in many cases fine. The hats,
too, were shining, and decorated with thick gold tassels, and even the
most careless observer could not fail to remark the absence of any
appearance of poverty.

Hamilton rode as fast as the crowd would permit, wishing, considerately,
that all nurses and children had remained at home, and wondering what
business they could have at an agricultural _fête_ and races. Then he
thought of Hildegarde—Hildegarde as he had last seen her, gay and
unrestrained, laughingly giving her opinion of the Hoffmanns, and
relating with what self-possession Mademoiselle de Hoffmann had spoken
of her intended marriage; and then she had taken the half of his bunch
of grapes with a sort of unconscious familiarity flattering from its
rarity. He had for some time been aware of a change in her manner, and
he now began to hope that a feeling of good-will towards himself had
been the cause; in this, he was, however, partly mistaken—the
reconciliation or explanation with her step-mother had mostly effected
the change. She felt that she had been unjustly prejudiced against both,
and, ever ready to act from impulse, she now went from one extreme to
the other, and at once gave Madame Rosenberg credit for virtues which
she scarcely possessed—blamed herself unnecessarily, and received any
remains of severity on the part of her step-mother, as a deserved
punishment for her former unwarrantable dislike. Madame Rosenberg had
not been insensible to the alteration which had taken place—she had more
than once observed to her husband, “That Hildegarde was really a
warm-hearted girl, and not nearly so often in a passion as she used to
be. There was nothing like a mother’s care to form a girl’s character;
she now understood how to manage her, and expected in time to like her
quite as well as Crescenz.”

Hamilton, on reaching the Thérèsian meadow, looked round for the object
of his thoughts—in a crowd of eight or ten thousand persons, the search
was not immediately successful. The royal family had long been on the
tribune, and the King was distributing the last prizes as Hamilton
arrived. A movement in the crowd soon after commenced, which denoted
preparations for the races; Hamilton rode towards the place where the
jockeys were assembled, but when there, his horse became suddenly
restive—he shied, reared, pranced, leaped forwards and sideways, and
Hamilton, had he not been a practised rider, would have found it no easy
matter to keep his seat. At length the animal seemed to become aware of
the power of his rider, for his capers ceased by degrees, and he merely
bent his head and tore up the ground with his fore-foot. Hamilton was
about to return to the interrupted inspection of the jockeys and their
horses, when a voice close to him observed, “You seemed alarmed for the
safety of your English friend, mademoiselle—ask him if he will not give
his horse to our servant, and look at the races from the carriage.”

Hamilton turned quickly round, and found that these words had been
addressed by Madame de Hoffmann to Hildegarde; he rode close up to the
latter, and said in a low voice, “I have been looking for you in vain
the last half-hour, and just as I had given up the search, I find myself
beside you—pray, present me to your friends; you have made me really
wish to be acquainted with them.”

Hildegarde complied with his request, while an officer, who was sitting
opposite to her, and who was instantly recognised by Hamilton as the
admirer of the candlesticks and coffee-pots in the brazier’s shop,
waited for a moment and then said, “I hope you mean to include me; if
you do not choose to allow me to come under the denomination of friend,
you cannot refuse to admit my right to that of relation, and very near
relation, too.”

Hamilton looked astonished, and Hildegarde coloured slightly as she
laughingly added, “My cousin, Count Raimund.”

Hamilton bowed with apparent indifference; but all that Zedwitz had said
of Count Raimund flashed across his mind; he now felt convinced that
there was no doubt of his gaining admittance to the Rosenberg family,
and on the most dangerous footing possible—as cousin! He himself knew
from experience all the advantages of this relationship, and the
unreserved intimacy which it permitted; and though he tried to convince
himself that Count Raimund, being already engaged to Mademoiselle de
Hoffmann, would have neither time nor opportunity to pay Hildegarde
extraordinary attention, a feeling of incipient jealousy, to which,
however, he gave in thought the name of disinterested friendship, took
possession of his mind, and he turned with something more than
curiosity, to examine this cousin, this Raimund, said to be so
dangerous. He was a slight young man with rather regular features, his
mouth alone remarkably handsome, though his lips were, perhaps, too red
and full for a man, his eyes light blue, hair and moustache remarkably
fair; his complexion, which varied with every passing emotion, sometimes
almost pale, sometimes sanguine, gave an appearance of perpetual
animation to a countenance which would otherwise have, perhaps, failed
to interest at first sight. He immediately addressed Hamilton, spoke of
England, hunting, horses, races—of English customs and sports, with such
correctness that Hamilton could not help exclaiming, “You must have been
a long time in England to understand these things so well!”

“My information is altogether acquired from reading,” replied Raimund,
smiling, and evidently flattered at Hamilton’s remark; either encouraged
by it, or the approving smiles of his companions, he gave a description
of races in different countries, from the most ancient to the present
day, discovering considerable information, well applied, but brought it
forward with such ill-concealed arrogance that Hamilton, already
predisposed to dislike him, was soon disgusted, and taking advantage of
the first pause and some confusion among the bystanders, he suddenly and
violently checked his horse, threw him on his haunches, and backing him
out of the crowd, galloped across the field. The races began, and
although the horses did not promise much, it was impossible not to feel
in some degree interested; he crossed the field several times at full
speed, and in doing so he passed and repassed the carriage in which
Hildegarde sat, when having met some Englishmen with whom he was
slightly acquainted, he began to talk to them not very far distant from
her.

“My fair cousin follows with her eyes, and rather seems to admire her
English friend,” said Raimund with a laugh. “He certainly is handsome,
but I never saw more haughty manners or prouder looks in my life. How
does he contrive to get on with step-mamma?”

“Exceedingly well,” answered Hildegarde. “She gives him occasional
lectures on his extravagant habits, which he receives with the most
perfect good temper; but they do not seem to have much effect. I rather
think his parents must be very rich, although he never speaks on the
subject, for they send him large sums of money, which he leaves at his
banker’s, as he says, with the best intentions possible he can find no
opportunity of spending it.”

“It seems the lectures on extravagance were scarcely necessary,”
observed Raimund, with a slight sneer; “from your account, he is more
disposed to hoard than spend.”

“And yet he is really generous,” cried Hildegarde, warmly. “Mr.
Biedermann, who is giving him lessons in German, says that he has been
munificent to him; and I know that he gave old Hans, only the other day,
a complete suit of clothes for the winter, to keep him warm when he is
sawing wood in the yard; not to mention a great many occurrences in our
house, where, had he not been disposed to give, he would have acted
quite differently.”

“You are eloquent in his praise,” said Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, “and
will force me to think well of him; though, to tell the truth, I feel
half inclined to agree with Oscar in thinking him proud. It is true, I
have only seen him for a few minutes, and on a very restive horse; but
the glance which he bestowed upon us all was more scrutinising than
agreeable, and he certainly did appear to have a tolerably good opinion
of himself.”

“I cannot dispute that point,” replied Hildegarde, laughing; “but I wish
to do him justice when I can, as I am only by degrees getting over an
inveterate dislike which I took to him at first sight, without any
reasonable cause.”

“So,” exclaimed Raimund, “if that be the case, I am satisfied. It must,
however, be extremely disagreeable to have such a Don Magnifico forced
into one’s domestic circle. I wonder your father did not rebel; but of
course he must do whatever your mother chooses.”

“Oh! papa, mamma, and Crescenz liked him from the first,” said
Hildegarde. “I was the only person who quarrelled with him, because I
imagined that he was laughing at us, or seeking amusement at our
expense, while he considered himself far, far above us. On a nearer
acquaintance, it is impossible not to think him agreeable, clever, and,
I must say, perfectly unaffected.”

“My dear, if you continue in this strain,” said Mademoiselle de
Hoffmann, laughing slyly, “you will force us to think you altogether in
love with him!”

“By no means,” observed Raimund; “were that the case, she would be more
reserved in her praise. I am rather disposed to think that this
Englishman, by some unaccountable perversion of taste, must have given
the preference to my other cousin. Come, confess, Hildegarde! As to his
living in your house, and not taking a fancy to one or the other, the
thing is absolutely and totally impossible.”

“I believe,” replied Hildegarde, “he—he rather admired Crescenz until
she was engaged to be married to Major Stultz.”

“Then he admires her still, you may depend upon it.”

“Perhaps he does; it is difficult to know Crescenz, and not both admire
and love her,” replied Hildegarde; “but at all events he has ceased to
pay her any attention, and does not speak more to her than to me.”

“You may be sure he makes up for lost time when he sees her alone,”
cried Raimund, laughing. “By Jove, I envy him his recent position; what
capital fun to—to supplant that stout old major!”

“He never thought of such a thing,” cried Hildegarde, eagerly; “he
explained at once that he could not marry.”

“Better and better,” said Raimund, laughing oddly, “he seems perfectly
to know what he is about.”

“I don’t understand you,” began Hildegarde, but Madame de Hoffmann
called her attention to the races, and when they were over she had no
time to think about the matter.

Hamilton could scarcely conceal his vexation, on his return home, when
he heard that Hildegarde was engaged to spend the evening with the
Hoffmanns. Mr. Rosenberg left them, as usual, immediately after supper;
Major Stultz altogether monopolised Crescenz, Madame Rosenberg busied
herself with a pack of cards, which she shuffled, cut, and spread out on
the table before her with extraordinary interest, while Hamilton,
accustomed as he now was to talk or read with Hildegarde, and missing
her more than he liked to perceive, held a newspaper in his hand, and
employed his thoughts in forming uncomfortable surmises respecting her
and her cousin.

“Very odd,” said Madame Rosenberg, thoughtfully, holding a card to her
lips; “very odd indeed;—the marriage is not in the cards!”

“I thought you were playing patience,” said Hamilton, looking up.

“Oh, no, I have been cutting the cards for Crescenz,” she said, in a low
voice; “and oddly enough, her marriage is not in them. I must try it
again,” she said, gathering up the pack and shuffling energetically.

Hamilton drew his chair to the table, and watched her as she slowly and
thoughtfully placed the cards in regular rows before her, while
murmuring, with evident dissatisfaction: “This is Crescenz and this is
the Major, but ever so far asunder! And the marriage and love cards are
all near him, while Crescenz’s thoughts are occupied about a present.
Oh, ah! here is a letter full of money coming to our house; but I
suppose it will be, as usual, from England, and for you, Mr. Hamilton.
You are laughing at me, I see! Perhaps you don’t believe that I can tell
fortunes?”

“I am convinced you can do so quite as well as anyone else.”

“That is saying too much,” said Madame Rosenberg. “Our washerwoman is
very expert; but I know some who could astonish you!”

“I like being astonished,” said Hamilton, “and promise to be so if what
you foretell comes to pass; but then you must predict something more
surprising than that I should receive a letter containing money. This is
more than probable, as my father is very liberal, and I said something
about intending to buy a sledge this winter when I last wrote.”

“But suppose Crescenz’s marriage should be broken off—which Heaven
forbid—what would you say then?”

“It will not be broken off, but it may be postponed. You said yourself
yesterday that her _trousseau_ could not be ready at the time expected;
and as to her thoughts being occupied about a present, we all know that
she is making a purse and cigar-case for Major Stultz.”

“Oh, if you explain everything in that way, I need not go on,” said
Madame Rosenberg, laughing. “Here, for instance, is a false person in
our house—a very false person; he is followed, too, by a number of
unlucky, disagreeable cards; now, who can that be?”

“I hope you do not suspect me of being this false person?”

“Most certainly not,” repeated Madame Rosenberg, seriously. “I know few
people of whom I think so highly; I always liked my English lodgers, and
was sorry when they left me; but I feel as if you were a part of our
family. You must observe that I talk to you and consult you about all
our affairs a hundred times more than Major Stultz, who is actually
about to become my son-in-law!”

“I am exceedingly flattered by your good opinion,” said Hamilton, “and
am greatly relieved to find you do not suspect me to be this false
friend, followed by ill-omened cards!”

“Set your mind at rest; this person seems in some way related to our
family, and has light hair.”

“And you can see all this in these cards!” said Hamilton, laughing.

“Look here, and I will explain it easily,” said Madame Rosenberg. “You
see this ace is our house——”

“_Is_ that an ace?” said Hamilton. “The German cards are as difficult to
learn as the handwriting. I do not know a single one of these cards.”

“They are easily learned. These are acorns, and these bells; these
trifles, and these hearts.”

“But this ace of hearts is double; and what is the meaning of the basket
of flowers and the blinded cupid?”

“Only for ornament.”

“This, then, I suppose, is the king of hearts; but where is the queen?”

“This, I believe, answers to your queen.”

“What! the man leaning on his sword?”

“I see you do not want to learn——”

“And yet I should rather like to know what these acorns and bells are
intended to represent,” said Hamilton.

“Crescenz, come here and explain in French,” cried Madame Rosenberg.

Crescenz came most willingly. In a few minutes Hamilton imagined he knew
the cards, and began to play some childish game which Crescenz taught
him; they played for six-kreutzer pieces, and, as he continually mistook
the cards, in the course of half an hour he had lost some florins.
Crescenz’s exclamation of delight and triumph caused Madame Rosenberg at
last to look round, and no sooner did she perceive how matters stood,
than she took the money which Crescenz had won, returned it to Hamilton,
notwithstanding all his protestations; and, taking some red and white
counters out of her work-table drawer, divided them equally between
them, while she observed that they might fancy them florins if they
wished,—“it would be much more proper for young people than really
playing for money.”

Crescenz did not know whether to be satisfied or vexed—but when her
mother added a few words of reproach about her playing without her
having the means of paying her debts, should she lose, she blushed
deeply and stammered, “I—I have more than a florin pocket-money—and
besides, Mr. Hamilton would have waited until Christmas, when papa
always gives me a crown!”

“Oh, certainly,” said Hamilton, laughing, “I could have waited until
Christmas without the least inconvenience.”

“I hope,” said Major Stultz, “that before Christmas, Crescenz will have
made me her banker.”

“At all events,” Hamilton said to Madame Rosenberg, “you cannot treat me
so like a child as to force me to take back what I have lost; but if you
forbid our continuing to play, of course we must obey.”

“Well, play for kreutzers or pfennings, if you like, but it is a bad
habit.”

The permission granted, Crescenz seemed to have lost all inclination to
continue. She and Hamilton were soon after employed in building
card-houses, while they kept up a sort of murmured conversation in
French, possibly very interesting to them, but unintelligible to Madame
Rosenberg and Major Stultz—the former had commenced knitting, the latter
sat watching the varying countenance of his betrothed, as she, sometimes
lowering her voice to a whisper, seemed to speak pensively, and quite
forgot her occupation; the next moment, however, with childish delight,
slyly blowing down the Chinese tower which had apparently cost Hamilton
a world of trouble to erect. How long this occupation might have
continued to interest them, it is impossible to say, for Hildegarde’s
return caused Crescenz instantly to leave her place, and though Hamilton
still continued to play with the cards, it was unconsciously. Crescenz’s
eager inquiries of how Hildegarde had amused herself, if the Hoffmanns
had pleased her on a nearer acquaintance, and if she had seen the future
husband of Mademoiselle Hoffmann, were answered quickly and decidedly.

“I have spent a delightful day, the Hoffmanns are the most charming
people I ever met, and the bridegroom is, without any exception, the
most amusing and the cleverest person in the world!”

“Phew-w-w-w,” whistled Major Stultz.

“What is his name?” asked Crescenz.

“Count Raimund. He is our very nearest relation—our first cousin!”

“Our cousin! But—but—I thought the Raimunds did not wish to know us?”

“We have no right to make him answerable for the unkindness of his
parents, Crescenz; and all I can say is, that he spoke at once of our
near relationship, and as it was impossible to refuse to acknowledge it,
we became intimate immediately. In fact, he gave me no choice, for he
called me Hildegarde, and spoke of you as if he had known you all his
life. He intends to call here to-morrow, to visit mamma!”

“Does he?” said Madame Rosenberg, dryly.

“He says you are his aunt, as you have married papa.”

“It is singular he never discovered the relationship until to-day!
During your mother’s lifetime, I have heard, too, that the Raimunds
pretended at times to forget your father’s name. The fact is, my dear,
he thought it would flatter me to fancy myself aunt to a count, although
there is actually no relationship whatever, and you thought so too,
Hildegarde, or you would not have repeated so absurd a remark.”

Hildegarde’s face became crimson. “These were his words,” she said, with
the quivering lips of half-subdued anger. “You may, of course, put what
construction you please on them.”

“The words and their meaning are easily understood,” said Madame
Rosenberg, laughing. “But why he has so suddenly chosen to acknowledge a
relationship with you and Crescenz, and force upon me the honour of
being his aunt, is more difficult to comprehend.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” said Major Stultz, glancing from Hildegarde to
Crescenz, “not at all. A young man is always glad to gain admittance to
a house where there are young ladies.”

“But, my dear Major, the man is engaged to be married to Mademoiselle de
Hoffmann in January, and all other young women must be indifferent to
him now!”

“Some men never become indifferent to young women, ma’am; and, if I am
not mistaken, this Count Raimund is one of these persons. I think I have
heard that he has been a very—a——”

“Very what?” asked Madame Rosenberg, quickly.

“Very wild—if not very profligate,” replied Major Stultz, distinctly.

“Then I shall take good care that if he comes to-morrow, it shall be his
last as well as his first visit. But you are quite sure of what you say?
Otherwise you know Rosenberg might be dissatisfied, and think that I was
uncivil from personal dislike, for I do dislike these Raimunds, and
that’s the truth. Fancy their pretending to think that I treated
Hildegarde and Crescenz harshly after my marriage, and proposing to take
them altogether from me!”

“I wonder why you did not resign us,” said Hildegarde, bitterly.

“For two reasons,” replied Madame Rosenberg. “First, you were never to
be allowed to see your father, and he did not like that part of the
arrangement. Secondly, you were to be educated to become governesses,
and were to remain at school until you were given a situation in some
foreign family, as they only wanted to get you out of the way on account
of the relationship. Now, I had a promise of one free place at the same
school, and did not despair of working out the other, while by coming
home for a time there was a chance of your marrying into the bargain.
And I was right, for here is Crescenz well provided for, and if you
continue to improve as you have done of late, I foresee that I shall not
long have you on my hands either. But to return to this Count Raimund,
Major—tell me all you know or have heard about him.”

“I have heard more than I can tell you at present,” said Major Stultz,
mysteriously, “such things are not a proper subject of conversation
before young ladies.” Crescenz blushed. Hildegarde threw herself back in
her chair and laughed contemptuously, as Madame Rosenberg adjourned to
the next room with Major Stultz. “This is the first time,” she said,
looking after them, “the first time that I have seen him attempt to act
the part of son-in-law.”

“He is acting as a friend,” said Hamilton, gravely.

“How do you know that?”

“Perhaps I have heard more of Count Raimund than you imagine.”

“And suppose you have,” said Hildegarde, folding her hands together and
looking Hamilton steadily in the face; “suppose, even, you have heard
all that can be said against him, what does it amount to? Failings,
faults, if you will, which, as he himself said this evening, every young
man has been guilty of——Have you, yourself, been so immaculate that you
feel authorised to judge him?”

Hamilton blushed deeply, but did not answer.

“I know,” continued Hildegarde, with increased warmth, “I know you think
yourself superior to other people, but your present confusion proves
that you have your weaknesses, too, with this difference, that you the
while pretend to be a pattern of perfection, and others honestly confess
their faults!”

“Oh, Hildegarde!” cried Crescenz, deprecatingly.

Hamilton crushed the card which he held in his hand, looked vexed, but
still did not attempt to speak.

“It is hard,” continued Hildegarde, more quietly, though her cheeks
flushed deeply, “it is hard to judge a young man like Oscar without
knowing the temptations to which he has been subjected.”

Hamilton still remained silent; he began once more to build a tower with
the cards.

“Do you not hear me?” she asked, impatiently.

“I am listening most attentively.”

“Then why don’t you say something?”

“Because a reply would only provoke another taunt on your part, and can
answer no purpose whatever?”

“I see—you think I have been hasty—I did not mean it—I am sorry if I
have offended you.”

Hamilton looked up and smiled, and Hildegarde continued—“We have so few
relations—so very few. Oscar is our _only_ cousin. I cannot tell you how
I felt to-day when he called me Hildegarde, and told me to consider him
a brother. You will think me romantic when I assure you that I
experienced an instantaneous prepossession in his favour, or rather a
sort of affection which I thought it quite impossible to feel for a
stranger! I suppose the recollection of my mother, faint though it be,
partly caused this feeling. At all events, I have found it impossible
not to think him the most amusing, clever—in short, the most fascinating
person I ever met.”

“Oh dear! How I should like to know him!” exclaimed Crescenz.

“Then he is so very accomplished!—speaks French so perfectly—and plays
the pianoforte as I have never heard it played. Fancy his being able to
compose for hours together without ever being at a loss! able to follow
all his thoughts, and express them beautifully in music! sometimes so
sad, so melancholy, then gay and passionate, according to the impulse.”

“I was not in the least aware that you cared for music,” said Hamilton,
interrupting her with a look of unfeigned surprise, “you play the
pianoforte so seldom, and——”

“And so badly,” said Hildegarde, interrupting him in her turn, “so
badly, that you concluded I must be incapable of appreciating good music
when I heard it? On the contrary, I am so sensitively alive to its
beauties that I cannot endure mediocrity, and beyond that I know I
should never arrive, when I take into consideration my want of time and
patience!”

“Of your want of patience you are the best judge—time you have enough,
if you want to employ it on music—for instance, you read enormously.
Were the hours which you devote to——”

“Ah, bah!” cried Hildegarde, impatiently; “why should I plague myself
studying music, which, after all, is half mechanical expertness most
difficult to acquire, when in reading I gain information and amuse
myself at the same time. If I could hope to play like Oscar, it would be
different, but nothing else would satisfy me.”

“Then you do not care for vocal music,” said Hamilton.

“I rather give it the preference; because one has words to direct the
thoughts; but then the voice is also an instrument—requires incessant
practice, and so—and so—but you know very well that I have no patience!”

“So I thought, until I discovered that you had learned English so
perfectly without an instructor; this proves that you have both patience
and perseverance.”

“But, then, think of the reward! a new and extensive literature!”

“And if you really liked music, would it not also have rewarded you?”

“I see you have got the best side of the argument; and I must therefore
suppose that I have no real talent for music. To appreciate Oscar’s
playing, however, only requires feeling—it is a sort of thing one never
could get tired of—something like the conversation of a person who talks
well. I only hope you may soon have an opportunity of judging for
yourself. I wish, too, you could hear him read aloud. I never imagined
anything like it. He read for Mademoiselle de Hoffmann and me, and we
both felt cold and warm alternately—it was too delightful!”

“What did he read?” asked Crescenz.

“Heine’s poems,” answered Hildegarde, drawing from her pocket a small
volume—“this is called the _Book of Songs_; and he has given it to me.
Shall I read you _The Dream_?”

“By all means,” said Hamilton.

Hildegarde began, her voice trembling from eagerness. She had, however,
scarcely read a couple of verses, when her mother entered the room, and
asked directly, “What have you got there, Hildegarde?”

“A book, mamma.”

“That is evident: but what book? You know I do not wish you to read
anything but French; and this is German, and poetry into the bargain—and
Count Raimund’s too!” she said, taking it out of Hildegarde’s unwilling
hand—“You see, Major, he has already begun with his books, just as you
told me. I dare say it is full of improprieties!”

“As well as I can recollect, you are mistaken,” said Hamilton. “Some of
the poems are beautiful, and all original, and full of talent.”

“If that be the case, I suppose I may let her read them—but the book
must be returned as soon as possible.”

“But——” began Hildegarde.

Crescenz pulled her sleeve, and whispered: “Don’t say he gave it to
you.”

Hildegarde shook off her sister’s hand, while she said, “The book is
mine: he gave it to me; and if I may read it, I may keep it, I suppose.”

“You may do no such thing,” cried her mother, with considerable
irritation. “Should Count Raimund come to-morrow, I shall return him his
book, and request him to keep the remainder of his library for his own
perusal. He would have done better had he given it to his betrothed
instead of you: and I shall tell him so.”

“I see you are determined to affront him,” said Hildegarde, angrily;
“and, as you mean to return this book to-morrow, I may as well tell you
that I shall not go to bed to-night until I have read every line of it.”

“Hildegarde! Hildegarde! I am afraid you are about to have one of your
old fits of anger and obstinacy. It is unpardonable your being so
childish, now that you are near seventeen years old! However, since you
are a child, I must treat you as one; and you shall not have more candle
than will light you to bed.”

Hildegarde put the book into her pocket, shoved her chair hastily back,
and walked towards the stove. Major Stultz, while wishing Crescenz
good-night, observed, in an audible whisper, “What a lucky man am I that
_you_ have fallen to my lot!”

Madame Rosenberg accompanied him out of the room, first stopping at the
door to say to Hildegarde and Crescenz, “You must not think that I am
actuated by personal dislike to Count Raimund if to-morrow I forbid him
our house—he is a most dangerous person—has brought dishonour on two
respectable families, and his last exploit was going off with the wife
of one of his friends.”

Crescenz seemed utterly confounded by this speech, and turned to her
sister, while she said, “Oh, Hildegarde! if this be true!”

“It is true.”

“Why, you praised him just now, and——”

“Well, I am ready to praise him again; and yet it is true. He intends,
however, henceforward to lead a different life, and honestly confessed
all his misdemeanours to Marie de Hoffmann and to me this evening. He
did not spare himself, I can assure you!”

“His confession must have been very edifying,” observed Hamilton.

“It was very amusing,” replied Hildegarde, slightly laughing. “He
related with such spirit, described such comical situations, and begged
Mademoiselle de Hoffmann to forgive his thoughtlessness with such
fervour, that she was not only obliged to pardon him, but also forced to
confess that perhaps others would not have acted differently, had they
been subjected to the same temptations.”

“He seems to have proved himself a sort of victim,” said Hamilton,
without looking up.

“Almost,” said Hildegarde. “He was given all sorts of encouragement by
the young ladies, who met him alone, and Madame de Sallenstein actually
herself proposed going off with him.”

“He told you that, and the names also?”

“Certainly; he did not conceal the slightest circumstance, related all
the conversations and adventures—no book could be more amusing! His
first love was a daughter of a Captain Welden—there were four daughters,
and they all took a fancy to him at the same time—the youngest was much
the prettiest, and so——”

“Excuse my interrupting you,” cried Hamilton, “but really I cannot
endure to hear you talk in this light manner—Count Raimund must be a
fiend incarnate, if he can change you so completely in one day!”

“Indeed, I do think Hildegarde is changed,” chimed in Crescenz: “I never
heard her talk so oddly before—and oh, Hildegarde, do you remember how
hardly you judged Mr. Hamilton, when you only suspected that he—that I—I
mean we—on account of Major Stultz, you know? Oh, think of all you said
in Berchtesgaden!”

Crescenz’s eloquence did not seem to make much impression on
Hildegarde—she merely shook her head impatiently.

“I find I have altogether mistaken your character,” said Hamilton,
approaching her, and leaning his elbow on the stove, “altogether
mistaken, it seems.”

“How do you mean?”

“I thought that, if from a false and romantic idea of generosity or
liberality, you could be induced to overlook conduct like Count
Raimund’s, you would at least be shocked to find him boasting of his
villainy, and throwing the blame on his victims.”

Hildegarde blushed so deeply that it must have caused her acute pain—she
threw herself into a chair, and turned away.

“Mr. Hamilton is quite right,” said Crescenz, “it was not honourable of
Count Raimund to throw the blame on Captain Welden’s daughter, who, I
dare say, was not the first to propose a rendezvous—and then to repeat
everything and laugh! Oh! Hildegarde, he may be very amusing, but he
cannot have a good heart!” She bent down towards her sister, and added
in a whisper, “Mr. Hamilton would never have acted so!”

“Mr. Hamilton is, most probably, in no respect better than other
people,” replied Hildegarde, quickly, but without turning round.

“Why, Hildegarde, you seem to forget that you said only yesterday—that
he was superior to other people—so like somebody in a book you know, the
hero who was too perfect to be natural, because he never was angry or——”

“Crescenz!” cried Hildegarde, literally bounding from her chair, “are
you purposely trying to irritate me? or are you really what Lina Berger
has often called you, a simpleton—a fool? Anything so nonsensical or
silly as your remarks, I never in my life heard!”

“Now, Hildegarde, don’t be angry, you know these were your own words.”

“I shall in future carefully avoid making any remark to you which I do
not intend to be repeated to the whole world,” said Hildegarde, walking
up and down the room, and speaking hurriedly. “Everything that I say is
misunderstood, and stupidly brought forward in the most provoking
manner! Until to-night, I had no idea of your excessive silliness!”

“You are right—I see—I understand now,” cried Crescenz, with tears in
her eyes: “I ought not to have repeated what you said before Mr.
Hamilton, because he might think, perhaps, you liked him as I do—did, I
mean to say—that is, he might fancy——”

“You tiresome girl, can you not at least be silent?” cried Hildegarde,
stamping with her foot. “Mr. Hamilton may fancy what he pleases, but he
knows that I disliked him from the commencement of our acquaintance, and
if I did begin to think better of him, I have again returned to my first
opinion—he is in no respect better than others; and had he anything to
boast of, I am sure he would do so quite as inconsiderately as Oscar or
anyone else.”

“I _hope_ you are mistaken,” said Hamilton, quietly lighting his
bedchamber candle, “but as I have never been put to the proof, I cannot
answer for myself.”

Crescenz hung her head, and looked uneasily towards her sister, who was
about to reply, when Madame Rosenberg appeared at the door, and they all
prepared to retire for the night. Hamilton did not, as was his usual
custom, linger at the door to continue the interrupted conversation, or
talk some nonsense not adapted for the rational ears of their mother; he
walked quickly to his room, seated himself at the table, and taking out
his journal, was soon employed in writing the events of the day, with
copious reflections. He was angry, very angry with Hildegarde, and yet,
by some strange process of reasoning, he firmly persuaded himself that
not a particle of jealousy was mixed with his just indignation. He began
to suspect that his admiration for her person had induced him to give
her credit for virtues which she did not possess; he was even ready to
allow that he had greatly overrated her in every respect; but still the
idea of her becoming his first love had that day so completely taken
possession of his mind that it would not be banished, and imagining
himself, as a younger son, privileged to fall in and out of love as
often as he pleased, with perfect impunity, he determined at once to
enter the lists, and break a lance with Count Raimund. In England his
position was known; Crescenz had already forced him to be explicit on
the subject, and had, he supposed, informed her sister; he therefore
conceived he had a right to pay to Hildegarde all the attention she
would accept, while her opinion of Count Raimund’s conduct that evening
would, he thought, exonerate him from self-reproach, or future blame on
her part. This was arguing most sophistically, and judging a few
thoughtless words too harshly. He seemed to have forgotten that her
mother had accused her of inordinate family pride, and it was this,
perhaps, alone which had made her blind to her cousin’s faults, and
explained, if it could not excuse, the utterance of opinions so unlike
any that Hamilton had ever heard her express. He recollected, however,
with peculiar complacency, the words which Crescenz had repeated
respecting himself, and which Hildegarde had not denied. She had found a
resemblance between him and some hero in a novel; that is, she was
beginning to make a sort of hero of him, and he had not read and studied
with her for so many weeks, without discovering that she had a warm
imagination, romantic ideas, and passionate feelings. She did not, it is
true, remind him of any particular heroine, nor, on consideration, did
she seem adapted to form one at all, for who ever heard of a heroine
whose passions “oozed out,” like Bob Acres’ courage, “at the palms of
her hands,” or found vent in the clapping of doors and upsetting of
chairs—not to mention considerable fluency of language when irritated?
But then, her perfect face and figure covered a multitude of faults, her
occasional violence of temper was rather amusing than otherwise, and on
taking into consideration her extreme youth, it merely proved an energy
of character far more interesting than the gentle insipidity of her
sister. He perceived that her cousin had made a deep impression on her,
and imagined, in consequence, that his quiet and respectful manner had
not been appreciated—he remembered having heard his brother say, that
very young or very elderly women prefer audacity to deference, and he
wished with all his heart that it were morning, that he might begin a
new line of operations. A knock at the door surprised him in the midst
of these reflections, and made him hastily throw down his pen—scarcely
waiting for permission to enter, Hildegarde had partly opened the door,
and stood before him, her candle burned down in the socket, and already
emitting the fitful gleams of light which precede extinction.

“I dare say you are surprised to see me at this hour,” she began.

“Not at all,” cried Hamilton, pushing away his table, “not at all, for I
have just been thinking of you, and I suppose some sort of sympathy has
made you think of me.”

“No, not exactly of you,” replied Hildegarde, with a smile, “but I have
thought of your candles! You have often offered me one when I wished to
read at night, and I always feared it would be dishonourable to take
advantage of your offer, as it would be deceiving mamma. To-night,
however, I have given her fair warning, so if you will permit me——”

Hamilton pushed a candle towards her, and was rather puzzled what to say
next: she, in the mean time, very calmly extinguished her light and
began to arrange the new one.

“I suppose you have half read your book by this time?” said Hamilton at
length.

“No,” said Hildegarde, while she rolled a piece of paper round the
candle. “No, I have been employed in making apologies to Crescenz. You
must have thought me abominably rude to her this evening?”

“Rather,” replied Hamilton, greatly vexed to find that the determination
to be audacious had made him more than usually restrained—almost timid
in his manner.

“I thought you would have blamed me more,” continued Hildegarde,
fastening the candle steadily, “but even your judgment, with all its
severity, cannot equal my own in rigour, when the moment of anger is
past. Crescenz forgave me directly, and in her good nature tried soon to
excuse my loss of temper, and to reconcile me to myself.”

“A fault must be forgiven when so acknowledged,” said Hamilton, lightly.
“But instead of talking of faults, which, by-the-by, is not the most
agreeable subject of conversation, suppose you read me this dream, which
was so unpleasantly interrupted this evening.”

“Not now,” said Hildegarde, “but I intend to write it out, and we can
read it together to-morrow when Mr. Biedermann is gone.”

“No time like the present,” said Hamilton, pointing to a place beside
him on the sofa. “Come, suppose we read the whole book?”

“If it were not so late, I should have no objection.”

“From your conversation this evening, I should not have expected you to
make difficulties about such a trifle.”

“Conversation this evening,” repeated Hildegarde, thoughtfully.

“Have you then already forgotten all you said in defence of your
cousin?” asked Hamilton, half laughing, while with his hand he gently
induced her to take the unoccupied place beside him. “I thought your
memory was more retentive.”

“But my defence of Oscar has no sort of connection with my remaining
here until two or three o’clock in the morning to read Heine’s poems!”
said Hildegarde, quietly fixing her large blue eyes on Hamilton’s face,
with an expression of such perfect confidence, that his previous
resolutions and his brother’s opinion lost at once all influence over
him, and not for any consideration would he have shaken the reliance on
his integrity legible in every feature of his companion’s face. He
blushed deeply, as he answered evasively—“Perhaps there is more
connection than you are aware of; but you must wait until to-morrow, and
then if you wish it, I will tell you what I meant.”

“But why not now? I detest delay—besides, I shall forget to ask you
to-morrow.”

“No, you will not forget,” said Hamilton, laughing.

“But why will you not tell me now?” asked Hildegarde.

“Because I fear to shock you unnecessarily.”

“But I am not easily shocked,” observed Hildegarde.

“So I perceived from what you said this evening.”

“It is really not generous of you to harp continually on my defence of
Oscar; I am willing to acknowledge that you were quite right in what you
said about him—I know, too, I was wrong to be angry with mamma and
Crescenz—but I do not like to be so perpetually reminded of my faults by
you—you are not old enough—and—and—you bore me with your real or
affected superiority.”

“Did I affect superiority we should never have quarrelled,” replied
Hamilton, with evident vexation; “I only quarrel with my equals.”

“I quarrel with everybody,” said Hildegarde, with a sigh; “a passionate
temper is a great misfortune—but I can and will learn to control it.
Perhaps the fear of my losing my temper, and not the fear of shocking
me, prevented you from telling your thoughts just now? Do not wait until
to-morrow, but speak freely and at once.”

“Excuse me,” said Hamilton, rising, “I have changed my mind, and will
neither speak now nor to-morrow—I have no right to correct, and
certainly no wish to bore you.”

“I might have guessed what your answer would have been,” cried
Hildegarde, petulantly. “You store up every hasty word to bring forward
just when I wish it forgotten! If you will not tell me, I may as well
wish you good-night.” She took up the candle and walked to the door.

“Good-night,” said Hamilton, approaching as if to close it after her,
and making no attempt whatever to detain her.

“As you feared to shock me,” said Hildegarde, stopping suddenly, “I
suppose I have done something very wrong?” and she looked up
inquiringly.

“I really do not know,” replied Hamilton, stiffly.

“You—you most disagreeable person—” she began angrily, but seeing that
Hamilton was endeavouring to suppress a smile, she exclaimed: “Well, if
this is not affecting superiority, I do not understand you at all!—What
must I say to you? I was wrong to defend Oscar, he is unfortunately
a—a—great reprobate, I suppose, but he is my cousin, my only cousin, and
I admire him more than anyone I have ever seen.”

“You had better tell him so,” said Hamilton, ironically.

“It is not necessary, he is perfectly aware of his advantages,” she
replied in the same tone.

“So I perceived at the races to-day.”

“That he did not please you I saw at once,” said Hildegarde, playing
with the lock of the door. “You looked so unfriendly and haughty that
the Hoffmanns could hardly believe all I said in your praise.”

“So you undertook my defence,” said Hamilton quickly.

“Of course, I always defend the absent, especially when they are
censured by people who do not know them. If Oscar had not been attacked
this evening, I should never have attempted to take his part—Perhaps you
don’t believe me?”

“I do believe you—but I cannot understand how Madame de Hoffmann could
allow him to speak so freely.”

“She is very deaf and he was seated at the pianoforte; Marie at one side
of him, and I at the other—he spoke very gently, and sometimes played a
few chords, which gave the appearance of a sort of recitation. Exactly
what I imagined an improvisatore must be! I am sure he would make an
excellent actor!”

“And I am sure he will prove a dangerous man,” said Hamilton.

“If he keeps his promises, Marie will nevertheless be very happy with
him—he is a person one must admire, and might easily love—but I am
keeping you from writing, and I dare say you would rather hear what I
have to say to-morrow.”

“By no means—if you have anything more to say, I should like to hear
it.”

“Oh, yes, I want to speak to you—about myself, not Oscar.”

“A much more interesting subject,” observed Hamilton.

“But then,” said Hildegarde, hesitating, “you will probably give me some
severe answer, and make me repent my humility.”

“I promise to give you no severe answer,” said Hamilton, exceedingly
flattered.

“Then I must beg of you to forget what I said just now. I am quite aware
that I have more faults than people generally have, and if you will take
the trouble to correct them, I shall be obliged to you. I have spent
almost the whole of my life at school among girls of my own age, so, of
course, I must know very little of the manners and customs of the world.
I see Crescenz’s simplicity quickly enough, and to avoid falling into
her errors, I try to act differently in every respect. Now, Crescenz,
with all her weaknesses, makes herself beloved—not more than she
deserves, for she is the most amiable creature in the world, while I am
universally disliked. I think, therefore, that something must be wrong;
I have no person whose advice I can ask. Papa overrates as much as mamma
underrates me, and neither of them understands me at all. Do you
remember one evening mamma’s saying that you, as an unbiassed looker-on,
could judge between us? I refused you as arbitrator then, because I knew
you liked mamma better than me; but I am now willing to accept of you as
judge, Mentor, or whatever you please, for I am convinced that you only
dislike me just enough to see my faults without exaggerating them; so I
promise to bear your corrections with as much patience as my natural
impatience will allow.”

During this speech Hamilton had been leaning against the wall,
endeavouring to look as sage as Hildegarde evidently thought him; his
eyes were bent on the ground, but a smile of ineffable satisfaction
played round his mouth. Not for a moment did he hesitate to undertake
the dangerous task. He would direct her studies, correct her faults, and
make her mind as perfect as her form! What words he made use of to
express this most magnanimous resolution he himself never could
recollect; that he had spoken intelligibly was evident, for Hildegarde
held out her hand and smiled brilliantly as she once more turned to the
door. “I think,” she said, with some hesitation, “I think I could sleep
more soundly to-night if you would begin your office at once, and tell
me what I have done to-day that is reprehensible.”

“I must of course, if you desire it.”

“Let me guess. It is not Oscar’s defence?”

“No; we have already discussed that subject,” replied Hamilton.

“My—my losing my temper this evening, when mamma made the remark about
Oscar’s saying she was his aunt?”

Hamilton shook his head.

“Well, then, my obstinacy about reading the book?”

“Humph!—obstinacy is certainly a fault, but was not what I meant on the
present occasion.”

“Ah! now I know—because I asked you for a candle, and as I did not tell
mamma I could get one from you, you think that I have acted
dishonourably? Perhaps you are right, so I shall not take it, but go to
bed in the dark as a punishment. Are you satisfied?”

“I ought to be, for you have not only confessed your fault, but imposed
penance on yourself; and yet I must still say that you have not
discovered the error to which I alluded.”

“Then, now you must tell me, for I can think of nothing else.”

“Is it possible,” said Hamilton, the colour as usual, mounting
impetuously to his forehead, “is it possible that you are not aware of
the impropriety of coming to my room at this hour?”

“I—I—came for—for the candle,” stammered Hildegarde, in painful
confusion.

“I know you did; but you have remained here some time, and people——”

“Let me go—let me go,” she cried, impatiently pushing back the hand
which he had placed on the lock of the door in order to have time to add
a few words. “Let me go; I desire—I insist.”

He drew back, and she rushed past him into the dark passage without
turning round or stopping until she reached the door of her room. He
merely waited until she entered, and then once more sat down to write.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XVI.

              THE AU FAIR, AND THE SUPPER AT THE BREWERY.


“WILL you go with us to the Au fair?” said Madame Rosenberg to Hamilton,
the next day, after dinner.

“Of course, but what is the Au? I never heard of it?”

“One of the suburbs—at the other side of the Isar. There is a beautiful
Gothic church there, which you can look at while I buy ticking to make
Crescenz a mattress.”

“When do we set out?”

“The sooner the better, for the Major has proposed a party to the
Stuberwoll Brewery afterwards; we are to sup there.”

“At the brewery?”

“Yes; the Major says the beer is excellent, and the roast geese
delicious; Rosenberg enjoys the idea, of all things; he has a passion
for roast goose!”

“Oh, what fun!” cried Gustavus, jumping about the room. “Mamma has
promised to take me with her. It is a pity that Fritz has gone to
grandpapa.”

“And may I go too?” asked Peppy.

“You are too young,” replied his brother, demurely; “you cannot walk so
far.”

“I can, I can,” cried Peppy, commencing a roar.

“Hush,” said Madame Rosenberg; “what is the child crying about?”

“Peppy wishes to go with us, mamma,” said Crescenz; “I will take charge
of him, if you have no objection.”

“You will probably have to carry him half the way home; but you may do
as you please,” replied her mother with a smile of satisfaction
strangely in contradiction to her words. “Off, and get ready, all of
you.”

There was a joyous and noisy rush down the passage, while Madame
Rosenberg, turning to Hamilton, observed: “A very good girl is Crescenz.
She shall not be a loser for liking my boys, that is certain.”

Madame Rosenberg was herself always the last to appear; she generally
dressed her children, and had a long consultation with her cook before
she went out. Hamilton found the rest of the party, with the exception
of Hildegarde, assembled in the drawing-room, and it was not long before
he observed that Crescenz was making him the most unaccountable signs
and grimaces. He approached her, apparently occupied in forcing his
fingers into a tight glove, and said in French, “Why are you making such
horrible faces?”

Crescenz laughed good-humouredly, but while pretending to look at his
glove, answered hurriedly: “Hildegarde is at the Hoffmanns to return the
book to Count Raimund. Go—go for her before mamma comes.”

He left the room, descended quickly the flights of stairs, stood before
the Hoffmanns’ apartments, and rang the bell. He now regretted not
having as yet visited them, for though he would have particularly liked
to see how Hildegarde and her cousin were occupied, he could not make
his appearance for the first time so unceremoniously, and was,
therefore, obliged to send in the servant with a request that
Mademoiselle Rosenberg would return home immediately. He thought he
heard Hildegarde speaking as the door opened, and perceived, from the
sound of the moving of chairs, that she was taking leave at once. Not
wishing to be seen, he left the passage where he had been standing, and
retired to the landing-place on the stairs without. Hildegarde was
accompanied by her cousin, who spoke French, that the servant might not
understand him: “Adieu, dearest Hildegarde; your step-mother may forbid
me her house, but she cannot change the course of nature, and prevent
our being cousins. I shall see you here, and often; promise me that at
least.”

Hildegarde was about to answer, when she perceived Hamilton. The two
young men bowed haughtily, mutual dislike legible in every feature.

“I suppose I may accompany you to the door, Hildegarde, even if it be
closed against me.”

“It is quite unnecessary,” she replied, moving up the stairs, evidently
endeavouring to get rid of him.

Raimund, however, followed, and, before he turned to descend, gently
took her hand and kissed it, with a mingled expression of respect and
admiration.

Hamilton scarcely waited for him to be out of hearing, before he
observed: “This, I suppose, is the most approved manner for cousins
German.”

“It is less remarkable than the manners of cousins English,” replied
Hildegarde. “I have not forgotten your meeting with yours at Salzburg.”

“That was after a separation of several months, and——”

“Yes; but it was something more than hand kissing, which means nothing
at all, you know, and, I hear, is rather going out of fashion.”

“And yet it is a pleasant fashion,” said Hamilton. “I never kissed
anyone’s hand, but should have no objection to make a beginning now.”

Hildegarde held out her hand without a moment’s hesitation.

“Not that one,” said Hamilton, hesitating; “your cousin’s kiss is still
upon it.”

The door opened suddenly, and she ran laughingly past him towards the
drawing-room, just in time to enter it before her mother.

A few minutes after, they were in the street, Hildegarde, as usual,
close to her father’s elbow, but without taking his arm. Hamilton at
first imagined Mr. Rosenberg’s presence would be a restraint, but he
found, on the contrary, that he encouraged Hildegarde to talk and give
her opinion freely, enjoying even nonsense when it came from her lips,
and laughing with a heartiness which Hamilton had imagined impossible
for a person who had always appeared so calm and reserved. Everything
and everybody who passed afforded amusement; it was in vain Madame
Rosenberg called to order; the laugh was partly stifled for a moment, to
be renewed the next with double zest. Hamilton was extremely surprised,
and began to think he should never be able to understand her character,
and yet the simple fact was merely, that, being naturally gay, she only
required the certainty of being able to please to induce her to yield to
her innate inclination. She was not herself aware of this, for, on
Hamilton’s making some remark to express his surprise, she said: “She
believed she was only by degrees getting over the restraint of her
school habits, all conversation being forbidden there, excepting during
the recreation hours.”

The crowd at the fair was immense. It was the first time Hamilton had
seen anything of the kind, and he found it difficult to believe that in
the paltry booths around him there could be anything for sale as good as
might be had with less trouble in the town. The noise, the talking, and
the bargaining amused him not a little, especially the latter; and he
stood beside Madame Rosenberg for more than half an hour, while she
haggled about the price of some muslin. At the end of this time she was
at the point of walking off, (or, as she explained afterwards,
pretending to do so,) when the shopman called her back, and with an
assurance that he was giving her the “article” for next to nothing,
prepared to measure what she required. This was a bargain! She had
gained twenty-one kreutzers, about seven pence, and had the annoyance of
carrying a large package home, for porters there were none. To anyone
accustomed to English tradesmen, the almost positive necessity of
bargaining in the generality of German shops is extremely tiresome and
disagreeable. It is more than probable that the tradesmen would gladly
establish fixed prices, were not the habits of bargaining as yet too
strong in the middle and lower orders to be overcome.

The vociferous invitations of the Jews to inspect their wares were
equally novel to Hamilton. “Ladies, step here, if you please. Cheap
gloves, elegant ribbons, scissors, bracelets, or soap. Have I nothing
that I may show you, madame? Flannels, merinos, or cloth for the young
gentlemen? Winter is coming, madame, and I promise you as great bargains
as you will get anywhere!”

To all these speeches Madame Rosenberg gave an answer, generally of a
facetious description; and while Hamilton thought her more than usually
vulgar, he sometimes could not avoid laughing, the more so as everything
she said was taken in good part, and a few words seemed to reconcile the
vendors to her passing their booths without purchasing. The two little
boys had become weary and hungry; they leaned against the counters,
occasionally upset the piles of goods ranged outside the booths, cuffed
each other when their mother was not watching them, and when forced to
stand quietly beside her, yawned until the tears ran down their cheeks.
Hamilton took pity on them, and finding a toyshop, soon filled their
pockets and hands with playthings, making them by many degrees the
happiest of the whole party.

“So!” cried Madame Rosenberg, as they returned to her, radiant with
smiles, “this is what you have been about; I thought Mr. Hamilton had
gone to look at the church. We must all go together, it seems, and the
less time we lose there the better, for the days are short, and we have
a long walk home after supper.”

They were not exactly the persons with whom Hamilton could enjoy seeing
anything of the kind, and on entering the church he walked up the aisle
alone. They all, however, followed him, and Crescenz observed, in a
dissatisfied tone of voice, “And is this the church that everyone
admires so much? It is not half so handsome as the _Allerheiligen_. I
declare, if it were not for the painted windows with the sun shining
through them, I should say it was the most sombre church I had ever
seen.”

“You have seen very few, my dear,” said her father, looking round him,
and drawing nearer Hamilton.

“I have seen all the churches in Munich,” said Crescenz, “and several of
them are larger than this.”

“It would be difficult to form an opinion of the size of this building,”
said Hamilton, thoughtfully, “for the proportions are so admirably
observed that nothing strikes the eye or distinguishes itself above the
rest. There is no point from which one can take a mental measure, and I
am convinced it appears infinitely smaller than it really is.”

“But I expected to see a quantity of painted pillars, and bright
colours, and gilding, when I heard it was Gothic,” observed Crescenz.

“I know nothing of architecture,” said Hamilton, turning to Mr.
Rosenberg, “but I form exactly a contrary idea when I hear of a Gothic
church; the painted windows are the only colours which are admissible
without destroying my ideal.”

“And yet,” said Mr. Rosenberg, “Gothic buildings often combined colour
with form. In northern countries, either from stricter simplicity of
taste, or on account of the climate, the absence of colours is usual,
and sculpture takes their place; but in the south, beside the painted
ceilings, mosaics, and frescoes inside, the outsides of the churches
were ornamented with coloured marble. It is a mistake to suppose that
the Gothic and Byzantine architecture refused the assistance of colours;
on the contrary, the most brilliant and strongly contrasted painting is
common. To begin with the windows——”

“Rather let us dispense with them altogether,” said his wife, moving
towards the door.

“I have no objection,” said Mr. Rosenberg, turning round to look back
into the church, “for they do not suit the grey monotony of the walls,
and the gaudy colours playing so uncertainly on the cold surface have
something, to me, altogether disharmonious. In almost all the old
cathedrals,” he added, “the walls and pillars were formerly gorgeously
painted; and it is only in the later centuries that, either from want of
taste or poverty, they have been whitewashed.”

“I was not aware of that,” said Hamilton. “It cannot, however, make me
change my ideas all at once. A Gothic church is always handsome, with
its light pillars and pointed steeple and windows. I have never
travelled in southern countries, and my taste for bright colours has not
yet been made. Since I have been in Munich, I have begun merely to
tolerate them by degrees; and for this reason paintings of the Middle
Ages do not please me, no matter how celebrated they may be. I cannot
endure the bright red and blue draperies, or the terribly shining gold
backgrounds which are so common in those pictures. I dare say it is
great want of taste on my part, but the hard outlines appear to be
unnatural, and the glaring colours offensive.”

“Very probably, when viewed deliberately in a picture-gallery; but
exactly these pictures were intended for churches, and churches with
painted walls. You must allow that duller colours would have appeared
weak, or would have been completely lost, when submitted to the glowing
stream of light which would have fallen on them from windows of blue,
red, and amber-coloured glass!”

“All this never occurred to me,” said Hamilton; “but I suspect, as you
so warmly defend these bright colours, that you have seen and admired
them in more southern climes. Have you been in Italy?”

“Many years,” he replied, while a sudden flush passed across his face.

“Papa has been in Spain and in Greece too,” said Hildegarde.

“And yet you never speak of your travels!” exclaimed Hamilton,
surprised.

“Because I regret them,” said Mr. Rosenberg, sorrowfully. “I did not
travel expensively, and yet I wasted my whole patrimony and the best
years of my life in foreign countries. I know not what I should have
become at last, had I not by chance met Hildegarde’s mother in Tyrol.”

“She—she was probably very beautiful,” said Hamilton, glancing
unconsciously towards their companion.

“No,” replied Mr. Rosenberg, thoughtfully. “She was interesting looking,
but no longer young when we married. She was clever and
warm-hearted—like Hildegarde here—and could love with a warmth perfectly
irresistible to a man who had wandered for years, and was without a
friend or near relation in the world. She gave me an object in life; but
her affection, though of incalculable benefit to me, subjected her to
trials and privations which only ended with her life. I was not worthy
of such love!”

“Oh, papa! I am sure you were,” cried Hildegarde, eagerly. “And what are
trials and privations when shared with those we love! It must be a
compensation for everything when one is really loved! I should like
someone to love me—not in a commonplace, rational, every-day sort of
way—but permanently—desperately——”

“My dear girl, you don’t know what you are saying! What will Mr.
Hamilton think of you!”

“He will think I am talking nonsense,” replied Hildegarde, laughing,
“or, perhaps he will not understand me. Mr. Hamilton is much too
rational to love unwisely—and as to passion of desperation, I do not
think it possible for him to form a tolerably correct idea of the
meaning of the words!”

“Hello!” shouted Major Stultz, “where are you three going? We are all
waiting for you, and the roast goose is nearly ready.”

They turned back and Hildegarde said in a low voice to Hamilton, as they
passed through the yard of the brewery, “I am glad that there are not
many people here, for, though I like a garden party exceedingly, I think
supping in a brewery must be vulgar. I wonder you came with us!”

“I like to see everything,” replied Hamilton, “and besides a man may go
anywhere and everywhere.”

“Ah, how I should like to be a man!” she said sighing.

“You are too young for such a wish,” said Hamilton; “rather like the
Prince de Linge, desire to be a woman until you are thirty, a soldier
until you are fifty, and to spend the rest of your life as a monk.”

“I think,” said Madame Rosenberg, bustling past them, “I think that as
the evening air is cool, we had better take possession of the little
room at the end of the garden; there is a window in it which looks out
on the road, and we can see everybody who goes by. Do you remember,
Franz, we supped there with my father on pork-chops and _sauer-kraut_
the evening before we were married?”

Mr. Rosenberg’s previous conversation seemed to have made him somewhat
oblivious—he confessed having forgotten the pork-chops, but said that he
had probably thought more of her than of them, at such a time.

“I don’t know that,” said his wife, “for you scarcely spoke a word, and
eat enormously. Now that I think of it, I dare say that was the reason
you looked so miserably ill the next day.”

“I dare say it was,” replied Mr. Rosenberg, rubbing his forehead
hastily, and then turning to little Peppy, who was dragging from his
pocket the toys given him by Hamilton.

“Ah, those are childish things,” cried Gustavus, pushing him aside, and
leaning against his father’s arm, while he endeavoured, with more haste
than dexterity, to open a little wooden box. “Those are childish things,
but here are swans and fish made to follow a magnet, and they swim about
in the water as if they were alive. Crescenz says I may swim them in her
basin to-morrow.”

“Papa, look at my drum,” cried Peppy, in his turn endeavouring to push
aside his brother, “look at the nice large drum which Hamilton has given
me.”

“Say Monsieur de Hamilton, or Herr von Hamilton,” said Madame Rosenberg;
“you and Gustle take great liberties.”

“We have no _von_ in England,” said Hamilton, slightly colouring, “and
if the children may not call me Hamilton, I must teach them my Christian
name.”

“What _is_ your Christian name?” asked Gustle.

“Alfred. I hope you like it?”

“And what is your name?” asked Crescenz, turning to Major Stultz.

“My name is Blazius.”

“Blazes!” cried Hamilton. “What an odd name!”

“Not at all odd,” said Major Stultz, “the name is a good one, to be
found in all almanacks on the third of February, which is my name’s day.
Next year, I expect it to be properly celebrated too—eh, Crescenz?”

Crescenz as usual smiled, but looked embarrassed, and was evidently
greatly relieved by the entrance of the roast goose and salad.

They supped, and Mr. Rosenberg and Hamilton had just lit their cigars,
and Major Stultz drawn forth a pocket edition of a meerschaum pipe,
which he prepared to smoke as an accompaniment to his third tankard of
beer, when the sound of a number of gay loud voices, and approaching
steps, made Madame Rosenberg hastily open the window which looked into
the garden, and stretch her long thin neck to its utmost extent. She
seemed half vexed as she drew back again, exclaiming: “Well, to be sure!
wherever we go—we are sure to see him. If he were alone, I shouldn’t
care a straw; but he will, no doubt, bring all the others with him.”

“Who?” asked Mr. Rosenberg, very quietly continuing to puff at his
newly-lighted cigar.

“Count Zedwitz, of course—he is always sure to find out where we are
going, and pursues us like a shadow!” replied his wife, glancing
half-suspiciously towards Hildegarde, who, however, sprang from her
chair with even more than her usual vivacity, while she said to
Hamilton: “Can you not assist us to escape? This window is so close to
the ground that I think we could easily leap on the road. Pray persuade
mamma to walk home with us, and leave papa to follow.”

Hamilton threw open the window, and in a moment was on the ground,
holding up his arm towards her; she sprang down lightly without
assistance, the two boys followed, but when it came to Crescenz’s turn,
she drew back, saying she was afraid.

“Oh, Crescenz! choose some other time and some better occasion for
timidity,” cried Hildegarde, impatiently.

“If you cannot jump, make a long step,” said Madame Rosenberg, laughing,
while she put her advice in practice by extending towards the ground
nearly a yard of formless bone, and with Hamilton’s assistance, and a
slight totter, reached the road.

A tremendous clatter of swords in the garden seemed to alarm Crescenz;
she threw herself completely upon Hamilton; and while he was
endeavouring to place her steadily on her feet, the sound of wheels made
him look around. A dark-green open carriage was at the moment turning
round, and in the corner of it, vainly endeavouring to suppress a fit of
laughter, sat A. Z.

Hamilton coloured violently as he approached her, and expressed his
astonishment at seeing her at Munich.

“Herrmann called on you a couple of hours ago,” she replied, “but you
were not at home; and as we only remain a few days here, and I may not
see you again, I must not forget to renew my invitation to Hohenfels.
You must not, however, expect to see an English country-house, a park,
or anything of that kind—prepare yourself for one of the simplest of
German establishments, if you do not wish to be horribly disappointed. I
should like you to see Hohenfels before the snow comes on, or after it
is gone. When will you come to us?”

“In spring, if you please,” said Hamilton, “I have at present so many
engagements——”

“I need not ask you to drive back with me,” she said, looking after the
Rosenbergs, “but I can take those children and leave them at home—it is
a great distance for them to walk.”

Hamilton was the bearer of a message to Madame Rosenberg, who no sooner
heard of the proposal than she turned, back, approached the carriage,
and commenced such a torrent of exaggerated thanks and apologies,
accompanied by curtsies and bows, that Hamilton, who had lately begun to
feel a sincere regard for her, was vexed, and looked at A. Z. as if to
deprecate her mirth, while he silently lifted the two boys into the
carriage.

It was unnecessary. A. Z. seemed to find nothing unusual in Madame
Rosenberg’s manner; and when the latter raised her finger threateningly,
and told the children, “For their life to keep quiet, and not soil the
baroness’s beautiful silk dress,” she replied, quietly, that “she was
well accustomed to such youthful company to be in the least
inconvenienced by a pair of dusty little shoes more or less.”

“An exceedingly civil person,” observed Madame Rosenberg, as the
carriage drew off, “an exceedingly civil person is your countrywoman. I
am sorry we did not get better acquainted at Seon, for I liked her a
great deal better than those Zedwitzes, who were uncommonly grand, and
seemed to think their son demeaned himself when he spoke to our girls. I
did not court his company, I am sure, and I let him see it.”

“It is hardly just to make him suffer for his parents’ faults of
manner,” said Hamilton; “Zedwitz is extremely gentlemanlike and
good-humoured, and has not a particle of pride in his composition. Will
you not assist me to defend the absent?” he added, turning somewhat
maliciously to Hildegarde.

“My defence would be as injudicious as useless,” she said, but in so low
a voice that only Hamilton could hear her words; “he is indeed all you
have said, and much more—excellent in every respect, I believe.”

“You do him justice,” began Hamilton, though he would have preferred
praise less warm in its expression; but at this moment they were
overtaken by Mr. Rosenberg and Major Stultz, accompanied, to the
surprise of all, by Count Zedwitz and Count Raimund.

“I have brought you two of the party from whom you ran away,” said Mr.
Rosenberg, laughing, as he joined them. “Count Zedwitz came into the
room just in time to see Crescenz fly out of the window, and both he and
Count Raimund prefer walking home with us to drinking the superlatively
excellent Stuberwoll beer, although I praised it as it deserved.”

“It was truly delicious,” said Major Stultz. “I should have had no
objection to another glass.”

“Hildegarde! Crescenz!” cried Mr. Rosenberg, “this is your cousin, Count
Raimund.”

Crescenz turned round and blushed. Hildegarde took her usual place
beside her father, while she said, without hesitation, that she had
already made her cousin’s acquaintance at the Hoffmanns’. Hamilton saw a
glance of such meaning pass between them as she spoke, that he
indignantly walked forward towards Madame Rosenberg. Major Stultz and
Crescenz soon joined them; and the former explained that Count Raimund
had, in the free-and-easiest manner possible, claimed relationship with
Mr. Rosenberg. That he had spoken of his aunt—said that he recollected
her perfectly—hoped he would present him to his cousins and his present
wife, and allow him occasionally to visit his family.

“And Franz was as usual all civility,” said Madame Rosenberg, with
considerable irritation.

“Why, to tell you the truth, it was not easy to be otherwise,” replied
Major Stultz; “his manner was so off-hand and sincere when he said that
he trusted Rosenberg would not make him a sufferer for family
differences which had occurred when he was a mere child. They shook
hands, and I was obliged to do the same, as he congratulated me on my
approaching marriage, and said——” here Major Stultz diligently sought
for his pocket handkerchief, as he spoke—“said he was particularly happy
at the prospect of being so nearly allied to an officer of whose
personal bravery he had heard so much—or something to that purport.”

“It is too late to attempt opposition now,” said Madame Rosenberg. “I
intended to have refused his acquaintance, and forbidden him our house,
without ever mentioning his name—it is now impossible. As to Franz, he
has acted exactly as was to be expected; but after all you said
yesterday evening I did not think you would cultivate his acquaintance,
on Crescenz’s account.”

“Crescenz will, I hope, do me the favour not to speak much to him,”
began Major Stultz; but Crescenz interrupted him by exclaiming, in a
voice wavering between crying and laughing:

“I shall really be obliged to talk to myself at last! Every day a new
prohibition!”

“What does the child mean?” said Madame Rosenberg, appealing to Major
Stultz, whose colour visibly deepened. “What on earth does she mean? Has
she not her brothers, her sisters, and you, and Mr. Hamilton to talk
to?”

“No!” cried Crescenz, while tears of vexation started to her eyes, “he
forbid my speaking to Mr. Hamilton before we came out to-day; and I am
sure I don’t know why!”

“Then I must tell you why,” said Major Stultz, restrained anger evident
in the tone of his voice. “It is because I have just begun to discover
that you give yourself a vast deal too much trouble to please this Mr.
Hamilton—your—your vanity is insatiable; and, I must say, you are the
greatest coquette I ever saw!”

Crescenz burst into tears.

Major Stultz seemed immediately to repent his speech. He attempted to
draw Crescenz’s arm within his, while he commenced an agitated apology;
but she shrank from him, and between suppressed sobs stammered, “If—if
such be your opinion—of me—the—the sooner we break off our engagement
the—the better.”

“Crescenz, are you mad!” cried her step-mother, catching her arm, but
Crescenz broke from her, and hurried on alone.

“Oh, pray, Mr. Hamilton, do have the kindness to talk a little reason to
that headstrong girl,” said Madame Rosenberg, turning to Hamilton, who
had been walking close behind them.

“Excuse me,” he said, quietly. “Now that I know Major Stultz’s wishes on
the subject from himself, he may be quite sure of my not speaking much
to Mademoiselle Crescenz in future. I have no right whatever to
interfere with his claims.”

“We know you never thought of such a thing. Don’t we, Major!”

“Mr. Hamilton certainly admired Crescenz when at Seon,” observed Major
Stultz, sullenly.

“A mere jealous fancy on your part,” said Madame Rosenberg, eagerly.

“Not quite,” said Hamilton, “I plead guilty to the charge; in fact, I
admire every pretty face I see, and both Mademoiselle Crescenz and her
sister are remarkably handsome.”

“You see Mr. Hamilton treats the whole affair as a joke.”

“It is no joke to me, however—I have been a precipitate fool, and ought
never to have thought of marrying such a girl as Crescenz—perhaps I do
Mr. Hamilton injustice—but——”

“I am sure you do,” cried Madame Rosenberg, interrupting him, and then
touching Hamilton’s elbow, she whispered, “Say something to him.”

“What can I say? Major Stultz can hardly expect that because he intends
to marry a very pretty girl, everyone is to find her ugly and
disagreeable, in order not to provoke his jealousy! I can avoid speaking
to her, but I cannot think her one bit less pretty than she really is.”

“Come now, Mr. Hamilton,” said Madame Rosenberg, jocosely, “I see you
are trying to tease the Major, but you must not go too far, or he will
not understand you. Crescenz is very good-looking, but I have no doubt
you have seen many prettier girls in England.” She turned towards him
once more, and said in a very low voice: “I shall be greatly obliged if
you will say that you admire Hildegarde still more than her sister.”

Hamilton found no difficulty in complying with her request, and was so
eloquent on the theme given him, that he not only convinced Major Stultz
that he had been mistaken, but induced him even to banter him on his
apparently hopeless love. Madame Rosenberg did not wait for this result;
she no sooner perceived that Hamilton intended to comply with her
request than she walked on beside Crescenz, and began a severe
reprimand. Had she delayed a few minutes, she would have found the young
lady more disposed to listen to her and profit by her advice.

Unfortunately, Crescenz had overheard what Hamilton had said before
Hildegarde’s name was mentioned, and her mind, buoyed up on a thousand
vague hopes, would not now yield to the pressing reasonings of her
mother; she said sullenly, “that Major Stultz was intolerably
jealous—that his age rendered him unable to make allowances for younger
people, and that he expected more than was reasonable if he thought she
could marry him for any other cause than in order to obtain a home. She
would tell him so the first convenient opportunity.”

“You will tell him no such thing,” cried Madame Rosenberg, turning back,
in order to try the effect of her eloquence on Major Stultz. She was a
clumsy maneuvrer—but she generally gained her point, for she always
meant well, and at times spoke with much worldly wisdom. On the present
occasion, she took her future son-in-law’s arm, and walked quickly on
with him, leaving Hamilton, to his great annoyance, with Crescenz. He
would willingly have joined the others, but there were too many to walk
abreast, and neither Zedwitz nor Raimund seemed disposed to resign their
places.

They walked together in silence for some time, Crescenz with an air of
triumphant satisfaction, Hamilton with ill-concealed impatience.

“I hope,” she began at last, “I hope that I have seriously offended
Major Stultz this evening: nothing would give me greater pleasure than
the breaking off of this odious engagement.”

“It would have been more honourable had you done so before you left
Seon.”

“Better late than never,” said Crescenz, gayly.

“To act dishonourably, do you mean?” asked Hamilton, gravely.

“Ah, bah!” cried Crescenz, with imperturbable good-humour. “You are
talking exactly like Hildegarde, now.”

“You are not acting as Hildegarde would,” said Hamilton, still more
seriously.

“Don’t praise her too much, you are out of favour with her just now, I
can tell you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hamilton, quickly.

“I mean that I am sure you must have been very uncivil to her last night
when you refused her the candle, for she cried a good half-hour before
she went to bed; and Hildegarde does not cry for nothing! Perhaps if I
had gone for the candle, you would have given it.”

“Perhaps,” answered Hamilton, absently.

“I am sure you would,” she persisted.

“Oh, of course, of course.”

“Well, I told her so, and wanted to get up and go to you—but she would
not allow me.”

“She was right,” said Hamilton, endeavouring to overtake Madame
Rosenberg, while she was speaking.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake don’t bring me again to mamma! I have been so
lectured by her already—perhaps you heard what she said?”

“No, I was speaking to Major Stultz.”

“And _he_ was so—so very rude to me—you have no idea.”

“He told you some unpleasant truths.”

“Truths!” exclaimed Crescenz.

“Yes, truths,” repeated Hamilton. “You are very pretty, and very
good-natured, but you certainly are a—a coquette—what we call in England
a flirt.”

“Well, how odd!” exclaimed Crescenz. “Do you know—I don’t at all mind
your telling me that—and I was so very angry with him! I declare now I
should like to hear all my faults!”

“I dare say Major Stultz will enumerate them, if you desire it,” said
Hamilton, now determinedly joining Madame Rosenberg, and remaining
beside her the rest of the way home.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XVII.

                           LOVERS’ QUARRELS.


THE moon was shining brightly on their house, as they lingered in the
street to speak a few parting words. Mademoiselle de Hoffmann sat at an
open window, and gazed pensively upwards.

“Should you not like to know the thoughts of your betrothed at this
moment?” asked Mr. Rosenberg, turning to Raimund.

“Not at all,” he replied, carelessly glancing towards the house, “I am
sure they are commonplace, for a more matter-of-fact person does not
exist than Marie de Hoffmann.”

“So,” cried Zedwitz, “it is really true that you are going to be
married! I am glad to hear it, and congratulate you with all my heart.”

“Thank you,” said Raimund musingly, while he turned from Zedwitz to
Hamilton, and then to Hildegarde, as if they, and not Mademoiselle de
Hoffmann, occupied his thoughts.

“When is it to take place?” asked Zedwitz.

“What! ah! my execution? Some time in January, they say; I wish it were
sooner.”

“Of course you do,” said Zedwitz, laughing.

“That is,” said Raimund, the colour mounting to his forehead, “I am
afraid, if it be put off long, I shall get tired of the concern, and in
the end prove refractory.”

Mademoiselle de Hoffmann had recognised and now addressed them from the
window. Raimund was invited to supper, and entered the house with the
Rosenbergs, while Mr. Rosenberg, who never spent an evening at home,
walked off with Zedwitz.

The moonlight was so bright in the drawing-room, that on entering Madame
Rosenberg declared it would be folly to light the candles. She gave
Crescenz a gentle push into the adjoining room, telling her to “be a
good girl, and make up her quarrel with the Major,” and then went to
“look after her boys.”

Hamilton looked out of the window, and hummed an air from _Fra Diavolo_.

“I am very tired,” said Hildegarde, taking off her bonnet; “our walk has
been long and dusty: and besides I have talked a great deal, which is
always fatiguing,”—she stood beside and leaned out of the window with
him.

Hamilton’s hum degenerated into a half-suppressed whistle, accompanied
by a drumming on the window-cushion, while his upturned eyes were fixed
on the moon. They remained several minutes without speaking, until a
murmuring of voices from the window beneath them attracted their
attention. Hamilton leaned farther out to see the speakers, but on
recognising Count Raimund and Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, he drew back
with a slightly contemptuous smile, while he said, “Your cousin’s
observations this evening on his intended bride were by no means
flattering.”

“He scarcely knows her yet,” said Hildegarde, seating herself on the
window-stool.

“Scarcely knows the person to whom he is to be married!” exclaimed
Hamilton. “You Germans have the oddest ideas on these subjects.”

“I see nothing odd in the matter; it is an acknowledged _mariage de
convenance_. Oscar proposes to marry Mademoiselle de Hoffmann because he
has debts and she has a large fortune; and she accepts him because she
is not very young, and not at all pretty, and wishes for a good
connection; they are not, however, to be married until January, and are
to endeavour in the meantime to like each other as much as possible. Can
anything be more reasonable?”

“Nothing, excepting, perhaps, their having delayed their engagement
until the trial was over. I should like amazingly to know what the
sensations of a man may be who sees, for the first time, a person to
whom he is beforehand engaged to be married. A lady in such a situation
is still more awkwardly placed.”

“There was no awkwardness whatever in this case. Marie was pointed out
to Oscar in the theatre, he did not find that her appearance was
disagreeable, heard that she was amiable, and consented to marry her.
His father made the proposal for him, and Marie was given a whole week
to consider before she was required to decide.”

“A _whole_ week!” repeated Hamilton, laughing ironically.

Hildegarde rose abruptly, and was about to leave the window, when he
exclaimed, “Excuse my ignorance of German customs. I am really
interested in what you have been telling me, and should like to know
what finally induced Mademoiselle de Hoffmann to accept your cousin.”

“What induced her! They met at the house of a mutual friend, and though
you do not know how agreeable Oscar can be when he chooses, you—you must
have perceived that he is uncommonly good-looking.”

“Why, yes, he certainly is not ugly; but good looks on the part of a man
is a matter of minor importance!”

“A handsome face is always an advantage. Don’t you think so?” asked
Hildegarde, laughing.

“An advantage? oh, certainly; but from what you have told me of
Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, I thought her far too rational to attach much
importance to personal advantages. I should have imagined her just the
sort of a person to appreciate a man like Zedwitz.”

“You do her but justice,” said Hildegarde; “and I think that, were she
given the choice, with time and opportunity to form an opinion, she
would decide in favour of Count Zedwitz; but he has no debts, requires
no fortune, and is not likely to marry in this way; he certainly will
not employ his father as suitor!”

“You seem to know him thoroughly; I was not aware that you had such an
exalted opinion of him until to-day,” said Hamilton, biting his lip.

“If we had ever spoken of him when mamma was not present, I should not
have hesitated to say that, with the exception of my father, I do not
think there is a more amiable or generous-minded person in the world
than he is.”

Hamilton attempted to smile, in order to hide the jealousy which at the
moment he keenly felt, and answered with affected eagerness, “Will you
allow me to tell Zedwitz what you have said? I know it will make him
inexpressibly happy.”

“No, thank you,” replied Hildegarde, calmly, though even in the pale
moonlight her deep blush was perceptible. “It is equally unimportant now
what he thinks of me or I of him.”

A pause ensued, which was broken by Hamilton saying abruptly, “If you
really think Zedwitz so estimable, may I ask you why you refused his
proposal of marriage the day we were on the alp?”

Hildegarde seemed utterly confounded, and remained silent.

“You may speak without reserve,” added Hamilton, “for Zedwitz has told
me everything.”

“I am not going to speak at all, unless,” she added, half laughing,
“unless you intend to begin your office of mentor; you seem altogether
to have forgotten that you undertook last night to tell me my faults,
and assist me to correct them. Have I done nothing reprehensible
to-day?”

“Yes,” replied Hamilton, “I saw you bestow on your cousin this evening
when he joined us a glance that gave me the idea of a previous
understanding with him——”

“Go on,” said Hildegarde.

“Can you not explain or exculpate yourself?” asked Hamilton with some
embarrassment.

“Oh, of course—but I thought you would naturally say something about my
having bestowed a glance of nearly the same kind on you, when mamma
talked of the pork-chops and my father’s illness the day of his
marriage; that was in fact more reprehensible than the other, and shall
not occur again.” She paused for a moment, and then continued: “When you
came for me to the Hoffmanns’ to-day, I had just returned that unlucky
book of poems to Oscar, and to prevent an unpleasant scene in our house,
I partly told him what mamma had said—he, however, resolved immediately
to try what he could do with papa, who he knew was too gentlemanlike to
be rude to him. I suppose he overheard me tell Marie where we were going
this evening, and followed—his success was complete, it seems, and I
could not resist the temptation to let him know that I perceived and was
glad of it. What else?” she asked, gayly.

“Your mother seemed to think it was odd that Zedwitz always knew where
you were to spend the evening. Have you ever in any way let him know,
or——”

“Really, this is too much,” cried Hildegarde, angrily; “I will not be
questioned in this manner—or on this subject——”

“You are right,” said Hamilton, quietly, “and I resign my most absurd
office of corrector and improver. You have, however, no just cause for
anger, for you not only proposed the plan yourself, but reminded me of
my promise.” He leaned out of the window, and had recourse again to _Fra
Diavolo_ and the moon.

“You are a horrible tyrant!” she exclaimed after a pause, “and I
suppose, if I leave your question unanswered, you will think me capable
of making Count Zedwitz acquainted with all our walking-parties!”

“What matters it what I think?” said Hamilton, without turning round.

“Your question is exceedingly offensive, and yet I must answer it, and
tell you that I am as much surprised as mamma at meeting him so often.
If I could avoid seeing him, I should greatly prefer it.”

“Indeed!” cried Hamilton. “Then you have no wish to renew the—the——”

“None whatever,” replied Hildegarde, smiling.

“But if you think so highly of him,” persisted Hamilton, “surely you
must like him!”

“Like him!” she repeated, “why, have I not told you that I like him
exceedingly?”

“Something to that purport, certainly,” said Hamilton; “you are
altogether inexplicable, and I dare not ask an explanation.”

“You have no right,” said Hildegarde; “what occurred before yesterday
does not come under your cognisance.”

“I am completely at fault,” said Hamilton, in a low voice, as if
reasoning with himself. “Zedwitz told me that you had said you liked him
as an acquaintance, but nothing more. This, I know, is not the case;
therefore there must be some misunderstanding—he suspected a prior
attachment, but that seemed to me improbable.”

“Rather say impossible,” cried Hildegarde, laughing, “for the object of
it must have been either Major Stultz—or you! ha, ha, ha!”

Hamilton did not laugh with her, and another long pause ensued—his
jealousy, or, as he to himself termed it, his curiosity, prompted him to
make another effort, and he again began: “I told Zedwitz he ought not to
resign all hope; that probably the fear of opposition on the part of his
family had influenced you.” He stopped, for Hildegarde bit her lip, and
seemed agitated. She stood up—sat down—stood up again—and after a
moment’s hesitation, said, “I do not know whether I had better tell you
all or nothing.”

“Tell me all,” cried Hamilton, eagerly; “no one can feel more interested
than I do, in everything that concerns you.”

“The all is easily told,” she said, slowly—“I have no confession to
make. You were right in your supposition—it would be dreadful to me to
enter a family unwilling to receive me, for I am very proud, and his
mother’s unnecessary haughtiness—rudeness, I may say, to us all at Seon,
showed me what I might expect. It was her evident avoidance of me that
made me first aware of his intentions.”

“So,” Hamilton almost whistled, while an indefinable sensation of actual
bodily pain passed through his frame, “so after all you loved him!”

“No,” replied Hildegarde, turning away, “but I believe I could in time
have loved him.”

“No doubt,” said Hamilton, sarcastically, “with his parents’ consent the
match would be unexceptionable, and I only wonder you did not, on the
chance, make a secret engagement with him. The old Count is killing
himself as fast as he can with cold water, and were he once out of the
way, I suppose there would be little further difficulty. It is really a
pity you were so taken by surprise, that you had not time to think of
all this!”

Hildegarde’s eyes flashed, and, in a voice almost choked by contending
emotions, she exclaimed: “I deserve this insult for trusting you—these
insidious expressions of contempt are more than I can bear, and to
prevent a repetition of them, I now release you most willingly from your
promise of last night, and request you will in future altogether banish
me and my faults from your thoughts.”

Hamilton would gladly have revoked his last speech, had it been
possible—he felt that anger and jealousy had dictated every word—but it
was too late; Hildegarde gave him no time for a recantation, she had
left the room with even more than her usual impetuosity. He no longer
attempted to deceive himself as to the nature of his feelings towards
her; it only remained for him to consider how he should in future act.
That she did not care for him was evident, and the little advance which
he had made in her good opinion and confidence, he feared he had now
lost. For a moment he thought of a retreat to Vienna, but then the idea
of flying from an incidental and perfectly harmless flirtation was too
absurd! Besides—could he hope that chance would be again so favourable,
and place him on the same terms of intimacy with another family? It was
not to be expected; so he resolved to remain where he was—but to employ
his time differently. He would study more with Biedermann—attend
lectures at the university, ride, walk, call at the English
Ambassador’s, be presented at court, make acquaintance with the English
in Munich, and accept evening invitations. Hildegarde’s indifference
should be met with at least apparent indifference on his part, and he
would take care she should never discover the interest which he now knew
he could not help attaching to her most trifling actions. A low
murmuring of suppressed voices from the adjoining room, which he had
indistinctly heard, at length ceased altogether, leaving nothing but
footsteps of an occasional passenger through the solitary street to
break the silence of the night. He felt irritated and impatient, and,
hoping that a walk by moonlight might have a tranquillising effect, he
turned quickly from the window. Great was his astonishment on
discovering Crescenz standing beside him—tears stood in her eyes, as she
laid her hand on his arm to detain him, and said in a scarcely audible
voice, “I must ask you a question—will you answer me?”

“Certainly,” replied Hamilton, much surprised.

“Did you tell Major Stultz this evening that you had never admired—never
liked me?”

“No—I rather think I said I admired both you and your sister
exceedingly.”

“I know you did,” cried Crescenz, “I heard what you said, and remember
it perfectly—and now he—he wants to persuade me that I am mistaken, and
assures me you greatly prefer Hildegarde, and that you said so to him
most explicitly this evening!”

“Must I then account for every idle word!” cried Hamilton, impatiently.
“Surely it ought to be a matter of indifference to you what I said!”

“Hush—do not speak so loud—he is there.”

“Who?”

“Major Stultz. He is waiting for me. I have such reliance on you, that I
have told him I cannot believe what he has said. And now answer my
question quickly. Have you ceased to care for me? and do you prefer
Hildegarde?”

“Pshaw,” cried Hamilton, taking up his hat, and endeavouring to conceal
his embarrassment, “I like you both and admire you both; but when Major
Stultz was jealous this evening, I gave, of course, the preference to
Hildegarde.”

“Is this the very truth?” asked Crescenz.

Her manner was unusually serious, but Hamilton was not in the habit of
paying much attention to anything she said, and answered with a careless
laugh, “What importance you attach to such a trifle!”

“If you can laugh, I have indeed mistaken you!”

“What _do_ you mean?” asked Hamilton, exceedingly bored.

“At the beginning of our acquaintance,” said Crescenz, almost
whispering, “Hildegarde said you were amusing yourself at my expense;
this I am sure was not the case; but Major Stultz not only says that you
never cared for me, but insists that you have openly acknowledged a
preference for Hildegarde.”

“And if this were true?” said Hamilton, twirling his hat on the end of
his cane.

“If it be—I—can—never trust any man again!”

“A most excellent general rule, at all events; we are in fact not worthy
of trust, and your sister says I am not better than others, you know!”

“Is this your answer?” asked Crescenz.

“If you will consider it one I shall be infinitely obliged to you, for I
am really at a loss what to say.”

“It is enough,” she said, turning away.

“Stay!” cried Hamilton, perceiving at length that something unusual had
occurred. “Stay—and tell me quickly what is the matter. What have you
been saying to Major Stultz?”

“He accused me of liking some—other—better than I liked him—and I did
not deny it; he named you—and—and——”

“I understand,” said Hamilton, quickly; “and he told you that you were
slighted. Come, I will explain everything to him satisfactorily.”

They entered the next room, but Major Stultz was no longer there.

“He has gone to mamma!” cried Crescenz, clasping her hands, and then
sitting down, she added, with a sort of desperate resignation, “I don’t
care what happens now!”

“But I do,” cried Hamilton. “I will not be the cause, however innocent,
of separating you and Major Stultz. I see I must go to him this moment
and take the whole blame on myself; if you afterwards refuse to fulfil
your engagement with him, that is your affair. This must, however, be
the very last time we ever speak on this subject. It seems I must pay
dearly for my thoughtlessness; but it will be a lesson which I am not
likely to forget as long as I live.”

At one of the windows of the corridor Madame Rosenberg and Hildegarde
were standing—the former was speaking loudly and angrily. “I never knew
anything so absurd as Crescenz’s conduct! To choose Mr. Hamilton of all
people in the world for the object of a sentimental love! If she had not
been a simpleton, she might have easily perceived that he thinks of
everything rather than of such nonsense. As to what the Major hinted
about his having said that he liked you, that was said at my particular
request; so don’t you begin to have fancies like Crescenz.”

“There is not the slightest danger,” said Hildegarde, with a scornful
smile.

“Where is Major Stultz?” said Hamilton, hastily opening the hall-door.

“He is gone home, I am sorry to say. Oh, Mr. Hamilton, this is a most
unpleasant business! If Crescenz’s marriage should be broken off now, it
will be an actual disgrace.”

“It will not be broken off. I can explain everything.”

“Let me give you a hint what to say,” cried Madame Rosenberg, detaining
him, “for he is exceedingly angry, and says we have all been deceiving
him. Can you not just set matters right—say that you _have_ paid
Crescenz some attentions, and that you did admire her some time ago!”

“Of course I shall say that,” replied Hamilton, endeavouring to get
away.

“Say, too, that she does not really care at all for you, and was only
trying to make him jealous this evening because he called her a
coquette. And then, to frighten him, you may as well add that you will
renew your addresses to-morrow if he do not at once make up his quarrel
with her.”

“I shall tell him the truth and blame myself—even more than I deserve,”
said Hamilton, closing the door and running down stairs.

“He certainly is an excellent young man!” exclaimed Madame Rosenberg,
“and notwithstanding his youth, I see I may transfer the arrangement of
this disagreeable affair to him. At all events, I can do nothing more
to-night, and may as well go to bed. Tell Crescenz I do not wish to see
her until to-morrow. What is said cannot be unsaid, and scolding now
would be useless. What will your father say when he hears what she has
done?”

Hamilton was longer absent than he had expected. He had overtaken Major
Stultz just as he was about to enter his lodgings, had walked up and
down the street with him more than an hour in earnest conversation, and
had afterwards accompanied him to his rooms. It was past midnight as he
quietly entered the house by means of the latch-key given him by Madame
Rosenberg, whose voice he heard calling him the moment he had opened the
door, and immediately after, her husband, in a long flowered cotton
dressing-gown and slippers, appeared and invited him to enter their
room. Hamilton hesitated; but on being again called by Madame Rosenberg
he courageously advanced. A few oblique rays of moonlight and a
dimly-burning night-lamp contended for the honour of lighting the
apartment and showing Hamilton a chair near Madame Rosenberg’s bed,
which she requested him to occupy while he related circumstantially
where he had overtaken Major Stultz, what he had said to him, what Major
Stultz had answered, and what chance there was of his forgiving and
forgetting Crescenz’s sentimental confession. Hamilton related as much
as he thought necessary, and then said he was the bearer of a letter.

“A letter! give it to me; that will explain all,” cried Madame
Rosenberg.

“It is for—for Mademoiselle Crescenz,” said Hamilton, hesitating.

“No matter; on such an occasion parents have a right to make themselves
acquainted with the true state of the case; besides, I don’t quite trust
Crescenz just now, although her father, for the first time in his life,
has lectured her severely while you were absent. Franz, light the taper,
and let me see what the Major has written.”

Hamilton most unwillingly gave up the unsealed letter committed to his
charge, and watched Madame Rosenberg with some irritation, as she, with
evident pleasure, perused it. A more extraordinary night-dress he had
never seen than that on which the light of the taper now fell; he was,
as may be remembered from his remarks at Seon, rather fastidious on the
subject of nightcaps. Madame Rosenberg’s was interesting from the
peculiarity of its form, resembling a paper cornet, the open part next
her face being ornamented by a sort of flounce of broad lace, and the
whole kept on her head by a foulard kerchief tied under her chin. She
wore a jacket of red printed calico, of what she would herself have
called a Turkish pattern, the sleeves of which were enormously ample at
the shoulders, proving that the fabrication was not of recent date. Her
husband held the taper, looked over her shoulder, and seemed exceedingly
pleased with the contents of the letter, which Madame Rosenberg returned
to Hamilton, saying, “I perceive you have very nearly said what I
recommended, and we are very much obliged to you. It really would have
been a most unpleasant business had this marriage been broken off, and
the Major more than hinted he would do so.”

“You are detaining Mr. Hamilton, my dear Babette,” observed Mr.
Rosenberg, mildly.

She laughed—pulled and thumped her pillows, and again wished him
good-night.

Hamilton found the door of Crescenz’s room open, she and her sister had
evidently expected him—they were seated at the window, and either for
the purpose of enjoying the moonlight, or as Hamilton afterwards
supposed, to make their features less distinct, they had extinguished
their candle. Hildegarde pushed back her chair, Crescenz hung her head
at his approach. “I have brought you a letter,” he said to the latter,
“which I hope will give you pleasure. Major Stultz will be here early
to-morrow, and trusts in the meantime you will try to forget all that
has passed between you this evening. He sees that his absurd jealousy
was enough to provoke you to say all, and more too, than you have said
to him, and he is ready to believe that you spoke under the influence of
extreme irritation. In short, he is sincerely attached to you, and it
will be your fault if a perfect reconciliation do not take place
to-morrow.”

“I suppose he must have been very angry,” said Crescenz, in a low voice,
while she twisted the letter round in her fingers. “I suppose he must
have been very angry, as you remained out so long.”

“Yes, at first; but then I told him he had no right to be angry with you
because you happened to be loved by others.”

“Indeed! Did you say that?” cried Crescenz.

“That is,” said Hildegarde, with a slight sneer, “you have said exactly
what mamma recommended.”

Hamilton felt extremely angry, but resolved not to let Hildegarde
perceive it. He answered calmly, though a slight frown contracted his
eyebrows: “No, mademoiselle—not exactly—for I said only what was the
truth.” While he spoke, as if to brave her, he seated himself
deliberately on the chair beside Crescenz, and took her hand, while he
added: “I told Major Stultz how much I admired you, how thoroughly
gentle and forgiving you were; but I explained to him also, without
reserve, my own position in the world, and all the miseries entailed on
a younger son in England.” Hamilton here explained at some length the
difference between the equal division of property among children so
general in Germany, and the apparently unjust privileges of
primogeniture in England; dwelt long and feelingly on the struggles and
vexations of a younger son brought up in luxury, and then cast with all
his expensive habits in comparative poverty on the world; the necessity
of pushing himself forward by his talents; the impossibility of an early
marriage! He spoke long and eloquently, and made an evident impression
on both his hearers. Crescenz’s tears fell fast on the letter, which she
had unconsciously crumpled in her hand, without having thought it worthy
of perusal. Hildegarde leaned on a small work-table, her eyes fixed
intently on Hamilton, her lips apart, and an expression of strong
interest pervading her whole form; she followed him with her eyes, but
remained immovable as he rose to leave them, and watched with what
Hamilton thought a look of subdued anger, while he pressed Crescenz’s
hands in both his, whispering his wishes for her happiness, and his
hopes that she would not misunderstand him in future.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XVIII.

                            THE CHURCHYARD.


HAMILTON experienced a sort of satisfaction in avoiding both sisters for
some time—the idea that he was endeavouring to cure Crescenz of her too
evident partiality was almost sublime, and would probably have turned
his youthful head had not Hildegarde formed a counterpoise. Her former
dislike to him seemed to have returned with redoubled force. She
scarcely looked at, never spoke to him, and seemed not in the least to
observe that he no longer passed the evenings at home. He had found no
difficulty in disposing of his time; introductions to a few German
families had been followed by general invitations, of which he availed
himself at first with eager pleasure, but soon afterwards with a feeling
of indescribable _ennui_; he missed Hildegarde’s society, and began to
consider in what way he could imperceptibly renew their former intimacy;
but this was more difficult than he had imagined, for the sisters seemed
to have formed an alliance offensive and defensive against him. Crescenz
no longer sang when learning to make pies and puddings in the kitchen;
and if he looked in, she retreated behind the dresser. Hildegarde’s door
was now always shut, perhaps because the weather had become colder, but
Hamilton imagined it was to prevent his leaning against the door-posts,
to watch her giving her brothers instruction until the dinner was
announced. The rarity and shortness of his present intercourse served
but to keep her in his memory, and perpetually renew his regret for
their last most unnecessary quarrel.

One cold fine morning, as he was leaving the house to keep an
appointment with Zedwitz, he perceived her standing with Crescenz and
her father at the passage-window looking into the court. They were
dressed in deep mourning, and held in their hands large wreaths of ivy,
interspersed with clusters of red berries; they contemplated them with
evident satisfaction, while their father spoke so earnestly that
Hamilton’s approach was at first unperceived, and he heard Mr. Rosenberg
say, “You can easily imagine why I prefer going alone, and at some other
time. As long as you were at school, gratitude for my wife’s attention
forced me to accompany her to the churchyard—the task of placing the
wreaths now devolves on you, and I wish you both to thank her as she
deserves. You will not surely find it difficult to comply with my
request.”

“I hope nothing unexpected has occurred——” began Hamilton, looking at
the sable garments of the sisters.

“Nothing whatever,” replied Mr. Rosenberg, smiling. “It is All Saints’
Day, and my girls are going to place wreaths on their mother’s grave. I
suppose you too are on the way to the churchyard, like all the rest of
the world?”

“No,” said Hamilton, “why should I go there?”

“I don’t know, indeed,” replied Mr. Rosenberg, “excepting as a stranger
it might interest you to see the decorated graves.”

“If there be anything to see, I shall certainly ride to the churchyard
after I have kept my appointment with Zedwitz,” said Hamilton, stooping
to examine the wreath which hung on Hildegarde’s arm.

“My wife surprised Hildegarde with this wreath and a bouquet of superb
dahlias this morning, and I have just been telling her that her mother’s
grave has been decorated every year in the same manner.”

“I am fully aware of my step-mother’s kindness,” said Hildegarde, with
some embarrassment, “and am sorry I ever did her injustice.”

“That’s right, Hildegarde,” replied her father. “Now I know you will say
all I wish—to-morrow we can go alone together, but to-day you must
accompany your step-mother.”

Hamilton desired his servant to meet him at the churchyard, and rode off
to the barracks; he had no difficulty in persuading Zedwitz to accompany
him, after having told him Hildegarde was there. “I will go to meet the
living,” he said, “but not to pray for the dead, inasmuch as I not only
doubt the efficacy of my prayers, but the existence of purgatory.”

“Hush!” said Hamilton, laughing; “no good Catholics should entertain a
doubt on the subject. I hope I shall not find you as unbelieving as my
friend Biedermann, who has substituted philosophy for religion, and
talks of the soul resolving itself into the eternal essence after its
separation from the body.”

“No,” said Zedwitz, “I am a good Catholic, and believe more than many
professors of my religion. I go to mass every Sunday and holiday, and my
mother takes care that I confess my sins once a year at least.”

“That same confession must be rather a bore,” observed Hamilton.

“Sometimes—rather,” replied Zedwitz, making his horse dance along the
road.

“It seems as if all Munich had turned out in mourning,” said Hamilton;
“the crowd, too, reminds me of the October fête, but the faces do not
exactly suit the garments. Is it not necessary to look a _little_
sorrowful on such an occasion?”

“How can you be so unreasonable!” exclaimed Zedwitz; “many of these
persons are about to visit the graves of relations who have been dead a
dozen years! For my part, I find something respectable, almost
praiseworthy, in the dedication of one day in the year to the memory of
the dead, even though tearlessly spent.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Hamilton, “and the idea of praying for
their souls is poetical in the extreme. Had I been a Catholic, that is
one of the tenets I should most tenaciously have believed. But,” he
resumed after a long pause, “it seems odd that All Saints’ Day instead
of All Souls’ Day, should be chosen—can you tell me why?”

“No,” replied Zedwitz, “you must ask someone better informed on these
subjects than I am; all I know is, that the observance itself was
instituted by one of the popes about twelve hundred years ago.”

“But I should have thought that as none of the relatives of these people
have been saints—to-morrow, being All Souls’ Day, would be the proper
day to choose.”

“Very likely,” answered Zedwitz, laughing. “I have never thought about
the matter, but I suppose the first of November is what you would in
England call the most fashionable day. Ask my mother the first time you
see her, and she will tell you everything about it. By-the-by, when do
you intend to visit us?”

“As soon as I have a second horse and a sledge. I enjoy the idea of
sledging so much that I wish with all my heart it would begin to snow
to-morrow. But here we are, and I hope Hildegarde may prove a very
loadstone to you, otherwise we shall scarcely find her among all these
people.”

The crowd was immense, and they made their way slowly through it, but
Hamilton was interested in the novelty of the scene; his companion’s
eyes wandered toward the different groups of dark moving figures, who
occasionally stopped to sprinkle the graves of departed friends with
water placed near for the purpose. Hamilton was occupied with the
tombstones and crosses, which were variously and tastefully decorated
with wreaths, festoons, bouquets of flowers, and coloured lamps. Even
the graves of the poorest were strewn with charcoal, and ornamented with
red berries and moss, while tearful groups surrounding those newly made,
gave an additional shade of solemnity to a religious rite which Hamilton
had been taught to consider superfluous.

The attempt to find the Rosenbergs, or rather Hildegarde, among the
moving multitude, was long fruitless, and might have proved altogether
so, had not they met the Hoffmanns and Raimund, who led them at once to
the object of their search. Madame Rosenberg was preparing to depart,
and held in her hand a brush dipped in water, which she shook over the
grave. Hildegarde and Crescenz followed her example, before they spoke
to Zedwitz or Hamilton; but directly they laid it aside, the two boys,
finding themselves unwatched, began a contest for it, which became so
loud, that their mother, turning quickly towards them, and perceiving
their irreverent conduct, seized the subject of dispute, and bestowing a
thump upon each, shoved them on before her, while she exclaimed: “I
ought to have left you at home, you tiresome children; you have never
ceased plaguing me since we came out. Only imagine,” she said,
addressing Hamilton; “Gustle was twice nearly run over, and Peppy fell
so often, that the Major was at last obliged to carry him!”

Zedwitz and Raimund had immediately joined Hildegarde. Raimund, whose
mouth had been distended by a frightful yawn when they had met him, was
now smiling radiantly, and evidently endeavouring to monopolise his
cousin, who, however, seemed rather indisposed to listen to him, and
bestowed her attentions almost exclusively on Zedwitz. Raimund at length
rejoined his betrothed, saying, loud enough for Hamilton to hear,
“Hildegarde knows what she is about; when Zedwitz is present she has
neither word nor look for her poor cousin!”

“You get words and looks enough from her every evening when she is with
us,” observed Madame de Hoffmann, with some bitterness.

Hamilton turned round, and saw Mademoiselle de Hoffmann’s glance of
reproach towards her mother, and Raimund’s confusion. The words “every
evening” grated on his ear, and before he could arrange the unpleasant
ideas which had at once entered his mind, they had reached the
churchyard gate, and Zedwitz, approaching him, whispered hurriedly, “I
would not lose this walk home for any consideration. Your advice about
Hildegarde was excellent, and I am determined to follow it. Pray let
your servant take charge of my horse.”

“My advice!” repeated Hamilton, with a forced smile, but Zedwitz had
left him, and the crowd had closed between them. Murmuring some
directions to his servant, Hamilton sprang upon his horse—the animal,
always restive, no sooner felt his impetuous spring than he plunged
violently, and on receiving an angry check, reared—lost his balance—and
fell backwards—rolling over his rider to the horror of all the
bystanders.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XIX.

                              GERMAN SOUP


HAMILTON was taken up senseless. Zedwitz rushed to his assistance.
Madame Rosenberg could not leave her children, but was obliged to hold
them fast by their hands. Major Stultz endeavoured with a half-offended
air to tranquillise Crescenz, whose screams had begun to subside into a
flood of tears. Raimund coolly exclaimed to Mademoiselle de Hoffmann
that Hamilton had been aware of the viciousness of the horse when he
purchased it, but had imagined himself too good a rider to be thrown.
Hildegarde, having obtained a flacon de l’eau de Cologne from a
stranger, was soon beside Zedwitz, endeavouring to restore Hamilton to
consciousness; he very soon opened his eyes, looked around him, and on
Zedwitz asking him where he was hurt, began to speak incoherently in
English.

“We must get a carriage and take him home as soon as possible,” said
Zedwitz; “he seems more seriously injured than I imagined from the
slight wound on his temple.”

“Well, this is really dreadful!” exclaimed Madame Rosenberg; “and there
is not a soul in our house, for I gave Walburg leave to go out. Here is
the key of the door—what can I do with the boys?”

“Let me take charge of them,” said Madame de Hoffmann.

“I am as much obliged to you for the offer as if I could accept it,”
replied Madame Rosenberg, “but unfortunately they are so unruly that I
cannot leave them with you more than with their sisters and the Major.
There is no help for it. Hildegarde, you must go in the carriage, and
send old Hans directly for Doctor Berger.”

“May I not go, too?” said Crescenz, timidly; “I am so tired!”

“Oh, of course,” replied her mother, ironically; “another fit of
screaming would greatly benefit Mr. Hamilton. Here, Hildegarde, take the
key and be off.”

On their way home, Hamilton alone was loquacious; he spoke English
incessantly, sometimes murmuring, sometimes vehemently. Hildegarde
blushed deeply, and appeared unusually embarrassed, which Zedwitz
interpreted to his own advantage, totally unconscious that she
understood the ravings of Hamilton, which had already revealed much he
was anxious to conceal from her; his last thought before his fall had
been of her, his last feeling annoyance on her account, and he now
unreservedly poured forth both with wild volubility.

“I think we had better bind a handkerchief over his forehead,” said
Hildegarde at last. “The motion of the carriage has made the blood
flow.”

“I ought to have thought of that,” said Zedwitz, assisting her; “he does
not seem to know either of us, and evidently thinks you some other
person. Who is this Helene of whom he is speaking now?”

“Some one in England, I suppose.”

“Poor fellow! most probably he fancies himself at home. I am very glad
to perceive that he is beginning to be exhausted. There is something
frightful in this sort of raving, even when one does not understand it.”

“Do you think there is any danger to be apprehended?” asked Hildegarde,
calmly.

“I hope not; but his brain must be affected in some way, or he would not
talk as he has done.”

Directly on reaching the house they sent for Doctor Berger, who came,
accompanied by Mr. Biedermann; the latter declaring at once his
intention of remaining to take care of his friend. Hamilton looked
inquiringly from one to the other as they entered the room, and then
said quickly in German, “I know you.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said the Doctor, adjusting his spectacles, and
turning to Biedermann, he whispered, “They have been unnecessarily
alarmed, it seems.”

“Yes, I know you. You are the ugly old doctor with the protruding chin
who married Crescenz, after she had walked by moonlight at Seon.”

The Doctor shook his head and turned to Zedwitz for an explanation of
the accident. This was quickly given, and he and Hildegarde waited with
evident anxiety to hear the Doctor’s opinion. It was not so favourable
as they had expected—severe remedies were necessary, and a fortnight
elapsed before Hamilton was pronounced quite out of danger. During this
time nothing could equal the attention bestowed on him by the Rosenberg
family and his friend Biedermann, who passed every night on a sofa in
his room. Zedwitz, too, spent daily hours with him—perhaps the visits of
the latter were not quite disinterested, for he often met Hildegarde,
who was employed to amuse Hamilton, as he was neither allowed to hear
reading, nor to attempt to read himself. As soon as he was pronounced
convalescent, he had a constant succession of visitors every day; not
only his own acquaintance, but everyone who had seen him with the
Rosenbergs; he felt at times perhaps quite as much bored as obliged, and
remembered occasionally with regret that more dangerous part of his
illness when Hildegarde had sat alone in his darkened chamber, and
Crescenz gently opened the door every quarter of an hour to ask if he
were better—her mother, at Major Stultz’s instigation, having strictly
forbidden her to enter the room. Even the fussy visits of Madame
Rosenberg, who invariably insisted on half making his bed and thumping
all his pillows, were recollected with pleasure, and he wondered at the
impatience with which he had received these well-meant civilities,
having once forgotten himself so far as to wish in very correct German
that the devil would come _in ipsissimâ personâ_ and take her out of his
presence! which speech had so alarmed her for the state of his brain
that she had immediately sent off for the doctor.

The period of convalescence was not without its pleasures either, and
Hamilton knew how to appreciate them. Hildegarde was obliged to read or
talk to him whenever he choose, was forbidden to contradict or quarrel
with him, and, when on one day he complained of cold hands, she had been
ordered to knit cuffs for him, and had done so with apparent
pleasure—then she had learned to play chess in order to take
Biedermann’s place when he could not come, and had to submit to be
checkmated as often as Hamilton pleased without losing her temper. He
had insensibly grown tyrannical, too—upbraided her if she remained long
out walking—refused to eat his dinner if she did not bring it to him,
and insisted on the whole family spending the evenings in his room,
thereby effectually preventing her from going to the Hoffmanns.

Among Hamilton’s most constant visitors was Madame Berger, and she was
always welcome, for she amused him. “I should like to know,” she said
one day, seating herself on the sofa beside him, “I should like to know
how long you intend to play invalid? It is astonishing how desponding,
almost pusillanimous, you men become when you are in the least ill! I
lose all patience when I see the Doctor feeling his own pulse fifty
times a day, and consulting half a dozen good friends if his heart beat
a little quicker than usual—while I have palpitations every day of my
life, and never think of complaining or fancying that I have a diseased
heart! My father was even worse than the Doctor; if he had but a cold in
his head, he immediately mounted a black silk nightcap with a tassel
pendant, wrapped himself up in his dressing-gown, and wandered about the
house discovering all sorts of things not intended for his eyes or ears,
and finding fault with everybody and everything that came in his way,
although at other times the best-natured man imaginable. He had a habit,
too, on such occasions, of eating a bowl of soup every half hour, and
then imagining it was illness which prevented him from enjoying his
meals!”

Hamilton laughed, and at the same moment Hildegarde entered the room,
carrying a tray, on which was placed a double-handled china basin, the
contents of which, notwithstanding the cover, emitted a most savoury
odour; the little slice of toasted bread on a plate beside it seeming
intended to correct any doubts which might arise as to its being an
invalid soup. She placed it on the table before him, removed the cover,
and stood in waiting, as he first played with the spoon, and then
fastidiously tasted it.

“You have not prepared this for me yourself,” he said, looking up
discontentedly.

“No,” she replied; “I—I heard papa’s voice, and begged Walburg to——”

“I knew that,” cried Hamilton, pettishly. “Walburg always forgets the
salt. Just taste it yourself, and you will be convinced that I cannot
swallow it in its present state.”

“Let me try it,” cried Madame Berger; “I am an excellent judge of soup,
have learned cookery, and all that sort of thing. Let me see,” said she,
playing with the spoon exactly as Hamilton had done; “let me see; the
smell is excellent, but the taste?—hum! might require a little more
salt, perhaps, but—but still it is eatable. After a few spoonfuls one
scarcely remarks the defect—and,” she continued, raising the bowl to her
mouth, “and when one swallows it quickly, it is really quite refreshing
this cold afternoon.”

Hamilton laughed; Hildegarde grew angry. “You may consider this a good
joke, Lina,” she exclaimed, “but I find it very, very impertinent.”

“Now don’t get into a passion, my dear, about a miserable bowl of soup,”
said Madame Berger, laughing maliciously; “it is really not worth while.
Just go to the kitchen and bring another, and I promise not even to look
at it.”

“But there is no more.”

“Ah, bah! as if I did not know that there was soup put aside for
supper.”

“But not such soup as that,” cried Hildegarde, ingenuously; “mamma and
Crescenz cooked it together, and I was not allowed to touch it for fear
of its being spoiled.”

“What an opinion they must have of her cookery,” remarked Madame Berger,
looking towards Hamilton.

“It is of no consequence,” he said, laughing; “I do not deserve any for
having been so difficult to please.”

“I can bring you a cup of beef-tea—it is better than nothing,” said
Hildegarde, leaving the room.

“Most careful nurse!” cried Madame Berger, smiling ironically.

“Most indefatigable—most kind,” exclaimed Hamilton, warmly.

“And most domineering,” added Madame Berger.

“I have not found her so.”

“Because you have never contradicted her, perhaps. For instance, what
would you take now to refuse this cup of beef-tea when she brings it to
you?”

“That would be ungrateful—almost rude,” said Hamilton.

“It will be bad enough to afford you an excuse, and I promise to assist
you to brave her anger,” said Madame Berger, laughing.

Hamilton shook his head and looked a little embarrassed.

“Tell the truth, and say at once you _dare_ not do it. She rules you, I
perceive, as she does her sister Crescenz, all in the way of kindness,
but no thraldom can be more complete. How I shall enjoy seeing you
swallow the scalding water dignified with the name of beef-tea. I dare
say this time there will be salt enough in it.”

“How mischievous you are,” cried Hamilton; “I do believe you want us to
quarrel merely for your amusement, after having remained for three weeks
the best of friends possible.”

“You are more than friends if you cannot take the liberty to refuse a
cup of bad soup.”

Hamilton was about to reply, when the door was opened by Hans to admit
Count Zedwitz.

“You have played truant to-day, Zedwitz,” said Hamilton, holding out his
hand; “I expected you an hour ago.”

“I have been skating on the lake in the English Garden. There was a
famous frost last night, and——”

“Skating! Here, Hans, look for my skates directly, there is nothing I
enjoy more than skating. We will go out together.”

“But,” said Zedwitz, hesitating, “is it advisable to go out so late?
Remember, you have been more than three weeks confined to the house.
What will the Doctor say?”

“Hang the Doctor,” cried Hamilton, rising.

“I am sure I am exceedingly obliged to you,” said his wife, pretending
to look offended.

“By way of precaution, and not to lose time, we will drive to the lake
in a hackney coach,” said Hamilton. “Come with us,” he added, turning
cavalierly to Madame Berger.

“I have no objection, provided you leave me at home on your way back.”

“Agreed,” cried Hamilton, entering his bedroom to make the necessary
change in his dress.

Madame Berger was standing opposite a long glass, arranging her bonnet,
Zedwitz turning over the leaves of some new book, and Hamilton issuing
from his room, when Hildegarde again appeared, carrying another bowl of
soup. She was so surprised at the appearance of the latter that she
stopped in the middle of the room, and looked inquiringly from one to
the other without speaking.

“Mr. Hamilton is going out to take a drive,” began Madame Berger,
fearing Hildegarde might try to make him alter his intention.

“I am going with Zedwitz to skate in the English Gardens,” said
Hamilton.

“Perhaps, Hildegarde, you will go with us; I can play chaperon on the
occasion,” said Madame Berger.

Hildegarde did not vouchsafe an answer, but turning to Zedwitz, she said
reproachfully: “This is not an hour to tempt an invalid to leave the
house for the first time.”

“I assure you I have not tempted him,” replied Zedwitz; “I only
mentioned having been skating to excuse my coming so late.”

“You surely will not think of going out this cold day,” she said,
turning to Hamilton.

“The weather,” said Madame Berger, “is not likely to grow warmer at this
time of the year, and I suppose he must leave the house some time or
other.”

“In fact, I am no longer an invalid,” said Hamilton, “and the air,
though cold, will do me good.”

“At least drink this beef-tea before you go,” said Hildegarde,
approaching him.

“How on earth can you expect Mr. Hamilton to swallow such slop as this!”
cried Madame Berger, raising the cover as she spoke.

Hildegarde angrily pushed away her hand.

“The carriage is at the door,” said Hans.

“Come,” cried Madame Berger, laughing, “you have no time to drink this
hot water at present, and if you do not make haste I must decline going
with you to admire your skating, for it will be too late for me. Have
you courage?” she asked, giving Hamilton a look of intelligence.

Hildegarde had perceived that he wished to avoid drinking the beef-tea.
She had placed it on the table, and was now standing near the stove
apparently tranquil, but a slight contraction of her brows, and the
extraordinary brilliancy of her eyes as she followed the motions of each
speaker betrayed the anger with which she was struggling.

“I perceive you are annoyed,” said Zedwitz, when about to leave the
room; “but,” he added, quickly, while the colour mounted to his temples,
“you need not be uneasy about your patient; I will bring him back as
soon as possible.”

“You are mistaken as to the cause of my annoyance,” said Hildegarde,
with a forced smile; “I am angry with myself for having been such a fool
as to prepare that soup.”

“You must excuse Hamilton this time. Madame Berger is such an
impertinent little person!” said Zedwitz, as he closed the door.

In the meantime Hamilton had nearly descended the stairs. “I can tell
you,” said Madame Berger, “that Hildegarde is in a towering passion. Did
you not see her eyes flashing, and her lips grow blue? I should not
wonder if at this moment she were literally dancing in your room!”

“I should like to see her,” said Hamilton, stopping suddenly.

“But if you go back you will have to swallow the soup as a
peace-offering,” said Madame Berger.

“Do you think so? Zedwitz, will you assist Madame Berger into the
carriage?—I must return to Hildegarde; but I promise not to detain you
more than a minute.” He rushed up the stairs as he spoke, entered
without noise by means of his skeleton key, and, passing through his
bedroom, was able to ascertain the partial truth of Madame Berger’s
assertion. Hildegarde was walking up and down the room with flushed
cheeks, talking angrily to herself, and pushing everything that came in
her way. “What a fool—what an egregious fool I was—to make a fire with
my own hands to warm that soup!” She kicked the leg of the table as she
spoke, making the plates and spoons clatter. “If ever I warm soup for
him again I hope, yes, I _hope_, I may burn my arm as I have done this
time.” She raised her sleeve and looked frowningly at the suffering
limb, which in fact was extremely red and covered with blisters. While
she endeavoured with her handkerchief to remove the long streaks of smut
which still bore testimony to the origin of the mischief, Hamilton
advanced; and, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, seized her hand,
and held it firmly, while he gulped down the soup as fast as he was
able. It was, as Madame Berger had said, very hot; and when he had
deposited the bowl on the plate, tears actually stood in his eyes from
the excess of his exertions.

“I feel quite warm now,” he said, turning to Hildegarde, who stood
beside him in great confusion, fearing that she had been overheard, and,
as usual, ashamed of her violence, now that it was over. She had covered
her arm, and was endeavouring to release her hand, as he added, “You
were quite right when you said it was too late for skating to-day. I
shall merely drive out for half-an-hour, by way of a beginning. This
sacrifice I make to your better judgment.”

Hildegarde looked up; her lips were no longer blue, and her eyes had
regained their usual serenity. “To-morrow,” she observed, with evident
satisfaction, “to-morrow you can go out directly after dinner, when the
sun is shining.”

“Exactly; pray don’t forget to bespeak a little sunshine for me,” he
cried, laughing, as he ran out of the room.

“Where is my little tormentor?” he asked, on perceiving that the
carriage was unoccupied.

“How could you expect her to wait for you?” said Zedwitz, gravely. “She
has had the good sense to go home.”

“I am glad of it,” cried Hamilton, springing gayly into the carriage,
“very glad.”

“It is confoundedly cold,” said Zedwitz, impatiently throwing the folds
of his cloak over his shoulder. “I must say your minute was a long one.”

“Why, my dear fellow, considering that I had to drink all that hot
water, and put Hildegarde in good humour again, I do not think I
required much time.”

Zedwitz looked out of the window in silence. Hamilton leaned back and
indulged in reflection of no disagreeable kind.

“Halt!” cried Zedwitz, suddenly, “we are at the lake.”

“Let us drive on. I don’t mean to skate to-day,” said Hamilton.

“You don’t mean to skate!” exclaimed Zedwitz.

“No. I promised Hildegarde merely to take an airing.”

“Why did you not tell me that before?”

“Because I feared being deprived of your agreeable society.”

“Halt!” cried Zedwitz, vehemently; and the carriage stopped. “I can tell
you,” he said, kicking the door to assist Hans in opening it, “I can
tell you that you have just received an extremely great proof of my
friendship, for if there be any one thing I particularly detest in this
world, it is driving about in a machine of this kind. I have an
inveterate antipathy to a hackney coach.”

“I understand and share your feelings on this subject, generally
speaking,” said Hamilton, amused at his violence; “but after being
confined to one’s room for three or four weeks, the air enjoyed even
through the windows of a hackney coach is agreeable and refreshing.
Come, you may as well drive back with me.”

“Sorry, I have a most particular engagement,” began Zedwitz, who was now
standing on the road, and stamping his feet on the frozen ground, as if
they had been cramped.

“You forget you intended to skate with me,” cried Hamilton, laughing,
while he jumped out of the carriage, took Zedwitz’s arm, and walked off
quickly with him, neither speaking for several minutes.

“Are you jealous?” asked Hamilton, at length.

“You know best whether or not I have cause to be.”

“You have no cause—although I am sorry to be obliged to confess to you
that I too begin to find Hildegarde altogether irresistible, but she
does not care in the least for me, and even were it otherwise, my case
is more hopeless than yours. Your parents will at least vouchsafe to
make a flattering opposition, which, as you are an only son, _must_
terminate in consent if you are firm—mine would overwhelm me with
scornful ridicule were I to hint at anything so preposterous as an early
marriage. It is I, in fact, who ought to be jealous, and desperately
jealous too, if you knew but all.”

“But her anxiety about you just now——”

“Was more natural than flattering,” said Hamilton; “she has got the
habit of taking care of me during my illness, and even lately exacts a
sort of obedience in trifles, which, however, I willingly pay, as she
allows me to tyrannise in other respects.”

“But still, I consider you so very dangerous a rival——” began Zedwitz.

“By no means, for though I wish to gain some of Hildegarde’s esteem, if
not affection, I can never speak to her seriously on that subject which
alone could interfere with your wishes.”

“Do you advise me then to persevere?” asked Zedwitz.

“I must in future decline advising,” replied Hamilton; “my confession
just now was in fact tantamount to an acknowledgment of my incapacity to
do so.”

“Ah, bah!” cried Zedwitz, “your manner has convinced me that your love
is not very deep-rooted—my fears are more for her than for you. If she
once liked you, and confessed it, there is no saying how serious the
affair might become.”

“Very true,” said Hamilton, “you might in that case prepare for a voyage
to the moon, where you would be sure to find my senses in a little
phial, nicely corked and labelled.”

“Pshaw! Tell me seriously, what would you do in such a case?”

“Seriously—I believe I should act like a fool. Apply to my father with
the certainty of being refused, and laughed at into the bargain—write to
my Uncle Jack, that he might have time to make a new will and disinherit
me—and then, perhaps, enter into a seven years’ engagement.”

“Hildegarde would never consent to anything so absurd.”

“Not at present—but I thought you supposed her to return my——”

“Hang the supposition!” cried Zedwitz, impatiently, and they walked on
in silence until Zedwitz again spoke: “I wish, Hamilton, that at least
you would promise to tell me if ever you do enter into any kind of
engagement with Hildegarde.”

“No,” said Hamilton, firmly, “I will make no such promise. Let us start
fair, we both love her, each after his own manner. I will be honourable,
and tell you that you stand high in her estimation, and that the fear of
the opposition of your family, and not indifference on her part, caused
her former refusal. I have had to combat with her personal dislike, and
if I have overcome it, a very lukewarm kind of regard has taken place.
To counterbalance your advantages, I live in the same house, and see her
daily—hourly—often alone.”

“Let us start fair in good earnest,” cried Zedwitz, eagerly, “but in
order to do so, you must establish yourself in my quarters. The rooms
which belong to my father when he is in town are at your service;
neither he nor my mother comes to Munich this season, as Agnes’s
marriage takes place before the carnival. We will live together—visit
the Rosenbergs together, and at the end of two or three months write a
letter to Hildegarde, and——”

Hamilton began to laugh. “Had you proposed this plan at Seon, I might
have agreed to it—but now it would be absurd to think of such a thing.
Putting all other feelings out of the question, Hildegarde has become
absolutely necessary to me. When I am ill, she tends me—when I am well,
she reads with me, or for me, and amuses me; and when I am out of
temper, she quarrels with me!”

“In the last particular I could supply her place,” said Zedwitz, “for I
could quarrel with you easily enough. If I thought you really loved her,
I should not so much mind, but you are deliberately seeking a few
months’ amusement at her expense, and endeavouring to gain her affection
without any object whatever; for as to your seven years’ engagement, I
cannot for a moment believe you serious. Perhaps Englishwomen may
consider this pardonable, but my countrywomen——”

“Your countrywomen unfortunately do not understand the meaning of the
word flirtation,” said Hamilton, interrupting him. “I wish I had time
and opportunity to explain it to them.”

“Explain to me what flirtation is,” said Zedwitz, gravely.

“No,” said Hamilton, “I shall do no such thing, for I see by your face
that you are ready to preach a sermon upon the crime of endeavouring to
please any of your fair countrywomen without having both the intention
and power to marry with all possible despatch; and now, will you come
upstairs with me?”

Zedwitz shook his head.

“I do not mean to press you,” said Hamilton, “for I must say I never
found you less amusing than to-day. I wish you would make an agreement
never to mention Hildegarde’s name to me.”

“It is an excellent idea,” said Zedwitz, “but, as I am sincerely
attached to her, I hope you will consider it no breach of confidence,
should I warn her against this flirtation love of yours.”

“None whatever,” replied Hamilton, laughing. “You cannot say more and
will not probably say half as much in your warning as I have already
said, when she was present, to her sister Crescenz.”

“You are incomprehensible,” said Zedwitz, shrugging his shoulders, and
walking off with a slight frown on his usually good-humoured
countenance.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XX.

                              THE WARNING.


HAMILTON prided himself upon being an excellent skater; it was,
therefore, with no little satisfaction that he perceived, the next day,
that he had been followed to the lake by the Rosenberg and Hoffmann
families—no sooner, however, had Zedwitz seen the former, than his
skates were thrown aside—a place beside Hildegarde secured, and he
accompanied them home. This occurred several days successively, and
Zedwitz at length, on finding that he had regained his former intimacy,
ventured to give the proposed warning. Hamilton was at the moment
sweeping before them, “on sounding skates a thousand different ways,”
and exhibiting more than usual grace and animation. Zedwitz began
judiciously by praising his rival—commended his person, his varied
information and talents, the more extraordinary from his extreme youth,
and then regretted that he had lost almost all the freshness belonging
to his time of life, that his ideas were altogether those of a man of
the world, that the society of an elder brother, an accomplished
_vaurien_, had evidently been of great disadvantage to him, and had
given him opinions, especially with respect to women, which were
dangerous in the extreme. Hildegarde had listened with a composure so
nearly verging on indifference, that Zedwitz, almost reassured,
regretted having said so much, and had she continued silent, would have,
perhaps, softened his last remark, but she looked up suddenly, and said
with her usual energy, “Mr. Hamilton has never spoken of his brother to
me, therefore I know nothing about him. You are, however, mistaken as to
his opinion of women—he thinks much more highly of them than men
generally do, and that he likes their society is evident by his
remaining so much at home with us. Mamma says she never knew any young
man so perfectly well educated, and so excellent in every respect.”

Zedwitz was not aware of the peculiarity in Hildegarde’s disposition
which led her invariably to defend the absent; he was, therefore,
greatly vexed, and with difficulty stammered, “And you—you—perhaps—think
equally highly of him?”

“Perhaps I do—the more I know him, the better I like him,” replied
Hildegarde, bluntly.

“I am answered,” murmured Zedwitz, biting his lip, “my warning comes too
late—he knew it when he gave me leave to speak.”

“Who gave you leave? What warning?” asked Hildegarde, quickly.

Zedwitz had gone too far to recede, and he now became perfectly
explicit. Hildegarde again listened calmly, and when he ceased, observed
half reproachfully, “When Mr. Hamilton speaks of you, it is not to warn
me—but let us pass over that. I must, however, tell you that you have
not in your warning said anything which I have not already heard from
himself.”

“That’s it!” cried Zedwitz, with ill-concealed impatience, “he acted
honourably in putting you on your guard, but he now considers himself at
liberty to win your affections if he can!”

Hildegarde seemed struck by this remark, and walked on in silence.
Zedwitz excused himself for having spoken against his friend on the plea
of jealousy, and then urged his own cause with great fervour. While thus
speaking, they had taken a wrong turn, and were loudly recalled by
Madame Rosenberg, “who wondered what on earth they could have been
thinking about!” Zedwitz had no opportunity of renewing the
conversation, but he was apparently satisfied on finding that she was
not displeased.

When Hamilton returned home that evening, Hildegarde was at the
Hoffmanns’: she had not visited them for a long time, and on her return,
he inquired with extreme affability after each member of the family,
cousin Oscar included. She seated herself as far distant from him as
possible, and while answering his questions seemed to think more of a
coloured wool, which she was arranging in a basket, than of what she was
saying.

“Did your cousin read for you this evening?” asked Hamilton, moving his
chair towards her.

“No, he tried a quantity of new music which Marie had just received.
Crescenz, do tell me how you distinguish your greens at night? They all
appear blue to me!”

“The names and numbers are pinned on each colour,” replied Crescenz,
pushing forward her neatly arranged basket for inspection.

Major Stultz said something about young women of orderly habits making
good wives, which she did not seem to hear, but when Hamilton in
returning the basket observed, that the colours were so judiciously
arranged, that they reminded him of a rainbow, a smile of childish
delight brightened her youthful features and made her look so pretty,
that he playfully held back the basket, and began a series of questions
on the different colours, exhibiting an excess of ignorance on the
subject which seemed to amuse _her_ infinitely more than Major Stultz,
who first drummed on the table, then pushed back his chair, and finally
told her somewhat testily, that “she was preventing Mr. Hamilton from
reading his newspaper.”

Hamilton understood the hint, and resigned the basket with a slight
laugh; Crescenz blushed, and, with evident displeasure, followed Major
Stultz to another table, where he proposed reading her the letters which
he had that day received from Nuremberg.

Hamilton drew his chair close to Hildegarde’s, while he observed, “I am
very glad that you have no one who has a right to forbid your speaking
to me.”

Hildegarde bent over her work for a minute, and then looking up asked
abruptly, “What sort of a person is your eldest brother?”

“The best-natured fellow in the world, good-looking, and amusing. You
would be sure to like him, if you could pardon his speaking the most
execrable French imaginable.”

“Is he amiable?”

“Amiable? oh, very amiable!”

“And not a _vaurien_?”

“_Tant soit peu_,” said Hamilton, laughing, “but not half so bad as your
cousin Raimund.”

“Is he much older than you?”

“Several years; but may I ask why my brother has so suddenly become an
object of interest to you?”

“He does not interest me in the least,” began Hildegarde, but at that
moment, Hamilton, whose hand had been wandering through the entangled
skeins of wool in her basket, suddenly drew forth a small book which had
been concealed beneath them; her first impulse was to prevent his
opening it, but she changed her mind, and though blushing deeply,
continued to work without uttering a syllable.

Hamilton turned over the leaves for some minutes in silence. “Who
recommended you to read the works of Georges Sand?” he asked, as he
placed the book beside her on the table.

“Oscar; he told me they were interesting, and extremely well written.”

“They are both the one and the other, and yet nothing would have induced
me to advise you to read them, especially this volume. I am surprised
you did not yourself perceive that it was not suited for a person of
your age or——”

“Pshaw!” cried Hildegarde, impatiently. “Mamma wishes me to read French
that I may not forget the language; the best writers of the day are, of
course, the best for that purpose, and Oscar says all French novels are
more or less of this description. He told me that I need not have any
scruples, for that these works were written by a woman, and might
therefore be read by one.”

“So, then, you had scruples?”

“I have none at present,” said Hildegarde, taking up the volume,
“besides,” she added, drawing her chair close to the table, “I
positively must know whether or not the heroine marries the young poet.”

“Marry!” cried Hamilton, laughing, ironically, “there is not one word of
marriage in the whole book—that would be much too unpoetical. I can
hardly, however, imagine that _this_ heroine really interests you—a
heroine whose thoughts and reasonings are those of a woman who has
plunged into the whirlpool of earthly pleasures, and from satiety
learned to despise them. I wish it were any of the other works of Sand,
or—or that, for your sake, Madame Dudevant had been less gloriously
graphical in some parts of her work. If,” he added, half inquiringly,
“if you merely read to know the end of the story, it is easily told; the
events are few, and I am ready to relate them to you.”

“Oscar has a much higher opinion of my intellect than you have,”
observed Hildegarde, slowly turning over the leaves; “he says my
character is so decidedly formed, that I may read, without danger,
whatever I please.”

“That was gross flattery,” said Hamilton, “for no girl of seventeen can
read a work of this description without danger. The religious
speculations alone make it unfit for you—but stay, I can prove it; read
half a dozen pages aloud for me—where you please; the chances are in my
favour that I prove myself right.”

“It is not exactly adapted for reading aloud,” said Hildegarde with some
embarrassment.

“That is an infallible criterion by which you may know what to read for
the next ten years,” said Hamilton.

“But I dare say I could find many parts which I should have no objection
to read aloud.”

“Read then,” said Hamilton, with a provoking smile.

Hildegarde began. “The style at least is faultless,” she observed, at
the end of a few minutes.

“Perfect,” said Hamilton; “but go on.”

She continued. By degrees her voice became less firm; a deep blush
overspread her face; she turned away her head from him, and his eyes
rested on her small and now perfectly crimson ear, and yet she
persevered until the words almost seemed to suffocate her, when,
throwing down the book, she exclaimed, “You were right. I will not read
any more of it, nor any of the others recommended by Oscar.”

“May I write you a list?” asked Hamilton, eagerly.

“Pray do,” cried Hildegarde, turning round. “I promise to read them
all.”

A leaf was hastily torn out of his pocket-book, a pencil carefully
pointed, and two hours scarcely sufficed to bring this most simple
business to a satisfactory conclusion, so various were the observations
and discussions to which it gave rise.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XXI.

                             THE STRUGGLE.


THE following Sunday Hamilton saw the whole Rosenberg family, with the
exception of Hildegarde, walking in the English Gardens. It appeared odd
that she should have remained at home when her father was present, and
he, for a moment, thought of asking the reason; on consideration, the
hope of finding her alone made him turn his horse’s head directly
homeward, and, on riding into the yard, he looked up to her window,
expecting, as usual, to find her there ready to greet him and admire his
horse—but not a human being was visible; even his servant, not expecting
his return so early, had disappeared, and he was obliged to lead his
horse into the stable himself. He entered the house by the back
staircase, visited all the rooms, and even the kitchen, but found all
deserted. Madame Rosenberg’s room was also unoccupied, but through the
partly open door of it he saw Hildegarde sitting on the sofa in the
drawing-room, reading so intently that she was perfectly unconscious of
his presence. The deep folds of her dark-blue merino dress, with its
closely-fitting body, gave a more than usual elegance to her tall,
slight figure, as she bent in profile over her book, and Hamilton stood
in silent admiration, unconsciously twisting his riding-whip round his
wrist, until his eyes rested for the second time on the book which she
held in her hand. He started, hesitated, then hastily strode forward and
stood before her. Doubt and uncertainty were still depicted on his
countenance as Hildegarde looked up; but her dismay, her deep blush, and
the childish action of placing the hand containing the volume behind
her, were a confirmation of his fears that she was reading the forbidden
work. “Excuse me for interrupting you,” he said, with a forced smile;
“but I really cannot believe the evidence of my own eyes, and must
request you to let me look at that book for a moment.”

“No, you shall not,” she answered, leaning back on the sofa, and
becoming very pale while she added, “It is very disagreeable being
startled and interrupted in this manner. I thought you told mamma you
would meet her at Neuberhausen.”

“Very true; perhaps I may meet her there; but before I go I must and
will see that book. On it depends my future opinion of you.”

“You shall not see it,” cried Hildegarde, the colour again returning to
her face.

“The book,” said Hamilton, seizing firmly her disengaged hand. “The
book, or the name of it!”

“Neither; let me go!” cried Hildegarde, struggling to disengage her
hand.

Like most usually quiet tempered persons, Hamilton, when once actually
roused, lost all command of himself; he held one of her hands as in a
vice, and, when she brought forward the other to accelerate its release,
he bent down to read the title of the book, which was immediately thrown
on the ground, and the then freed hand descended with such violence on
his cheek and ear that for a moment he was perfectly stunned; and, even
after he stood upright, he looked at her for a few seconds in unfeigned
astonishment. “Do you think,” at length he exclaimed vehemently—“Do you
think that I will allow you to treat me as you did Major Stultz, with
impunity?” And then, catching her in his arms, he kissed her repeatedly,
and with a violence which seemed to terrify her beyond measure. “I gave
you fair warning more than once,” he added, when at length he had
released her. “I gave you fair warning, and you knew what you had to
expect.” She covered her face with her hands, and burst into a passion
of tears.

“I cannot imagine,” he continued, impetuously walking up and down the
room—“I cannot imagine why you did not, with your usual courage, tell me
at once the name of the book, and prevent this scene.”

Hildegarde shook her head, and wept still more bitterly.

“After all,” he said, seating himself with affected calmness opposite to
her, leaning his arms on the table, and drumming upon the book, which
now lay undisputed between them, “After all, you are not better than
other people! Not more to be trusted than other girls, and I fancied you
such perfection! I could have forgiven anything but the—the untruth!” he
exclaimed, starting up. “Anything but that! Pshaw! yesterday when you
told me that the books had been sent back to the library, I believed you
without a moment’s hesitation—I thanked you for your deference to my
opinion—ha, ha, ha! What a fool you must have thought me!”

Hildegarde looked up. All expression of humility had left her features,
her tears ceased to flow, and, as she rose to leave the room, she turned
almost haughtily towards him, while saying:

“I really do not know what right you have to speak to me in this manner.
I consider it very great presumption on your part, and desire it may
never occur again.”

“You may be quite sure I shall never offend you in this way again,” he
said holding the book towards her. “What a mere farce the writing of
that list of books was!”

“No, for I had intended to have read all you recommended.”

“And all I recommended you to avoid, too! This—this, which you tacitly
promised not to finish——” He stopped; for, while she took the book in
silence, she blushed so deeply, and seemed so embarrassed, that he added
sorrowfully, “Oh, how I regret having come home! How I wish I had not
discovered that you could deceive me!”

“I have _not_ deceived you,” said Hildegarde.

Hamilton shook his head, and glanced towards the subject of dispute.

“Appearances are against me, and yet I repeat I have not deceived you.
The books _were_ sent to the library yesterday evening——but too late to
be changed. Old Hans brought them back again, and I found them in my
room when I went to bed. I did not read them last night.”

“But you stayed at home for the purpose to-day,” observed Hamilton,
reproachfully.

“No; my mother gave the servants leave to go out for the whole day, and
as she did not like to leave the house unoccupied, she asked me to
remain at home. I, of course, agreed to do so; without, I assure you,
thinking of those hateful books. I do not mean to—I cannot justify what
I have done. I can only say in extenuation that the temptation was
great. I have been alone for more than two hours—my father’s books are
locked up. I never enter your room when you are absent, and I wished to
know the end of the story which still interests and haunts me in spite
of all my endeavours to forget it. The book lay before me; I resisted
long, but at last I opened it; and so—and so——”

“And so, I suppose, I must acknowledge that I have judged you too
harshly,” said Hamilton.

“I do not care about your judgment. I have fallen in my own esteem since
I find that I cannot resist temptation.”

“And is my good opinion of no value to you?”

“It was, perhaps; but it has lost all worth within the last half-hour.”

“How do you mean?”

“I have seen you in the course of that time suspicious, rough, and what
you would yourself call ungentlemanlike.”

“A pretty catalogue of faults for one short half-hour!” exclaimed
Hamilton, biting his lips.

“You were the last person from whom I should have expected such
treatment,” continued Hildegarde, while the tears started to her eyes,
and her voice faltered, “the very last; and though I did get into a
passion and give you a blow, it was not until you had hurt my wrist and
provoked me beyond endurance.” She left the room and walked quickly down
the passage.

“Stay,” cried Hamilton, following her, “stay, and hear my excuses.”

“Excuses! You have not even one to offer,” said Hildegarde, laying her
hand on the lock of her door.

“Hear me at least,” he said eagerly. “I could not endure the thought of
your being one jot less perfect than I had imagined you—that made me
suspicious; the wish for proof made me rough; and though I cannot
exactly justify my subsequent conduct, I plead in extenuation your own
words, ‘the temptation was great.’”

Hildegarde’s dimples showed that a smile was with difficulty repressed,
and Hamilton, taking courage, whispered hurriedly, “But one word
more—hear my last and best excuse; it is, that I love you, deeply,
passionately; but I need not tell you this, for you must have known it
long, long ago. Hildegarde, say only that our perpetual quarrels have
not made you absolutely hate me!”

Hildegarde, without uttering a word more, impetuously drew back her
hand, sprang into her room, and locked the door. He waited for a minute
or two, and then knocked, but received no answer. “Hildegarde,” he
cried, reproachfully, “is this right—is this kind? Even if you dislike
me, I have a right to expect an answer.”

“Go,” she said, in a very low voice; “go away. You ought not to be here
when I am alone.”

“Why did you not think of that before?”

“I don’t know. I had not time. I——”

“Nonsense. Open the door, and let me speak to you for a moment.”

No answer, but he thought he heard her walking up and down the room.

“Only one moment,” he repeated.

“I cannot, indeed I cannot. Pray go away.”

He retired slowly to his room; even before he reached it he had become
conscious of the absurdity of his conduct, and the prudence of hers.
That she no longer disliked him, he was pretty certain; that she had so
discreetly avoided a confession of other feelings was better for both,
as it enabled them to continue their intercourse on the same terms,
while the acknowledgment of a participation in his affection would have
subjected her to great annoyances, and placed him in a most embarrassing
situation. He was angry with himself—recollected, with shame, that he
had repeated the error which he had so much cause to regret on a former
occasion, and mentally repenting his own loquaciousness and rejoicing at
Hildegarde’s taciturnity, he resolved never to refer to the subject
again. A ring of the bell at the entrance-door induced him to stop and
await her appearance. She did not answer the summons, and it was
repeated, accompanied by a few familiar taps on the door. Still she did
not move. Again the bell was rung; the knocks became louder, as if
administered by some hard instrument, and finally her name was loudly
and distinctly pronounced.

“I am coming, papa,” she cried at last, running forward, and opening the
door precipitately.

Count Raimund sprang into the passage, closed the door with his
shoulder, leaned upon it, and burst into a fit of laughter at the dismay
legible on the features of his cousin.

“Oscar,” she began, seriously, “you must come some other day, mamma is
not at home, and I have been left to——”

“I know, I know,” he cried, interrupting her. “I saw them all in the
English Gardens—your chevalier Hamilton, too, galloping about like a
madman; and for this reason, my most dear and beautiful cousin, I have
come here now, hoping for once to see you alone. Do not look so alarmed,
I am only come to claim the advice which you promised to give me on the
most important event of my life.”

“Not now, not now,” said Hildegarde, glancing furtively towards the end
of the passage, where, in the shadow of his door, she distinguished
Hamilton’s figure leaning with folded arms against the wall; “some other
time, Oscar.”

“What other time? I never see you for a moment alone—even at the
Hoffmanns, although my good Marie is too rational to bore me with
useless jealousy, does not her deaf old mother watch every movement and
intercept every glance with her cold, grey, suspicious eyes? I sometimes
wish the old lady were blind instead of deaf, she would be infinitely
less troublesome.”

“Oh, Oscar!”

“Conceive my being doomed to live in the vicinity of such eyes, dearest
creature, and you will pity me, at least!”

“You are not in the least to be pitied—for the Hoffmanns are most
amiable,” said Hildegarde, hurriedly. “But now I expect you will leave
me.”

“Expect no such thing! On the contrary, I expect you will invite me to
enter this room,” he replied, advancing boldly towards her.

“If you enter that room,” said Hildegarde, sternly, “I shall leave you
there, and take refuge with Madame de Hoffmann, who, I know, is now at
home.”

“Don’t be angry, dearest, all places are alike to me where you are. All
places are alike to me where I may tell you without reserve that I love
you more than ever one cousin loved another.”

“The time is ill chosen for jesting, Oscar; I never felt less disposed
to enjoy anything of the kind than at this moment.”

“Indeed! then let me tell you seriously that I love you to distraction.”

“Oscar, even in jest I do not choose to hear such nonsense.”

“By heaven, I am not jesting.”

“Then, betrothed as you now are, your words are a crime.”

“Be it so; there is, however, no crime I should hesitate to commit were
you to be obtained by it. As to breaking my engagement with Marie, that
is a trifle not worth considering; but what am I likely to obtain by
doing so?”

“Dishonour,” said Hildegarde, firmly and calmly.

“Hildegarde,” he exclaimed, fiercely, “do not affect a coldness which
you cannot feel; do not drive me to madness. My love must not be trifled
with; it is of no rational every-day kind, but violent as my nature, and
desperate as my fortunes.”

“That is,” thought Hamilton, “exactly what she wished. If he continue in
this strain she will not shut the door in his face. But I have had
enough of this raving, and will no longer constrain her by my presence.”
He entered the room, and closed the door.

For more than half an hour he impatiently paced backwards and forwards,
stopping only when he heard Raimund’s voice suddenly raised. At length
he thought he heard a stifled scream, and rushed to the door, scarcely
knowing what he feared or expected. Hildegarde was holding her cousin’s
arm with both hands, while she exclaimed, “For heaven’s sake, Oscar, do
not frighten me so horribly.”

A loud ringing of the house-bell, and the sound of many voices on the
stairs, seemed to be a relief to her, while Raimund appeared
considerably agitated. “Hide me in your room, Hildegarde; I am lost if
the Hoffmanns find me here.”

“And what is to become of me should you be found there?” she asked,
while a deadly paleness overspread her features, and she irresolutely
placed her hand on the lock of the door, then glanced down the passage,
and beckoning Raimund to follow, she led the way to Hamilton’s room.
“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, with a trembling voice, “will you allow Oscar
to remain a few minutes in your room, and when no one is in the passage,
have the goodness to open the door leading to the back staircase for
him?”

“The part which you have assigned me in this comedy, mademoiselle, is by
no means agreeable, but I will not be the means of causing you
embarrassment; Count Raimund may easily be supposed to have voluntarily
visited me, and there is no necessity for a retreat by the back
staircase, unless he have some motive for wishing to give his visit an
air of mystery.”

“Ah, very true,” said Hildegarde, in a hurried, confused manner, while
she moved aside to let her cousin pass.

Hamilton’s speech made more impression on Raimund; he looked furious,
and seemed to hesitate whether or not to enter the room. Again the bell
rang, and Hildegarde was in the act of springing forward, when Raimund
caught her arm, and while a fearful frown contracted his brows, with
closed teeth, and in the low voice of suppressed rage, he whispered,
“One word; is it Zedwitz? or—or——” he looked towards Hamilton.

Hildegarde’s face became crimson, she flung off his detaining hand, and
ran to the hall-door, which she threw wide open, leaving him to retreat
precipitately into Hamilton’s room, where, with folded arms, he strode
toward the window, after having murmured the words, “Sorry to intrude in
this manner.” Hamilton moved a chair towards him; he sat down for a
moment, but the next jumped up, and going to the door, partly opened it
and looked into the passage.

“I saw Count Raimund enter the house more than half an hour ago,”
observed a very loud voice, which Hamilton recognised as Madame de
Hoffmann’s, “and as I knew you were all out walking, and only
Mademoiselle Hildegarde at home, I expected to see him leave it again
immediately.”

“I think, mamma, you must have been mistaken,” said Mademoiselle de
Hoffmann, putting her mouth close to her mother’s ear.

“I have the misfortune to be somewhat deaf, Marie, but my eyes are as
good as yours, and with these eyes I saw him enter this house.”

“You are quite right,” said Raimund, advancing with the easiest manner
and most unconcerned smile imaginable. “I knew that Marie had gone out
with Madame Rosenberg, and not imagining that my future mother-in-law
could be so much interested in my movements, I ventured, without
informing her of my intentions, to visit my friend Hamilton.”

“But Mr. Hamilton is out riding,” cried Madame de Hoffmann.

“Perhaps he _was_ out riding, but I have had the good fortune to find
him at home, nevertheless.”

“Then he must have come up the other staircase, or I should have seen
him through the slit in our door, where I watched you walking upstairs.”

“Very possibly,” said Raimund, contemptuously.

“Marie,” said Madame de Hoffmann, in what she intended for a whisper,
but which was audible to all, “Marie, my child, I don’t believe a word
of all this. The Englishman is no more in the house than the man in the
moon.”

“Confound your suspicions,” muttered Raimund, angrily. “I suppose,
then,” he added with a frown, “I shall be obliged, in order to satisfy
you, to ask Mr. Hamilton to show himself to the assembled household.”

He seemed, however, so very unwilling to make the request, that Madame
de Hoffmann’s suspicions received confirmation; she turned from him,
saying, with a laugh of derision, “Perhaps Hildegarde can assist you in
making him appear!”

Her words acted like a charm. Hamilton, who had been an immovable
listener of all that had passed, no sooner heard her name mentioned,
than he mechanically rose, and taking his hat and whip, issued forth. He
forced a smile as he passed the Hoffmanns and Madame Rosenberg, which,
on approaching Hildegarde, changed into an expression of contempt that
neither her swelled and tearful eyelids nor her excessive paleness could
mitigate.

After his return home, he remained in his room until supper was
announced, and even then delayed some minutes, to insure Madame
Rosenberg’s being in the drawing-room when he reached it. She was
endeavouring to persuade Hildegarde to leave the stove, near which she
was sitting with closed eyes, leaning her head in her hands.

“If you would only eat your supper, Hildegarde, it would quite cure your
headache, which is probably caused by your having spent the day in a
heated room. Next time I shall leave old Hans in charge of the house,
for had you been out walking with us as usual, you would have had no
headache, I am sure. Don’t you think so too, Mr. Hamilton?”

“I think it very probable,” he answered, seating himself beside Madame
Rosenberg.

“And don’t you think if she took some soup she would be better?”

“Perhaps.”

“Hildegarde, I insist on your trying it—or go to bed at once. You make
your head worse by sitting so close to the stove.”

Hildegarde, without speaking, moved to the vacant chair at the other
side of Hamilton, and slowly and reluctantly sipped a few mouthfuls of
soup.

By some singular anomaly, Hamilton found himself suddenly in remarkably
high spirits—he looked at Hildegarde, and congratulating himself on
being free from thraldom, gazed with a gay smile on her pale features
until they were suffused with red, and great was his triumph to feel and
know that there was no sympathetic blush on his own countenance. He told
Madame Rosenberg of an engagement he had made with Zedwitz to accompany
him to Edelhof on the following morning, to attend the marriage of his
sister, and requested to have his breakfast at an early hour the next
day.

“And you intend to remain away a whole fortnight! How we shall miss
you!” cried Madame Rosenberg.

“You are very kind to say so,” replied Hamilton, laughing.

“And I think so too, though you seem to doubt me. You know I like you
better than any of the Englishmen I have had in my house. Captain Black
was not to be compared to you, nor Mr. Smith, either, although he used
to tell me so often that he was noble even without a _von_ before his
name, and that he could be made a chamberlain here if he wished it, as
he was related to the Duke of Buckel,[2] which always appeared to me
such an odd name for a duke that I was half inclined to doubt there
being any such person.”

Footnote 2:

  Buckel means in German back, or more generally humpback. It seems that
  Madame Rosenberg took it in the latter sense.

“We have a Duke of Buccleugh——” began Hamilton.

“Very likely he pronounced it that way; I am sure I heard it often
enough to know, but I never can learn an English word until I see it
written; and never should have learned his name if he had not constantly
left his cards lying about on the tables; I dare say I shall find some
of them in the card-basket still.” She commenced a diligent search while
speaking, and soon held up a card on which was printed in large German
letters the name of Mr. Howard Seymour Scott Smith.

“He used to sometimes say that the last word ought to be left out, for
that his real name was Scott.”

“Perhaps he inherited property with the name of Smith?”

“No; he said something about a marriage certificate having been
lost—that before he was born there was great irregularity in such things
in England.”

Hamilton laughed.

“Is it not true?” asked Madame Rosenberg.

“Oh, very possibly.”

“He told us, too, that in Scotland people could be married without any
certificate of birth, baptism, or confirmation—without even the consent
of their friends. Franz says this is a fact, and that the existence of
such a law is a great temptation to thoughtless young people.”

“I have no doubt it is,” replied Hamilton; “I would not answer for
myself were I led into temptation. A great-uncle of mine made a marriage
of this kind and it proved a very happy one—his friends, to provide for
him quickly, used all their interest to send him out to India, where he
made an enormous fortune, and as he has no children, has been, ever
since his return, a sort of lawgiver in our family. I should not have
been here now, if old Uncle Jack had not said that travelling was
necessary to make me a man of the world, and that in Germany alone I
could learn to speak the German well.”

“But,” said Madame Rosenberg, “this marriage was a fortunate exception,
for,” she added, with sundry winks and blinks towards Hildegarde, “for
marriages against the consent of relations seldom or never turn out
well. Let me give you some more salad, and then, as you are to leave so
early to-morrow, I may as well pack up your things to-night.”

“By no means,” cried Hamilton, “I must beg of you to send for Hans.”

“Oh, young Hans is much too awkward, and the old man is gone to bed
hours ago. I have been thinking, if you intend to keep Hans, that I will
begin to teach him to be handy, and instead of Hildegarde’s arranging
your linen, he must learn to do it from this time forward.”

“That would be very kind of you,” said Hamilton.

“For the sewing on of buttons, and all that,” continued Madame
Rosenberg, delighted at the idea of giving instruction, “he must of
course still apply to you, Hildegarde.”

Hildegarde, who had been leaning back on her chair, diligently puckering
and plaiting her pocket handkerchief, looked up for a moment, and
replied:

“Yes, mamma.”

“I shall send for Hans, and give him his first lessons to-night,” said
Madame Rosenberg, moving towards the door.

“Wait a moment and I can accompany you,” cried Hamilton, quickly. “I
shall be ready directly.”

“Don’t hurry yourself,” said Madame Rosenberg; “you will have time
enough before Hans comes up; and I must first see if Peppy has fallen
asleep, and if he is properly covered. Don’t hurry yourself.”

Why did Hamilton bend over his plate? and why did the colour mount to
his temples as the door closed? Did he begin to entertain doubts of his
indifference, or did he dread an explanation with Hildegarde? He
scarcely knew himself, but he felt uncomfortable, and gave himself a
quantity of trouble to prevent his companion from observing it.

The distant roll of carriages had already informed them that the opera
was over; but it was not until the sound of voices in the usually quiet
street had made the immediate return of her father, sister, and Major
Stultz probable, that Hildegarde summoned courage to say, in a very low
voice, and without looking up, “What must you think of me——”

“Do you wish to know what I think of you?” asked Hamilton, with affected
negligence.

“Yes; but do not again judge too harshly.”

“I think,” he said, facing her deliberately, “I think you are very
beautiful.”

“Pshaw!” cried Hildegarde, pushing back her chair angrily, “I expected a
very different answer.”

“Something different,” said Hamilton, in the same tone. “Something about
distraction and committing crimes, perhaps.”

“What occurred to-day is no subject for a jest,” she said seriously.

“So I thought a few hours ago, also,” said Hamilton; “but now the whole
affair appears to me rather amusing than otherwise. Perhaps, however,
your cousin alone is privileged to speak to you in this manner, in which
case you must pardon me for endeavouring to recollect what he said; but
it was so well received that——”

“It was not well received!” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him. “You
know it was not; and I am ready,” she added, after a pause, “ready to
repeat to you every word of our conversation.”

“Thank you,” said Hamilton, coldly, “but I have already heard enough to
enable me to imagine the remainder.”

“Perhaps,” said Hildegarde, hurriedly, “perhaps you heard—and saw——”

“I heard a declaration of love after the most approved form, a proposal
to commit any crime or crimes likely to render him interesting and
acceptable to you. I remembered to have once heard you tell your father
that you wished to be the object of a love of this kind; but I did not
wait to hear your answers, it was your half-suppressed scream which made
me foolishly imagine you wished for my presence. When I saw you I
perceived at once my mistake, and returned to my room.”

“Then you did not see the—the dagger——”

“What dagger?” asked Hamilton, his curiosity excited in spite of
himself.

“Oscar’s dagger—he threatened to stab himself!”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Hamilton. “I really did not think him capable of
acting so absurdly. I gave him credit for too much knowledge of the
world to treat you to such an insipid scene.”

“Then you do not think he was serious!”

“I am sure he was not. The dagger was purposely brought for effect. He
has proved himself an excellent actor to-day—tragic as well as comic, it
seems.”

“It was cruel of him deliberately to frighten me,” said Hildegarde,
thoughtfully.

“It was unpardonable—inexcusable his doing so,” cried Hamilton, “for he
thought you were alone, and took advantage of finding you unprotected.”

“Most men take advantage of finding us unprotected. After the events of
to-day I may say all men do so,” replied Hildegarde, with so much
reproachful meaning in her glance that Hamilton rose from his seat and
began to perambulate the room, occasionally stopping to lean on the
stove, until her father’s voice and approaching steps made him suddenly
move forward towards her, as if he expected her to speak again. She
remained, however, silent and motionless; and at length, overcome by a
mixture of anxiety and curiosity, and with an ineffectual effort to
appear indifferent, he said quickly, “I thought you were going to tell
me what you said that could have given your cousin an excuse for
producing a dagger.”

“You did not choose to hear when I was willing to tell you; and now——”

Here Madame Rosenberg entered the room, and Hildegarde rose, saying,
“that her head ached intolerably, and she would now go to bed.”

“Good-night!” said Hamilton. “I hope your headache will be cured by a
long sleep, and that you will be quite well when we meet again.”

“Thank you; before that time I shall most probably have altogether
forgotten it,” said Hildegarde.

That means, thought Hamilton, she will not pour out my coffee to-morrow
at breakfast.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XXII.

                             THE DEPARTURE.


HILDEGARDE did not appear the next morning, and Hamilton breakfasted
with Madame Rosenberg sitting opposite to him in a striped red and white
dressing-gown; her hair, as usual, twisted up to the very roots with
hair-pins, to prepare curls which, however, seldom made their appearance
at home, excepting on the evenings which the Hoffmanns spent with her.
She sat opposite to him, and watched while he vainly endeavoured to
improve his coffee by adding alternately cream and sugar. “One never
enjoys a breakfast at this early hour,” she observes at length, “the
coffee is, however, quite as good as usual; I made it myself.”

“I have no doubt of it,” said Hamilton, “but the fact is, I am so
accustomed to your daughter Hildegarde’s preparing it for me, that I do
not know the quantity of cream and sugar necessary—by-the-by, I hope her
headache is better this morning?”

“She said so,” replied Madame Rosenberg, “but I found her so feverish,
and looking so wretchedly ill, that I have forbidden her getting up
until Doctor Berger sees her.”

“You do not apprehend any serious illness, I hope?”

“Oh, no—but Crescenz tells me that she slept very uneasily—had frightful
dreams, and at one time during the night fancied someone intended to
stab her! Such an idea! I suppose,” she added, after a pause, “you
expect Count Zedwitz to call for you?”

“I believe so,” said Hamilton, absently.

“I am beginning rather to like him,” observed Madame Rosenberg.

Hamilton did not appear to hear her.

“You are going to a gay house,” she added, “at least it will be gay on
such an occasion.”

“What occasion?” asked Hamilton, looking up.

“Why, did you not tell me that the only daughter was going to be
married? And is not a wedding a very gay thing?”

“Not always,” said Hamilton, “for brides generally shed tears and infect
the bridesmaids, and the mamma half faints, and the papa is agitated,
and when the bridal party leave, the house is immensely dull, until it
fill with new people again. Altogether, a wedding is a very
deadly-lively festivity, excepting to the two principal actors.”

“I will prove the contrary,” said Madame Rosenberg, “you shall see how
gay our wedding will be—that is, Crescenz’s! Did I tell you that it must
be deferred until the carnival?”

“Not a word—I thought it was to take place before Christmas.”

“Marriages are seldom or never celebrated before Advent,” said Madame
Rosenberg, “but at all events, Major Stultz’s sister has died suddenly,
and he must leave for Nuremberg to-morrow.”

“I am sorry he has lost his sister,” said Hamilton, compassionately.

“Why, in fact, the loss is rather a gain,” said Madame Rosenberg. “He
knew very little about her—she was unmarried, rich, and stingy—always on
the point of making a fool of herself by marrying some young student or
officer. Now the Major quietly inherits all her property—a very pretty
addition to what he already has. I told Crescenz yesterday evening that
she had drawn a greater prize than she expected.”

“And what did she say?”

“Why, not much, but she looked exceedingly pleased—her father has told
me since that he thinks she is glad that her marriage is put off, and
does not care in the least about the money, of which she has not yet
learned the value. This may be partly true—Crescenz may have no
objection to a delay, but she is now quite satisfied with the Major, and
has no wish whatever to break off her engagement. Count Raimund has been
of great use to her!”

“How do you mean?” asked Hamilton surprised.

“Why, his unpardonable negligence towards Marie de Hoffmann forms a fine
contrast to the Major’s attention and handsome presents. Crescenz is
very childish, but she has perceived the difference, nevertheless, and I
have not neglected the opportunity to tell her that all young men are
careless lovers, and still more careless husbands, and that I am sure
she will be much happier when she is married than Marie.”

“The carriage is come! The carriage is come for Hamilton!” cried Peppy,
rushing into the room; “and Count Zedwitz is coming up the stairs! and
Crescenz is hiding behind the kitchen-door! and Walburg is gone with
Gustle to school! and Dr. Berger is in Hildegarde’s room! and papa is
putting on his coat! and he wants you to come to him!”

“Well, have you any more news to tell me before I go?” said his mother,
taking up her bunch of keys from the breakfast-table. “Good-morning,
Count Zedwitz—you must excuse me—Dr. Berger is here, and——”

“No one ill, I hope?” said Zedwitz.

“Hildegarde is ill,” replied Hamilton; “have you any objection to
waiting until we hear what the Doctor says?”

“Quite the contrary,” said Zedwitz, sitting down, evidently alarmed.

“In the meantime, I can tell Hans to carry down my luggage,” said
Hamilton.

Hans was despatched with the portmanteau, carpet-bag, and dressing-case;
but Hamilton, instead of returning to his friend, watched until Madame
Rosenberg and the Doctor had left Hildegarde’s room, and walked up the
passage together. A moment after he was at her door, and had knocked.

“Come in,” said Hildegarde, almost gayly. “I am not so ill as you
suppose!”

“I am very glad to hear it,” said Hamilton, entering as he spoke.

“I—I—expected papa,” said Hildegarde, blushing deeply.

“I more than half suspected the permission to enter was not intended for
me,” said Hamilton, “but I really cannot leave you without having
obtained pardon for having offended you last night. I cannot quit you
for so long a time, without the certainty of your forgiveness.”

“It is granted—or rather I have nothing to forgive,” replied Hildegarde,
“for you were quite right not to listen to my confession, though I
remained up on purpose to favour you with it.” She had become very pale
while speaking, and Hamilton was forcibly reminded of all her long and
unwearied attentions to him during his illness. He wondered how he could
ever, even for a moment, have forgotten them, and remained lost in
thought, until, slightly pointing towards the door, she wished him a
pleasant journey and much amusement. Instead of obeying the sign, he
walked directly forward, saying, “You must not expect me to believe that
I am forgiven until you have told me all I refused to hear yesterday
evening.”

“How very unconscionable you are,” she said, with a faint smile. “When,
however, I tell you that I wish you to leave my room, that I am too ill
to talk, I am sure you——”

“Oh, of course, of course,” said Hamilton, quite aware of the
reasonableness of her demand. “Only one thing you must tell me, and that
is, what you said to Raimund which could induce him to threaten to kill
himself.”

“Do not ask me,” said Hildegarde, uneasily.

“But that is exactly what I insist upon knowing,” persisted Hamilton.

“You said you came to ask forgiveness, but it seems you have fallen into
your usual habit of commanding, and——”

“I do not command,” cried Hamilton, interrupting her, “I do not command;
but,” he added in a very low voice, and approaching still nearer, “I
entreat, I entreat you to tell me what you said to him.”

“I reminded him that he was betrothed to my friend,” began Hildegarde,
slowly and unwillingly.

“Well, well; and then——”

“And then—I said—I could not like him otherwise than as a—cousin.”

“But surely, situated as he is, he must have expected just such an
answer from you. Were he free and independent, you would probably have
spoken differently. Did you not console him by telling him so?”

Hildegarde remained silent, her eyes almost closed.

“And if you told him that,” continued Hamilton, “there was no possible
excuse for the dagger-scene; he might have been despairing, but not
desperate, on such an occasion. Tell me, Hildegarde, did you say that?”

“No,” she replied, almost in a whisper, “no; for though I admire Oscar,
I do not love him at all.”

“Then you must have said something else!”

“You are worrying me,” she murmured, with an expression of pain.

“I see I am,” cried Hamilton. “Forgive me, but I must ask one question
more. Did he not ask you if you loved another?”

“Yes,” said Hildegarde, turning away her face, which was once more
covered with blushes.

“And you acknowledged?”

“I acknowledged. I confessed my folly, to put an end to the wildest
ravings and most impracticable schemes imaginable.”

“And you named the object of your preference?”

“Oh, no, no, no!”

“Hildegarde,” cried Hamilton, hurriedly, “tell me at once—answer me
quickly, have you chosen Zedwitz?”

Hildegarde turned still more away, but did not answer.

“I understand your silence. You have chosen well—and,” he added, after a
slight struggle, “wisely.”

Hildegarde made an impatient gesture with her hand.

“Do not mistake me,” he continued, eagerly; “I am convinced your choice
has not in the least been influenced by interested motives. Zedwitz is
in every respect worthy of your regard.”

Hildegarde raised herself quickly on her elbow, and seemed about to
speak, but the words died on her lips when she perceived Crescenz, who
had, as usual, entered the room noiselessly, standing between them. She
shrank back, her colour changed several times with frightful rapidity,
but her voice, though faint, was perfectly calm as she requested her
sister to close the window shutters, and every trace of emotion
disappeared as her father entering, seated himself beside her bed, and
observed that she looked more like a marble statue than a living person.

Hamilton was at the moment unable to articulate; he shook Mr.
Rosenberg’s hand, and left the room precipitately. In the drawing-room
he found the Doctor assuring Madame Rosenberg that Mademoiselle
Hildegarde would be perfectly well in a day or two. Hamilton,
nevertheless, requested her to write to him, and having obtained a
promise, he began to hurry Zedwitz’s departure.

“Does your servant not go with us, Hamilton?” asked Zedwitz.

“He is to follow with Madame Rosenberg’s letter to-morrow. Be sure to
bring the letter, Hans!” said Hamilton, as he wrapped himself in his
cloak, and sank back in the corner of the carriage.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XXIII.

                             THE LONG DAY.


HAMILTON could not help feeling flattered at the evident pleasure which
his return caused to every member of the Rosenberg family. The two
little boys began immediately to tell him that the Christmas-tree was
expected the next day. Gustle said that he had written a list of all the
toys he wished for, had placed it under his pillow, and that the little
child Christ had come for it and carried it off; “So, you see, I must
have been very good, or he would not have taken the list, and I shall
get all the things I wrote for.”

“And,” said Peppy, “mamma met the infant Christ in the Ludwig Street,
and he asked if I had been a good child, and when mamma said yes, he
promised to fly into the nursery to-morrow evening and light the
candles, and bring me a gun, and a cart, and _bon-bons_, and
gingerbread.”

“To-morrow is Christmas-eve,” said Madame Rosenberg, “a great day with
us. Captain Smith told me that you do not celebrate it in the same
manner as we do. As to Gustle,” she added in a whisper, “he is a cunning
little fellow, and only half believes what he says, but Peppy has still
all the innocent faith of childhood. I, for my own part, firmly believed
that Jesus gave me all my Christmas presents until I was nearly ten
years old; but children now are not so easily made to believe what we
say.”

“I don’t quite like this idea,” said Hamilton. “Speaking in this way
seems to me to be irreverent, and must oblige you to tell the children a
number of untruths.”

“Ah, bah!” cried Madame Rosenberg, laughing, “you are all too particular
in this respect.”

“I think,” said her husband, “that as long as they can believe it, they
may, and when they cease to do so, they naturally think that it is God
who has given us the means of gratifying their wishes, and so the gifts
after all come from him.”

“Oh, how I enjoy the idea of my Christmas-tree this year,” exclaimed
Crescenz.

“Of course you do,” said Madame Rosenberg, “as you know that you will
get so many presents. The Major returns to-morrow in order to give you
the gold chain and topaz ornaments he promised you, and perhaps he may
bring something of his sister’s for you from Nuremberg.”

“And what do you expect to get?” said Hamilton, turning to Hildegarde.

“I don’t know,” she replied, looking with a smile towards her father,
“but I have a sort of idea that I shall get my first ball dress and some
books. Mamma has promised me a tree for myself, so perhaps I shall give
you some of my _bon-bons_.”

“How I wish to-morrow were come!” cried Gustle.

“I wish dinner were on the table,” said Mr. Rosenberg, “although we get
nothing now but veal to eat, which my wife considers as a sort of
preservative against cholera.”

“You are just as much afraid of cholera as I am, Franz,” she said, and
then added in a whisper to Hamilton, “He laughs at me, but he takes
drops and pills every night. While you were at Edelhof, we had some
scenes which would, perhaps, have alarmed you. First, I thought I had
got the cholera, but it was only some fat of roast lamb which had
disagreed with me. Then the cook made herself ill by eating the apples
which I had given her that the children might not ask for them. Then
Peppy——”

“Dinner is on the table,” cried old Hans, merely putting his grey head
into the room.

“That’s right,” cried Mr. Rosenberg, “and now I request that the cholera
be no more named among us. A fine of six kreutzers for every time the
word is said.”

“Oh, as to not saying the word ‘cholera,’” began his wife.

“A fine, a fine,” cried Mr. Rosenberg; “the money shall be put into a
box and given to the poor.”

“Oh, dear,” exclaimed Crescenz, “I must take great care, or all my
pocket-money will be spent on the cho——”

Hildegarde’s hand was on her mouth before the word was pronounced. The
little boys clapped their hands, Hamilton laughed, and Mr. Rosenberg
said he was sure that his wife and Crescenz would prove themselves the
most charitable by their contributions.

The next morning Hamilton spent in choosing his presents; he was for
some time exceedingly puzzled, and wavered long between books and
bronze, glass and gold; at length he recollected having heard Hildegarde
once say that she wished for nothing in this world so much as a little
watch, but that she feared she never would be in possession of one. This
decided at once his doubts, and as the others interested him less, he
had soon completed his purchases with a large box of toys for the
children.

On his return, he found Fritz at home for the holidays; he was sitting
at the drawing-room window with his brothers, all three yawning and
looking most melancholy. “What o’clock is it?” was the exclamation as he
entered.

“Four o’clock,” said Hamilton; “but why do you look so sorrowful?”

“Two whole hours to wait,” sighed Fritz.

“Two long hours,” yawned Gustle.

“Two hours before the angel comes to light the candles and ring the
bell,” said Peppy.

“Pshaw, mamma might light the candles at five o’clock; it will be dark
enough, I am sure,” said Fritz, in a whisper to Hamilton.

“Where are your sisters?”

“They are with mamma, hanging the _bon-bons_ and fastening the wax
tapers on the trees, I suppose; but when the presents are being brought
in they will be sent off too, though Crescenz thinks herself old enough
to light the candles and do everything.”

“In what room are they?”

“In the school-room, but you need not expect to get in; both doors are
locked.”

“What do you think the little child Jesus will send you?” asked Peppy,
approaching Hamilton confidentially. “Did you, too, put a list under
your pillow, like Gustle? Next year, if I can write, I shall ask for so
many things. Trumpets, and drums, and harlequins. What do you think you
will get?”

“_Bon-bons_, probably.”

“And something else, too,” said Gustle, nodding his head.

“You promised not to tell,” cried Fritz, threateningly approaching his
brother.

“Don’t you think,” cried Gustle, boldly, “that because you wear a
uniform, I’m afraid of you. I’ll tell what I like——”

Fritz caught him by the collar, Gustle threw off his arm, and a
considerable scuffle ensued.

“Hildegarde has not finished the travelling-bag,” shouted Gustle,
angrily, “and papa says it is just as well, as it was not a civil sort
of present.”

At this moment Hildegarde and Crescenz entered the room.

“Turned out! turned out!” cried Fritz and Gustle, unanimously joining in
the attack on their sisters.

Hildegarde smiled, Crescenz grew red, and observed that everything was
ready; there was nothing more to be done.

“Turned out all the same,” said Fritz, “though you are nearly sixteen,
and going to be married. Ha! ha! ha!”

“You are very ill-natured, Fritz, always talking of my going to be
married, though you know I dislike its being spoken of.”

“Not you! Didn’t I see you playing grand with Lina Berger when I was at
home last Sunday? You both seemed to consider Hildegarde beneath your
notice, and she is worth a dozen such as you, and a hundred such as Lina
Berger.”

“I was learning to make a new kind of purse.”

“As if I did not know the purses were all made! No, you were talking of
old Count Zedwitz, who was so ill that the Doctor had to visit him at
his castle. I heard all you said, and understood you, too, though you
spoke French.”

Crescenz blushed deeply. Hildegarde became very pale, turned suddenly to
her sister, and said, in a scarcely audible voice, “Crescenz, you surely
have not had the cruelty to explain to Lina Berger, or gratify her
curiosity?”

“Lina suspected almost everything, and asked me so many questions that I
did not know what to say. You forget that the Doctor was sent for, and
that the old Count was ill from mental agitation; I dare say he told him
everything.”

“What he left untold you have supplied. It is the last time I shall ever
confide in you.”

“Don’t be angry, Hildegarde,” cried Crescenz, with tears in her eyes;
“surely it is no disgrace to you that such a man as Count Zedwitz wished
to——”

“Silence!” cried Hildegarde, sternly, “and never mention his name
again.”

“Whew,” whistled Fritz; “Hildegarde is in a passion; look at her eyes!
Fight it out, Cressy, and then make it up again!”

But Crescenz threw herself on her knees before her sister, and, seizing
her hands, faltered, “Oh, Hildegarde, forgive me; I have done wrong, but
you know that Lina always makes me do as she pleases. Forgive me—only
say that you forgive me this time!”

“I forgive you,” said Hildegarde, “but I never can trust you again.”

The sound of Madame Rosenberg’s voice speaking to Major Stultz in the
adjoining room made Crescenz spring up and follow the children, who ran
to meet him.

Hamilton looked at Hildegarde, but did not utter a word. Every feature
of her face expressed intense annoyance, as she slowly turned to the
window and leaned her head against it. The greetings in the next room
were cordial; the children boisterously reminded Major Stultz of the
presents which he had promised to bring them from Nuremberg.

“They are come or coming,” he answered; “I had them all packed up; and
only think, the infant Christ met me on my way here, took them all from
me, and promised to place them all under the Christmas-tree this evening
himself.”

“Well,” cried Fritz, “I must say that this 24th of December is the very
longest day in the whole year.”

“And yet it is generally supposed to be one of the shortest,” said Major
Stultz, laughing; he advanced towards Hamilton and shook his hand.

“You are a new arrival as well as myself, I hear. All my people in
Nuremberg tried to persuade me to stay there in order to be out of the
way of the cholera, and they would, perhaps, have succeeded, had not my
impatience to see Crescenz again been so great; besides, I hope to hurry
matters by my presence, and that in about a fortnight at furthest,
Madame Rosenberg——”

“I have no objection, my dear Major, but Franz has taken it into his
head that Crescenz ought to wait until after her birthday, and go to one
ball with her sister before her marriage. We do not yet know when the
first museum ball will take place.”

“Pooh, nonsense! She can go to the ball after our marriage, just as well
as before it; eh, Crescenz?”

Crescenz smiled unmeaningly, and Hildegarde turned the conversation by
telling her mother that the Hoffmanns had requested permission to come
to the Christmas-tree in the evening, to see the presents.

“You have invited them, of course. The Bergers are coming too, and old
Madame Lustig; I invited her because I intend to ask her to take charge
of you all some day next month, as I have promised to visit my father at
the iron-works; besides, she has taken a deal of trouble about workwomen
for Crescenz, and all that sort of thing; I expect her to offer to stay
here to-night and take care of the children until we return from the
midnight mass. I hope, Major, you can remain awake until twelve
o’clock.”

“In Crescenz’s society I can answer for myself; otherwise I must say I
consider nine o’clock as the most rational hour for retiring to rest.”

“But you will go with us to hear the high mass at midnight, won’t you?”

“Oh, of course.”

“Come, girls, assist me to arrange the tea things; we will not, however,
employ Mr. Hamilton to make tea this time, but he may help to carry the
long table out of the next room for us.”

Hamilton and Major Stultz carried in the table, and everything was soon
arranged for the expected guests.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XXIV.

                 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.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XXV.

                              THE GARRET.


“STOP, stop, if you please,” cried Zedwitz’s servant to Hamilton, who
was beginning to run down the street, “Count Max is not in his own
house—he is here just opposite—at the brazier’s.”

“At the brazier’s!” exclaimed Hamilton, “what induced him to go there?”

“Don’t know, sir,” replied the man, “he has been lodging there the last
week or two.”

“Lodging there?” repeated Hamilton, as he crossed the street, “that is
an odd idea.”

The man opened the house-door with a latch-key, took up a candle which
was burning on the staircase, and walked up to the very top of the
house. They passed through two or three empty garrets before they
reached the one which Zedwitz had chosen for his sleeping apartment. The
furniture contrasted strangely with the whitewashed walls, sloping
ceilings, and windows protruding from the roof. A handsome bedstead,
wardrobe, sofa, several large arm-chairs, and tables covered with
writing and drawing materials, found with difficulty, place in the
ill-shaped room. A stranger was sitting by the bed; he rose as Hamilton
approached.

“So they have brought you here, after all,” said Zedwitz; “I hope at
least that you have been told the true state of the case—that you know
that I have the worst description of cholera?”

“You know I do not consider it infectious,” replied Hamilton, “and if I
can be of any use, I am prepared to remain with you.”

Zedwitz pressed his friend’s hand.

“If I am not better in a few hours,” he said slowly, “that is, when
there is no hope of my recovery, you may write to Edelhof—I do not wish
to see any of my family—not even Agnes—coming from the country, they
would be too liable to infection.”

“But,” said Hamilton, “I do not see Doctor Berger—why have you not sent
for him?”

“Because I am here, and not in my own house, and he tells everything to
his chattering wife, who relates, with interest, all she hears to
whoever will listen to her.”

“But why _are_ you here?” asked Hamilton.

A violent spasm put an end to the conversation, nor was it possible to
renew it. Zedwitz hourly became worse, Hamilton proportionably anxious.
At length he sent not only for Doctor Berger, but also for his friend
Biedermann, and when they had declared Zedwitz’s case almost hopeless,
he wrote as he had been desired to Edelhof, and employed his servant
Hans as courier.

Late in the evening Zedwitz lay motionless from exhaustion. Biedermann
had more than once held a feather under his nostrils to ascertain if he
still breathed. Hamilton rose slowly from his station by the bed, and
walked cautiously to one of the small windows. On reaching it, he
stumbled over a large telescope which was pointed against a round hole,
evidently cut in the curtain—he was about to remove the telescope to
avoid a recurrence of the noise which he had just made, but, on second
thoughts, he seated himself on a chair conveniently placed beside it,
and applied his eye to the glass.

In a moment, he was in Madame Rosenberg’s drawing-room; the muslin
curtains were not closed, and he saw the preparations for the rubber of
whist—the candles and counters arranged, the entrance of the Hoffmanns,
accompanied as usual by Raimund. The latter soon seated himself at the
pianoforte, and from the different movements of his person and hands,
Hamilton tried to imagine the music to which the others (not the
card-players) listened apparently with the most profound attention. He
had heard so much from Hildegarde of her cousin’s extraordinary talent
for music, that he expected to see her immediately move towards him.
Great was, therefore, his surprise, when she walked to the window most
distant from him, and drawing still further aside the small transparent
curtains, turned her face upwards exactly in the direction of the window
from which he was looking out. He could not any longer see her features,
but he imagined her looking at him, and he involuntarily pushed back his
chair. Did she know where he was? Or had she already known that Zedwitz
was in her neighbourhood? He tried to remember if she had been in the
habit of going to the window—he believed not—but he recollected her
immediate recognition of Zedwitz in the street the evening before. The
scene on the stairs recurred to his memory with extraordinary exactness,
and a sudden suspicion, like a flash of lightning, made him see Zedwitz
as his midnight traducer. He strode towards him, but the angry question
died on his lips, when he beheld the livid features convulsed with pain.
Zedwitz was not only perfectly conscious of his dangerous state, but
everything passing around him; he glanced towards the window, and asked
in a low hoarse voice, “Have you seen her?”

“Yes, she is looking at the windows of this room.”

A long silence ensued, and then Hamilton was called out of the room to
speak to old Hans, who had been sent by Hildegarde to make inquiries
about Zedwitz.

“How does Mademoiselle Hildegarde know that we are here?” asked
Hamilton.

“She inquired of my son this morning when he was packing your clothes.
She hopes that you will take care of yourself, and says you must be sure
to smell this little silk thing, as it will save you from infection.”

Hamilton smiled as he received from the old man a _sachet_ containing
camphor.

“Perhaps you will give me a line for mademoiselle; she is very uneasy.”

Hamilton wrote a few lines with his pencil.

“She said,” remarked old Hans, “you must hang it on your neck, and that
she would pray for the wearer every morning in the Frauen church.”

“Did she say that?” cried Hamilton, hastily. “At what hour will she be
there?”

“Between six and seven o’clock, I should think,” answered the man, with
a look of intelligence by no means agreeable to Hamilton.

“You need not say that I asked you this question, Hans; it might prevent
her from going to church, you know.”

“If you please, I can say you don’t think of going to the Frauen church
to-morrow morning.”

“Say nothing at all, excepting that I am obliged to her and shall wear
the amulet,” replied Hamilton, abruptly turning away.

The Countess Zedwitz, her daughter, and son-in-law, arrived before
daybreak the next morning. They were at first so agitated that they
could not speak a word; Zedwitz, on the contrary, was perfectly calm. “I
expected you, mother,” he said, kissing her hand; “I knew you would come
to me, but I wish that dear Agnes and Lengheim had remained at home. You
must send them back in the course of the day.”

The Countess spoke long and earnestly with Doctor Berger, and then
returned to her son’s bedside. She told him that his father continued
ill and confined to his room; that he wished to see him again; was ready
to forget all cause of difference between them, and she hoped, as soon
as he could be removed, he would return with her to Edelhof.

Zedwitz was too weak to discuss his plans for the future, although
immediately after the arrival of his relations he had had a change for
the better. At five o’clock Doctor Berger gave hopes of his recovery,
and an hour afterwards Hamilton was on his way to the Frauen church.

The rain had turned to sleet, and the sleet to snow since he had last
been out. Large flakes now fell noiselessly around him; he saw them
not—Hildegarde alone, and alternate hopes and fears that he should not,
and hopes that he should, see her, occupied his thoughts.

There were not many people assembled, but the church is large, the
altars numerous, and it was some time before he discovered the kneeling
figure of her he sought.

Walburg, with her shining braided hair, silver head-dress, and large
market-basket on her arm, was standing in the aisle; _her_ prayers
seemed ended, for she gazed cheerfully around her, and even nodded
occasionally to her basketed acquaintances as they passed. She
immediately recognised Hamilton, and stooped down to whisper to
Hildegarde, who instantly rose, and Hamilton saw her face suffused with
blushes as she walked towards him. They left the church together, and
Hildegarde’s first words were, “How pale and tired you look; I hope you
are not ill.”

“Not in the least,” said Hamilton; and it did not escape his observation
that her principal anxiety seemed about himself. “You will be glad to
hear that Zedwitz is better at last; we had no hopes of his recovery
until about an hour ago.”

“So I have already heard from Mr. Biedermann, who was so kind as to call
just before I left home.”

“Ah, you have seen Biedermann?”

“Yes,” and then she added after a pause, “now that Count Zedwitz’s
family have arrived, you ought to think of yourself, for even if you do
not fear infection, you must remember that unusual fatigue is dangerous
at present. You have been two nights without rest—you who require so
much more sleep than anyone else, as I heard you tell mamma more than
once.”

“That was only an excuse for my unpardonable laziness,” replied
Hamilton, smiling; “I intend to go to Havard’s to dress and breakfast
before I return to Zedwitz. Have you any message for him. I shall
deliver it faithfully.”

“None, excepting my good wishes,” said Hildegarde, turning away.
“Walburg, you may now go to the grocer’s—I can walk home alone.
Good-morning, Mr. Hamilton.”

Hamilton bowed gravely, waited with due propriety until Walburg was
quite out of sight, and then ran after Hildegarde, and endeavoured,
while still panting for breath, to thank her for the amulet, and her
kind anxiety on his account.

“My father more than shares my anxiety about you,” she said, calmly; “he
was greatly distressed at hearing that mamma had in a manner banished
you from our house. Should you get the cholera now, and not be properly
taken care of, how could we write to your family? What could we say to
them?”

“You mean in case of my death? By-the-by, I never thought of that. Do
not walk so fast—I want to speak to you, and I know you must dismiss me
at the next turn. Should I die of cholera——”

“It is time enough to talk of death when you are ill,” said Hildegarde,
hastily.

“No, it will be too late then. Twenty-four hours are more than enough to
finish a man’s life now. Will you undertake to write to my sister and
arrange my effects?”

“Are you joking?”

“Not in the least. You will find in a rosewood case a number of papers—a
journal in fact. These papers must be carefully sealed and addressed to
my sister. There is also a miniature——”

“I know,” said Hildegarde.

“How do you know,” cried Hamilton, stooping forward to catch a glimpse
of her features, “how do you know anything about that?”

“Lina Berger examined your dressing-case one evening when she was in
your room. Crescenz was present, and naturally told me of the
miniature—I often reminded her of it.”

“Indeed! And for what purpose?”

“To prevent her forgetting that you had not even a heart to bestow on
her.”

“You are right. But to return to the miniature; the original possesses,
indeed, a large portion of my affection——” Hamilton stopped; he had
flattered himself that his companion would, in some way, betray feelings
either of jealousy or curiosity, but she walked on steadily without
looking at him; and when he paused, she observed, “You must make haste;
we are just at the corner; you need not tell me about the original, but
say what you wish me to do with the picture.”

“Should we never meet again, unfeeling girl,” said Hamilton, half
laughing, “you must send the picture to my father, for it is my sister
Helen’s portrait.”

As he spoke, they had reached the place where he knew he must leave her;
she stopped, and said quickly, “Mr. Hamilton, I have in this instance
done you great injustice; I thought your heart was bestowed on the
original of the miniature. Without this explanation I should certainly
have regarded your conduct towards us as unpardonably—heartless!”

“Not quite,” said Hamilton, lightly; “I really had a heart at my
disposal some time ago; younger sons are allowed to have hearts in
England, and to give them away as they please; few people here think it
worth while to accept so worthless a thing as a heart alone. In Germany,
the same rational idea seems to prevail——”

“Not so,” cried Hildegarde, warmly; “a heart is always of value—must be
of value to every one, especially to every woman.”

“You are making a collection of such valuables, I think,” said Hamilton.
“Your cousin’s has been forced upon you; Zedwitz’s, to say the least,
you tacitly accepted; what you intend to do with mine——”

“I must go home now,” said Hildegarde, glancing uneasily down the
street; “it may be remarked if I stand here so long with you——”

“Do not be alarmed,” said Hamilton, smiling; “I have no intention of
ever again favouring you with avowals of affection as absurd as useless.
You are quite right not to listen to me, but you must have the kindness
not to listen to my midnight representatives either. Such men must not
speak for me.”

“Do not think about that any more,” said Hildegarde; “I dislike the
recollection of my stupidity.”

“If I only knew who it was,” said Hamilton, contracting his brows.

“You possibly suspect Oscar, but when I referred to the subject
yesterday evening, he did not in the least understand what I meant, and
afterwards denied having seen me from the time I had received my
Christmas presents.”

“So, then, it was Zedwitz,” said Hamilton, musingly. “I am sorry for it;
our friendship is at an end.”

“Oh, no,” cried Hildegarde; “perhaps it was not Count Zedwitz; it is not
like him to act so; besides, he never speaks French with me, and—and his
manners are always so respectful. Oh, no, I do not think—I am quite sure
it could not have been Count Zedwitz.”

“How can you, who are always so rational and candid, talk so? You know
it must have been one or the other; no one else could have any motive
for asking those questions; I only wish——”

“And I wish,” said Hildegarde, interrupting him, “I wish you would not
either think or speak again about this disagreeable affair. Oscar has
denied knowing anything about it; therefore you have no pretence to seek
a quarrel with him. You have scarcely a right on suspicion to withdraw
your friendship from Count Zedwitz.”

“On suspicion! No; but I shall certainly ask him if he was on the stairs
of your house on Christmas Eve.”

“He will say that he was not.”

“If he do, I shall believe him.”

“And I also,” said Hildegarde, moving onwards.

“You think highly of Zedwitz?”

“Most highly. I have already told you so.”

“And of your cousin?”

Hildegarde was silent.

“And yet you continue intimate with him, and tolerate his rhapsodies!”

“He is my cousin—he loves me—and—if you must know all, I fear him now!”

“You! you fear him?”

“Yes; I fear his love and his jealousy—his frightful bursts of
passion—his horrible threats. But, look, there is Walburg just now
coming home; I must enter the house before her. Adieu.”

The Zedwitzes were profuse in their thanks to Hamilton, and used all
their eloquence to induce him to return with them to Edelhof; no
argument, however, could prevail on him to quit Munich. Before Zedwitz
left, he gave Hamilton the assurance that he had not been in the
Rosenbergs’ house on Christmas Eve. “If you require proof,” he added, “I
can give it. You may remember I told you that I felt very ill. Could a
man in the state I was then in think of such mummeries? besides, when we
parted, I went home, that is, to our house in —— Street, changed my
clothes, which were wet, and drank some wine. You can inquire of our old
housekeeper.”

“It is quite unnecessary,” said Hamilton. “I should rather apologise for
having thought you capable of such conduct, even in joke. Hildegarde did
not for a moment suspect you, although she had heard her cousin’s
denial.”

“Excellent girl!—she did me but justice. Much as I should like to know
her feelings towards me, I never, even if I had an opportunity, would
resort to such means of obtaining information.”

“And what do you think of this denial of Raimund’s?” asked Hamilton.

The carriage rolled to the door. Hamilton assisted his friend down the
narrow staircase. “What do you mean to do with yourself until you are
allowed to return to the Rosenbergs?” asked the latter as he pressed
heavily on his arm.

“I shall buy another horse and a sledge. If the snow last, I rather
expect some amusement.”

Arrived in the street, Zedwitz was obliged to lean exhausted against the
house. He was with great difficulty lifted into the carriage, and as he
sank back into the corner, his languid eyes turned slowly to the windows
of the opposite house. Crescenz and her brothers were looking out.
Hildegarde was not visible; he slightly touched his cap and turned away.
His mother and sister were making a final effort to induce Hamilton to
remove to Edelhof or Lengheim. Zedwitz saw the uselessness of their
endeavours, and calling Hamilton to his side, whispered, “If you should
be ill, remember your promise to send for me directly.” He then placed
his hands on his shoulders, and kissed him on both sides of his face.
Completely abashed by this proceeding, Hamilton blushed excessively, and
stammered a few incoherent words as the carriage drove off.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XXVI.

                            THE DISCUSSION.


“OH, Hildegarde!” cried Crescenz, pushing back her work-table in order
to be able to see better from the window. “Oh, Hildegarde—look, look!
There is Mr. Hamilton driving such a beautiful sledge up our street; and
the horses are prancing and dancing, and shaking their red tassels and
silver bells! Oh, how pretty! How I wish he would take me out with him!”

“Babette!” cried Mr. Rosenberg, from the next room, “Mr. Hamilton is
just passing our house, and seems in perfect health. How long do you
mean his quarantine to last?”

“I have no objection to his returning to-morrow,” answered Madame
Rosenberg, who was arranging one of the chests of drawers in the
drawing-room. “You may tell him so, if you like, this afternoon.”

“Not I!” said her husband. “You banished him, and you may recall him,
too; if, however, you really wish him to return, you had better make
haste, for he seems to be amusing himself very well at Havard’s, and is
always surrounded by a number of acquaintances. I must confess I miss
him more than I expected.”

“I wish him to return, of course,” said Madame Rosenberg, pushing in the
drawers with some violence; “but, for another week or so, I must say I
have no objection to his remaining where he is. I can hardly believe
that he will escape the cholera—he is so careless! Always going out
without a cloak, and being wet through!—wearing thin boots and no
flannel waistcoat! Heating his stove and opening his windows! Running
out in the middle of the night every time there is an alarm about a
house on fire! What can one expect from such doings?”

“As you please, my dear,” said Mr. Rosenberg, contentedly. “You know I
never had any fancy for lodgers in our house; he is the first I have
been able to tolerate. I think, however, you should not allow him to pay
for his apartments here and at Havard’s too!”

“Oh, of course not,” said his wife; “though I am sure that is the very
last thing he would think about—he is excessively careless about money.”

“So it seems—and I suspect he is spending more than is necessary at
present. He gives suppers every night.”

“I don’t believe that!”

“You may believe it—or rather believe me, for I supped with him after
the theatre yesterday.”

“You?”

“Yes. There were also three young Englishmen and that little
Lieutenant-major who goes everywhere, playing cards and making himself
agreeable.”

“Lieutenant-major! How did Hamilton become acquainted with him?”

“Oddly enough; he met him in the English Gardens one evening before he
went to Seon, and either knocked him down or was knocked down by him—I
really forget which; but a fact it is that Hamilton invited him to
supper without remembering his name, and they insisted on my introducing
them formally to each other.”

“Well, to be sure!” said Madame Rosenberg. “If ever I heard of such a
thing!”

“He wishes exceedingly to return to us,” continued her husband; “he said
so when I was leaving—indeed, he gave me to understand that his guests
were merely invited to prevent him from thinking too much of our quiet
household!”

“Oh, if that be the case, I consider it a sort of duty to bring him back
here and out of the way of temptation,” said Madame Rosenberg, joining
her husband, and leaving Hildegarde and Crescenz alone.

They had been interested auditors of this conversation as they sat
together working.

“How I like him for inviting that Lieutenant-major to supper without
knowing his name! Don’t you? It is so English! I am very glad he is
coming back to us!”

“His return ought to be a matter of indifference to you,” said
Hildegarde, without looking up.

“But I cannot be so indifferent as you are!” said Crescenz, petulantly.
“And, though I am going to be married to Major Stultz, Lina Berger says
that Mr. Hamilton may still be ‘_mein schatz_’ just the same, and no
harm!”

“Lina Berger talks great nonsense,” said Hildegarde, with heightened
colour. “This is, however, worse than nonsense.”

“And yet she could give you some good advice, if you choose to listen to
her,” observed Crescenz, nodding her head sagaciously.

“I do not require any advice from a person I so thoroughly dislike and
despise.”

“Oh, that’s just the same with her; she says she always disliked you,
but that she despises you now that you have fallen in love with Theodor
Biedermann!”

“What an absurd idea!” said Hildegarde, contemptuously. “Marie de
Hoffmann has already told me something of that kind.”

“Lina told me long ago that Mr. Biedermann did not think you at all
handsome!”

“That I think very probable,” said Hildegarde.

“And she says now, he is just the person to teach you not to fall in
love without provocation!”

“I think he is more likely to teach me to write German grammatically,”
answered Hildegarde, with a careless laugh.

“And do you really not care for anybody, and you a whole year older than
I am!” exclaimed Crescenz, with unfeigned astonishment. “Lina first
thought you liked Mr. Hamilton, until I assured her you hated him. Then
she said you had taken a wild kind of fancy to our cousin Oscar. Then
she thought you were pretending to like Count Zedwitz on account of his
rank and——”

“I am sure I ought to be obliged to you, Crescenz, for discussing my
affairs in this manner with my great enemy,” said Hildegarde,
indignantly.

“Oh, don’t be angry. I assure you she talked all herself. I did not say
a single word——”

“You forget having confessed that you told her all I confided to you
about Count Zedwitz.”

“But you never confided in me at all, Hildegarde! All I know was what I
overheard when you were so angry about the letter, you know!”

“I remember speaking to you about that letter, and telling you to
rejoice that you had never any annoyance of the kind.”

“But I assure you, Lina had heard everything from the Doctor——”

“Pshaw!” cried Hildegarde, pushing back her chair, “there is no use
talking to you!”

“I am quite prepared for remarks of this kind,” said Crescenz, with a
ludicrous imitation of Hildegarde’s natural dignity of manner; “Lina
says there is no bearing you since I have been engaged to be married!”

“So,” said Hildegarde, throwing down her work; “but I do not quite
understand the——”

“Oh, it is easily understood—you are older, and think you ought to have
been first.”

“This is really too absurd,” cried Hildegarde, laughing good-humouredly.

“Oh, laugh as much as you please—but since we have returned from
Seon—you have become quite a different person!”

“Did Lina put that into your head also?” asked Hildegarde, quickly.

“Oh, no,” cried Crescenz, while her eyes filled with tears, “I did not
require Lina to point that out to me. Silly as you think me—I can
feel—you are quite changed.”

Hildegarde bit her lip—walked to the window—came hastily back again, and
throwing her arms round her sister, kissed her cheek, while she
whispered: “Dear girl, I am not in the least changed in my affection for
you; but you know yourself that every word I speak to you is repeated to
Lina Berger; and how can you expect me to trust you?”

“But,” said Crescenz, looking up, “but you know I often repeated what
you said when we were at school, and you only scolded a little
sometimes. Now you scarcely ever get into a passion, and are so cold and
so careful what you say—just like Mademoiselle Hortense!”

“Like Mademoiselle Hortense?”

“Oh, I don’t mean that you have her thick nose and high shoulders,” said
Crescenz, smiling through her tears, “but you scarcely take any notice
of me, and are always talking of books with Hamilton!” Hildegarde was
silent. “And then you speak English now more than French, and Lina
says——”

“Don’t tell me what she says, don’t name her to me again,” cried
Hildegarde, impatiently.

“No—no, I won’t,” said Crescenz, alarmed.

“Odious person,” continued Hildegarde, turning away, “I can never
forgive her for having embittered the last weeks we shall probably ever
spend together.”

“Well,” said Crescenz, drying her eyes, “at all events, we shall get on
better after my marriage. You know you must have a sort of respect for
me then.”

Hildegarde turned round to see if her sister were joking; but Crescenz
looked perfectly serious.

“Respect is due to married persons,” she continued, neatly folding up
the work which her sister had thrown on the chair. “Mamma says so—and
then, you know, I shall be quite another sort of person, when I am the
mother of a family——”

Hildegarde laughed unrestrainedly.

“Madame Lustig says I may have a dozen children! They shall all have
pretty names—not one of them shall be called Blazius, that I am
determined—they shall be Albert, Maximilian, Ferdinard, Adolph,
Philibert.”

“Philibert is not a pretty name,” said Hildegarde, interrupting her
merrily.

“Don’t you think so? Well, we can choose another, Conrad for instance?”

“Or Oscar?”

“Oh, no, because I should imagine a sort of resemblance to cousin Oscar,
and I don’t—quite like him—that is, not very much, though he is my
cousin. He is very cross sometimes, indeed almost always to your friend
Marie—but, oh! Hildegarde, one very pretty name we have forgotten, and
of a very handsome person too—Alfred! Mr. Hamilton, you know—is not
Alfred a pretty name?”

“Yes.”

“And he is certainly handsome? Even you must allow that?”

Hildegarde was spared the answer, for Madame Rosenberg entered the room,
and having discovered that the tip of Crescenz’s little nose was red,
immediately declared it was from want of exercise, and sent both sisters
to play at battledore and shuttlecock in the nursery with their
brothers.

She then despatched a messenger to Hamilton which caused his immediate
return to her house.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XXVII.

                              THE SLEDGE.


HAMILTON’S sledge was the subject of discussion the very first evening
of his return—he of course proposed their making use of it, and assured
Madame Rosenberg that she might trust herself and her daughters to his
care without fear.

“Oh, dear,—I’m sure I should not be in the least afraid,” cried
Crescenz.

“And yet you are the greatest coward in the house,” said her mother. “I
am sure you will scream so often that Mr. Hamilton will refuse to take
you a second time.”

“Allow me to observe,” said Major Stultz, his face increasing in redness
as he spoke—“and I conceive I have some right to give an opinion on the
subject—that I totally disapprove of Crescenz’s going out in Mr.
Hamilton’s sledge.”

“Are you afraid to trust her to my care?” asked Hamilton, laughing.

Major Stultz rapped on the table with his fingers, and looked
significantly towards Madame Rosenberg.

“You surely do not think I shall be so awkward as to upset the sledge?”
continued Hamilton.

“I have the highest opinion of you, Mr. Hamilton, the highest
opinion—where horses are concerned,” began Major Stultz, with some
embarrassment, while Hamilton rubbed his upper lip to hide a smile. “Had
you a carriage instead of a sledge, the case would be different, and
I—but I see you understand me.”

“Not in the least,” said Hamilton, looking up in unfeigned astonishment.

“Crescenz does, however,” said Major Stultz, turning to his betrothed,
whose face was suffused with blushes.

Madame Rosenberg had been occupied with little Peppy—she was arranging
the broken harness of a wooden carthorse, which had been dragged
somewhat roughly round the room. She now looked up, and observed in a
low voice, and with a sort of expressive wink at Major Stultz, “Mr.
Hamilton, being an Englishman, knows nothing about sledging rights. Keep
your own counsel, and he will never think of claiming it.”

“He may claim it from whoever he pleases,” cried Major Stultz, bluntly;
“but not from my Crescenz, that’s all.”

“What is it—what is my right? What may I claim?” asked Hamilton,
quickly.

No one seemed disposed to explain, until at length Madame Rosenberg
replied, laughing, “Neither more nor less than a kiss, which is a sort
of old privilege allowed a gentleman if he drive a lady in a sledge! Now
I know that from me you will not claim it, because I am neither young
nor pretty—nor from Hildegarde, because you don’t like her well
enough—nor from Crescenz, because she is betrothed. So really, Major, I
see no reason for making such a serious face.”

“I intend to drive Crescenz myself in a sledge,” said Major Stultz; “I
take it for granted she will enjoy it as much with me as with Mr.
Hamilton.”

Crescenz bent her head over her work, and said not a word.

A heavy fall of snow during the night, and a clear blue sky the next
day, proved most propitious; and after dinner the sledge was brought to
the door. Madame Rosenberg and her son Gustle were carefully assisted by
Hamilton into the light fantastic vehicle, while Hans, not
unnecessarily, held the horses’ heads. No sooner were the spirited
animals released than they bounded forward with a vehemence which caused
Madame Rosenberg to utter an only half-suppressed scream, while the
child, participating in his mother’s alarm, seized Hamilton’s arm, and
clung to it with all his strength. One of the horses reared dangerously.
“Gustle, you must not touch my arm or the reins!” cried Hamilton,
shaking him off. “They will be quiet in a moment,” he added to Madame
Rosenberg, who had closed her eyes and compressed her lips as if
prepared for the worst; but notwithstanding all his endeavours, the
horses pranced and danced and bounded, to the great admiration of the
passers-by, while poor Madame Rosenberg sat in a sort of agony. She did
not speak a word until they had reached the Nymphenburg road, but there
every sledge they met increased her terrors, and at length she
spoke—“Oh, dear, good, excellent Mr. Hamilton—turn back and take me home
again—I know you are too good-natured to enjoy my anxiety—if it were
only for Gustle’s sake, see——Oh!——Ah! The child is frightened to death
almost, and no wonder! I declare if I had not come out in my slippers I
would walk home—oh, pray stop—turn—before we meet that sledge coming
towards us. When your horses hear the bells of the other sledges, they
get quite wild! Dear, kind Mr. Hamilton, I shall love you all my life if
you will only take us home again.”

Gustle, shocked by his mother’s unwonted humility of manner, and
imagining himself in the most imminent danger, commenced roaring with
all his might, and Hamilton turned his horses, while assuring Madame
Rosenberg they were the gentlest animals in the world, and it was only
the fine weather that had put them in spirits.

On their return they found a respectable-looking hackney coach placed on
a sledge waiting at the door. Crescenz, her little brother Peppy, and
Major Stultz were preparing to enter it.

“I will go with you,” cried Madame Rosenberg, joining them, “Gustle must
not lose his drive—Mr. Hamilton’s horses are much too wild for me!”

“I thought as much,” said Major Stultz, with evident satisfaction.

“Am I permitted to ask Mademoiselle Hildegarde to go with me?” asked
Hamilton.

“Yes, but you must tell her how your horses have frightened me, and you
must promise to drive on the Nymphenburg road where we can see you, and
you must not go farther than the palace, and back again.”

“Agreed,” said Hamilton.

“And you must on no account quit the sledge, or enter the inn.”

“Of course not.”

Hildegarde was surprised to see him so soon again. He explained, and
asked her if she were afraid to trust herself to his care.

“No, I believe you drive well.”

“Rather—but I have never had a sledge until now—and they seem slippery
concerns.”

“I have heard that being thrown out of one is more uncomfortable than
dangerous,” said Hildegarde, laughing as she entered her room to dress
herself.

The horses pawed the half-frozen snow, and were even more impatient than
before—but this time no hand was laid on his arm, no stifled scream
vexed his ear. Hildegarde admired the silver serpents which ornamented
the front of the sledge—the silver bells which glittered on the harness,
and the gay scarlet tassels which the horses flung in the air with every
movement—the blue sky—the dazzling snow; and Hamilton, perfectly
reassured, was soon able to prove to his horses that he no longer feared
to correct them.

In a few minutes they had overtaken and passed the hackney sledge,
containing the rest of the party, nor was it long before they reached
Nymphenburg.

“What shall we do now?” said Hamilton. “I promised your mother not to go
farther than the palace; I am sure the others are not yet half-way here;
must we go home so soon?”

“Drive round and round this enclosure until they come, it will amuse us
and exercise the horses,” replied Hildegarde.

They drove round several times, each time quicker than the preceding,
while Hans, with extraordinary energy, cracked the pliant leather whip
peculiar to sledges. Several people collected to look on, among others a
carter, with an empty wagon. One of his horses was young and unbroken;
as the sledge passed, it plunged, and rattled its heavy harness;
Hamilton’s horses shied, dashed into the deep snow heaped up beside the
road, upset the sledge, and then struggled violently to make themselves
free. Hamilton still contrived to hold the reins until his servant came
to his assistance, and then rushed to Hildegarde, who had been thrown to
some distance. A crowd had soon gathered round her.

“Hildegarde, dearest, are you hurt?” he asked, anxiously.

“Not in the least,” she answered, laughing, while she shook the snow
from her cloak, “not in the least; I was thrown at the first jerk into
the fresh snow, and every time I attempted to get up I fell back again,
until I received assistance, for which I thank you,” she said, turning
to some strangers; and then she added hurriedly to Hamilton, “Let us go
home.”

The sledge had been easily set to rights, and they once more drove off
at a furious pace.

“As wild a young pair as ever I saw,” observed an officer to his wife,
as they turned towards the inn to rest, and refresh themselves with a
cup of coffee.

“We have disobeyed your mother,” began Hamilton, “unintentionally
indeed, but——”

“How do you mean?”

“Why, she forbade our leaving the sledge on any account whatever,” said
Hamilton, laughing; “now, I don’t in the least mind being lectured by
her, but I confess I do not enjoy the idea of Major Stultz’s triumph.
How unmercifully I shall be laughed at!”

“I don’t see any necessity for saying anything about the matter,” said
Hildegarde; “if you choose to be silent, I shall never refer to the
subject; in fact, I was altogether to blame, it was my proposition
driving round that enclosure, and it was I who encouraged you to worry
the horses, in order to show you that I was not afraid of them.”

“The carter and his young horse were to blame,” said Hamilton; “he ought
not to have come so close to us; but I should be very glad to escape
Major Stultz’s heavy raillery. Do you hear, Hans—you fell out of the
sledge in your sleep—not even to your father must you say otherwise than
that my horses are as steady as oxen. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Perhaps the fear of being questioned induced Hamilton when returning to
pass the others so quickly that he did not hear their cries to him to
stop and return to Nymphenburg. Perhaps the wish to be once more alone
with his companion for half an hour made him urge his horses to their
hardest trot: if the latter had been his object, his annoyance may be
conceived when, on reaching home, just as they had begun to ascend the
stairs together, gayly laughing, he perceived Count Raimund standing
above them. He had seen their arrival from the Hoffmanns’ window, and
rushed out under pretence of a joke, but, in reality, to waylay them.
Hamilton could not conceal his vexation; he frowned, and muttered the
words “Everlasting bore!” which made Hildegarde’s countenance change in
a manner that irritated her cousin. “Hildegarde, I must speak to you,”
he began abruptly.

“Speak on,” she said, continuing to ascend the stairs.

“I must ask you a question—and—we must be alone.”

“You are peremptory—ask differently, and per—haps I may comply with your
request.”

Count Raimund grasped—not gently—his cousin’s arm—she turned
round—became very pale—and requested Hamilton, in a low voice, to go up
stairs—she would follow him directly.

“Do you really wish me to go?” he asked, hesitatingly. “Do you remain
willingly with your cousin? Remember,” he added indignantly, “the
nearest relationship cannot authorise such——”

Count Raimund made a violent gesture—Hildegarde placed herself between
them, and said hurriedly, “I—I do wish to speak to Oscar,” and Hamilton
instantly left them.

Directly he was gone her manner totally changed. “Your question, Oscar,
and quickly,” she said, haughtily, “I have no intention of remaining on
the cold staircase more than a few minutes.”

“Gently, gently, Hildegarde—you think the danger is over now your
treasure is out of sight—but you see how ready he is to quarrel, with
all his coolness—be careful, for——”

“Your question,” said Hildegarde, leaning against the wall, with a sigh
of resignation.

“Did this a—this Englishman condescend to claim his sledging right from
you?”

“No.”

“Did he not think it worth while?” said Raimund, sneeringly.

“Very probably. Have you anything else to observe?”

“Yes, false girl!” cried Raimund, vehemently, “you know this is not the
case—you know this is not the case—you know he loves you—his every look
betrays him; but, by heaven, if you grant him what I, your nearest
relative, have so long implored in vain—his life shall be the forfeit——”

“Always threatening!” exclaimed Hildegarde, indignantly.

“It is my only means to obtain a moment’s attention from you. He little
knows that to his influence alone I am indebted for every favour—for
every common civility I receive from you!”

“He little knows that, indeed!” said Hildegarde, bitterly, “were he
aware of it, he would soon release me from my thraldom.”

“Tell him—tell him. I desire nothing more than that matters should come
to extremities. Your look incredulous, Hildegarde. Hear me, and judge
for yourself. Pecuniary difficulties have often made men put an end to
their existence—and you know what mine are! Add to this a violent and
hopeless love, and the certainty of being obliged, in a week or ten
days, to marry a person for whom I never can feel a particle of either
affection or admiration!”

“But who is worthy of both!” cried Hildegarde.

“Perhaps so—I wish Marie every happiness with another—for myself,” he
added, folding his arms and looking musingly down the stairs; “I wish to
die, to die soon—and quickly—but not by my own hand. They say it is a
fearful crime to commit suicide. Were I certain of being shot by
Hamilton, I should not hesitate—he must then leave Bavaria and you for
ever—but the chances are I should shoot him—I hate him so intensely that
the temptation would be more than I could resist.”

“Horrible!” cried Hildegarde, covering her face with her hands. “How can
you deliberately think of committing murder?”

“That’s it—that’s what I mean; you see, Hildegarde, death is my only
resource; but I shudder at the thought of staining my hands with other
blood than my own. The double crime is more than I can resolve upon.”

“Ah, I see now,” said she, forcing a smile; “you are only trying to
frighten me, as you have often done before.”

He shook his head, and continued. “As long as I had the faintest hope of
obtaining your affection, I was a different being; you might have made
of me what you pleased—and I _should_ have gained your love but for this
supercilious Englishman, for you were disposed to like me at first.”

“As a relation—yes.”

“More than that—much more, Hildegarde,” cried Raimund, vehemently.

“And had I loved you more than as a cousin, what purpose would it have
served? Our relationship is too near to permit of a marriage.”

“Nothing easier than obtaining a dispensation,” cried Raimund, eagerly,
and in a moment losing all violence of manner and voice.

“But we are both without fortune,” said Hildegarde.

“I could quit the army. There are many situations which I could obtain.
We should be poor, indeed, very poor; but what is poverty when—— Oh!
Hildegarde, has this consideration caused your coldness, or are you——
What a fool I am!” he exclaimed, passionately. “She treats me like a
madman from whom she would escape without witnessing a paroxysm! Go, you
have tortured me—deliberately—most horribly. Go, I would hate you if I
could!”

Hildegarde began slowly to ascend the stairs; as she turned to the next
flight an unusual sound made her look downwards, and she perceived her
cousin vainly endeavouring to suppress the fearful emotion which
agitated his whole frame. A man’s tears are a phenomenon too rare to be
seen unmoved. Hildegarde stopped, and held out her hand. “Oscar, dear
Oscar, what I said was not in heartlessness, but in the hope of
convincing you of the utter impossibility of our ever being more to each
other than cousins. Think of your solemn engagement to Marie—of your
promises to your father. Remember that no situation you could ever
obtain would enable you to pay your debts!”

“True—most true. I was dreaming just now,” said Raimund, with forced
composure. “I am sorry to have kept you so long here—in the cold. Go,
Mr. Hamilton is waiting for you!”

“He is not. I shall most probably not see him until evening.”

Raimund looked up, smiled mournfully, and then rushed down the stairs.

A minute later Hildegarde was in her room; her cloak and boa almost
suffocated her, and she shook them off impatiently, sank on a chair, and
murmured: “What shall I do? What ought I to do? Oscar will quarrel with
him—kill him, and I shall be the cause. He must leave Munich—leave us,
and return to England.” Here she sprang from her chair, and walked up
and down the room for a few minutes. “Is there, then, no other way of
keeping him out of danger? Suppose he could be induced to go to the
Z—’s? He said he intended to visit them. If he only could go until after
Oscar’s marriage? A fortnight—only two weeks, and all danger would be
over! I must speak to him, even if he insists on knowing everything. I
wonder if he is in the drawing-room?”

He was not, nor in the school-room, and she had not the courage to seek
him in his apartment. She hoped to find an opportunity in the course of
the next day, although with female quickness she had already observed
that he no longer sought to be alone with her, or in any way to occupy
her attention. Hamilton’s motives were honourable, but he could scarcely
have chosen a more judicious mode of conduct in order to facilitate
their intercourse; it had already convinced Mr. Rosenberg of his
indifference to his daughter just when he had begun to entertain
suspicions to the contrary, and confirmed Madame Rosenberg in the idea
that Hamilton actually disliked her.

After wandering about the house for some time, Hildegarde returned to
her room, and endeavoured to arrange her thoughts, and her balls of
coloured worsted and silks, until the return of her family. They came
late, and talked loudly and gayly on their arrival. When Crescenz
entered the room, she immediately exclaimed, “Oh! Hildegarde, we have
had such a pleasant party—such a number of people, and such good coffee!
and the Bergers. Oh dear, I was so sorry that you and——but I had almost
forgotten, mamma says you must make tea directly for Mr. Hamilton, he is
going to the theatre, there is an opera, and he wishes to hear the
overture.”

Hildegarde pushed back her work-frame, and left the room to seek the
breakfast service of highly gilt china, which Madame Rosenberg had
received as a wedding-present, and which, though certainly intended by
the donor to have been “kept for show,” she had latterly appropriated to
Hamilton’s use, whenever he drank tea alone, and this was generally the
case the evenings he went to the theatre. When she carried it to the
drawing-room, she found her father, mother, and Major Stultz with him,
and as she poured out the weak beverage, and arranged the plate of bread
and butter, her mother continued speaking—“We thought you did not choose
to hear us—but then what motive could you have?”

“What! indeed!” said Hamilton.

“The Major shouted the word Nymphenburg and coffee as loud as he could;
he thought they might give you an idea what we meant.”

“We heard nothing. The confounded bells made such a noise.”

“The bells are very useful when it grows foggy, or dark, as we found
this evening,” observed Major Stultz.

“Hildegarde, you may light the candles—Mr. Hamilton cannot find the way
to his mouth.”

Hildegarde brought them, while Crescenz, who had joined the others,
continued repeating: “So pleasant, so gay! So many people! And then
about the upset—did you relate about that?”

“No,” cried Hamilton, looking up; “pray tell me about it. You don’t mean
to say you were upset?”

“Oh, no! But a young Englishman and his wife were thrown out of their
sledge to-day when they were driving around the palings at Nymphenburg.
Captain What’s-his-name told us all about it, and they were so young and
so handsome, he said.”

“Your countrymen can drive mail-coaches better than sledges,” said Major
Stultz, laughing.

“It is not proved that they were English,” said Hamilton, with a smile
only perceptible to Hildegarde. “They may have been Germans.”

“Zimmermann said they were certainly English, and he understands the
language. The lady thanked him in French for extricating her out of the
snow; he says she was quite English-looking, and uncommonly handsome!”

“I have no doubt of his judgment on that subject,” said Hamilton.

“And,” said Crescenz, “her husband seemed so fond of her, and said all
sorts of things to her when he assisted her into the sledge again!”

“All sorts of things!” cried Hamilton, laughing; “such as, for
instance——”

“Oh, I cannot say the English words—I have never heard you say anything
that sounded like them.”

“Of course not—I must wait until I have a wife, I suppose.”

Hildegarde’s face had flushed during this conversation. Hamilton seemed
so much amused with it, that he forgot the overture he had been so
anxious to hear. “Your friend did not know at all who they were?” he
asked, bending over his tea-cup.

“Not in the least,” answered Major Stultz; “but the lady made a great
impression on Zimmermann, he seemed altogether to have fallen in love
with her?”

“Oh, ho!” exclaimed Mr. Rosenberg, “what did his wife say to that?”

“She said she had no cause for jealousy, the Englishwoman did not look
at anyone—she only seemed anxious to assure her husband that she was not
in the least hurt, though she must have been considerably bruised, and
she appeared to wish everyone else at the bottom of the sea! A good
example for you, Crescenz, next month, eh?”

Crescenz looked silly, and turned away.

“Half-past six!” cried Mr. Rosenberg, looking at his watch; “I must be
off. Mr. Hamilton seems to forget that he intended to go with me to the
theatre. The overture will be over.”

“But not the ballet,” said Hamilton, “and the ballet in _Robert_ is what
I like best; if I be in time for that and the Princess’s _aria_, I am
satisfied.”

Mr. Rosenberg, who went regularly four times a week to the theatre, and
particularly disliked arriving late, partly from the fear of being
obliged to walk over his neighbors’ feet in order to reach his chair,
partly from long habits of punctuality, after a few minutes’ indulgence
of civilly expressive impatience, quitted the room, bowing over his
watch, which he still held in his hand, as a sort of excuse to Hamilton.

“I thought you intended to go to?” said Crescenz to Major Stultz.

“Yes, Zimmermann has given me his place to-night, but I believe I shall
wait for Mr. Hamilton.”

“I shall be delighted,” said Hamilton, “but you must not expect me to
leave this warm room for an hour at least.”

“An hour!” exclaimed Major Stultz; “why, half the opera will be over.”

“Very likely, but I have heard it so often.”

“Do you forget the ballet?”

“Very likely I shall,” said Hamilton.

“I knew,” cried Crescenz, “I knew he did not really care for the
ballet.”

“Excuse me, but I do care for the ballet, and I should care more for it
if the dancers were prettier, and had not such thick ankles!”

“Smooth waters run deep,” said Major Stultz. “It is a pity, Crescenz,
your mother did not hear that speech, she would hardly have believed her
own ears!”

“Why not?” said Hamilton. “Do you mean to say that you do not, or did
not formerly, like seeing a ballet and pretty women too?”

“We will not discuss this subject in the presence of the young ladies,”
said Major Stultz.

“There is nothing to discuss,” said Hamilton, carelessly; “I like seeing
pretty faces, and pretty ankles, and graceful figures, and I believe I
am not singular in my taste; perhaps, however, you prefer the flowing
hair which will be exhibited to-night. By-the-by, one girl has the very
longest and thickest hair I ever saw. Have you not observed it?”

“Yes; Crescenz’s, however, is nearly as long, I should think,” replied
Major Stultz, touching the thick plaits which were wound round the back
of her head.

“She would make a charming ballet-dancer in every respect,” murmured
Hamilton in French, while he laughingly glanced at her.

“What does he say?” asked Major Stultz, who observed that Crescenz
blushed and smiled alternately. “What does he say?”

“To think of his caring so much for a ballet!” answered Crescenz,
evasively, while she still blushed, and then laughed as she added, “and
you know all mamma said about his being religious, and not going out in
the evenings, or on Sunday to the theatre.”

“I suspect your mother has a better opinion of him than he deserves,”
whispered Major Stultz. Crescenz, however, shook her head so
incredulously, or so coquettishly, that he added, “Do not think me
jealous; it is impossible, now that I know who is the real object of his
devotion.”

“Ah, you mean Hildegarde,” said Crescenz, carelessly.

“Oh, no.”

“Who then?” asked Crescenz, turning towards him quickly, curiosity
depicted in every feature, “who?”

“I can scarcely tell you—as he has chosen a married woman——”

Crescenz looked aghast. Major Stultz’s jealousy conquered his usual
circumspection—the moment was too favourable for making an impression—he
bent towards her and whispered, “No other than your friend, Madame
Berger.”

“Impossible!”

“Certain, nevertheless. When your mother forbade his returning here, he
was invited to spend his disengaged evenings at her house. He knows the
Doctor well; besides, Berger is Zedwitz’s physician, and they have often
met lately. Had the thing been feasible, Hamilton would, I have no
doubt, have taken up his quarters in their house!”

Crescenz for once in her life seemed to think, and think deeply. All
Major Stultz’s efforts to continue the conversation were fruitless; she
bent her head over her work, and scarcely heard his excuses and regrets
that he was going to the theatre without her. After he had left the
room, there was a long pause. Hildegarde had been leaning her head on
her hand for the last half hour, apparently unconscious of what was
going on about her. Crescenz moved softly towards her, and on pretence
of consulting her about her work, contrived to relate what she had just
heard.

Hildegarde became so suddenly and remarkably pale, that Hamilton, who
was in the habit of watching her, immediately perceived it, and
exclaimed, “What is the matter? Are you ill?”

“Not in the least,” she answered, hastily rising and walking to the
other end of the room.

“But is it not odious?” cried Crescenz, indignantly; “she is the very
last person I should have thought of!”

“And the very first I should have suspected,” said Hildegarde.

The house-bell rang, and a slight noise in the passage was followed by
the entrance of the person who had been the subject of conversation.
“How very odd!” exclaimed Crescenz, while Madame Berger, advancing
towards Hamilton, held out her hand, saying, “_A l’Anglaise_; how I like
your English custom of shaking hands—it is so friendly! _Bon soir_,
Hildegarde. Give me a kiss, Cressy. Here I am, come all in the snow on
foot to talk over our first ball, eh? and to arrange the party of which
we spoke,” she added, turning to Hamilton.

“How provoking—and I am just preparing to go to the theatre!”

“You most uncivil person! Can you not bestow half an hour on me?”

“An hour—two hours, if you in the slightest degree wish it. My regrets
were for myself.”

Hildegarde and Crescenz look at each other.

“I have not,” he continued gayly, “forgotten the pleasant evenings which
I spent in your house during my banishment—they will ever remain among
my most agreeable recollections.”

“Perhaps I may give them a place among mine too,” said Madame Berger,
seating herself on the sofa, and taking her knitting apparatus out of
her pocket. Her fingers were soon in such quick motion, that it was
impossible to follow them, but so expert was she in this kind of work,
that her head turned in every direction, and her eyes wandered round the
room as if she had been totally unoccupied. “Why, girls, what is the
matter with you both this evening? I never saw you so dull. We can fancy
ourselves _tête-à-tête_,” she said, laughingly, to Hamilton, “if you
would only cease playing with your teaspoon and sit down beside me
here.”

Hamilton immediately took the offered place, and Madame Berger, half
playfully, half maliciously, turned quite away from the sisters. “Well,”
she continued, glancing covertly toward them; to-morrow is our first
ball; “of course you have heard of our muslin dresses and wreaths of
roses?”

“No,” said Hamilton, “I only returned here yesterday evening, and have
heard nothing about it. Where is the ball?”

“At the Museum. You are a member of the club, I believe—it is there you
read the foreign newspapers, you know. I shall keep a waltz or galop for
you.”

“To-morrow, did you say? and I am invited to a private ball at Court! If
it were only the day after!”

“This all comes from cholera!” cried Madame Berger, in a tone of
vexation. “Everything heaped together at the end of the carnival! There
is to be a masquerade at the theatre on Monday; you said you wished to
go to one; let us at least arrange something about that.”

“Can you not promise to be of the party?” said Hamilton, turning to
Hildegarde.

“It will altogether depend upon papa,” she answered coldly, and then
left the room without looking towards the speakers.

“Come here, Crescenz,” said Madame Berger, “come here, and I will tell
you how we can manage it: your mother intends to go some day or other to
see her father. Why not on Monday, if Mr. Hamilton offers his sledge?”

“Oh, she is so afraid of his horses, that nothing would tempt her to
take them.”

“Well, then, the Doctor must lend his old greys, for on Monday both she
and your father must be out of the way. Don’t be so stupid as to say
this to Hildegarde, however!”

“Oh, mamma will never trust us with you alone,” said Crescenz.

“I suspected as much, and have engaged old Lustig to go with us; she
will do whatever we please, and I have promised to arrange a ‘bat’ for
her like my own; we will all go as bats. Shall we be black or white?”

“Which is the most becoming?” asked Crescenz.

“Becoming! why, child, I do believe you don’t know what I mean. A bat as
mask means a domino so arranged that one cannot see even the form of the
head, the smallest lock of hair, or even quite know whether the person
be a man or woman.”

“I thought we should have had something pretty,” said Crescenz,
disappointed, “such as Grecian costumes.”

“You may dress yourself as a Greek or a Turk, if you like, but you may
be recognised and tormented. For my part, I go to worry others, and have
decided on a black domino—a complete capuchin; Mr. Hamilton and Madame
Lustig the same; you and Hildegarde may of course arrange as you
please.”

“Oh, dear! I am afraid Hildegarde will not go without asking papa’s
leave.”

“Don’t say a word more about the matter to her; she will think we have
forgotten it, and—when papa and mamma are gone, I will come and arrange
everything.”

“Oh, dear, how nice!” cried Crescenz, seating herself confidentially
beside her friend, but a moment after she sprang up, assumed a dignified
air, and walked towards the door.

“You don’t mean to leave us, Cressy?” exclaimed Madame Berger,
surprised.

“I am going to tell mamma that you are here,” she replied, stiffly.

“Oh, my dear creature, she has heard from Walburg long ago. She is
engaged with the children, or counting linen, or something of that sort.
Stay here like a love, and play propriety.”

“But I don’t choose to play propriety,” said Crescenz, angrily, as she
left the room.

Madame Berger looked amazed for a moment, and then burst into a fit of
laughter. “I do believe the child is jealous!” she exclaimed. “How
ridiculous! how amusing! I wish it were Hildegarde—I would give—what
would I not give to make _her_ jealous for half an hour! It would be
sublime! Theodor could assist me if he chose.”

“You think she likes him?” said Hamilton.

“He says not, but I can discover no other person. Can you believe that
she cares for no one?”

“She cares a great deal for her father?” answered Hamilton.

“Ah, bah—a person of her violent temperament must have a _grande_
passion before this time.”

“I have not lately seen anything like violence,” said Hamilton.

“A certain proof that she is desirous of pleasing some one.”

“I should have no objection to be the person she is desirous of
pleasing,” said Hamilton; “she is perfectly amiable with her father;
should she bestow one of the looks intended for him upon me, I confess I
should be——”

“And has she really never tried to make you say civil things to her?”
asked Madame Berger, quickly.

“On the contrary, she has provoked me to say very _un_civil things
sometimes.”

“And so you have been obliged to amuse yourself with poor simple
Crescenz?”

“Who,” said Hamilton, “is the most innocent being in the world—a pretty
child——”

“A pretty fool!” cried Madame Berger, “but let us talk of our
masquerade—you will go at all events?”

“Certainly.”

“And dressed in black—and masked?”

“Agreed.”

“You have no idea how amusing it is! One can say all sorts of
impertinent things—even to the royal family when they are present. Masks
are allowed perfect impunity.”

“But should you be discovered afterwards?”

“I shall deny knowing anything about the matter, of course.”

Hamilton had not time to reply by word or look, for at this moment
supper was announced.


                         ---------------------




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.

                       A BALL AT THE MUSEUM CLUB.


“I HOPE we shall have no visitors,” said Crescenz the next day, after
having examined herself for some time attentively in the glass which was
between the windows in the drawing-room. “I hope we shall have no
visitors, for these curl-papers are certainly not becoming. If mamma had
allowed, I should have passed the day in my own room, that nobody might
see them. Don’t you think me very ugly to-day?” she added, turning to
Hamilton, who, as usual, was close to the stove.

“You are not ugly, but the curl-papers are,” he answered, looking at her
over his book.

“But we shall look so well with long curls in the evening,” she said,
half appealing to her sister, who was standing at the window with some
intricate piece of work. “What a pity one cannot have curls without
curl-papers.”

“They are dearly bought if you are obliged to wear your hair twisted up
in that manner all day,” said Hamilton.

“I thought Englishwomen very often had long curls.”

“So they have—but they never appear in a drawing-room with curl-papers.”

“They certainly are very unbecoming,” said Crescenz, again inspecting
herself in the glass. “I have a great mind to arrange my braids again.
After all, my hair will perhaps fall out of curl during the first waltz.
You know, Hildegarde, at the examinations I was obliged to fasten up the
curls with a comb?”

“Yes, but I remember the curls became you extremely——”

“Hildegarde,” whispered Crescenz, coming close to her sister, “you know
Mr. Hamilton cannot go to the ball, and if he thinks the curl-papers so
very ugly——”

“I should think Major Stultz’s opinion of more consequence to you,”
answered Hildegarde; “and,” she added loud enough to be heard, “you know
if Mr. Hamilton dislike so much seeing curl-papers, he has only to avoid
looking at us for the remainder of the day.”

Hamilton closed his book, looked out of the window at the
thickly-falling snow, and then left the room. Crescenz immediately
exclaimed, “Oh, Hildegarde, you have offended him! How can you be so
unkind?”

“Is it unkind to tell him not to look at us for a few hours?” Hildegarde
asked, laughing.

“You are so unnecessarily rude to him sometimes—yesterday evening, for
instance, you scarcely answered him when he spoke to you.”

“Because I was occupied with my father. I hope you have no objection to
my preferring his conversation to Mr. Hamilton’s!”

“But you were only talking about the opera to papa, who would have been
very glad if you had allowed him to hear what Mr. Hamilton was telling
Lina Berger about a picnic party on the Thames. Lina says he is the most
fascinating young man she ever met, not even excepting Theodor
Biedermann!”

“And Mr. Hamilton will tell you, if you ask him, that Madame Berger is
the most fascinating young woman he ever met with, not even excepting
Crescenz Rosenberg.”

“Oh, dear; I forgot to tell you that Major Stultz was quite mistaken.
Lina explained everything before she left yesterday evening. Mr.
Hamilton only went to hear her play waltzes!”

Hildegarde shook her head incredulously.

“You do not believe her?”

“No.”

“Well, I do; and I will manage to find out from Mr. Hamilton the whole
truth.”

“Don’t attempt anything of the kind, Crescenz; you will only make
yourself ridiculous.”

“We shall see,” said Crescenz, nodding her head as she left the room.

When she returned to the drawing-room her hair was braided in the usual
manner; and she rather unwillingly confessed that she had seen Hamilton,
who had said that he “thought braids infinitely more becoming than curls
for young and pretty persons!”

“I greatly fear Mr. Hamilton is beginning to amuse himself again at your
expense,” observed Hildegarde, with some irritation.

“He did not seem to be amusing himself; he spoke quite gravely, and
papa, who was present, agreed with him.”

Hildegarde’s hand rose to her head, and her fingers impatiently
contracted themselves round the offending curl-papers. “If I had known
that papa thought so, I should never have curled my hair, but now it is
too late; Mr. Hamilton will think I have tried to please him, and——”

“Oh, dear, no,” cried Crescenz; “he did not seem in the least to think I
had braided my hair to please him. He was talking to papa about religion
and philosophy, and some acquaintances of the name of Hegel and
Schelling.”

Hildegarde smiled. “If they were talking of Hegel and Schelling, I dare
say he has forgotten us and our curls. I could not possibly think of
sacrificing my ringlets to please _him_, and papa I shall probably not
see until evening.”

Hamilton took her advice more literally than she just then wished: he
remained in his room the rest of the day, and thus avoided seeing her
again. She felt that a few words spoken in a moment of irritation had
deprived her of all chance of seeing him alone for a few minutes, in
order to induce him to avoid her cousin, and go the ensuing week to the
Z—’s; but she consoled herself by thinking that at least they were not
likely to meet during that evening, as Raimund had not been invited to
the ball at Court, and was to accompany his betrothed to the Museum.

As soon as it was dusk, the sisters disappeared. Madame Rosenberg in
vain sent to request they would come to supper. They were not hungry.
They could not eat. “Quite natural!” observed their father, helping
himself to some _salmi_ and cold turkey. “Quite natural! Who ever heard
of a girl eating before she went to her first ball? I suppose, however,
they will soon be dressed; so I think, Babette, you might now put on
your own brown silk dress and pink turban; it would be a pity if they
were to lose a dance! Mr. Hamilton has offered to leave us at the
Museum, on his way to the palace.”

Madame Rosenberg poured out a glass of beer, drank it quickly, and left
the room. A few minutes afterwards, Hildegarde and her sister entered,
in all the charms of youth and white muslin. “Is she not beautiful?”
exclaimed Crescenz, for a moment forgetting herself in her admiration of
her sister. “Is she not beautiful? Ah, I knew you would admire curls,”
she added as a sort of reply to Hamilton’s look of most genuine
admiration. “Curls are prettier than braids after all!” She drew her
hand, as she spoke, over her smooth, shining hair, and glanced
regretfully towards the looking-glass.

Hildegarde turned from Hamilton with a slightly conscious blush. Never
had he seen or imagined anyone so lovely as she appeared to him at that
moment. The long, waving ringlets of her rich brown hair relieved the
slightly severe expression of her almost too regular features, while her
beautifully-formed figure, seen to advantage in her light ball-dress,
attracted equally by its roundness and delicacy. Had Hamilton seen her
for the first time that evening, he would have been captivated. When we,
however, remember that she had been for months the object of his first
love, that he had resided in the same house, and had had opportunities
of knowing and judging her by no means commonplace ideas, as they had
studied together, and that he was at a time of life when the feelings
are most impetuous, we may form some idea of the emotion which, for some
minutes, deprived him of the power of utterance. Hildegarde was so
perfectly independent in thought and action; she required so little of
that protection which her sex usually seek, that had she not been
eminently handsome, she would probably have found more people disposed
to admire her character than love her person. Men especially do not
often bestow affection on such women; but, when they do, it is with a
degree of passion which they seldom or never feel for the more gentle or
weaker of the sex. And so, irresistibly attracted by her beauty, and
perhaps hoping to find feelings as strong as her mind, three men now
loved her with characteristic fervour; her cousin, with an intensity
bordering on insanity; Zedwitz with the glowing steadiness of his
disposition and years, and Hamilton with all the ardour of extreme
youth.

“I thought Hildegarde would have worn one of my bracelets this evening,”
said Crescenz. “I offered her the choice of them all!”

“That was very kind of you, Crescenz,” said her father, “but Hildegarde
does not care for ornaments of that kind.”

“But look at that ugly little hair-bracelet which she insists upon
wearing,” said Crescenz, laughing. “If she had bracelets of her own, she
would wear them, I am sure. Everyone must like bracelets!”

Mr. Rosenberg took Hildegarde’s hand, and raised her passive arm towards
his eyes, in order to inspect the bracelet. “It is not ugly, nor ill
chosen either,” he observed, smiling; “a black bracelet makes an arm
look fairer still; but I own I did not think my treasure studied such
things!”

Hildegarde, with a look of annoyance, hastily unclasped the bracelet,
and threw it into her work-basket.

“Don’t be offended, Hildegarde. Every woman should endeavour to improve
her appearance as much as possible. Your arm is round and white, and the
bracelet pretty; it ought, perhaps, to have been a little broader, but
the horsehair was scarce, it seems! However, you can wear it very
creditably; at a little distance, people will think it the hair of some
very dear friend!”

Madame Rosenberg made her appearance at this moment, in a state of
ludicrous distress; she had tried to force her large hands into a pair
of small French gloves. One, from its elasticity, had been drawn
somewhat over the half of one hand, leaving the other half and the wrist
quite bare; but the other had burst asunder across the palm, and she now
held it towards her husband, with a look of mock despair.

“Try another and a larger pair,” he said, laughing.

“I have not another pair in the house. You know I never want white
gloves, and I was obliged to send to Schultz for these, after I had
begun to dress!”

“Oh, I can mend it in a moment,” cried Crescenz, bringing a needle and
thread. “Only keep it on your hand—it will never do if you pull it off
again.”

Hamilton had in the meantime been playing with the discarded bracelet;
Hildegarde attempted to take it out of his hand, but he held it nearer
the light, observing in a low voice, “This is not _horse_ hair. It
cannot be your father’s or your sister’s, for they have brown hair; nor
your cousin’s; nor——”

“Give me my bracelet,” said Hildegarde, impatiently. He held it towards
her with both hands, and a look of pretended alarm. She half smiled, and
extended her arm, while with a degree of trepidation which he in vain
endeavoured to overcome, he placed the tongue in the serpent’s head
which formed the clasp. When he looked up her head was averted, and she
was jesting with her father about her chance of finding partners or
being left sitting.

“Pray, keep one waltz or galop in reserve for me,” cried Hamilton. “I
shall be at the Museum between ten and eleven o’clock.”

Hildegarde murmured a sort of assent, but the expression of her
countenance denoted anything but satisfaction. She became grave and
thoughtful. It was impossible not to perceive the change, and with
ill-concealed mortification Hamilton turned to her father: “Your
daughter does not know, perhaps, that I have learned to waltz since I
came here. I am no longer a bad dancer.”

“Oh, dear! I always thought you danced extremely well,” said Crescenz.

“I may depend upon your keeping a waltz free for me; if Major Stultz
will permit it.”

“Oh, yes; that is,” said Crescenz, correcting herself, “if you can
remember your engagement with me when Lina Berger is present.”

“Madame Berger has no influence whatever upon my memory.”

“No, but upon your heart.”

“None whatever. She is very pretty, very amusing, very flattering,
everything you please but lovable.”

“Well, if she only heard you say that!” began Crescenz.

“The carriage has been at the door this long time,” cried Madame
Rosenberg, tying a large handkerchief over her ears and pink turban.
“Let us be off.”

Crescenz touched her sister’s hand, and whispered: “You see, dear, I was
right.”

Hildegarde bent her head, but did not speak.

Hamilton heard, saw, but only partly understood. Had Hildegarde been
jealous!

The ball at Court was not in the least less brilliant than any of the
preceding, but Hamilton was not disposed to admire the rooms, or the
fresco paintings, or the candelabra, or even his own form in the long
glass, placed so conveniently at the door of one of the reception-rooms.
Figures in blue and pink crape passed and repassed him scarcely
observed, so completely had a form in white, with a wreath of roses in
her hair, taken possession of his imagination. His abstraction attracted
even the notice of royalty, and it was with a deep blush that Hamilton
stammered some excuse when asked why he did not dance as usual.

At ten o’clock he withdrew, bounded down the stairs which he had thought
so tiresome to mount a couple of hours before, found his carriage
waiting, and drove to the Museum. The contrast was great, but he heeded
it not; Hildegarde was every thing to him. He glanced quickly round the
room, and immediately discovered the object of his search walking
composedly towards the dancers with a tall officer in the Guards; he was
about to leave the room again in a fit of uncontrollable irritation,
when he remembered his engagement with Crescenz. The moment she saw him,
she spoke a few words eagerly to Major Stultz, smiled, and then walked a
step or two towards him. “I knew you would come,” she said with evident
pleasure, and showing her little ball-book; “see, you were written for
two dances, that I might be quite sure of being disengaged.”

“Thank you,” said Hamilton; “you are very kind. I can remain but one
hour, and as your sister seems to have forgotten her engagement with me,
perhaps you will give me the second waltz also!”

“Oh, I dare not; Major Stultz will never consent. I am sure I wish he
would go home, he is so sleepy already. But,” she added after a pause,
“I am quite sure that Hildegarde will dance with you.”

In the course of the dance, Hildegarde and her partner came close beside
them. Hamilton at first pretended not to observe it, but Crescenz
naturally spoke to her sister.

“Mr. Hamilton fancies you will not dance with him, but I am sure he is
mistaken; he says he cannot remain more than an hour, so you must
promise him the next waltz or galop, whichever it may be.”

“If he really wish it,” said Hildegarde; “but he looks so very seriously
English to-night, that if I were to propose dancing with him, I am sure
he will say no!”

“Try me,” said Hamilton; “or rather write my name in your book, that I
may be sure you are in earnest.”

“You must not trust to my memory, for I have neither ball-book nor
tablets. I have no one,” she added, looking archly toward her sister, “I
have no one to supply me with ball-books and bouquets,” and she bent her
head over her sister’s hand, which could scarcely clasp the geraniums,
heliotropes, and China roses with which it was filled.

A moment after, she had joined the dancers, and Hamilton stood
thoughtfully beside his partner.

“Do you not admire my bouquet?” she asked, holding it coquettishly
towards him.

“Exceedingly; for the time of year it is beautiful.”

“Major Stultz waited at the door to give it to me. It was an attention I
never expected from him.”

“Why not?” asked Hamilton, absently.

“Oh, because he was so many years a soldier and in the wars, and in
Russia, and all that. I thought it was only young—a—a—persons—with whom
one danced—who gave bouquets.”

“Very true,” said Hamilton, laughing, “and it is disgracefully negligent
of young—a—persons to forget such things sometimes.”

“I assure you,” stammered Crescenz, “I did not mean—I did not think——”

“I know you did not,” said Hamilton.

“He knows you _never_ think, my dear,” said Madame Berger, who had
overheard the last words when taking the place behind them.

“She never thinks or says anything unkind,” said Hamilton, warmly.

Madame Berger looked up saucily, and then turned to her partner, a gay
student, to listen to some nonsense about her long blonde ringlets.

“Lina is angry that you have not asked her to dance,” said Crescenz, as
she returned to join her mother. “Suppose you were to waltz with her
next time; I know Hildegarde will not be in the least offended.”

Hamilton shook his head. “I am not so much afraid of giving offence as
you are; besides, you may be mistaken.”

“No,” said Crescenz, “I am sure I am right, for I remember her saying
she would keep a waltz for you, and you said you could not come at all.
Oh, I remember it, for I was so sorry when you said so, that I did not
care at all for the ball, or my new dress, or——”

Hamilton unconsciously pressed Crescenz’s hands, her heightened colour
immediately reprimanded him for his imprudence, and he turned to Madame
Rosenberg, and asked her how she liked playing _chaperon_?

“Better a great deal than I expected,” she answered, laughing; and then
lowering her voice, she added, “our girls are certainly very pretty; you
have no idea how civil all the men are to me on their account. Franz is
enjoying a sort of triumph to-night, but the Major is not quite
satisfied; he says the young officers have been talking nonsense to
Crescenz, for she has been blushing every moment. Now, I have told him a
hundred times it is from the heat of the room and the exertion of
dancing. It would be better if he would go down to the club-room and
smoke his pipe; he cannot expect the child to sit beside him all the
evening as she does at home. She has very properly done her duty, and
already danced twice with him, and more he cannot require. He has no
sort of tact, the Major. Fancy his wanting her to fix her wedding-day
just now, when she is thinking of anything in the world but her
marriage. I never knew anything in the world so injudicious.”

Poor Crescenz had been condemned to a place between her mother and Major
Stultz. Hildegarde had emancipated herself completely; she hung on her
proud father’s arm, walked about the rooms, and talked unrestrainedly.
Hamilton had to seek her when the music again commenced; she left her
father directly, and walked towards the dancing-room, but scarcely had
she entered it when Count Raimund approached, exclaiming, “Where are you
going, Hildegarde? do not forget that this galop is mine.”

“No, Oscar, it was the second that I promised you.”

“That cannot be, Hildegarde, for I am engaged to dance it with a—Marie.
I believe—I am quite certain—you promised me this one.”

“And I am _quite sure_, Oscar, that you are mistaken. _Quite sure!_”
began Hildegarde, with her usual decision of manner, but the angry
expression of her cousin’s countenance made her hesitate. “Perhaps,
however,” she added, looking from one to the other, “perhaps, as Mr.
Hamilton is an Englishman, and does not care about dancing, he will be
rather pleased than otherwise in being released from what he probably
considered a duty dance.”

“By no means,” said Hamilton, firmly holding the hand which she
endeavoured to withdraw, “I am not so indifferent as you seem to
imagine. You have promised to dance with me, and I am not disposed to
release you from your engagement.”

“Nor I, either,” said Count Raimund, while the blood mounted to his
temples, and was even visible under the roots of his fair hair.

“You think, perhaps, I ought to feel flattered,” said Hildegarde,
scornfully, “but I do not—on the contrary I think you both, I mean to
say—Oscar extremely disagreeable. I shall not dance with either of you,”
she added, seating herself on a bench, and beginning to tap her foot
impatiently on the floor. The two young men placed themselves on either
side of her.

“I hope,” she said, turning to Count Raimund, “I hope you are satisfied,
now that you have deprived me of the pleasure of dancing a galop, to
which I have been looking forward for the last half hour?”

“My satisfaction depends entirely on who the person may be with whom you
anticipated so much pleasure in dancing.”

“You know perfectly well that I was not engaged to you, and did not
think of you.”

Count Raimund played with the hilt of his sword, which he had laid on
the form beside him.

“Oscar,” continued Hildegarde, after a pause, in a low voice, “don’t be
so unjust, so tyrannical as to deprive me of my galop. Choose somebody
else. See, there is Marie still disengaged—go quickly, before anyone
else can——”

“Thank you,” said Raimund, interrupting her; “you are very kind, but I
have no inclination whatever that way. Marie may be very good for
household purposes, but I must say I rejoice in the idea that our
marriage will free me from these ball-room duties towards a person I
have scarcely learned to tolerate. In fact, I believe I detest her, so
has she been forced upon me!”

“Oscar, Oscar—take care! Do not speak so loud. What would people think
of you, were you to be heard? Someone may tell Marie, and make her
repent her disinterested conduct towards you—she does not deserve to be
made unhappy, especially by you?”

“What did you say, sir?” cried Raimund, speaking angrily, across
Hildegarde to Hamilton.

“I have not had time to say anything,” he replied, laughing.

“But you looked as if you agreed with my cousin?”

“My looks are expressive, it seems,” said Hamilton, coolly.

“Perhaps you intend to inform my betrothed of what I have just now
said?” cried Raimund, still more angrily.

“My acquaintance with her is of too recent a date to admit of my doing
so.”

“Do you mean deliberately to insult me?” asked Raimund, in a voice of
suppressed rage.

“No, Oscar,” cried Hildegarde, laying her hand hastily on his arm. “It
is you who are endeavouring to commence a quarrel with Mr. Hamilton. You
feel that you are in the wrong, and that you ought not to have made such
a remark in public of a person to whom you are to be married in less
than a week.”

“_You_ may say what you please to me, Hildegarde, but neither Mr.
Hamilton nor anyone else shall dare by word or look to imply——”

Hamilton turned away with a smile of unequivocal contempt.

“What do you mean, sir?” cried Raimund, starting from his seat, and
facing him while he folded his arms.

“I mean that this is no place for such words—still less for such
gestures,” replied Hamilton, glancing round him. The loudness of the
music, however, had prevented them from being heard.

“Oscar,” cried Hildegarde, vehemently, “sit down beside me. Listen to
me—you _must_ listen to me. You are altogether in the wrong—you are rude
and irritating, and ought to be ashamed of yourself. Do not try Mr.
Hamilton’s patience further.”

“I have no intention of doing so,” said Raimund, biting his lip, and
frowning fearfully.

Hildegarde looked anxiously, first on her cousin and then at Hamilton,
to whom she said in a low voice: “I don’t know which is most to be
feared, your coolness—or Oscar’s ungovernable temper! But this I have
determined, that neither shall stir from this place until a
reconciliation has taken place. You, Oscar, are bound to apologise for
your unprovoked rudeness, and——”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Raimund. “You are a most excellent mediatrix, my
charming cousin, but believe me, explanations are better avoided. See,
we have already forgotten the whole affair.”

Hildegarde looked uneasily towards Hamilton, he appeared to be intently
watching the dancers as they flew past him.

“It is useless your trying to deceive me,” she began, once more turning
to Raimund; but he immediately interrupted her by saying, “Pray, is all
this unnecessary anxiety on my account, or—on his?”

“My anxiety is divided. Surely,” she continued, almost in a whisper,
“you will not be so foolish as to commence a quarrel in this
unreasonable manner? What will Marie and her mother think, should they
hear of it? What right had you to ask for an explanation of Mr.
Hamilton’s looks? You are seeking a quarrel, and do you think by acting
in this manner you are likely to increase my regard for you? Oh, Oscar!
have you forgotten what you said about a double crime——” The music
played loudly, and Hildegarde bent towards her cousin, and continued to
speak for some time. Raimund’s countenance cleared by degrees, he raised
his eyes to her face with an expression of undisguised admiration and
love, and then whispered an answer, which made her blush and turn away.

“You know your influence with me is unbounded. On this condition I will
do or say whatever you please,” he added, endeavouring to catch her eye.

“It is ungenerous of you to take advantage of my fears,” said
Hildegarde, rising.

Hamilton asked her if she wished to return to her father; she seemed
scarcely to hear him, appearing lost in thought for some moments. She
again consulted the countenance of her two companions, again became
anxious, and finally turning to Raimund, said, with some embarrassment,
“After all, it is not worth talking so much about—I accept the
condition—perform your promise.”

“Time and place to be chosen by me?” said Raimund, loud and eagerly.

“Do not make any more conditions,” cried Hildegarde, impatiently, “but
perform your promise at once.”

“This must be understood,” said Raimund, “or else——”

Hamilton felt himself growing very angry; he turned to leave them, when
Count Raimund called him back: “Mr. Hamilton, a moment, if you please.
Hildegarde has convinced me that I have been altogether in the wrong
just now. If I have offended you, I am sorry for it; I hope you do not
expect me to say more!”

“I did not expect you to say so much,” replied Hamilton, coldly.

A sudden flush once more overspread Raimund’s face, an internal struggle
seemed to take place, but after a glance towards Hildegarde, he said
calmly, “If I did not feel that I had been the aggressor, not even the
offered bribe could have induced me to apologise.”

“Bribe—offered!” exclaimed Hildegarde, almost indignantly.

“No, not offered. Favour conceded, if you like it better—we will not
dispute about words. Mr. Hamilton, my cousin is free, and can dance when
she pleases.”

“I imagine she could have done so before, had she wished it,” said
Hamilton, haughtily.

Raimund walked away as if he had not heard him, and buckled on his sword
with an air of perfect satisfaction.

Hamilton stood by Hildegarde as if he were turned to stone. The words
which had been so mysteriously spoken seemed to have completely
petrified him. Hildegarde, too, stood immovable for a minute, and then
turned as if to leave him.

“Do you not wish to dance?” asked Hamilton, in a constrained voice.

“No—I mean yes—yes, of course,” she replied, moving mechanically towards
the dancers.

Hamilton’s feelings at this moment would be difficult to define. As he
put his arm round her slight figure, intense hatred was perhaps, for the
instant, predominant—he was in such a state of angry excitement that he
had gone quite round the room before he perceived that he was actually
carrying Hildegarde, who was entreating him to stop.

“Get me a glass of water,” she said, moving unsteadily towards the
refreshment-room, and sinking on a chair behind the door. She had become
deadly pale, and was evidently suffering, but seemed determined to
conquer the unusual weakness which threatened to overcome her.

When Hamilton again stood by her, he no longer felt angry; bending
towards her he whispered, “If you repent any hasty promise which you may
have made to your cousin, I shall be happy to be the bearer of any
message or explanation.”

“Repent!” murmured Hildegarde, “no; I have promised, and I don’t repent;
but you—you must not speak any more this evening to Oscar; he has
apologised for his rudeness, and I know you are too generous ever to
refer to the subject again.”

“But he spoke of some bribe—some favour,” began Hamilton.

“That is my affair, and not yours,” replied Hildegarde, rising as the
dancers began to pour into the room. “And now take me to my father.
After all,” she added, forcing a smile, “I believe I have wasted a great
deal of genuine alarm on a pair of very worthless young men.”

“So it was not repentance about this promised favour, but anxiety about
us, which has nearly caused you to faint?”

“Just so—my fears perhaps magnified the danger—but there was danger,
more than you were aware of. Avoid my cousin,” she added, earnestly, “he
is reckless now, but I trust better times are in store for him.” Though
still fearfully pale, she walked steadily towards the end of the room
where her father and mother were standing.

Raimund saw Hamilton leaving the room a few minutes afterwards, with
hasty steps and a disturbed countenance. He looked after him and
observed, with a sarcastic smile, to an acquaintance who was near him,
“I have spoiled that Englishman’s supper; he is not likely to enjoy his
_pâté de foie gras_ or champagne under the orange-trees at Court
to-night!”


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XXIX.

                           A DAY OF FREEDOM.


SOME days passed over remarkably tranquilly. Crescenz’s marriage was to
take place in a fortnight, and she and Hildegarde had promised to be
bridesmaids to Marie de Hoffmann the beginning of the ensuing week.
Hildegarde made no further effort to warn Hamilton about her cousin;
perhaps she now deemed it unnecessary, as the young men openly showed
their mutual antipathy, and avoided even the most formal intercourse.

One fine afternoon, when Hamilton was about to drive out in his sledge,
he perceived Crescenz hovering about him mysteriously. Major Stultz, who
was in the room, seemed to embarrass her, but at length she murmured, in
French, “I have something to say to you.”

“I have been aware of it for the last half hour, and have remained here
on purpose to hear it,” said Hamilton.

“You always forget that Mr. Hamilton speaks German perfectly well,
Crescenz,” observed Major Stultz. “I take it for granted you have no
secret from me!”

“Oh, dear, no,” said Crescenz, with a slight laugh, “I always speak
French when I am not thinking of anything in particular. You know for
many years I never spoke any other language;” and while she spoke, she
carelessly upset her work-basket, the contents of which rolled in all
directions on the painted floor.

“Dear me! How awkward I am!” she exclaimed, half laughing, while Major
Stultz, with evident difficulty, began to pick up the dispersed
articles. “My scarlet wool is behind the sofa; Mr. Hamilton, will you be
so kind——”

Hamilton moved the sofa. There was no scarlet wool, but a slip of paper
dropped from Crescenz’s hand; he immediately took possession of it, and
her eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Thank you, thank you, I believe I have
everything now. Oh, by-the-by, Mr. Hamilton, if you have time, I wish
you would call on Lina Berger, and ask her why she has not been here
since the ball?”

Hamilton hesitated.

“Tell her my wedding-day is fixed, and I want to consult her about my
veil. You will go to her, I hope?”

“If—you—wish it—but——”

“No buts, I hate buts,” said Crescenz, laughing, and then making an
inexplicable grimace to him apart.

When out of the room, he inspected the slip of paper, on which was
written in French:

“You have offended Lina Berger by not dancing with her. Make up your
quarrel as fast as you can, or we shall lose all chance of going to the
masquerade.”

“I had forgotten all about the masquerade,” thought Hamilton, “and must
make my peace directly with the little person. She shall drive out with
me this very day to arrange matters. Fortunately, she has said at least
half a dozen times that she likes sledging—I ought to have taken the
hint long ago——”

What his excuses were is not recorded—they did not seem to interest him
particularly, as only the result is known. Madame Berger drove out in
his sledge, the party was arranged, and the next morning, at breakfast,
a note was brought to Madame Rosenberg, offering Dr. Berger’s carriage
and horses for the day of the masquerade.

“How good-natured of Lina to remember that I wished to see my father and
introduce the Major to him,” she exclaimed, handing the neatly-written
note to her husband; “I would rather it had been any other day than
Monday, as you know Mademoiselle de Hoffmann’s marriage is to take place
on Tuesday, and it will be disagreeable returning home so early the next
day; however, that cannot be avoided.”

“Easily enough, I should think,” observed Mr. Rosenberg, quietly; “Mr.
Hamilton has often proposed lending us his horses, and all days are
alike to him, I know.”

Before Hamilton could answer, Madame Rosenberg exclaimed, “His horses?
Not for any consideration in the world! Besides, his sledge is only for
two persons and a servant, and I wish to take the boys and the Major
with us.”

“In that case, I think we had better take a job carriage for a day and a
half.”

“No use in paying for what we can have for nothing,” said Madame
Rosenberg; “so if you have no objection, I shall accept the offer.”

“As you please,” said her husband. “A visit to the iron-works is not
exactly what I enjoy most in the world.”

“Crescenz,” said Madame Rosenberg, taking no notice of this remark,
“Crescenz, just put on your bonnet, and slip over to old Madame
Lustig’s; ask her if she can take charge of you and Hildegarde on
Monday; but she must spend the whole day here, and promise to sleep in
the nursery.”

Crescenz left the room, not without slightly glancing towards Hamilton,
and primly pressing her lips together to repress a smile.

“I don’t like Madame Lustig,” said Hildegarde, abruptly.

“Why?” asked Hamilton.

“Because she so evidently tries to please everybody.”

“Better than evidently trying to please no one,” said her mother,
sharply. “However, whether you like her or not, if she take charge of
you and Crescenz on Monday, I expect you will do whatever she desires,
and consider her as in my place.”

Hildegarde looked up as if about to remonstrate, caught her father’s
eyes, and then bent over her coffee-cup without speaking.

Madame Lustig made no difficulties and many promises. She arrived the
next morning, when they were all breakfasting together, at an unusually
early hour, listened patiently to Madame Rosenberg’s directions about
locking the house-door, and fastening the windows, and examining the
stoves, and then accompanied them to the carriage with Hamilton,
Hildegarde, and Crescenz. Major Stultz seemed very much inclined to
remain behind, but Crescenz whispered rather loudly, “that mamma had
been so kind about her _trousseau_, that he ought to visit grandpapa.”

“What an artful little animal it is, after all!” thought Hamilton, “and
how different from——” He looked towards Hildegarde, who, all unconscious
of their plans, after having twisted a black silk scarf round her
father’s neck, stood rubbing her hands, and slightly shivering in the
cold morning air.

“Adieu, adieu,” was repeated in every possible tone, while the carriage
drove off. A moment afterwards, Crescenz was scampering up the stairs,
dragging Madame Lustig after her; and when Hamilton and Hildegarde, who
followed more leisurely, reached the door, they were obliged to remain
there, for Crescenz, dancing a galop with Madame Lustig, was now forcing
her backwards the whole length of the passage at a tremendous pace, the
jolly old woman keeping the step, and springing with all her might for
fear of falling. Hamilton and Hildegarde looked on, laughing.

At length they stopped for want of breath. “Well—what—shall we—do
first?” said Crescenz, twisting up her hair, which had fallen on her
shoulders.

“Do!” panted Madame Lustig, as she leaned against the wall. “You have
nearly—killed me—this is not the way to make me able to go to the
masqu——”

In a moment Crescenz’s apron was over her head, and a new struggle
began.

“I asked you what we should do first?” cried Crescenz, laughing,
“suppose—suppose we make ice-cream? Mamma has left me the keys, and
allowed me to take whatever I like from the store-room. You have a good
receipt, I am sure; let us make the cream, and Mr. Hamilton and
Hildegarde can turn it round in the ice-pail!”

“Shall we not first arrange with Walburg about the dinner?”

“Oh, dinner! how very disagreeable to be obliged to eat dinner! Cannot
we for once, just by way of a joke,” she said coaxingly, “have something
instead of dinner?”

“Soup, boiled beef, and steam noodles are, however, not to be despised;
and that is what your mother ordered,” said Madame Lustig; “besides, on
Mr. Hamilton’s account, you ought——”

“Oh, I have no objection to dining on ice-cream,” said Hamilton,
laughing.

“You see!” said Crescenz, “Mr. Hamilton is so—so——You see he will do
whatever we wish. Let us make some cakes out of the cookery-book, and
then we can all be merry together in the kitchen!”

A sort of compromise was made. The soup and boiled beef were allowed,
but the ice-cream and several kinds of cakes were to be forthwith
fabricated. Madame Lustig was, like most Germans in her station in life,
an excellent cook; she was also a good-humoured, thoughtless person, and
soon became quite as unrestrained as her young companions. Her cap and
false curls were laid aside, her sleeves tucked up, a capacious white
apron bound over her black silk dress, and she was immediately employed
in beating up eggs and pounding sugar. Hamilton amused himself singing
aloud the cookery-book in recitative, until, in the course of time, he
was duly established with Hildegarde near a window in the corridor, a
large bucket of ice between them, in which was placed the pail
containing the cream. They turned it round alternately, and Crescenz
occasionally inspected the process, dancing with delight as it began to
freeze.

“Oh, dear! how nice! I hope it will not melt before Lina Berger comes.
Is this window cool enough?”

“Cool!” said Hildegarde, laughing; “try it for a few minutes, and you
will say cold, I think.”

“Could you not spare Mr. Hamilton for a little while, Hildegarde? We
want him to pound sugar; our arms positively ache, and Walburg is not
yet come back from market.”

Hildegarde made no objection, and Hamilton was conducted back to the
kitchen, from whence, immediately, repeated bursts of laughter issued.

The arrival of Madame Berger seemed to increase the noise; she
closed the kitchen-door, but Hildegarde distinctly heard the
words: “Congratulate—freedom for one day at least—make good
use—amusement—Hildegarde—hush.” A short whispering ensued, and at
length Madame Lustig made her appearance, inspected the ice-cream,
and proposed putting it outside the window. “There is no use in
your tormenting yourself longer, my dear,” she said, smiling; “we
have something else to interest us; come, we must hold a
consultation.”

“About what?” asked Hamilton.

“About a masquerade; were you ever at one?”

“Oh, yes, at school we had one almost every year; I was always ordered
to be a Greek or a Circassian.”

“Ah, that was children’s play among ourselves; but I mean a real
masquerade!”

“You mean the public masquerades—at the theatre, perhaps?”

“Just so; should you like to go to one?”

“To be sure I should, of all things!” cried Hildegarde, eagerly. “When
is it?”

“To-night.”

Her countenance fell. “Oh, if we had only known it sooner. If we had
only been able to ask papa!”

“There! I told you,” cried Madame Berger, coming out of the kitchen,
followed by the others, “I knew she would make all sort of difficulties,
and spoil Crescenz’s pleasure!”

“I am sure,” said Madame Lustig, “neither your father nor mother would
have any objection; when I go with you, and Madame Berger, and Mr.
Hamilton.”

“It is true mamma said I was to do whatever you desired me——” began
Hildegarde, with some hesitation.

“Oh, I will _command_ your attendance, if that will be any relief to
your conscience,” cried Madame Lustig, with a loud laugh.

Hildegarde coloured deeply, and looked towards Hamilton; he was eating
almonds and raisins from a plate, which Madame Berger held towards him.
“Let us talk about our masks, and not about our consciences,” cried the
latter. “I must go home to dinner, or the Doctor will be impatient. We
are to be black bats; black silk dresses; black dominoes, with hanging
sleeves, and hoods; masks half black, and a knot of white ribbon under
the chin, that we may know each other. How many dominoes shall I order?”

“For us all, Lina, for us all!” cried Crescenz, eagerly.

“We may as well dress at your house,” cried Madame Lustig. “It is not
necessary that Walburg should know anything about the matter. The Doctor
will have gone out before seven.”

“Oh, yes, you may come at half-past six; I must have time to dress Mr.
Hamilton as well as myself, you know! Adieu, _au revoir_.”

Immediately after dinner, Hildegarde put on a black dress, and came to
the drawing-room where Hamilton was sitting, or rather reclining, on the
sofa, reading; she leaned slightly over him, and almost in a whisper
asked if he were disposed to give her advice, should she request it.

“I don’t know,” answered Hamilton, looking up with a smile; “I have been
so long dismissed from the office of preceptor, that I have quite got
out of the habit of giving advice.”

“Forget that you have been preceptor, and take the name of friend,” said
Hildegarde; “we shall get on better, I think.”

“I like the proposition,” cried Hamilton, quickly rising from his
recumbent position, “our ages are suitable. Let us,” he added, laughing,
“let us now swear an eternal friendship.”

“Agreed,” said Hildegarde, accepting his offered hand. “And now, tell
me, shall I go to this masquerade or not?”

“I thought you had already decided!”

“Not quite. I wish very much to go, that is the simple truth; but I
fear, that under the name of obedience to Madame Lustig I am trying to
persuade myself, that I am following my mother’s injunctions; while, in
fact, I am only seeking an excuse to do what I wish. Do you understand
me?”

“Perfectly.”

“And you think, perhaps, I ought not to go?”

“I think—indeed I am sure, that I can give you no advice on the subject.
I am too much interested in your decision, to be a ‘righteous judge.’”

“How are you interested?”

“Simply thus; if you do not go, the whole party is spoiled for me.”

Hildegarde was silent for more than a minute. She did not disclaim; she
knew he had spoken his thoughts. “If,” she said at length, “if I had
only known it in time to have asked my father’s leave, I really do think
he would have had no objection.”

“If you think that, you may decide on going with a clear conscience.”

“Is this your opinion—advice?”

“I give no advice,” said Hamilton, laughing, “I only wish you to go.”

“Then—I—will go,” said Hildegarde, thoughtfully; “go—notwithstanding a
kind of misgiving which I cannot overcome, a sort of a warning—a
presentiment——”

“I should rather have suspected your sister of having misgivings and
warnings, than you,” said Hamilton; “yet she seems to have none.”

“She is governed by her wishes, and Lina Berger; besides, it is not
likely that anything unpleasant should occur to her!”

“And to you?” asked Hamilton, surprised.

“Not likely, either,” said Hildegarde, gayly; “for, thank goodness,
Oscar must spend the evening with Marie, when they are to be married
to-morrow.”

Raimund had been but once at the Rosenbergs’ since the ball, and had
played cards the whole evening. Hamilton knew that she had not since
spoken to him. Yet, no sooner had she pronounced her cousin’s name, than
all his feelings changed; he bit his lip, and walked to the window.

“I wish——” began Hildegarde, but she suddenly stopped, for she
recognised Raimund’s voice speaking to her sister in the passage.
Hamilton strode across the room.

“Oh, stay! stay, I entreat of you!” she cried, anxiously.

“Do you not wish to be alone with your cousin?”

“No, no, no—that is,” she added, hurriedly, “yes—perhaps it is better——”

“As you please,” said Hamilton, moving again towards the door.

Hildegarde seemed greatly embarrassed. “If you would only promise not to
say anything to make——”

“I really do not understand you,” cried Hamilton, impatiently.

“When he has been here for a minute or two,” she said, quickly, “go for
Crescenz and Madame Lustig, say they must come here—must remain——” Her
cousin entered the room while she was speaking.

“I am sorry to interrupt you, my dear Hildegarde,” he said, with a stiff
and evidently forced smile, “but I come to take leave——”

“Take leave! what do you mean?”

“I am to be executed to-morrow, you know.”

“Ah!—so——”

“It is particularly kind of you and Crescenz to put on mourning for me
beforehand,” he continued, glancing gravely at her black dress.

“Oscar, how can you talk so?” said Hildegarde, reproachfully; “such
jesting is, to-day, particularly ill-timed.”

“By heaven, I am not jesting. I never was less disposed to mirth than at
this moment,” he answered, falling heavily into a chair, and drawing his
handkerchief across his forehead.

“Have you been with Marie?”

“Yes.”

“And you will return to her?”

“I suppose I must.”

Here Hamilton precipitately left the room to summon Madame Lustig and
Crescenz, but they were much too busily engaged in the manufacture of a
complicated cake to follow him, so he hurried back alone to the
drawing-room, and found Hildegarde——in her cousin’s arms. She was not
struggling, she did not even move as he entered, while Raimund, not in
the least disconcerted by his presence, passionately kissed her two or
three times. At length she suddenly and vehemently pushed him from her,
exclaiming, “Go, I hate you!”

“You hate me! hate me, did you say? Let me hear that once more,
Hildegarde,” he said, losing every trace of colour as he spoke.

“No, no—I don’t hate you—but you have acted very—very ungenerously,”
said Hildegarde, with ill-suppressed emotion.

“I understand you; but you will forgive me this last offence, I hope?”

“Yes, I forgive you, and will try to forgive you all you have done to
worry and alarm me since our acquaintance began,” said Hildegarde,
bitterly, “but this must indeed be the last offence.”

“It will be, most certainly,” said Raimund; and, taking both her hands,
he looked at her long and earnestly, and then left the room without in
any manner noticing Hamilton.

A long pause ensued. Hamilton’s eyes were riveted on his book, which he
had again taken up; but he never turned over the leaf, nor did he move
when he became conscious that Hildegarde was standing beside him.

“That was the fulfilment of the promise made at the ball on Saturday,”
she at length said, in a very low voice. “I knew that his mind was in a
state of unusual irritation, and his claiming a dance which I had not
promised him proved his wish to quarrel with you. My fears alone made me
consent.”

Hamilton turned round. A light seemed suddenly to break upon him; and
Hildegarde’s motives for many inexplicable actions became at once
apparent. His first impulse was to tell her so, and to assure her of his
increased admiration and affection; but he recollected, just at the
right moment, that all such explanations from him were a waste of words
and time; that he had told her so more than once himself. So, after a
short but violent internal struggle, he said, with forced serenity, “My
reliance on you will henceforth be unbounded.”

She seemed perfectly satisfied with this answer. Notwithstanding its
_laconicism_, she fully understood the extent of confidence which would
in future be placed in her, and she left the room with a light heart.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XXX.

                            THE MASQUERADE.


FOUR muffled figures quitted the Rosenbergs’ apartments about six
o’clock in the evening, and not long after, a light figure bounded up
the stairs, and knocked with closed hand on the door. Walburg cautiously
looked through the grated aperture; but on recognising Count Raimund,
she immediately opened it.

“Where are your ladies gone? I saw them leaving the house a few minutes
ago.”

“They are gone to spend the evening with Madame Berger, I believe.”

“Did you hear them say anything about going to the masquerade?”

“No; but Miss Crescenz did nothing but run about and whisper the last
half hour, and Madame Lustig took the house-keys with her, and said I
might go to bed if they were not home before ten o’clock. I am almost
sure they intend to go to the masquerade; and Miss Crescenz might have
trusted me, as I should never have said anything about it.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken,” said Raimund, absently. “At all events, it
is better to say nothing about it to Madame Rosenberg,” and he slowly
descended the stairs, and walked towards Dr. Berger’s house, remaining
in the street near it until he saw the five black masked figures enter a
carriage. Though all studiously dressed alike, he easily recognised
Madame Berger’s small and Madame Lustig’s stout figure, while Hildegarde
and Crescenz were sufficiently above the usual height to make the group
remarkable.

It was early when they entered the theatre, but the house was already
crowded, the tiers of boxes were filled with spectators, who, later in
the evening, joined the masks in the large ball-room formed by the
junction of the pit and stage. Crescenz became alarmed when surrounded
by a number of speaking masks, and clung to Hamilton’s arm. Madame
Berger and Madame Lustig, on the contrary, laughed and talked with a
freedom which rather shocked Hamilton. Hildegarde at first answered
gayly all who addressed her; for she felt that she was perfectly
unknown; but after some time she perceived that two masks had joined
their party, and seemed determined to remain with them. A slight young
Turk had attached himself to Madame Berger, while a mysterious black
domino followed her like a shadow.

“How much pleasanter it must be to look on from above!” she observed, at
length; “one has all the amusement without the press and anxiety of the
crowd.”

“Oh, dear! I have got quite used to it now,” said Crescenz, “and I am
not at all afraid.”

“If there are places in the boxes to be had,” said Hamilton, “and you
are willing to leave this turmoil, I am quite sure I can procure them
for you.”

“Oh, thank you, let us ask Madame Lustig.”

But Madame Lustig protested against the plan. She could not allow them
to leave her—it would be quite improper if they were to be seen alone
with Mr. Hamilton—indeed, she would rather they were not seen at all,
and she positively could not leave Madame Berger with that troublesome
Turk, not having the least idea who he might be!

“There is no use in asking Lina,” said Crescenz to Hamilton, who had
moved towards Madame Berger. And, indeed, all his arguments proved vain.
“People should not go to masquerades who did not know how to enjoy
themselves! She had no idea of coming to the theatre to mope away the
evening in a box—she could do that four times every week; besides, the
presence of Mr. Hamilton was necessary for propriety’s sake, and she
could not, and would not dispense with his attendance.” All this was
poured forth with a volubility, in French, that attracted the attention
of the bystanders. “No, the gay little devil of a masque must not think
of going, nor her corpulent friend either!” and they were again drawn on
with the crowd: Hamilton followed with the sisters, who now ceased
altogether to speak. Crescenz had also become aware that they were
followed by a black, taciturn figure, which, as she whispered to
Hamilton, put her in mind of the Inquisition, and all sorts of horrors.

“But,” said Hildegarde, who had heard her remark, “we are also quite
black, and probably make the same disagreeable impression on other
people.”

“He seems quite unknown! I have not seen him speak to any human being,”
said Crescenz.

“Neither have we, for the last half hour,” answered her sister.

“Oh, my dear, if _you_ have no objection to having him at your elbow all
the evening, I have nothing more to say,” cried Crescenz; “that is quite
a matter of taste.”

“Is he annoying you in any way?” asked Hamilton.

“Not in the least,” answered Hildegarde. “The crowd is so great that he
could not easily leave us, even if he wished it.”

In the meantime, Madame Berger and Madame Lustig, encouraged by the
masks around them, had begun to follow the unmasked groups who had
descended from the boxes. They knew the private histories of most
persons, and were so unmerciful in their remarks—so mischievous in the
distribution of their _bon-bons_ and devices, that they at length found
it expedient to plan a retreat, which was no longer easy, as they were
followed by several persons who wished to find out who they were. A
dance which was to be performed by the _corps de ballet_, in costume,
seemed to favour them. They had only time to whisper to each other,
“Home, as fast as possible, by the front door of the theatre,” when they
were pushed about and separated in all directions. Several coaches were
in attendance, Hamilton immediately procured one, and they were soon in
it laughing merrily over their adventures.

“How well we all managed to come together, after all!” cried Madame
Berger; “I really had begun to fear we should not get rid of my Turk—who
could he have been!”

“I don’t know,” said Madame Lustig, yawning, “but I am glad that we five
are safely together again, and not running about looking for each other,
which might easily have happened.”

“It often does happen,” said Madame Berger, counting her companions,
“one, two, three, four, five——There was a black familiar of the
Inquisition following Hildegarde all night; I really was afraid he might
have been among us.”

To her house, according to agreement, they all repaired to change their
dresses. Hamilton assisted them to descend from the carriage; the last
person sprang unaided to the ground, threw the black domino back, with a
quick wave of the hand, and discovered the figure of the Turk.
“Good-night, Madame Berger,” he cried in a feigned voice,
“good-night—good-night,” and with a gay laugh he darted down the street.

“Was there ever anything so provoking!” exclaimed Madame Berger, in a
voice denoting great annoyance. “What have I said to him to-night? or
rather, what have I not said to him? How vexatious—he must have borrowed
a domino from a friend in order to get among us!”

“But,” cried Madame Lustig, in a voice of alarm, “one of us must have
been left behind.”

“It must be Crescenz,” cried Hamilton. “I will return to the theatre
directly for her.”

“It must be Hildegarde,” cried Crescenz, who stood beside him.

Without uttering a word, he sprang into the carriage, and the coachman
drove off. His anxiety was indescribable; in the crowd he had felt the
absolute necessity of releasing the arm of one of the sisters, and
deceived by the extreme likeness in their figures, had almost forcibly
retained Crescenz, who chanced to be at the moment followed by the
silent mask, and whom he consequently mistook for her sister.

At the theatre he dismissed the coachman, and began making inquiries. “A
black domino alone, separated from a party of friends?” Numbers of black
dominoes had been seen—many had been separated from their friends! was
the usual answer. At length, a footman who had been lounging at a
distance, observed, that about half an hour before, a black domino—a
lady, had been stunned by a blow from the pole of a carriage, and had
been carried off by another black domino.

“That may have been Hildegarde!” cried Hamilton, in a state of fearful
anxiety.

“I think that _was_ the name he called her,” said the man, preparing to
walk away.

“He! Who is he?” asked Hamilton.

“I don’t know—he said he lived close by, and that he was a near
relation.”

“Raimund!” almost groaned Hamilton, as he rushed out of the theatre
towards the lodgings, which he knew were in one of the adjoining
streets.

The door at one side of the entrance-gate was slightly ajar, it had
probably been left so by some servants who had stolen off to the
masquerade, and did not wish to announce their return by ringing the
bell. Raimund’s rooms were on the ground floor, a couple of steps led to
them. Hamilton ascended—the door was open—he entered a narrow passage,
and stood opposite the entrance to one of the chambers, knocked first
gently, then loudly; shook the door; no sound reached him; at length he
moved towards another door and called out, “Hildegarde, for heaven’s
sake, if you are here, answer me?” He thought now he heard some one
moving in the room.

“Let me in—open the door,” he cried, pushing with all his strength
against it.

“Wait a moment,” said a voice which he with difficulty recognised as
Hildegarde’s, “wait—I must—take the key from——”

“Heaven and earth, Hildegarde! How can you be so calm, when you know how
anxious we must be about you! Are you alone?”

“No—yes,” she answered, quite close to the door.

“Count Raimund, you have no right to make a prisoner of your cousin.
Open the door directly,” cried Hamilton, shaking it until the hinges
rattled.

He heard at length the key placed, with a trembling hand, in the lock—it
turned and Hildegarde stood before him. The hood of her capuchin was
thrown back, and her features, deadly pale and rigid in an expression of
horror, met his view. She pointed silently towards a figure lying on the
ground, which, when Hamilton approached, he found to be the corpse of
her cousin! He must have shot himself through the mouth, for the upper
part of his head, hair, and brain were scattered in frightful bloody
masses around. A more hideous object could hardly be imagined; he turned
away, and seizing Hildegarde’s hand, drew her out of the room, while he
whispered, “What a dreadful scene for you to have witnessed!”

Scarcely were they in the street when, putting her hand to her head, she
exclaimed, “My gloves—mask—handkerchief, are in his room—is it of any
consequence?”

“Of the greatest,” cried Hamilton. “If your name be on the handkerchief,
it may lead to most unpleasant inquiries. Wait here. I must return to
the room.”

As he entered the room for the second time he observed an appearance of
confusion in it which, in his haste and anxiety about Hildegarde, had
before escaped his observation. Her gloves and handkerchief he found
near the stove, and not far from them, to his great surprise, a dagger!
On the table, beside the small shaded lamp, stood a wine bottle and
tumblers, writing materials, and several letters were heaped together;
and, on glancing towards them, he found one addressed to Hildegarde,
which he immediately put in his pocket, and then prepared to leave; but,
to his dismay, he heard the sound of approaching voices, and at once his
unpleasant, perhaps dangerous, situation occurred to him. His known
enmity to Raimund made it absolutely necessary for him to endeavour to
leave the house without being recognised, and, having tied on
Hildegarde’s mask, he took refuge in a small wood-room, ready to escape
the first opportunity that should offer. The persons whose voices he had
heard were servants; one of them, a French girl, was speaking while he
gained his hiding-place, and he heard her say, “The old lady desired me
to call her son, I would not go into his room for all the world at this
time of night.”

“What does she want with him?”

“Oh, she says she heard the report of a gun or pistol a short time ago,
and is alarmed. She asked me if I had not heard it too?”

“And did you hear it?”

“How could I when I was not in the house? The best thing I can do is to
say that Count Oscar is not yet returned home. I am afraid she won’t
believe me, as he never remains late at those Hoffmanns’.”

“But you may tell her that I saw him going to the masquerade at nine
o’clock in a black domino. We can knock at the door, and if we get no
answer, he is not there.”

“And if he should answer?”

“Why, then, we can speak to him together!”

While they knocked at the door, Hamilton glided out; but not, as he had
hoped, unseen, for they turned and ran after him into the street,
calling out, “Count Oscar! Count Oscar! Madame la Comptesse wishes to
speak to you.”

Hamilton shook his hand impatiently towards them, which made them
desist, and then breathlessly joined Hildegarde, who was standing
motionless on the spot where he had left her.

“I ought not to have allowed you to return,” she said, clasping her
hands convulsively round his arm, “it was thoughtless—selfish of me. Had
you been seen!”

“I have been seen, but not recognised,” said Hamilton; “I put on your
mask, and some servants mistook me for Count Raimund.”

“Can that lead to a discovery?” asked Hildegarde, stopping in the middle
of the cold, cheerless street.

“On the contrary, I rather think it will prevent any discovery being
made until to-morrow morning.”

“His wedding-day!” said Hildegarde, with a stifled groan. “Oh, what will
Marie de Hoffmann think of him?”

“She will perhaps guess the truth,” said Hamilton. “I believe this
marriage was the immediate cause of the rash act.”

“Perhaps I am also to blame,” said Hildegarde, in a scarcely audible
voice.

“It may be; but most innocently, I am sure. It was not your fault that
your cousin loved you so madly.”

“I—I—did not exactly mean that,” said Hildegarde, with a shudder.

“Then, what did you mean? Tell me all that occurred. That is,” added
Hamilton, for the first time since he had joined her recurring to his
former fears, “that is, if you can.”

“I can, and will, though the recollection is most painful,” said
Hildegarde, in an agitated manner; and, after a moment’s pause, she
began: “Having been separated from you all, I naturally endeavoured to
reach the front door of the theatre, where we had agreed to assemble as
soon as possible; always, to my great annoyance, followed by the black
domino, who, in the end, proved to be Oscar. Had I known it sooner, it
would have saved me a world of horrors. I was excessively alarmed, as
you may imagine, and, forgetting my character as mask, inquired, in my
natural voice, of everyone I met if they had seen four black dominoes
together? Everyone had seen dominoes such as I had described; and after
hearing that some had left in carriages and some on foot, I at length
determined to walk home alone. Taking advantage of the confusion caused
by several parties endeavouring to drive off together, and hoping by
that means to escape from the domino who had become an object of terror
to me—like a thing in a dream—I ran at full speed out of the theatre. In
order to reach the quieter streets, I unfortunately turned towards the
advancing line of carriages; the crowd was enormous, and I was buffeted
about in all directions, until at length the pole of a carriage threw me
down and completely stunned me.”

“So it was you! And were you hurt?” asked Hamilton, anxiously, and
stopping to look at his companion. Strange to say, he had, until that
moment, forgotten what he had heard at the theatre!

“No, not much; my shoulder is bruised, I believe, but my head fell on
the ground, and I was insensible for some minutes. Some one, probably
Oscar, must have seized the horses’ heads and forced them backwards.
When I recovered, I felt myself supported by him, and recognised his
voice immediately. There was a terrible stamping of horses, and noise,
and swearing about us, and I made a violent effort to walk. With Oscar’s
assistance, I reached the next street; he proposed my going into his
lodgings for a few minutes until I felt stronger, which I at first
refused, but becoming so faint when we were passing his house that I
could scarcely stand, I thought it better to go willingly than perhaps
be carried there in a state of insensibility. A lamp was burning in the
room when we entered, and wine was on the table; he poured me out a
glass without speaking, which I immediately drank, and then sat down on
the sofa to rest. In the meantime, he walked silently up and down the
room, and then returned to the table, where he quickly swallowed several
tumblers of wine. Alarmed by his manner, I immediately stood up, and
declared that I was quite able to return home. If he were not disposed
to accompany me, I would go alone. His answer was locking the door and
placing the key in his pocket.”

“And you?” asked Hamilton, quickly, “what did you do?”

“I cannot describe the undefined terror which this proceeding caused me;
but, on seeing the dagger, with which he had once so frightened me,
lying on the table, I suddenly seized it and retreated towards the
stove. He asked me what I meant; but I only answered by repeating the
words, ‘Open the door—let me go—let me go.’ He, however, then informed
me that he had no intention of doing either the one or the other; he was
determined for once that I should hear him, and answer him; and he
ordered me peremptorily to give him the dagger. I, of course, refused,
and—and——”

“Well,” said Hamilton, breathlessly.

“A violent struggle ensued; he wrested it forcibly out of my hand, and,
I believe, in trying not to hurt me, was wounded himself, for I saw
blood trickling down the blade as he held it triumphantly up in the air.
In springing to the other side of the stove I found a bell-rope. Perhaps
I wrong Oscar, but I believe the fear of that bell alone preserved me
from further insult.”

“He must have been perfectly desperate,” observed Hamilton, taking a
long breath.

“He appeared so to me,” continued Hildegarde, shuddering. “I saw him
change colour as I grasped the rope; but, with wonderful coolness, he
advised me to refrain from summoning witnesses to my being in his room
at such an hour of the night; that I had entered willingly, and no human
being would believe my assertion of innocence, as unfortunately his
reputation was such that mine would be lost should I be seen and
recognised. Though trembling with anger, I perceived the justice of his
remark, and carefully avoided ringing, though I held the cord tighter
than ever. He came nearer and nearer, and talked long about his love,
and hatred of you. I was too much agitated to understand much of what he
said; and I believe he perceived it at last, for he threw himself at my
feet and declared he would die there. I pushed back his hands with
disgust, and told him that he need not hope again to terrify me—I knew
he had no thought of dying, but I once more requested him to open the
door and give me my liberty. He started up frantically, and taking a
small pistol from the table, again approached me. I asked him if he
intended to murder me. He looked capable of that or anything else at the
moment, and when he pointed it towards his own head, I——” Hildegarde
paused, and covered her face with her hands. Hamilton did not speak, and
she again continued. “I did not—indeed, I did not for a moment think him
serious, he was such a consummate actor! I had seen him in less than
half an hour change from calm to furious so often, that I thought this
was only a new effort to work upon my feelings; I never could—had I
dreamed of the consequences—at all events, I shall never, never be able
to forgive myself!”

“You have not told me what you did,” said Hamilton, in a low voice.

“I—laughed—and no sooner had he heard the horrid mocking sound of my
forced laughter, than he pulled the trigger, and fell, so horribly
mangled, to the ground!” She leaned against the corner of a house, and
gasped for breath. “Do you think,” she asked, at length, “do you think
that I was the immediate cause of his death?”

“No,” said Hamilton. “I can give you nearly the assurance that he had
intended to commit suicide—this very night perhaps—his table was covered
with letters, and one, addressed to you, I brought away with me.”

“Now, heaven be praised that this sin is not on my soul!” she cried,
fervently, and then added, “I have nothing more to tell you: I don’t
know how the time passed until you came—it appeared very long, but I
never thought of going away. You will understand why I was so dilatory
in opening the door, when you recollect that the key was in the pocket
of his waistcoat.”

“And now,” said Hamilton, hurrying towards Madame Berger’s house, “let
me recommend secrecy. I do not think anyone will imagine that we know of
this melancholy affair. Should we speak of it, we might be suspected of
knowing more than we may be disposed to relate.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Hildegarde, “and have not the slightest
wish to speak of it to anyone, not even to my father, for, never having
spoken to him about Oscar, my confidence, coming too late, might offend
him, as it did about Count Zedwitz.”

“You will have to make a great effort, and conceal every appearance of
agitation from your sister and Madame Lustig,” said Hamilton. “I think
we had better avoid the proposed supper at Madame Berger’s. Give me your
capuchin, and I will bring you your bonnet and cloak.”

Hildegarde seated herself on the stairs, and leaned her face on her
hands.

Hamilton’s appearance without her caused instantaneous and great alarm;
but when he said she was waiting for them on the stairs, they became
almost angry.

“So she won’t come to supper!” cried Madame Berger. “Just like her, an
eternal spoilsport.”

“I fear she has caught cold,” said Hamilton, looking round for the
cloak; “you forget how long she has been in the streets in her light
dress.”

“But,” said Madame Lustig, “she must say she caught cold making the
ice-cream at the passage-window. I shall never have courage to confess
that we have been at this masquerade, and that she has been running
about the streets at this hour of night. Was she far from the theatre
when you met her?”

“I found her in —— Street,” replied Hamilton, evasively, and beginning
to heap up cloaks and boas on his arm.

“Not so fast, if you please,” cried Madame Lustig. “Give me my cloak—I
have no fancy for catching cold.”

“This is too provoking,” exclaimed Madame Berger; “I thought we should
have had such a merry supper; the Doctor in bed, and everything so nice!
Take a glass of wine, at least, before you go, Mr. Hamilton.”

He quickly drank the wine, and then ran downstairs. Hildegarde stood up,
and allowed him to put the cloak on her shoulders, fasten it, throw her
boa round her throat, and even place her bonnet on her head; she merely
asked: “Are they coming?”

“Hildegarde,” cried Madame Berger, who accompanied the others with a
candle in her hand, “I take it very ill of you to spoil my supper in
this manner; you might have come up, if only for half an hour.”

“You have caught cold—you are ill,” whispered Hamilton in English.

“I am sorry to spoil your supper party, Lina, but I am really ill, and
must go home,” said Hildegarde, in so constrained and husky a voice that
Madame Lustig, mistaking it for hoarseness, hurried down the stairs,
exclaiming: “Good gracious, the child can hardly speak! What will her
father say to me?”

About an hour after, while Hamilton was still walking uneasily up and
down his room, he heard some one knock at the door. On opening it he was
scarcely surprised to see Hildegarde. No trace of colour had returned to
her face, but her features had regained their usual calm, statue-like
expression.

“I knew I should still find you in this room,” she said, with a faint
smile. “You may give me my letter; I can read it now.”

It was on the table, and Hamilton pushed it towards her. She sat down,
drew a candle near her, and, shading her eyes with one hand, held the
letter steadily with the other. When she had finished reading it, she
gave it to Hamilton, saying: “That is a wild piece of composition; how
fortunate that it fell into your hands! Had it been sent to me, I should
have been placed in a most unpleasant position. My father, my mother,
would have read it; I must have explained, and Marie de Hoffmann would
perhaps have heard of Oscar’s dislike to her, and have blamed me more
than I deserve.”

Hamilton read the letter, and when she took it out of his hand, she tore
it to pieces. “I wish I could burn these remnants,” she said, crushing
them together in her hand.

“Nothing more easy,” said Hamilton, pointing towards the stove. They
walked to it, and deliberately burned the pieces, one by one; the
incoherent sentences becoming once more legible in a charred state
before they crumbled into ashes.

“Thank you,” said Hildegarde, turning away; “and now, good-night.”

“Will you not take a candle; or, shall I light you?” asked Hamilton.

“Neither: I do not wish to wake Walburg.”

As Hamilton held the door open, he recollected vividly the last time she
had been in his room at night. She was too much preoccupied to think of
it; but, stopping suddenly, she turned to him, and said: “Do you
remember my warning, my presentiment of evil?”

“Perfectly,” he answered; “but I think the idea was caused by your
imagining you were about to do something which your father perhaps might
not quite approve.”

“You account for everything rationally, and will of course not believe
me when I tell you that I knew and _felt_ beforehand that Oscar would
come to our house yesterday, and act precisely as he did.”

“I do believe you; but it was your natural understanding which made you
think he would take advantage of your parent’s absence to claim your
promise. Then the almost certainty of my presence, to give the
performance a zest. Perhaps, however, the strongest motive of all, but
which you could not have known, was to take leave of you. I must do him
the justice to say, I believe he thought he saw you for the last time
then.”

“Would that it had been!” said Hildegarde. “I could at least have
regretted him as a near relation, and felt pity for his untimely end.”

“And do you not feel this?” asked Hamilton.

“No,” answered Hildegarde, sternly. “In recalling calmly his words and
actions this night, I find him wholly unworthy of esteem. My
recollection of him, now stained with blood, is hideous, most horrible.”
She shuddered while she spoke, and then walked down the dark passage
without looking at Hamilton, who held his door open until she had
entered her room.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XXXI.

                        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.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XXXII.

                       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.


                         ---------------------




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.

                               A CHANGE.


HAMILTON was wakened about three o’clock in the morning by Hildegarde
rushing into his room, and exclaiming, “For heaven’s sake, get up—get
up, and come to my father—I am afraid he has got the cholera. You have
seen people ill, and know the symptoms. Oh, come—we do not know what to
do!”

“Send for the Doctor,” cried Hamilton. “I shall be with you in a
moment.”

On entering Mr. Rosenberg’s room, Hamilton found Hildegarde standing
beside his bed, while Madame Rosenberg was walking up and down the room,
gesticulating like a person in a state of mental derangement.

“Oh, Mr. Hamilton,” she exclaimed, the moment she perceived him, “tell
me, only tell me that Franz has not got the cholera, and I shall be
grateful as long as I live! It would be too hard were he to have it now,
when people say there is nothing more to fear. Last week, only one
man—quite a decrepit old man, died of it? I am sure Franz has only eaten
too much supper yesterday evening. Don’t you think so? Say that he has
not got the cholera, and I shall believe you implicitly.”

But Hamilton could not say so, nor unfortunately Doctor Berger either;
the case was at once pronounced a bad one, and, in a fearfully short
time, quite hopeless. Consternation and dismay pervaded the whole
household, when, on the morning of the third day, poor Mr. Rosenberg was
no more. Completely overpowered by the suddenness of her own
bereavement, Madame Rosenberg retired to her room, unable to speak to
anyone.

Major Stultz immediately undertook the necessary arrangements for the
funeral, and gave directions for the printing of circular letters to
announce the death to distant relations and friends, a custom which
saves the mourning family the performance of a most painful duty.
Hamilton took the two little boys to their sister Crescenz. Her married
life had begun in anxiety and sorrow, and Hamilton felt some natural
trepidation at seeing her again, under such painful circumstances; but
her grief was of the most tranquil description, the tears flowed
unrestrained over her round rosy cheeks, and when they ceased left not a
trace behind. Although but a few days had elapsed since she had left her
family, a not quite willing bride, she had already begun to repeat her
husband’s words as oracles. Hamilton half smiled as he heard her: “Thank
goodness, that she at least was provided for, and had a home! She hoped
poor dear Hildegarde would not now begin to repent having refused such a
man as Major Stultz, the more so, as that refusal precluded the
possibility of her ever residing with them!”

Poor Hildegarde! She had not bestowed one thought, much less a regret,
on Major Stultz. Hamilton, on his return, found her sitting in her room,
perfectly motionless, with parched lips, and eyes devoid of tears. He
hoped she had at length begun to think of herself—recommended her to try
to eat something, and go to bed. She looked at him as if his words had
not conveyed the slightest sense to her mind—walked uneasily up and down
the room for a few minutes, and then said, with a shudder, “I am so
afraid of his being buried alive! Do you think he was quite—quite dead?
If I could only see him once more.”

“And who could be so cruel as to prevent you?” exclaimed Hamilton. “If
it be any relief to your mind, I will remain in his room to-night?”

“In his room!” she cried, clasping her hands convulsively: “he is no
longer there—they have taken him away to the deadhouse.”

“The deadhouse! Where is that?”

“In the burying-ground. They have watches there, I believe, but still he
is among all the frightful corpses, and should he come to
himself—imagine how horrible! You will go with me—you will let me see
him once more? I cannot else believe that he is really dead!”

“I will go with you there, or anywhere you please,” said Hamilton,
completely overcome by her evident wretchedness.

The weather was unusually inclement; a storm of falling sleet almost
blinded them as they waded through the half-melted snow which lay on the
road outside the town; but Hildegarde seemed unconscious of all these
impediments, hurried on silently until she reached the churchyard, where
she turned to a building, which had escaped Hamilton’s observation on a
former occasion, and walked directly up to a row of glass doors, and
stood as if transfixed with horror. Hamilton was in a moment at her
side, and it must be confessed that to those who were not inured to the
various aspects of death, the scene which presented itself was shocking
in the extreme. On tables in the interior a long row of open coffins
were arranged, their ghastly tenants dressed with a care that seemed to
mock the solemnity of death and interment. A young officer was in
uniform, as if about to appear on parade—an elderly gentleman dressed
for a ball—a young girl whose half-open mouth and eyes showed the
struggle with which soul and body had parted, was crowned with flowers,
and a long white veil lay in white folds over her bare arms and white
dress, reaching almost to the satin shoes which covered the stiff, cold
feet as they protruded beyond the coffin in hideous rigidity.

Mr. Rosenberg was now scarcely recognisable; his livid features were
contracted, and not a trace remained of that beauty for which he had
been so remarkable. Hamilton turned away, but again his eyes encountered
death. Another and lighter room was filled with the corpses of poorer
persons and children; the latter indeed seemed to sleep, and on them the
wreaths of flowers did not appear misplaced.

Hildegarde seemed unable to tear herself from the spot, nor did Hamilton
feel disposed to disturb her until he perceived a number of persons
hurrying to and fro, and torches glimmering in the churchyard; he then
asked a woman, who appeared with a bunch of keys in her hand, if there
was to be a funeral.

“I believe the Countess Raimund is to be buried this evening,” she
answered.

“Not one of these?” cried Hamilton, pointing to the place where
Hildegarde stood.

“Yes; just there beside the gentleman who died of cholera—that old lady
in black satin with her mouth wide open—it was shameful negligence of
those about her not to close it before the jaw stiffened.”

“Hildegarde,” said Hamilton, drawing her arm within his, “you must now
leave this place. There is to be a funeral.”

“I know—I heard,” she said, allowing herself to be led away, with her
head still turned towards the chamber of death. “The only precedence
which the Countess Raimund can now claim of my father,” she added,
bitterly, “is that of first descending into the grave! How absurd all
pride appears when standing at the threshold of a charnel-house!”

“Very true,” said Hamilton, “but how seldom the proud—how seldom anyone
thinks of such a place. Where are you going now?”

“To my mother’s grave.”

He made no opposition, for he hoped that some sudden recollection would
put an end to the unnatural calmness of her manner, and was, for this
reason, not sorry to perceive that the grave-digger had already been at
work; the place was measured, and some shovelfuls of earth had been
thrown over the grave she came to visit.

She seemed for a few minutes to pray, and then sat down beside the stone
cross, and began assiduously to arrange the leaves of the still green,
though withered, ivy wreaths which she had placed on it in November.

“I am trying your patience unpardonably,” she observed at length, rising
from her cheerless occupation, “and it is all to no purpose.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hamilton.

“I expected to feel something like sorrow for my father’s loss. You will
be shocked when I tell you that I cannot feel anything resembling it.
Before I came here I thought my odious apathy was caused by doubts of
the reality of his death—those doubts are all removed—I know that he is
dead; that in a few hours he will be in the grave, and moulder beside my
mother’s skeleton, and I do not, cannot feel anything like grief!”

“You are too much stunned by the suddenness,” began Hamilton.

“Not so,” said Hildegarde, quietly, “I assure you I never felt more
perfectly contented than at this moment; were it not that I shudder at
my total want of sensibility.”

“If it be insensibility,” said Hamilton; “but you have so much decision,
so much firmness of character, that——”

“No, no,” she cried, hastily interrupting him; “this is not firmness. Do
not imagine that I feel emotion which I am endeavouring to conceal, or
suppressing tears ready to flow; I only feel an almost irresistible
inclination to walk or run without stopping!”

“I am surprised that you do not find yourself completely exhausted,”
said Hamilton. “It would certainly be more natural, when one takes into
consideration that you have not slept for three nights, or eaten
anything for nearly three days!”

“And you also have passed three sleepless nights,” said Hildegarde, “and
without the hopes and fears which made the want of rest imperceptible to
me. I ought to have remembered that sooner.”

“I was not thinking of myself,” cried Hamilton. “And your hopes and
fears,” he added, in a lower voice, “I have most truly participated.
Will you never believe that your joys are my joys, your sorrows my
sorrows?”

He waited in vain for an answer; Hildegarde leaned heavily on his arm,
and breathed quickly; he at length caught a glimpse of her face, and was
so shocked at the convulsive workings of her features that he beckoned
to one of the numerous hackney coachmen returning from the churchyard,
and silently placed his unresisting companion in the carriage. She
sighed so deeply, and then gasped so fearfully for breath, that he let
down all the windows, and experienced the most heart-felt pleasure when
at length she burst into a passion of tears.

She wept unrestrainedly until they reached home, but, even on the stairs
as they ascended, Hamilton perceived a return of her former unnaturally
composed manner.

During the next day Madame Rosenberg was almost constantly surrounded by
her friends and acquaintance. Towards evening Crescenz drew her sister
aside, and whispered: “Oh, my dear Hildegarde, this is an irreparable
loss for you!”

“Irreparable indeed!” said Hildegarde, moving her head dejectedly; “I
wish it had pleased God to let me die instead of my father—few would
have mourned for me!”

“I’m sure, dear, I don’t know what is to become of you now! I can’t bear
to think of it, but I suppose you will have to apply to Mademoiselle
Hortense to get you a situation as governess; you know she promised to
do so whenever you wished it——”

“I know,” said Hildegarde, rubbing her forehead with her hand, and
biting her under lip with an expression of great distress. “Let us talk
about that some other time—I cannot _think_ yet.”

“It was Lina Berger who talked about it; she said she was sure that
mamma would not propose your remaining with her, and Major Stultz says
that——”

“Crescenz,” said Hildegarde with some impatience, “say what you please
to me from yourself, I am ready to hear you; but do not torture me now
with the opinions of either Lina Berger or Major Stultz.”

“Well, to be sure! And how often have you said that you considered him a
sensible man!”

“I have not changed my opinion, but as I know he can feel no sort of
interest in anything that concerns me, I do not wish to hear what he has
said.”

“Ah, I see Mr. Hamilton has been telling you—he smiled so strangely when
I was speaking to him yesterday, that I was sure he would tell you
everything—but indeed I wished to have had you with me directly; it was
my first thought, but Blazius said that what occurred at—at Seon—you
know, made it quite impossible!”

“Mr. Hamilton told me nothing of all this,” said Hildegarde. “I thank
you for your kind intentions, dear Crescenz; I can imagine that Major
Stultz’s refusal to comply with your wishes has pained you; but you may
set your mind at rest, for I feel even more intensely than he can, the
impossibility of my ever becoming an inmate of his house.”

“Well,” said Crescenz, apparently greatly relieved; “I’m sure I am glad
to hear you say so, for though he talked very sensibly, and all that,
this morning, I could not help crying, and was quite uncomfortable at
the idea of speaking to you about it; I was afraid you might think that
now I am married, I love you less.”

“Four days is too short a time to work such a change, I hope,” said
Hildegarde, with a melancholy smile; then suddenly seizing her sister’s
hands, she exclaimed, “Oh, Crescenz, love me! Love me still—as much as
you can—think how I shall miss my father’s affection!”

“Very true, indeed, as Blazius says; my father bestowed his whole
affection on you, and quite overlooked me!”

Hildegarde gazed at her sister for a moment in silence, and then turned
away with tearful eyes. She saw that Crescenz would soon be lost to her
forever. Major Stultz already directed her thoughts and words, as
completely as she herself had done when they were at school together.
She watched her returning to their step-mother’s room, and then walked
slowly towards the door leading to the passage. Hamilton was standing at
the stove—had heard the sisters’ conversation, and filled with
compassion for her deserted position, he seized her hand as she passed,
and passionately pressed it to his lips without speaking. When she
raised her heavy eyelids to look at him, she saw that his eyes were
suffused with tears.

“I—thank you—for your sympathy,” she murmured with trembling lips, as
she withdrew her hand, and hurried out of the room.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XXXIV.

                            THE ARRANGEMENT.


AFTER the interment of Mr. Rosenberg, some time passed over in
melancholy monotony. Madame Rosenberg employed herself principally in
the inspection and arrangement of papers; Hildegarde wandered about the
house, endeavouring in an absent manner to make herself useful. She even
tried to assist the new cook, but her efforts were so entirely
unsuccessful, that her mother begged she would desist, as she had no
sort of talent in that line.

Mr. Rosenberg had been a kind husband and an affectionate father;
Hamilton had invariably found him an agreeable companion, but his
constant occupation in his office, and an inveterate habit of going out
every evening, had made his society an occurrence of such rarity, that
Hamilton in a short time became quite resigned to his loss; in fact, but
for the mourning dresses, Hildegarde’s unconquerable dejection, and the
never-failing tears of Madame Rosenberg, as she circumstantially related
to every visitor the history of her husband’s illness and death, he
would soon have forgotten that he had ever existed. He attended the
college lectures, studied German with his friend Biedermann, rode,
walked, in short, continued all his former occupations, with the
exception of his quarrels with Hildegarde—these had now entirely ceased;
he obeyed her slightest directions, anticipated her wishes with a sort
of quiet devotion so completely directed to her alone, but so
unobtrusive, that Madame Rosenberg failed to observe more than that they
had learned to live peaceably in the same house together, and praised
them both more than once for having ceased their silly and useless
quarrels.

One day, about the beginning of April, Hildegarde recalled him just as
he was about to leave the house, saying that her mother wished to speak
to him; he laughingly demanded if the probably not very important
communication could not be deferred to another day, as he had promised
to meet some friends at Tambosi’s in the Hofgarten. Hildegarde gravely
shook her head, and said she believed her mother was waiting for him.

“What a bore!” he exclaimed, striding along the passage; “I suppose I
shall be detained half an hour to hear a lecture about having forgotten
to extinguish the candles last night, or having burned my boots on the
stove! I really wish, Hildegarde, you would give your new cook
instructions about my room—it is not at all necessary that your mother
should be informed every time an accident occurs there.”

Madame Rosenberg was sitting at an old-fashioned scrutoire furnished
with innumerable diminutive secret and apparent drawers; she had a small
packet of bills beside her, and various heaps of money before her. When
Hamilton entered, she immediately moved back her chair, and pointed to
another beside her, which she wished him to occupy. Now that Hamilton
had already become a little spoiled by Madame Rosenberg’s indulgence,
praises, and deference to his opinion, he had learned to like her and
even overlook her vulgarity; but in proportion as his affection had
increased his respect had decreased, and like the spoiled son of a weak
mother, he now stood leaning against the door, refusing with an
impatient gesture the offered chair, and murmuring some unintelligible
words about business and disappointments.

“I shall not detain you long,” said Madame Rosenberg, drawing out of her
pocket an enormous linen handkerchief, and wiping away two large tears,
which were obtrusively rolling down her cheeks. “I ought to have spoken
to you long ago, but I have been thinking over and over the means of
rendering my communication less disagreeable.”

“So,” cried Hamilton, closing the door, and advancing towards her, “so
it is not about the boots you are going to lecture me?”

“No,” she replied, half laughing, “though I must say——”

“I know all you are going to say,” cried Hamilton, laughing,
“extravagant habits, horrible smell, danger of burning the house, and
all that! Suppose it said—I am very contrite indeed, and promise not to
burn either shirt or boots for three weeks to come, and not at all when
the weather is warmer and the stove is not heated.”

“In three weeks, and when the weather is warmer, we shall be too far
apart for me either to lecture or detain you in my room against your
will!”

“My dear Madame Rosenberg,” exclaimed Hamilton, springing towards her,
and not only seating himself on the previously disdained chair, but
drawing it so close to hers that she involuntarily drew back; “my dear
Madame Rosenberg, you surely do not mean that I must leave you?”

“I do, indeed,” she answered, nodding her head slowly and despondingly,
and again the monstrous handkerchief was put in requisition. “I’m sure,”
she added, somewhat surprised at the varying emotions depicted on his
countenance, “I’m sure it’s very kind of you to be so sorry to leave
us—I thought the loss was wholly on our side.”

“I have spent seven of the happiest months of my life in your house,”
began Hamilton.

“Six months and one week,” said Madame Rosenberg, interrupting him; “you
were three weeks at Havard’s, you know, and when we are settling our
account the three weeks must be deducted, for, as poor dear Franz
said——”

“I should like to know your intentions with respect to Hildegarde,” said
Hamilton, who had not heard one word of the explanation.

“Hildegarde goes with me to the Iron Works, as people now call them;
poor Franz was so uneasy about her on his death-bed, that I promised him
she should never leave my house excepting with her own free will, and
always have the power of returning to it when she chose, and that she
should receive on her marriage a _trousseau_ in every respect like her
sister’s.”

“This promise must have been a great relief to his mind,” observed
Hamilton.

“It was,” said Madame Rosenberg, and the tears flowed fast as she added:
“I would have given him everything I had in the world to have made him
contented in his last moments. We lived so happily together during the
twelve years which we passed in this house. I cannot remain here any
longer—the house—the furniture—Munich itself has become odious to me. I
intend to return to my father. Fritz will be made a gentleman, as his
father wished it, at the military school. Gustle must be his
grandfather’s successor at the Iron Works; he has, at all events, no
great love of learning; and Peppy is too young to be taken into
consideration at present.”

“Take _me_ with you to the Iron Works,” said Hamilton, abruptly.

Madame Rosenberg looked at him as if she did not quite comprehend.

“Take me with you to the Iron Works,” he repeated.

She shook her head. “It is no place for you,” she said, steadily, “nor
is my father, though an excellent man, a companion for you. Your parents
would be dissatisfied, and with reason, were you to bury yourself in an
insignificant village, just so many miles from Munich as to prevent your
being able to avail yourself of the advantages which you told me you had
found here for the completion of your education.”

Hamilton felt the justness of her remark, and did not attempt to
contradict it; he had, however, no intention of quitting a family of
which Hildegarde was still to be a member; nor did he much concern
himself about the satisfaction or dissatisfaction of his parents just at
that moment. He understood Madame Rosenberg perfectly, and changed his
tactics. Throwing himself back in his chair, he said, with apparent
resignation: “Well, I suppose I must spend the ensuing five months at
Havard’s, that’s all!”

“At Havard’s! What an idea!” exclaimed Madame Rosenberg; “to be giving
suppers and drinking champagne every night! I never heard of anything so
absurd!”

“Why, where else can I go? I cannot well take a lodging and engage a
cook and housemaid for myself, can I?”

“No,” replied Madame Rosenberg, half laughing, “not exactly that—but a
lodging, or a family might be found. Suppose, for instance, that Madame
Berger should have proposed taking you, in case the Doctor have no
objection, eh?”

“I am sure I have none,” said Hamilton, vainly endeavouring to suppress
a smile as he added, “she is one of the prettiest little women I ever
saw, and with time and opportunity I have no doubt I shall fall
desperately in love with her. You will not be there to sustain me with
your good advice—and—a—but at least you will be answerable for the
consequences, as you will have led me into the temptation!”

“Good heavens! Not for all the world would I take such a responsibility
upon myself!” cried Madame Rosenberg, with a look of amazement; “Lina,
too, so giddy and thoughtless, and the Doctor never at home! It would
never do, I see. But who would have imagined that you would think of
such a thing at your age!”

“I am just at the age to act more from impulse than reason, and I
consider you too much my friend not to speak candidly to you. If Major
Stultz were not so insufferably jealous, you could make me over to
Crescenz—my regard for her is really of the most blameless description,
and will never be otherwise.”

“Oh, the Major would never listen to such a proposal.”

“Then I have no alternative but Havard’s—Havard’s or your house,” he
continued, taking her large hard hand and pressing it fervently; “dear
Madame Rosenberg, let me go with you; I have a sort of presentiment that
it is the only means of keeping me out of mischief; besides, I can ride
or drive into Munich two or three times a week.”

“But I have no room for you,” she cried, with a look of distress; for
the earnestness of his manner had begun to move her.

“You must make room for me,” urged Hamilton.

“And as to your horses and Hans——”

“Oh, I can easily find quarters for them in the neighbourhood.”

“You will have to sleep in a room without a stove——”

“I don’t want a stove in summer.”

“Well, then,” she said hesitatingly, “if you think that you can be
satisfied with the accommodation which I have at my disposal, you can
accompany us to the country. Should our manner of living, or what I fear
more, my father, not suit you, you can leave us, you know; we will part
friends at all events.”

“Don’t talk or think of parting,” cried Hamilton, gayly. “I am sure I
shall find your father a most worthy person—we shall get on famously
together. When do you leave? It will be quite delightful to breathe the
country air. I assure you I feel already impatient to be off.”

“On the 24th I purpose leaving Munich,” said Madame Rosenberg, once more
drawing her chair towards her scrutoire, and beginning to count her
little heaps of money.

“Are those Iron Works romantically situated?” asked Hamilton.

“N—o. They are on the high road at the end of the village; but there is
a fine old oak wood quite close to us.”

“Ah! an oak wood,” repeated Hamilton, thoughtfully.

“We have also a garden and orchard behind the house; the smoke from the
forge indeed spoils the flowers greatly, but there is an arbour under
the trees where we can breakfast, and drink coffee after dinner, in
summer—the arbour is quite covered with roses and honeysuckles.”

“Ah, that is delightful!” cried Hamilton, in vision imagining himself
sitting with Hildegarde in the rose and honeysuckle arbour.

“But you are forgetting your appointment,” observed Madame Rosenberg,
who had been in vain endeavouring to correct a fault in her reckoning.

“A civil way of telling me to leave you in peace,” said Hamilton,
laughing.

“Not at all, I assure you. If you have really no appointment, I shall be
glad to talk over my plans with you.”

“I _had_ an appointment,” he said, looking at his watch, “for which I am
too late. I have another, for which I am a few minutes too early.”

“A few minutes,” repeated Madame Rosenberg. “That will never do for me.
In your ‘few minutes’ I can only inform you that you must go for a few
days at least to Havard’s, until I have got everything in order.
Hildegarde and the children I intend to pack off the day after
to-morrow.”

“Oh, pack me off, too, with Hil——with the children,” cried Hamilton,
eagerly. “I wish you would consider me really as one of them.”

“Well, I am sure I have always done so since you have been with me. Poor
Franz often said I took great liberties with you.”

“I cannot remember anything of the kind.”

“Why, have you forgotten the Sunday Fritz broke the window in the
drawing-room, when you were teaching him to box?”

“I remember you boxed his ears, poor fellow, which he certainly did not
deserve, as he was not really the cause of the mischief. It was I who
pushed him against the window, and, if I recollect right, both Mr.
Rosenberg and I protested——”

“Yes, you protested, and that made me still more angry; but if you don’t
remember what I said to you, so much the better. Franz said he believed
you never heard it, as you were laughing with Madame Berger, and I was
afterwards very sorry for having said so much, especially about the
rough English plays.”

Hamilton smiled. “I suppose,” he said, turning towards the door, “Hans
may pack up my chattels; you will send me to the country with the
children.”

“No, no, no,” cried Madame Rosenberg, hastily, “that will never do; I
must write to my father and explain. If he knew the sort of person you
are—he would never consent to your becoming an inmate of his house!”

“Am I, then, so very disagreeable?” asked Hamilton.

“Quite the contrary—but you do not understand my father. In short, it is
better to tell you at once—why should I be ashamed to say it? He was a
common journeyman smith—so extremely industrious, of such enormous
strength, and with so much talent for mechanics, that he made himself
not only useful, but altogether indispensable to my grandfather, who,
rather than lose him, gave him his daughter in marriage. Our forge
became in time an iron work, and he is now the richest man far and wide.
To see him, you would not suppose so; he is neither changed in manner
nor dress——” Madame Rosenberg paused.

“Well?” said Hamilton.

“Well!” she repeated, a little impatiently. “It is plain enough, I
think, that such a man will not suit you—or you suit him.”

“I don’t know that,” said Hamilton. “A man who has turned a forge into
an iron work, and who from having nothing has become rich by honest
means, must be possessed of good sense and good talents, too. As to his
appearance or dress—a man’s coat——”

“That’s just what I am afraid of,” cried Madame Rosenberg.

“Do you think I attach much importance to a coat? I assure you that I am
determined to like your father with and without a coat.”

“I will write him _that_, and it will at once put an end to our
difficulties, for if I say _that_ he will never imagine you are so
fastidious——”

“I don’t quite understand——” said Hamilton with a puzzled air.

“It would never do—you see—were we to inconvenience him,” said Madame
Rosenberg, “or force him to change his mode of life. He likes to work
and dine in his shirt-sleeves, and is not over particular how his meals
are served—this I can change, perhaps, but against the shirt-sleeves I
can do nothing, and I know it is very vulgar; Franz told me so often
enough.”

“I have no sort of objection to his shirt-sleeves,” said Hamilton,
“provided he allow me to wear a coat. What matter! If this be the reason
why I should not go with Hildegarde and the children the day after
to-morrow, I think you may waive all ceremony and tell your father that
I belong to the family. You have made an agreement to keep me for six
months longer.”

“This is a good idea,” said Madame Rosenberg, laughing. “I will write to
him to-morrow, and I dare say I shall have an answer in a day or two.”

Hamilton perceived he had gained every concession he could reasonably
demand, and left the room quietly and thoughtfully.

Hildegarde had prepared her brothers for their afternoon walk, and was
waiting with some indications of impatience for his appearance. He had
been forbidden to walk with her, but had established a sort of right to
be informed where she intended to go—that he should ride near her, or at
least become visible during her walk, was a sort of tacit agreement.

“The Nymphenburg road,” cried Gustle, springing towards him. “May I have
one of your canes?”

“And may I, too, have one to ride upon?” asked Peppy.

“Yes,” said Hamilton, “Hildegarde will show you those you may take.”

“Oh, come, Hildegarde,” cried Gustle, pulling her rather roughly; “come
and choose the canes for us. I must have the little black one with the
horse’s head on it.”

But Hildegarde showed no inclination to move.

“You were a long time in my mother’s room,” she said at length, with
some embarrassment.

“Not longer than was necessary to make her consent to take me with her
to the country. Oh, Hildegarde, what pleasant walks we shall have in the
oak wood, and how much happier we shall be there than here. Were you
ever at these Iron Works?”

“Not since I was a child,” answered Hildegarde, smiling as she had not
smiled since her father’s death; “I remember the noise of the hammers
was incessant, and the house shook a good deal, and the white
window-curtains were very soon soiled.”

“We shall get used to the hammers, I dare say,” said Hamilton, laughing.
“As to the house shaking, that must be imagination; and the
window-curtains can be easily changed, you know.”

“But mamma said nothing in the world would induce her to take you with
us. How did you persuade her?”

“I can tell you all that when I return home. Excuse me as well as you
can, should I be late for supper. Good-by.”

“Where are you going?” asked Hildegarde.

He whispered a few words, and then hurried downstairs.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XXXV.

                        THE DIFFICULTY REMOVED.


IT was late in the evening, and Hamilton had not yet returned. Madame
Rosenberg began to get a little uneasy, and very impatient, when
fortunately Madame Berger arrived to complain bitterly of her husband,
who had declined receiving Mr. Hamilton as an inmate of his house on any
terms. “He says I am too young—and he is too often absent—and people
might talk! Did you ever hear anything so absurd?”

“I believe he is right,” said Madame Rosenberg, “you are too young——”

“I wonder it never occurred to you that your step-daughters were still
younger!” cried Madame Berger, glancing towards Hildegarde, who was
sitting at the window looking into the street.

“The case is quite different,” said Madame Rosenberg; “we are a large
family, and where the father and mother are in a house——”

“Pshaw!” cried Madame Berger, impatiently; “Cressy liked him, for all
that, better than she will ever like her husband, I suspect!”

“Who told you that?” cried Madame Rosenberg, with a look of amazement.

“My own eyes,” replied Madame Berger, with a slight laugh; “and not
Hildegarde,” she added, in answer to a look of suspicion which Madame
Rosenberg had cast on her step-daughter. “Believe me, neither the
presence of father nor mother can prevent these things.”

“Crescenz is most happily married,” began Madame Rosenberg.

“So am I—but I preferred Theodor Biedermann to the Doctor, as you well
know. You need not look so astonished at hearing me speak the truth,
Hildegarde. I vow one would almost imagine you heard this for the first
time! As if Cressy had not betrayed me long ago, not to mention
Mademoiselle Hortense, who of course used me as a scarecrow for the
whole school! Excepting, perhaps, the dear, good old Doctor,” she
continued, “there is not one of my acquaintances who does not know that
I nearly cried my eyes out about Theodor.”

“And is it possible you have not told Dr. Berger?” cried Hildegarde,
turning quickly round. “Did you not feel bound in honour——”

“No, mademoiselle,” replied Madame Berger, sharply; “I did not feel
myself bound in honour deliberately to destroy my domestic peace—I leave
it to you to make such a confession when you are going to be married, if
you think it necessary!”

“I am afraid Hildegarde is not likely to be married at all, now that we
are going to live at the Iron Works,” sighed Madame Rosenberg. “The only
neighbour we have is the _Förster_, and he——”

“Lord bless you!” cried Madame Berger, “Hildegarde would never look at a
_Förster_ if he were not by chance a count or baron. Had Mr. Hamilton
only been a _Milor_, she would never have thought of quarrelling with
him, I can tell you!”

“Caroline!—madame!” exclaimed Hildegarde, with a vehemence that made
Madame Berger retreat a few steps from the window, while she cried, with
affected fear, “Good heavens! I had no idea you could get into a passion
about _him_! And here he is,” she added, springing again to the window
as she heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the pavement; “here he is,
and I suspect there are few _Milors_ to be compared to him; he certainly
is the handsomest creature I ever saw! An ideal of an Englishman! _Un
amour!_”

“Lina!” said Madame Rosenberg, reproachfully, “you must forgive my
observing that this language is not proper for a young married woman.”

“Ah, bah! as if I were serious! Have you forgotten that you used to say
I always spoke without thinking? Now, Hildegarde there thinks without
speaking, perhaps!”

“Not of Mr. Hamilton!” said Madame Rosenberg, “for she did not even look
out of the window at your _amour_, or whatever you call him. Hildegarde,
go and tell him we have waited nearly two hours for him, that supper is
ready, and that I beg he will come just as he is, and not make an
evening toilet for once in a way.”

She had not time to deliver her message, for Hamilton entered the room
with unusual precipitation, and handed Madame Rosenberg an enormous,
ill-folded, long-wafered letter.

“From my father!” she exclaimed, with surprise.

“Yes; he has no sort of objection to my accompanying you to the Iron
Works; he says you may take me instead of Fritz.”

“A good idea,” cried Madame Berger, as she came from behind the
window-curtain; “it is, however, Mr. Hamilton’s, and not your father’s.”

“It is in the letter, however,” said Madame Rosenberg, eagerly perusing
the inelegant specimen of penmanship; “but I do not see anything about
Hans or the horses.”

“Oh, I said nothing about them, they can go to the inn.”

“But we have a stable——” began Madame Rosenberg.

“I know you have, and a pair of stout greys in it. Your father has
promised me a lift into Munich every Saturday, when he sends in his
iron.”

“On the cart?” asked Madame Berger.

“Yes,” said Hamilton, “there are places for two on the seat in front.
The offer was very civil, considering the shortness of our
acquaintance.”

“It is a proof, at all events, that he has taken a great fancy to you,”
said Madame Rosenberg, with an air of great satisfaction; “and as you
wish to go with the children, Hildegarde must arrange your room for you.
Do you hear, Hildegarde?”

“Yes, mamma.”

“I must give you a green curtain to hang up before the alcove where the
bedstead is to be put, and it will be nearly as good as two rooms. You
must make new muslin curtains for the windows as soon as possible.”

“Your grandfather made most particular inquiries about you,” observed
Hamilton, turning to Hildegarde.

“He is not my grandfather; he is no relation whatever of mine,” she
answered in French, while her colour heightened rapidly, and seemed to
be reflected in Hamilton’s face, which became crimson.

“I don’t understand French,” said Madame Rosenberg, looking at them
alternately; “but I think I can guess; however, it is no matter—read
this letter, Hildegarde; in it you will find everything, and more than
you could have heard from Mr. Hamilton. My father is willing to act
towards you as a relation; do not, by an ill-timed exhibition of pride,
turn his kindly feelings towards you into dislike.”

She received the letter and the not undeserved rebuke in silence; while
Hamilton, to divert Madame Berger’s attention, began a description of
his meeting with Mr. Eisenmann, of their discourse, and supper.

“It must have been delicious, the whole scene,” cried Madame Berger; “I
shall pay you a visit at the Iron Works the very first day the Doctor
can let me have the horses.”

“Pray bring the Doctor with you when you come,” said Madame Rosenberg,
unconsciously glancing towards Hamilton.

Madame Berger saw the glance, observed that Hamilton laughed, and
immediately inquired the cause. Madame Rosenberg refused to tell her,
and she appealed to Hamilton, who immediately, with the most perfect
composure, and without the slightest reserve, repeated all the part of
their morning conversation which related to her. She seemed to enjoy the
recital and Madame Rosenberg’s face of horror equally. “One thing is
certain,” she said, when he had ended, “had you been so many months in
the same house with me, as you have been with Hildegarde, we should
have——”

“You seem altogether to forget the Doctor,” said Madame Rosenberg,
interrupting her, almost angrily.

“To tell the truth, I sometimes do forget that I am married; but Mr.
Hamilton understands _badinage_ perfectly, so you need not look so
shocked at my _bavardage_.”

“I wish you would speak German,” said Madame Rosenberg, fidgeting on her
chair; “you use so many French words, that I cannot understand the half
of what you say.”

“I believe I had better go home,” cried Madame Berger, good-humouredly.
“Allow me to hope you will be civiler to me when I visit you in the
country! _Bon soir._”

“Good-night,” said Madame Rosenberg, dryly, without making the slightest
effort to detain her.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XXXVI.

                            THE IRON WORKS.


IN a few days, Hildegarde, the children, and Hamilton were established
at the Iron Works; her recollections proved tolerably correct, the noise
of the hammers was almost incessant, not even ceasing during the night,
and as the house adjoined the Iron Works, it shook at times until the
windows rattled. Hamilton did not much notice the white curtains, but
from pure sympathy with Hildegarde, he regretted the smuts which fell,
flake-like, in the garden, and seemed destined to rob the coming flowers
of half their beauty. Old Mr. Eisenmann was not a little proud of his
garden, and great was his satisfaction when he found Hildegarde willing
to assist him in cultivating it. The plants which most interested
Hamilton were the numerous cactuses which filled all the windows in
front of the house, and whose brilliant flowers already made every
passer-by stop to gaze at them. Nothing could equal the old man’s
delight on such occasions; if the weather were warm enough, he generally
opened the window and related how he had managed his plants during the
winter, in order to make them blow so early, and it had been Hamilton’s
unaffected admiration of these cactuses, as he had walked up to the
house, which had formed the commencement of their acquaintance.

During the fortnight which preceded Madame Rosenberg’s arrival, Hamilton
enjoyed the most unrestrained intercourse with Hildegarde; he watched
her making the coffee in the morning, sat beside her at the open window
looking into the garden, and accompanied her in her walks with her
brothers in the oak wood; here there was a small chapel in which she
daily prayed, while Hamilton, leaning against the entrance, stared
absently at the votive offerings hung around, or endeavoured to decipher
the old German prayers, and texts of Scripture, with which their inhuman
illustrations were pasted on the walls. The two boys generally scampered
about, but joined them when they sat down on one of the numerous benches
under the trees. Hamilton usually held a book in his hand, out of which
he sometimes read a few lines, especially when any obtrusive wanderers
made their appearance, though on week-days, pilgrims to the little
chapel, who afterwards came to beg a few _kreutzers_, were the only
interrupters of their studies, meditations, or conversation, as the case
may have been.

“I wish,” he said, as they loitered through the fields on their way
home, the evening before Madame Rosenberg’s arrival, “I wish I were
certain of spending the next six months as I have done the last
fortnight. I cannot tell you how I have enjoyed myself. Much as I like
your step-mother, and notwithstanding all her kindness and indulgence to
me, I dread her coming more than I can express. Everything will be
changed, and any change must diminish my happiness.”

“You have nothing to apprehend but a removal of the furniture in your
room,” replied Hildegarde, with a quiet smile; “but I cannot expect any
longer to eat the bread of idleness; I must learn to cook, and wash, and
iron!”

“You will never be able to endure such work,” exclaimed Hamilton.

“I shall try it for a few months at all events, and as long as you are
here,” she added, frankly, “I think I can bear it, as your society and
friendship will be an indemnity for most annoyances.”

Hamilton’s expressions of gratitude she interrupted by continuing,
“After all, what shall I do more than girls in my rank of life must
always do? Even Crescenz, since her marriage, has learned to iron. Did
you not see her ironing Major Stultz’s shirts when we went to take leave
of her?”

“Yes, but he is her husband; and it was a mere ostentation of usefulness
on her part, for your mother told me she need not do anything of the
kind if she did not wish it. Crescenz, however, does not appear
misplaced when so employed, but you——”

“Strictly speaking, I am not more misplaced than she is. We have both
received an education beyond our station in the world. I have, perhaps,
profited more by the instruction bestowed on me than she has; but you
must allow that _she_ has shown infinitely more capacity for the
necessary duties of life.”

“If it be her duty to iron her husband’s shirts,” answered Hamilton,
laughing, “I must say she performs it in the most charming manner
possible. Nothing could be more coquettish than the black silk
handkerchief twisted round her head to prevent her from feeling the
draught of air, or the sleeves tucked up just enough to exhibit the
dimples in her white arms! I must say, Crescenz is perfectly aware of
all her personal advantages!”

“And who is not aware of them?” said Hildegarde, “or rather who does not
overrate them?”

“You do not, most certainly!” cried Hamilton. “I am convinced you do not
think——”

“That I am handsome?” said Hildegarde, interrupting him quietly; “I know
it perfectly well. You are shocked at my candour,” she added, after a
pause, on observing that he continued silent; “it would have been more
proper to have disclaimed—but, after all, what worth have regular
features, when they are inanimate? And mine are so, I know.”

“You are mistaken,” said Hamilton; “I have never known anyone whose
features have expressed so many various emotions as yours have during
the few months of our acquaintance.”

“That I have felt more than during the whole of my previous life, is
most certain,” she said, thoughtfully. “It seems, then, I have not been
able to acquire that composure of mind and feature which Mademoiselle
Hortense so often told me would be essentially necessary for my
happiness.”

“I am rather inclined to hate that Mademoiselle Hortense without ever
having seen her,” cried Hamilton; “I think she wished to make an actress
of you!”

“No, she wished to make a good governess of me, as my step-mother
desired her, and she saw that my pride and violence of temper would
prove serious obstacles. My gratitude to her is unbounded for all her
care and attention during so many years. She is my only hope for the
future too—on her I depend to find me some respectable situation, should
my residence here become uncomfortable.”

“Have you ever seriously thought of taking such a step?”

“I believe I have talked more than thought on the subject. One thing I
have resolved upon, and that is, to go as far as possible from home.”

“Should you like to go to a foreign country?”

“Foreign, as you understand the word—no, but I am not likely to have the
power of choosing. Mademoiselle Hortense’s connections are all in
Alsace, and my destination will probably be Strasburg.”

They walked on in silence, each absorbed in thoughts of no very
agreeable description. As they drew near the house, Mr. Eisenmann came
to meet them, accompanied by the _Förster_, who had begun to drop in
regularly every evening, to drink a glass of beer with the old man.
Hamilton greatly approved of the arrangement, as it left him at liberty
to talk unreservedly in English to Hildegarde, who, however, would have
preferred his absence, from the time that Hamilton had made her observe
that his eyes were fixed upon her incessantly, and followed her wherever
she went.

“This is the last evening you will be my housekeeper, Hildegarde,” said
Mr. Eisenmann, as she pushed his arm-chair to the table, and placed his
newspaper, which seemed to contain nothing but advertisements, beside
the small brass lamp. “I can give you a good character, girl; you have a
way with you that has made the people here obey you at once. She will
make a good wife one of these days—eh, Mr. Hamilton? Eh, _Förster_
Weidmann?”

Hildegarde smiled, and continued to perform her different evening
duties. She gave her brothers their bread-and-milk, assisted the awkward
maid-servant to arrange the supper-table, made the salad, carved the
fowl, and presented each his plate with such quiet unobtrusiveness, that
her motions were only apparent by the rustling of the large bunch of
keys she was to resign to her mother the next day, but which now hung
glittering in steel chains at her girdle _à la châtelaine_.

Hamilton had been agreeably surprised at finding Mr. Eisenmann by no
means so illiterate as he had expected. On every subject relating to his
trade he was perfectly well informed, and in other respects his opinions
were those of a shrewd, intelligent man. He spent the greater part of
each day at the Iron Works, his hands thrust into his pockets, a short
and very brown meerschaum pipe between his teeth, and his eyes following
the movements of his workmen; and sometimes, when provoked by their want
of skill, or too dilatory movements, after a few impatient ejaculations,
throwing aside his coat and working with them. In his house, too,
Hamilton had now frequently seen him in his shirt-sleeves, without
feeling any of the horror expected by Madame Rosenberg; in the evening
he generally mounted a black silk nightcap, and when he had finished
smoking his pipe and drinking his tankard of beer, and the _Förster_ had
taken leave, overcome by the fatigue of early rising and his daily
exertions, he usually fell fast asleep, leaving his two companions to
whisper, until the Scharwald clock struck nine, when wakening without
any apparent effort, he sent them to bed, and retired for the night
himself.

This evening—this last evening, as they choose to call it—the _Förster_
showed no inclination to move, and his eyes now seemed to follow the
motions of Hildegarde’s lips, as she murmured an occasional sentence to
Hamilton; he tried in vain to join in their conversation, spoke of
bringing his zither, proposed teaching them to play it, if they desired,
and not finding either of them disposed to appreciate either his
conversational or musical talents, he turned to the now drowsy old man,
whom he contrived to waken completely by some reference to the eternal
“good old times.”

“Pray, Hildegarde, turn away from that man,” said Hamilton, bending down
to her, as she sat in one of the children’s low chairs beside him; “as
long as he can look at you he finds it impossible to tear himself
away—it is absolute cruelty—he is depriving Mr. Eisenmann of his sleep
this evening. Unpardonably inconsiderate!” he added, almost angrily.

Hildegarde, without an attempt at deprecation, lit a taper, and retiring
to the other end of the room, where there was a thin-legged rickety
table, she took from a cupboard the large house account-book, a hideous
leaden ink-bottle, and a well-worn pen, and began to add and subtract
with a diligence which would have put Hamilton’s temper to the proof,
had not the _Förster_ almost directly stood up to take leave; but the
old man was now quite roused, and, moreover, disposed to be loquacious;
he let his visitor stand before him in the awkward posture of a shy man,
wishing to get away, and not knowing how to manage it, while he
observed: “When people say the old times were good, and the present
times are bad, I always feel obliged to contradict them. No offence,
good Mr. Weidmann, but in my youth I have often heard just the same
thing said, and in those times as in these, the greater part of mankind
had to earn their bread in ‘the sweat of their face.’”

“I suppose so, sir,” said the _Förster_, trying to move, but restrained
by the old man’s continuing to address him. “I wish you a good-night.”

“All I know is,” resumed Mr. Eisenmann, addressing Hamilton, “that
Bavaria, of all the countries I have seen, appears to me to be the
happiest. Of England I know nothing, excepting the manufacturing
towns——”

“When were you there?” asked Hamilton.

“Soon after the peace—I went there on business.”

“And what did you think of England? I should like to know what
impression was made on you by our great manufacturing districts?”

“I saw much to admire, but nothing to make me think the English a
_happier_ people than the Bavarians,” replied Mr. Eisenmann, with a low,
satisfied laugh. “I would rather have been born a smith here than there,
for, besides the instructions which I received for nothing in my
childhood, I had, during my youth, my Sunday and holiday pleasures, my
merry dances, and my pot of beer in good company, and with good music,
too, of an evening—and a lot of other things of which your English
workmen had not an idea when I was amongst them. It may be different
now——”

“I am afraid it is not,” said Hamilton; “but surely our manufactories
must have astonished you!”

“I should have understood very little of my business if they had not,”
replied Mr. Eisenmann. “In this respect England is a giantess, but, like
a giantess, ought to be admired at a distance and not examined in
detail.”

“I perceive,” said Hamilton, “that the people with whom you associated
have made an unpleasant impression on you.”

“Perhaps so, but I am inclined to think it was a correct one. I mixed
with people whose habits and mode of life are, and will ever remain,
totally unknown to you—it was probably before you were born, too, and
may, as I said before, be quite different now—at all events it is too
late to talk more about it to-night; I must look after my workmen, and
then it will be time to go to bed.” He lit his candle and walked towards
an office which communicated with the Iron Works.

“What a different person Mr. Eisenmann is from what I expected!”
observed Hildegarde.

“He is different from what I expected, too,” answered Hamilton.

“I am beginning to have quite a respect for him,” she continued, “in
short, I think him a remarkably clever man.”

“You are always in extremes, Hildegarde—first you unnecessarily
underrated, and now you overrate him!”

“I suspect,” said Hildegarde, laughing, “you are annoyed at his not
thinking the English workmen happier than the Bavarian; his remarks,
however, appeared to me very intelligent; he is quite willing to allow
England her superiority in manufactures, though not in the felicity of
her lower orders. For a person in his station of life, you must allow——”

“Yes,” said Hamilton, “for a person in his station in life, I do think
him unusually well-informed and rational, but what I find most to admire
about him is, that he has not stood still between his thirtieth and
fortieth year, as most men who are not actually moving in the world do,
and which I verily believe is the cause of those never-ending praises of
the good old times.”

“He is the first person,” said Hildegarde, “that I have heard actually
give the present times the preference to those of his youth!”

“He has followed the changes of the world,” said Hamilton, “and that is
a proof of intellect less often given than people imagine. Everybody’s
youth must be, I should think, more agreeable than their old age. The
world is full of pleasures for youth, which by degrees, slowly but
surely, even under the most fortunate circumstances, cease for the aged.
Happy those who, like Mr. Eisenmann, can understand and appreciate the
improvement in the world—still more happy those who, when old, can find
enjoyment in witnessing pleasures in which they can no longer
participate.”

“But there are some fortunate persons who never appear to grow old,”
said Hildegarde.

“Oh, don’t call them fortunate,” cried Hamilton; “age must be felt by
everybody, though by some it may be borne cheerfully. Nothing is so
disgusting as the affectation of youth in an old person. I consider it a
positive misfortune to those who retain their youthful manners in old
age! To grow old with dignity is not so easy as people imagine—I could
write a pamphlet about it——”

“Pray do,” said Hildegarde, smiling, “I should like to learn to grow
old—I—who have never really felt what it was to be young!”

“I am waiting to bid you good-night,” said Mr. Eisenmann at the door.
“This is the last time I shall go the rounds, for I mean to resign my
office to my daughter to-morrow—she locked all the doors, and bolted all
the windows, for many a year before she was married!”

“He has just come in time,” said Hamilton, rising, “I believe I was
getting very prosy.”

“And I very melancholy,” said Hildegarde.

The old man bade them good-night, and watched them gravely as they
ascended the stairs and separated on the lobby.


                         ---------------------




                            CHAPTER XXXVII.

              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.”


                         ---------------------




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.

                            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.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XXXIX.

                              THE RECALL.


ABOUT a fortnight after the foregoing events, as Hamilton was one
morning sitting listlessly in the arbour at the end of the garden,
Hildegarde came towards him carrying a large packet of letters, which
Hans had just brought from Munich. As she placed herself beside him he
looked at the different handwritings, and murmured, “My sister Helen—my
father—John, and—from Uncle Jack, too! With what different feelings
should I have received these letters a short time ago! Don’t go away,
Hildegarde; I have no intention of making you any reproaches or
speeches, and I may, perhaps, want your advice about fixing the day of
my departure.”

She sat down on the steps leading into the arbour, leaned her elbow on
her knee and her head in her hands, and remained perfectly immovable for
more than half an hour. She was not musing on the past, or thinking of
the future; she heard her heart beat distinctly, and would, perhaps,
have endeavoured to count its throbs had she not felt irresistibly
compelled to listen to a most inharmonious and lamentable ditty sung by
the cook as she scoured her kitchen furniture near an open window. Some
vague ideas of the happiness of those whose thoughts never soar beyond
the polishing of pots and pans, or the concocting of meats within them,
floated through her mind; and then appeared a vision of a nunnery
garden, with very green grass and long gravel walks; and then Hamilton
rustled the paper of his letters, and she expected him to speak, and
when he did not she again listened to the monotonous song, and wondered
if it had no end.

The song continued, but she ceased to hear it, for Hamilton spoke at
length, and she turned round to answer him.

“These letters contain the recall I have been expecting,” he said,
folding them up, “and also a large sum of money for my journey, more,
much more than I shall require; my uncle measures my expenses by my
brother’s. In short, neither he nor any of my family have in the least
degree comprehended my position here; their ignorance would shock you——”
He stopped, evidently embarrassed. His uncle’s letter would, indeed,
have shocked her; he had offered to send Hamilton any sum of money
necessary to buy off the claims which Hildegarde or her family might
have upon him.

“I suppose,” said Hildegarde, “they expect you home directly.”

“They rather wish me to visit the Z—’s, as they have become acquainted
lately with some of their connections.”

“And you intend to do so?”

“Yes, I have no particular wish to return home directly, though I see
they expect me in about a fortnight or three weeks.”

“In that case you will have to leave us soon—very soon.”

“How soon?” asked Hamilton, endeavouring to catch a glimpse of her face,
which was, perhaps purposely, averted.

“You are the best judge of that,” she answered, rising from her lowly
seat; “if leaving us be disagreeable to you, the sooner you get over it
the better.”

“It is more than disagreeable—it is painful to me.” He paused, and then
added, hastily, “I shall take your advice and leave to-morrow.” More
than a minute he waited for her to speak again, one word or one look
might at that moment have changed all his plans, but finding that she
remained silent, he slowly gathered up his letters, and walked
thoughtfully into the house.

Madame Rosenberg talked more than enough; she thought it necessary to
put the whole house in commotion, and was so anxious to prove to him
that all his clothes were in order, that she followed him to his room,
and actually herself packed all his portmanteaux and cases; she then
seated herself on one of the former, and began to question him about
what he intended to do with Hans, the horses, and phaeton.

“I shall take Hans to England with me, and leave the horses at Munich to
be sold. I dare say Stultz will take the trouble of looking after them
for me.”

“Dear me, how surprised he will be—and Crescenz—and Lina Berger. Really,
the whole thing is so unexpected, that one has no time to think, or
feel, or understand——”

“That is just what I wished,” said Hamilton; “I hope not to have time to
think or feel, for I leave your house most unwillingly, but leave it I
must, as my father and uncle expect me home in a week or two, and I am
going first to the Z—’s.”

“Pray give the Baroness my compliments,” said Madame Rosenberg; “it was
very civil of her taking the children home—that evening, you know.”

Hamilton remembered the evening, but he thought it was very probable he
should forget the compliments.

“Sorry as I am to lose you,” continued Madame Rosenberg, “I must say I
think your relations are right to insist on your return; as my father
said yesterday, a young man with your capabilities being allowed to
waste your time as you have been doing, is perfectly incomprehensible.”

“My object was to learn German, and I have learned it,” said Hamilton.

“It would have been better for you if Hildegarde and Crescenz had not
spoken French so well. My father says, too, you speak English now with
Hildegarde; I’m sure I don’t know how she learned it. I never could
learn French, though I have often tried, and I am not a stupid person in
other things. I’m very glad, however, that she has learned English,
though I formerly thought it unnecessary. Four languages for a girl not
yet eighteen is pretty well, as poor dear Franz used to say, and——”

“Four languages,” repeated Hamilton; “what is the fourth?”

“Why, do you not know that she speaks and writes Italian quite as well
as French? Mademoiselle Hortense is a half Italian, and she spared no
pains in teaching her, most fortunately, as it has turned out, for the
lady with whom she is likely to be placed particularly requires Italian,
as she is going to Italy next year.”

“So Hildegarde is to leave you also?”

“Yes. I was at first very unwilling, and, indeed, should not have
consented were I still in Munich; but, you see, here she is never likely
to marry, and after her sister has made such an excellent match, she
would not be satisfied with our _Förster_, Mr. Weidmann, I am afraid.”

“I should think not,” said Hamilton.

“Now, as she is certainly remarkably handsome,” continued Madame
Rosenberg, “and within the last year greatly improved, too, I should not
at all wonder if, at Frankfort or Florence, she were to pick up
someone——”

“Not at all unlikely,” observed Hamilton.

“Or if old Count Zedwitz were to die, perhaps his son might again——”

Hamilton began to stride up and down the room with unequivocal signs of
irritation.

“I see all this is uninteresting to you,” said Madame Rosenberg, placing
her hands on her knees to assist her in rising from her low, unsteady
seat. “How can I expect you to care who she marries, or where she goes,
or, indeed, what becomes of any of us now? In a few weeks you will have
forgotten us altogether!”

“How little you know me!” cried Hamilton, taking her hand as she was
passing him; “I shall never forget you, or the happy days passed in your
house, and am so sincerely attached to you and all your family, that
nothing will give me greater pleasure than hearing of or from you. I
shall leave you my address in London, and hope that you, and your
father, and the children, will often write to me. When Fritz comes home
for the holidays I shall expect a long letter, not written from a copy,
and in his best handwriting, but unrestrained, and telling me everything
about you all.”

“Well, I really believe you do like us,” cried Madame Rosenberg, the
tears starting to her eyes; “but, after all, not as well as we like you;
and now, I think I had better leave you, or else I shall make an old
fool of myself.”

Hamilton’s hours that day were winged; they flew past uneasily, like
birds before an approaching storm. The afternoon, evening, and night
came; Mr. Eisenmann dozed, Madame Rosenberg inspected her sleeping
children, and Hildegarde and Hamilton for the first time sat gravely and
silently beside each other; neither of them had courage to attempt the
mockery of unconcerned conversation; each equally feared a betrayal of
weakness, and it was a relief to both when the time for moving arrived.
Mr. Eisenmann retired quietly to his room on the ground floor; Madame
Rosenberg, after wishing Hamilton good-night, took the house-keys out of
the cupboard and commenced her usual nightly examination of all the
windows and doors. Hamilton sprang up the stairs, and watched at the
door of his chamber until he heard Hildegarde separate from her mother
and begin to ascend; he waited until she had deposited her candle and
work-basket on the table in her room, and as she afterwards advanced to
close the door, he called her out on the lobby, and said, hurriedly,
“Hildegarde, I shall have no opportunity of speaking to you alone
to-morrow, and must take advantage of this to ask you to forgive and
forget all my faults and failings.”

“I cannot remember any,” said Hildegarde.

“You say so, but I know you think that I endeavoured to gain your
affections without any fixed purpose. That is true—I mean, this _was_
true until lately—but that is of no importance now. Then, I must confess
I—I was not sorry for the unpleasant termination of the affair with
Zedwitz. I now, too, see that I ought not to have come here with you,
still less should I have endeavoured to make you jealous or——”

“Oh, I give you absolution for all,” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him,
“and hope you will endeavour to forget how often you have seen me
impatient or in a passion.”

“I have already forgotten it, and wish I could forget everything else
besides that has occurred during the last eleven months. We have been
eleven months together, have we not?”

“I believe so,” answered Hildegarde, thoughtfully. “It appears to me
much longer; my life has been so different from what it was before that
time, I feel almost as if I had known you eleven years.”

The sound of closing doors no longer distant made Hamilton whisper
anxiously, “I shall not find it easy to part from you with becoming
firmness before so many witnesses to-morrow, Hildegarde; still less
should I have courage to entreat you once more to accept the little
watch which you so unkindly returned to me last Christmas. Will you
again refuse it?”

“No,” she replied, “although I should have greatly preferred something
of less value; I only wish I had something to bestow in return; but I
have nothing, absolutely nothing.”

“Stay,” said Hamilton, with some hesitation, “you have something which
you value highly, though I do not know why; a little mysterious bauble,
which I should like to possess.”

“Name it, and it is yours,” said Hildegarde, eagerly.

He placed his finger on the hair bracelet which she constantly wore.

“Ah! my bracelet!” cried Hildegarde, with a look of surprise, “if you
wish for it, certainly; in fact it is better.” She held her arm towards
the door of her room, that the light from the candle might fall on it,
and Hamilton thought he saw tears in her eyes as she endeavoured to
unclasp it.

“I only value it because you appear so attached to it,” he said, half
apologetically. “Before it comes into my possession, however, you must
tell me whose hair I am about to guard so carefully for the rest of my
life; not Mademoiselle Hortense’s I hope.”

“No,” said Hildegarde, holding it towards him.

“Tell me whose hair it is!” he cried eagerly, for Madame Rosenberg’s
heavy step and the jingling of her large keys became every moment more
audible. As she approached the staircase, he again repeated, “Whose
hair?” but Hildegarde, instead of answering, sprang into her room just
as a long ray of light from her mother’s candle reached the spot where
they stood. Madame Rosenberg found Hamilton’s door shut, and Hildegarde
on her knees beside her bed, with her head buried in her hands.

And Hamilton never suspected that the bracelet he examined so long and
earnestly that night was made of his own hair, obtained at the time he
had been wounded in the head, by the fall from, or rather with, his
horse.

The whole family were assembled at an early hour the next morning to
witness his departure. Madame Rosenberg unreservedly applied her
handkerchief to her eyes; her father looked grave; the two little boys,
half frightened at the unusual solemnity of the breakfast table,
whispered and nudged each other, while Hildegarde, pale as the wife of
Seneca, was apparently the only unmoved person present.

Hamilton took leave of all the workmen and servants, shook hands with
Mr. Eisenmann, was kissed in the most maternal manner on both cheeks by
Madame Rosenberg, embraced the little boys, and held Hildegarde’s hand
in his just long enough to cause a transient blush to pass over her
features and make her look like herself.

After he had driven off, he turned round in the carriage to take a last
look, and it seemed to him as if her beautiful features had turned to
marble, so cold and statue-like were they. Madame Rosenberg was
returning into the house, talking to her cook; the old man was gayly
playing with the children; Hildegarde stood alone, motionless, on the
spot where he had left her.

“Is that indifference?” thought Hamilton.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XL.

                               HOHENFELS.


IT was late on the evening of the ensuing day when Hamilton reached
Hohenfels, a moderate-sized, high-roofed dwelling-house, having two
dark-coloured massive square towers as wings. It was beautifully
situated on the side of a rocky mountain, from which circumstance it
probably derived its name. Avenue there was none; the narrow private
road which conducted to it (though passing through woods with open
glades, which, even without their splendid mountain background, would
have successfully rivalled any avenue Hamilton had ever seen in England)
was evidently intended to serve equally as an approach to several
comfortable peasants’ houses, which, apparently, more than the genius of
an engineer, had originally directed its course.

The buildings, at a little distance from Hohenfels, Hamilton now
instinctively knew to be a brewery and its appendages, and he examined
them with less curiosity, but infinitely more interest, than on a former
occasion. If he did not quite consider beer (as some one has not inaptly
pronounced it) a fifth element in Bavaria, he had at least so frequently
heard its merits, demerits, and price canvassed, that he began to attach
considerable importance to the subject, and rather prided himself on
being able to talk about it.

On driving into the court, he looked up along the range of windows, and
discovered with great pleasure A. Z. standing at one of them. He had not
had time to write, or in anyway to announce his visit, therefore her
first look of surprise rather amused him; when they met, and she
regretted that her husband was on a hunting expedition, and would not be
at home until the next day, he was glad that no letter from him had
interfered with the arrangement. They supped together under a large
chestnut tree, commanding an extensive view of woods, mountains, and a
part of the Chiem Lake, now glittering in all the radiance of a
magnificent sunset.

“I had no idea,” said Hamilton, “that you were so near home when I met
you at Seon last summer. I understand now why you were always on the
move, and we saw so little of you. By the by, I should like to hear
something of the Zedwitzes; they are relations or intimate friends of
yours, I believe?”

“Distant relations, but very near and dear friends,” answered A. Z. “I
am sorry I have nothing satisfactory to tell you; the old Count is
killing himself as fast as he can with perspiration and cold water; his
wife had a fit of apoplexy this summer, from which she is, however,
nearly recovered; and Maximilian has, you know, been constantly from
home since that unpleasant business with the Rosenberg family. He was
with us for a few weeks, and I never in my life saw a man in such a
state of desperation; his only consolation was talking to me about this
‘cunningest pattern of excellent nature,’ this Hildegarde, and as I had
a great deal to do in my house, and could not always find time to listen
to him, he used to wander about, writing sonnets, I should imagine, from
the poetical expression of his dear ugly face.”

“So he told you all about it?” said Hamilton.

“Yes, and about you, too; that is, all he knew about you. He seemed to
have dreaded you excessively as a rival; indeed, he does so still, for
were his father to die, I have not the smallest doubt he would renew his
proposal, and perhaps be accepted.”

“I admire his patience and perseverance,” said Hamilton, ironically;
“one downright refusal such as he received would have satisfied me.”

“Circumstances might materially alter the state of the case,” said A. Z.
“Suppose this flirtation with you quite over—you have left, most
probably, without any sort of serious explanation; now I have no doubt
you are very charming, but, you know, people do get over hopeless
affairs of this kind in the course of time, and in the course of time,
too, Maximilian will be at liberty to marry whoever he pleases. I cannot
imagine his being refused again, he is so exactly the sort of man most
women like.”

“He does not think so himself,” observed Hamilton.

“That is his great charm,” said A. Z. “Diffident enthusiastic men are
almost always popular. I have a decided predilection for them.”

“I think, however, you are singular in your taste,” said Hamilton.

“Not at all,” rejoined A. Z.; “the secret may be that such men think
less of themselves, and more of the person they wish to please; but in
nine cases out of ten, you will find that it is an ugly man who inspires
real affection. It is very creditable to our sex, you must allow; one so
very seldom hears of a man who loves a really ugly woman.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Hamilton. “My experience has not been
great. I only know that I am now very seriously, and, I fear, hopelessly
in love with a very young and very beautiful woman.”

“You will get over it,” observed A. Z., laughing. “A few months in
London, if it were not so late in the year——”

“You are mistaken,” said Hamilton, gravely; “neither a few months nor a
few years either are likely to change my feelings.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said A. Z., thoughtfully; “never will I sign a
letter with my initials again.”

“I had quite forgotten that your note was the cause of all this evil,”
said Hamilton, smiling, “but there would be no evil at all if Hildegarde
liked me.”

“So it is all on your side,” observed A. Z., with some surprise.

“I don’t know, but I am afraid so. If it will not bore you, I should
like to explain, and ask your advice——”

“Stay,” cried A. Z., “I don’t at all know this Hildegarde, and I now do
know something of you and your family, and shall therefore certainly
recommend you to break off the affair, if you can do so with honour; and
that you can do so is scarcely to be doubted, if you imagine her
indifferent to you.”

“But suppose she had been indifferent only because I said I could not
marry.”

“It would prove that she is as prudent as she is pretty, and that is
saying a great deal,” answered A. Z., gayly; “and as you can _not_
marry, the least said about the matter the better.”

“You do not quite understand the state of the case,” began Hamilton.
“You see I have a grand uncle——”

“Called Jack,” observed A. Z.

“Exactly,” said Hamilton; “and this Uncle Jack made a fortune in India,
in those times when fortunes were to be made there, and added to this
fortune by speculations in the funds at the end of the last war; we have
consequently a great respect for him.”

“Of course,” said A. Z.; “people always have a respect for rich uncles,
both in books and real life. I never had one, but I can imagine the
thing.”

“As he had no children,” continued Hamilton, “my father prudently chose
him as godfather to his eldest son, who was accordingly afflicted with
the name of John, but even in his earliest youth it was found that the
name would not cover the multitude of his sins, poor fellow, and while I
was still a mere child my uncle declared that John would inherit from
his father more than he would ever deserve, and that I, and I alone,
should be his heir. He defrayed all the expenses of my education, gave
me ponies, and pocket money, and would have paid my debts, I do believe,
without hesitation, if I had had any at Cambridge. Since I have been
here, too, he has sent me large remittances through my father, and
latterly, I suspect, forbidden the words of wisdom which usually
accompanied them. The first letter I ever received from him was the day
before yesterday; he had heard—more than was necessary, more than was
true—of Hildegarde, and you can imagine his proposing to send me money
to buy off—to pay—to satisfy—pshaw! where is the letter? You must read
it, or you will never understand——”

“_He_ does not understand, that is very evident,” observed A. Z. “You
need not show me the letter, but go on.”

“When I told Hildegarde that I must return home, she recommended my
leaving directly; she had, indeed, advised me to do so before the letter
arrived.”

“And did she give you this advice without any apparent effort?”

“Without apparent effort, yes; but she is not to be judged from
appearances. She has been educated by a Mademoiselle Hortense, who has
given her the idea that, besides controlling her temper, which is
naturally hasty, she should endeavour to conceal all her feelings, and,
if possible, stifle them altogether. If Hildegarde had not been
naturally warm-hearted, hot-tempered, and intellectual, such an
education would have completely spoiled her.”

“But,” said A. Z., “after having lived nearly a year in the same house,
if you can have any doubts about her caring for you——”

“Stay,” cried Hamilton, interrupting her, “you are not, perhaps, aware
that I proclaimed myself a younger son, and said I could not marry, even
before I entered the Rosenbergs’ house, and, as, until very lately, I
never seriously thought of sacrificing my really brilliant prospects,
Hildegarde is still unconscious that even, with the best intentions, I
could have acted otherwise than as I have done. I have been more
calculating and worldly-minded than befits such an attachment, but
latterly, as the time drew near when I knew we must part, I was ready to
brave all my family and be disinherited by my uncle if she had only said
one word, given me one look, from which I could have felt certain that
she loved me.”

“I suppose,” said A. Z., rising, and walking towards the house, “I
suppose, from what you have just said, that you have some fortune
independent of your family—enough, at least, to buy bread and butter?”

“I have five thousand pounds. A legacy left me by a distant relation,
but it is not at my disposal for two years. This would not be enough for
England; but I think here, as you say, it would perhaps buy bread and
butter——”

“Oh, yes!” said A. Z., laughing, “and roast veal and pudding into the
bargain, but that is not all that is to be considered. You ought not to
make so great a sacrifice without considering long and carefully both
sides of the question.”

“Oh, I have considered only too long,” answered Hamilton, “but I see you
cannot understand me, or know Hildegarde without reading my journal. I
had some intention of leaving it under your care, at all events, and I
shall only beg of you never to refer to that part of it which relates to
Count Oscar Raimund.”

“I think I already know,” said A. Z., “his father showed me the letter
he had written the day he had shot himself. Does Mademoiselle Rosenberg
know that she was the cause?”

“But too well, as you will perceive from my journal,” answered Hamilton;
“you really seem to know everybody and everything, which, however, no
longer surprises me, as I am myself willing on so short an acquaintance
to confide in you. I suppose other people have done the same.”

“Not exactly,” answered A. Z., “but as I know the Zedwitzes, the
Raimunds, the Bergers, and even Mr. Biedermann, and as you, from the
peculiarity of the commencement of our acquaintance, rather interested
me, I have thought it worth while to listen, and remember all I have
heard about you.”

“How very kind!” said Hamilton.

“You say that thoughtlessly,” observed A. Z., laughing, “but it really
was kind of me, for I greatly prefer talking to listening on most
occasions.”

“Will reading my journal bore you?”

“Not in the least. I shall be curious to know the impression made on you
by all you must have seen of the domestic manners you were so anxious to
become acquainted with last year. Have you given up all idea of writing
a book on the subject?”

“I have been a much too greatly interested actor to have thought of
anything of the kind, as you will see.”

“Before I read your journal,” said A. Z., “that is before I feel any
interest in this Hildegarde, you must allow me to point out to you all
the disadvantages of the step you propose taking, and remind you that
the sacrifice of parents, relations, the friends of your youth, your
country, and your native language, ought not to be lightly made. I speak
from experience.”

“But you told me,” said Hamilton, “that you felt quite naturalised—that
you had become a very Bavarian! I know, too, you are more than
contented; you are happy. The Countess Zedwitz told me so.”

“Very true,” answered A. Z., “but I am a woman, and that alters the case
materially; both our nature and education induce us to conform to the
habits of those about us—we have no profession, no career in life to
give up, we have only to learn to enlarge or contract our sphere of
action, according to the circumstances in which we may be placed. For
instance, Mademoiselle Rosenberg would most probably, without
hesitation, go with you to England were your uncle to consent to your
marriage.”

“I cannot help thinking that—perhaps—she would,” answered Hamilton.

“And if she did, she would never have any cause to regret having done
so, for besides being united to the person she loved, she would only
have to learn to live luxuriously, and habits of that kind are easily
acquired; but after having so lived, frugality is more difficult of
acquirement—and that would be your task.”

“But I have tried it,” cried Hamilton, eagerly; “I have made the trial
this last year. I see that riches are not necessary to my happiness—I am
convinced, that with Hildegarde and a cottage——”

“So you would live in the country?”

“Of course.”

“And in the mountains?”

“Here, in your neighbourhood, if possible.”

“You are bribing me,” cried A. Z., “more than you know. I am in want of
such neighbours, and although it is getting cool,” she added, drawing
her shawl around her, “still, as it is not yet dark, we may as well
return to the chestnut tree, and perhaps walk to the beech-wood, which
you saw from it.”

On ascending a slight acclivity, a more extensive view of the Chiem Lake
became visible, and a peasant’s house, with its over-hanging roof and
long balcony, stood before them—it was built almost in the mountain, at
least it appeared so at a little distance; a noisy stream rushed out of
the rocks beside it, and formed a series of cascades, while endeavouring
to reach the green fields, and dark wood beneath. Under the numerous
fruit trees which surrounded the house, with their overloaded branches
bending to the ground, were several wooden benches; on one of these A.
Z. seated herself, while Hamilton, attracted by the light from some
windows on the ground-floor, seemed disposed to inspect the premises
more closely. A loud chorus of voices made him hesitate.

“They are at their evening prayers,” observed A. Z., “it is better not
to disturb them. Come here, and listen to me. You have not often seen a
house more beautifully situated than this, most probably!”

“Never.”

“The mountain peasants know how to choose a site! You have no idea how
highly they value a view of this kind, or how they feel the beauty of
their scenery; their eyes and minds are from infancy accustomed to grand
and striking forms—the want of them causes the _ennui_ and listlessness
called _Maladie du pays_, _Nostalgie_ or _Heimweh_, from which all
mountaineers suffer, more or less, when in a town or distant from their
mountains. I can understand it, as I have actually felt this _maladie_,
for which, by the by, we have no English name, when I was obliged to
remain in Munich for some time, about two years ago. The peasant to whom
that house and all those fruitful fields below us belong, is about
deliberately to die of this most lingering and melancholy disease; he
intends to emigrate to America!”

“Oh, what a fool!” cried Hamilton.

“I have said as much to him, but in rather more civil terms,” answered
A. Z.; “but all to no purpose; perhaps, when you know his motives, you
may think differently, though I cannot. The extreme cheapness of
education in Bavaria is a great temptation to the peasants, when their
sons distinguish themselves at the German schools, to let them continue
their education, learn Latin, and afterwards study at the University. It
is a common thing for them to rise to eminence in the learned
professions, and the eldest son of my friend Felsenbauer here would most
probably have done so, had it not chanced that when he had nearly
completed his studies, that revolutionary attempt of the students took
place in the year 1830, of which you may, perhaps, have heard. Whether
or not he was implicated, is unknown; but after having concealed himself
for some time, and found that all his most intimate friends had been
imprisoned, he wrote to his father for money, and went off to America.
He has married an American, and is so advantageously placed at
Cincinnati, that he is most desirous to have his family near him, and
his letters are from year to year more pressing. The old man is now only
waiting to find a purchaser for his house and grounds!”

“I understand,” said Hamilton, laughing; “you think that house, with a
few alterations, might be made as comfortable as it is pretty. What
price does he demand?”

“About twelve hundred pounds; but he will not get more than a thousand
for it; and is therefore likely to have to wait for a year or two before
he finds a purchaser; so you have plenty of time either to buy it, or
change your mind, which I suspect you will do after your return home. At
all events I recommend your inspecting it some day with Herrmann, who
understands such things perfectly—it will not be uninteresting to you to
know the financial position of a peasant of this kind, and if he have
the smallest hopes of your ever being a purchaser, he will unreservedly
show you all his accounts.”

While they were speaking, the peasant and his wife, followed by their
second son and daughter, came out of the house, and a long conversation
ensued. It was so dark when A. Z. proposed leaving, that the old man
insisted on accompanying her home with a lantern.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XLI.

            THE SCHEIBEN-SCHIESSEN (TARGET SHOOTING MATCH).


BARON Z— returned the next day, was delighted to see Hamilton, and went
about with him everywhere, showing and explaining whatever he thought
likely to interest him. One of their excursions was to the marriage of a
wood-ranger with the daughter of an innkeeper, who lived deep in the
mountains. There was to be a dance and target shooting match as wedding
festivities; and it was with no small satisfaction that Hamilton, at an
unmentionably early hour in the morning, followed Baron Z— to his room
to choose one of his rifles for the latter. Hamilton did not, as on a
former occasion, listen with indifference while he descanted on their
merits, but examined them carefully, poised them in his hand, and
pointed them out of the windows at the little belfry of the house he had
visited with A. Z., and which he now chose as a target.

“You really look as if you understood what you were about,” observed A.
Z., who was pouring out their coffee. “If you have gained nothing else
by your residence in Bavaria, you have at least learned to get up in the
morning, and to use a rifle!”.

“Both decidedly German accomplishments,” replied Hamilton, laughing,
“and learned, in both cases, from ladies. Madame Rosenberg and the
Baroness Waldorf have been my instructresses, as you will find when you
look over my journal.”

“Which I intend to do to-day, when I am alone and quiet,” said A. Z.,
“and then we can talk about it whenever you are disposed.”

“Time to be off!” cried Baron Z—; and Hamilton found himself, soon
after, driving through the wildest passes of the mountain at an hour
which he had formerly considered ought to be devoted to sleep in a
darkened chamber.

The road was still in shadow, though the sun shone brightly on the rocks
above them, and it was only through an occasional cleft in them, or a
widening of the pass through which the road lay, that the warm rays
occasionally tempered the bracing morning air. For the first time since
Hamilton had left the Rosenbergs, he felt exhilarated—disposed to enjoy
life as he had formerly done. It must not be supposed that he was
beginning to forget Hildegarde—quite the contrary—his mental struggles
were over; absence, that surest test of affection, had proved to him
that without her the best years of his life would be clouded; so
completely had the world, and all relating to it, been changed to him
during the last year, so different were all his ideas from what they had
been, that his recollections of home were becoming ruins, and it was
with difficulty that his imagination supplied the broken walls and
crumbling windowsills of his former splendid visions of pomp and riches.
His only fears now were of Hildegarde herself, he half dreaded a
repulse; but he had resolved to brave even that; and since his
resolutions had been formed, he had again begun to feel pleasure in
everything surrounding him. When Baron Z— stepped out of the little low
carriage, which he called a “sausage,” to gather bunches of the
beautiful wild rhododendron, commonly called _Alpen rosen_, Hamilton
sprang joyously up the side of the mountain with him, and experienced a
boyish satisfaction in scrambling higher and higher still, to obtain a
branch with deeply-coloured flowers, or a few sweetly-scented cyclamens.

Their destination was a village, which as nearly resembled a nest as
could well be imagined, so completely was it surrounded by mountains,
all wooded nearly to the summit; there were about thirty houses and two
large inns. Baron Z——’s brewery supplied the place with beer, and it
was, as he informed Hamilton, in the characters of a brewer and his
friend that they that day appeared. They were, however, persons of
considerable importance, as Hamilton soon discovered, for the marriage
had been delayed until their arrival, and the gay procession was then
first formed, with which preceded by loud music, in which a flageolet
contended in vain with a couple of horns for predominance, they marched
to the church. Hamilton, on perceiving that all the men had large
bouquets of flowers, and streaming ribbons in their hats, immediately
decorated his with _Alpen rosen_. As to Baron Z—, neither he nor any of
the other numerous gentlemen who came in the course of the day to shoot,
could be distinguished at a little distance from the peasants. The
strong shoes, worsted stockings, black breeches, leather belts, with
their curiously worked initials, loose grey shooting-jackets, and
slouched hats with black cock feathers, were common to all. A nice
observer might, perhaps, have discovered a difference in the materials,
but even that was generally avoided. If ever a German nobleman feels
that those who are not in his class are equal or superior to him, it is
at a _Scheiben-Schiessen_. There the best shot is the best man. The
consciousness of strength and power, which the free use of arms, and the
habit of seeking pleasure and fame in their dexterous use beget, is not
without its national importance; such men can scarcely fail to make good
soldiers, or defend their mountain homes in time of war.

Excepting while they dined, Baron Z— never ceased shooting. Hamilton,
contented with having acquitted himself creditably, began at the end of
a couple of hours to wander about; he first looked into the room where
the wedding banquet was being slowly served: it had already lasted more
than three hours, which is scarcely to be wondered at, as between the
courses, the more youthful part of the company made their way up the
crowded staircase to a large room under the roof, where they danced; the
measured sound of the waltz step forming a sort of metronome to the
musicians, who, at times, seemed more attentive to the movements of
those about them than their occupation, thereby occasionally producing
such extraordinary and wild sounds that Hamilton allowed himself to be
pushed up the stairs into their immediate vicinity. Finding a quiet
corner, he tranquilly smoked his cigar and looked on, an amused
spectator of a scene which formed for him a picture of the most
interesting description from its novelty and thoroughly national
character.

The room, spacious and well-floored, was immediately under the roof, of
which the rafters and, on close inspection, the tiles were visible. The
musicians, placed in a corner and well supplied with beer, blew,
whistled, and scraped with all their might, the violoncello, with its
eternal tonic, dominant, and subdominant, acting as whipper-in to the
other instruments. The trumpet, occasionally raised to one of the
windows in the roof, informed the absent of the opportunity they were
losing, or served as an invitation to the lazy. Diminutive beer barrels,
connected with strong planks, formed seats along the walls, and on them
the half breathless dancers, in their picturesque costumes, occasionally
sat and rested; a few elderly peasants were established round a table
behind the door, and near them stood a fine specimen of a rustic
exclusive, with his arms folded, and bright blue eyes audaciously
following each dancing pair as they passed; he lounged against the wall,
until seeing some known, or loved, or pretty girl, he was moved to touch
her partner on the shoulder, and however unwilling the latter might be,
he was obliged in courtesy to resign her until she had taken some turns
round the room with the interloper, who, on returning her to her
partner, thanked _him_, and the flushed and panting girl invariably
looked delighted at this most approved mode of publicly doing her
homage. Hamilton observed about half a dozen beauties who never were
allowed to rest for one moment.

Light and shade were disposed as the most fastidious painter could
desire; the rays of the afternoon sun, as they entered by the open
windows, rendered even the tremulous motion of the air and the usually
imperceptible particles of dust apparent, while the gradually dispersing
light made the silver-laced bodices of the women glitter, and the
beaming faces of the men to glow more deeply. Here for the first time
Hamilton saw the real _Ländler_ danced, the waltz in all its
nationality—as unlike anything he had ever heard so denominated as could
well be imagined. It was a German fandango with nailed shoes instead of
castanets, but there was life, energy, and enjoyment in every movement.
The origin of the name of waltz for this dance is from _walzen_, to turn
round, and this the dancers did regularly, though not quickly when
together, but they often separated, and then the movements were as
uncertain as various, accompanied on the part of the men by the snapping
of fingers, clapping their knees with both hands, and springing in the
air, while ever and anon they uttered a piercing peculiar cry, something
between shouting and singing. During the time the men performed these
wild gesticulations, their partners waltzed on demurely before them, and
when they joined each other again it was usually with a few decided foot
stampings that they recommenced their rotary motions.

It was long before Hamilton felt disposed to leave this scene of rustic
festivity; when he did so, it was but to witness another of a different
kind, for as the evening approached, and the noise of the rifles began
by degrees to cease, all the singers and zither players in the
neighbourhood assembled in the garden; it was in the midst of them that
Hamilton was found by Baron Z—, and though he soon after joined the
latter and his friends at another table, he still turned round and
endeavoured to hear the words or hum the chorus of their songs.

“Our national music seems to interest you,” observed an elderly
gentleman in a green shooting jacket, drawing his chair close to
Hamilton’s.

“Very much, but I find it rather difficult to understand the words,
though I hear them very distinctly.”

“Of course you do; a foreigner must always find it difficult to
understand our different dialects, and we have many.”

Baron Z— took a little book of songs out of his pocket and handed it to
Hamilton, who, after a few unsuccessful attempts, at length was able to
read and understand one of them. “Are these songs ancient or modern?” he
asked after a pause.

“These,” answered Baron Z—, “are of an uncertain age, and are common in
the Bavarian highlands; but we have some national songs of the same
description which are extremely ancient.”

“We know,” observed the elderly gentleman, “we know from the poems of
Walter von der Vogelweide that even at the end of the twelfth century
the peasants had their own songs, which, to the great annoyance of the
celebrated poet, were gladly heard and highly valued by the princes and
knights of his time. The highest nobles then danced to their own songs,
as you may sometimes see the Austrian peasants do to this day. The
rhymes of the _Niebelungenlied_[3] and other old German epic poems are
precisely of the same description as these songs, which is also a proof
of their antiquity.”

Footnote 3:

  The _Niebelungenlied_ is a very ancient poem, greatly valued but
  little read—like the works of Chaucer and Spenser in England.

“And is the music as old as the poetry?” asked Hamilton.

“I believe so,” replied Baron Z—; “it was intended for dancing as well
as singing, as the universal name of _Schnadder-hüpfen_ denotes; the
word _schnadder_ means to talk or chat, and _hüpfen_ to jump or dance
about.”

“And is all your old national music of this gay _Schnadder-hüpfen_
description?” asked Hamilton.

“Oh, no, we have melancholy and sentimental too, but our mountaineers
are too gay and happy a people to allow the mournful to predominate, or
even to have its due share in their music; the sorrowful thought of one
verse is sure to find consolation in the jesting contradiction in the
next. The Alpine songs are generally of this description, and the girls
who have the charge of the cows on the Alps sing them together, and
continue to do so after they have left the mountains, which has caused
them to become familiar to the inhabitants of the valleys. Then there is
the _jodel_, the song without words, which has so much resemblance to
the _ranz des vaches_ of the Swiss, and which requires both practice and
compass of voice.”

“Oh, I remember,” said Hamilton, “what you and some of the others sang
when we were on the chamois hunt last year; sometimes it sounded like
water bubbling, and then came some queer high notes and a sort of
shout—it was quite adapted to the mountains—quite beautiful when there
was an echo. I should like to learn it.”

“You will find it more difficult than you imagine,” said Baron Z—, “that
is if you have ever learned to sing; my wife has never been able to
manage it, and she has often tried.”

“I shall learn to _jodel_ and play the zither, too,” said Hamilton,
“that is if I ever come to reside in Germany.”

“_If_,” said Baron Z—, and then he joined in the chorus of the song
which was being sung at the table nearest them.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“How different the same scene looks in the gradually increasing light of
early morning, and the deepening shades of approaching evening!”
observed Baron Z—, as he leaned back in the carriage on their way home,
and looked along the valley through which the road lay; it had become so
narrow that it seemed about to close altogether, while a towering
mountain, facing them as they advanced, appeared to prevent all further
progress; “and yet I scarcely know which is to be preferred in a country
of this description.”

“The evening, certainly the evening,” said Hamilton, looking round; “but
a little earlier; the sun should still be on those rocks above us and
make them successively yellow, red, copper-coloured, and violet, as I
have seen them every evening from the garden of Hohenfels.”

“I wish,” said Baron Z—, “I wish that we could see them from the top of
our alp to-night; we cannot expect this unclouded weather to last much
longer.”

“Have you an alp of your own?” asked Hamilton.

“No; but I have rented one for the last two years, and find it answers
very well, the greater part of my cattle are there now. It was not,
however, of my cows and calves that I was thinking, but of the chamois
on the mountain near the alp, of which the _Förster_ from G— told me
this morning. Now, as you acquitted yourself so well to-day at the
_Scheiben-Schiessen_, I do not see why you should not become a sportsman
at once.”

“Do you think I should have any chance?”

“Why not? You must make a beginning some time or other.”

“I suppose game is very plentiful here?” said Hamilton.

“Not what you call plenty, at least we have not grouse or black cocks as
my wife tells me you have in Scotland.”

“But I have heard of splendid _battues_ in the neighbourhood of Munich.”

“I dare say, in the royal chase, where eight or nine hundred hares, and
other game in proportion, have been shot in one afternoon—but that is
not my idea of sport. I prefer a chamois hunt to all others, next to
that, black cock; and I am quite satisfied if I shoot three or four
during the season.”

“Are the black cock so difficult to get at?”

“More troublesome than difficult, though I have occasionally found them
almost as high on the mountains as the chamois! It is the waiting and
watching—the being up before sunrise, that gives me an interest, though
it generally disgusts others whose actual profession it does not happen
to be.”

“I suppose,” said Hamilton, “it is the actual profession of those
_Försters_? There was one near the Iron Works, and he always supplied
Madame Rosenberg with game;—she paid him for it, however.”

“Of course she did,” replied Baron Z—, laughing; “and if you shoot a
chamois you must pay for it too, that is, if you wish to keep it. I have
myself no game whatever, but as the _Förster_ rents the whole chase in
my neighbourhood from government, I have as much sport as I please, and
in fact as much game too; I pay for whatever I retain, and so do all the
others to whom he has given the permission to shoot; but I suspect his
profits are not great, for we have a number of _Wildschützen_, wild
hunters—poachers you call them, I believe, in England.”

“Yes, one hears of them continually in the country; I begin to have a
faint idea that they may be great nuisances.”

“I have no intention of exactly undertaking their defence,” said Baron
Z—, “but here in the mountains, where almost every man is a good shot,
and the ideas of some are rather confused as to the better right which
one man may have more than another to shoot an animal roaming about
among the rocks—the crime is, to say the least, venial. I, for my part,
would never pursue a _Wildschützen_ with the wish to catch him; but
between them and the _Försters_ there is the most implacable hatred and
deadly war. When they meet without witnesses, it not unfrequently
happens that they fire at each other! If the _Förster_ fall, he is
immediately missed; if the _Wildschütz_, it often remains long
undiscovered. Last winter the body of a young man was found on one of
the mountains here, several weeks after his friends had first privately,
and then publicly, sought him. There is little doubt that he was shot by
one of our wood-rangers, and the man was immediately arrested, but no
sort of proof could be obtained; the day of the young man’s death was
unknown, the wood-ranger had been on that mountain, but also on others
about the supposed time—shots had been heard by some wood-cutters, but
not more than could be accounted for by the game brought home; in short,
he was set at liberty; but the fate of the _Wildschütz_, who was a
handsome, good-humoured fellow, created much interest and pity; so you
see there is so much danger, and so little profit, so much romance, and
so little vulgarity about them altogether, that they are not
unfrequently the subject of a song or the hero of a legend. I am not
even quite sure that the suspicion of a young man being at times a wild
hunter would injure him in the opinion of any girl born and bred among
the mountains!”

“I dare say not,” said Hamilton; “women higher born, and better bred,
have not unfrequently similar feelings, and the very word is in itself
the essence of romance! You must allow that it sounds a vast deal better
than _Förster_, or _Förstmeister_, or _Förstcommissioner_, or
_Förstinspector_. Everybody seems to be _Först_ something in this part
of the world.”

“And are we not surrounded by forests? Are not all our mountains covered
with wood?” asked Baron Z—, laughing; “can you wonder that, in a country
where wood is used as fuel, the care and culture of it should be of the
greatest importance?”

“Then these _Försters_ are not a—exactly game-keepers?”

“No; the preserving of the game is, however, always in connection with
the woods and forests. The _Förstmeister_, _Förstactuar_, _Försters_,
and _Förstpracticants_ are appointed by government; the under _Förster_,
or wood-ranger, is the only thing at all answering to your idea of
game-keeper.”

“And what have they all to do?” asked Hamilton.

“Can you not imagine the care of all these woods giving a number of
people employment?” asked Baron Z—, looking round him. “The never-ending
felling and drifting, and selling and planting; the corrections of the
rivers used for drifting; the care of the game, and a hundred other
things, which I do not just now remember. The _Förstwesen_, as we call
it here, requires as much, and as peculiar study at the University, as
theology, philosophy, law, physic, or any other branch of learning. Had
I been given my choice, I should have preferred it to all others.”

“And what did you study? I mean especially?”

“Law,” answered Baron Z—, and while he spoke the carriage rolled into
the paved court of Hohenfels.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XLII.

                              A DISCOURSE.


THERE had been a thunder-storm during the night, and the rain descended
the next morning in torrents. “I fear, Hamilton, our party must be put
off for a short time!” observed Baron Z—, as he walked from one window
to the other, in a disconsolate manner, after breakfast. “How I detest a
hopeless day of this kind!”

“I remember,” said A. Z., “that when I was an accomplished young lady, I
rather liked a day of rain when I had a drawing to finish, or a new song
to study—I do not dislike it to-day either, but for a very different
reason. Had it been fine, I must have gone to the alp, to do the honours
of my dairy to Mr. Hamilton, and now, without any incivility on my part,
I can stay at home and quietly inspect the making of a hundred-weight of
soap, which cannot be any longer delayed, and I expect,” she added,
turning to Hamilton, “or rather I hope, on your way from the brewery,
where of course you will go to smoke with Herrmann, you will visit me—in
the wash-house.”

“And can you really make soap?” asked Hamilton, rather surprised.

“I really can, and really do, as you shall see—but, perhaps, you don’t
care about soap-boiling?”

“I—rather hoped—that, perhaps, to-day you would have had time to talk to
me about——”

“Oh! I always find time to talk,” said A. Z., “my soap will be ready
before dinner; it was begun yesterday evening, and has been boiling all
the morning, so you see after our coffee we shall have the whole
afternoon, and no chance of visitors!”

Just as all the bells in the neighbourhood were chiming noon, Hamilton
walked into the wash-house, and there found A. Z. standing beside an
immense boiler, filled with a substance very much resembling porridge;
she was examining some of it, as it trickled down a piece of flat wood,
which she held in her hand, and having dipped her finger into it, and
found that it formed what she called a thimble, she appeared satisfied.
Some few directions she gave to a little old woman, who seemed very
learned on the subject of soap-boiling, and then she wound her way
through the surrounding tubs and buckets and pails to Hamilton, and with
him went unceremoniously to dinner.

When Hamilton, a couple of hours afterwards, joined A. Z. in the
drawing-room, he found her turning over the last leaves of his journal,
as she sat in a large arm-chair, beside the slightly heated stove. She
turned round immediately and observed: “Well, Mr. Hamilton, you ‘rather
hoped I should find time to talk.’ I have time now, and only wait to
hear what is to be the subject of conversation.”

He drew a chair close to her, and said, “First of all—your opinion of
Hildegarde. Does she care for me?”

“I am afraid she does,” answered A. Z.

“How can you say, ‘afraid,’ when you know it is what I most wish—my only
chance of happiness! I fear nothing but a refusal now. Have you not
observed that she has never said a word which could make me for a moment
imagine she cared in the least for me?”

“Judge her actions, and not her words,” answered A. Z.

“And if her actions should denote more friendship than love?”

“The friendship of a girl of eighteen for a man of one-or two-and-twenty
is very apt to degenerate into love.”

“And you call that degenerating?”

A. Z. nodded her head, and said, “We have no time to discuss that matter
now, nor is it necessary; but there is something I should like to say to
you, if you will allow me.”

“I allow you—wish you to say anything, everything you please.”

“Before I read your journal,” she continued, turning quite round to him,
“I was disposed only to think of you, and your interests, and
recommended you to return home, without again seeing Mademoiselle
Rosenberg, or entering into any engagement with her. I give you the same
advice now—but—for her sake—on her account!”

“And this you say, supposing her attached to me, and knowing that I am
willing to sacrifice everything I most value for her!” said Hamilton.

“Yes, I consider the whole affair as the purest specimen of first love
that it is possible to imagine; so sincere on both sides, that, were
there no impediments to your marriage, I think you might pass your lives
very happily together; but the sacrifices you are about to make she will
not, I fear, be able properly to estimate, and you must be very
different from most young men of your age and position in the world, if
you have steadiness enough, after two whole years’ absence, to return
here, change all your habits, and bury yourself in these mountains for
the rest of your life!”

“I think—I am almost sure, that for Hildegarde I can do so.”

“If you do, I shall have a colossal respect for your character; but in
the meantime forgive my doubting it. Your uncle will send you to Paris,
give you unlimited command of money, the temptations are great there,
and with your brother John, and your cousin Harry as companions, I fear
that at the end of the first year you will write Mademoiselle Rosenberg
a letter to say, ‘that finding it impossible to obtain the consent of
your family to your union, you will not _drag the woman you love into
poverty_!’ I believe this is the usual phrase used on such occasions?
And you can do this, without even incurring the censure of the world,
for who knows anything of Hildegarde? No one will ever hear that, for
your sake, she has refused Max Zedwitz, and that she will again do so,
if engaged to you, is a matter of course; and no one will know that your
desertion will condemn her either to being a governess or to a nunnery
for the rest of her life, for she will never marry a Major Stultz, or a
_Förster_ Weidmann!” A. Z. paused, but as Hamilton did not speak, she
continued, “I see my doubts rather offend you, but such conduct is, I am
sorry to say, common, and I know you too little to estimate your
character as it, perhaps, deserves. And now let us consider the other
side of the question—I mean Hildegarde’s—she has never, you say,
betrayed herself to you, still less, I am sure to anyone else. To most
women, the feeling of wounded pride, the sense of shame at being
publicly slighted and forsaken, is quite as painful to bear as the real
loss of the love on which all their visions of future happiness are
built—all this may still be spared Hildegarde. You have left her without
explanation, she thinks highly of you, for she does not know that you
could have acted otherwise than as you have done—none of her family have
the least idea that she cares for you, she even flatters herself that
you are not aware of it—she will long remember you after you have ceased
to think of her, but the remembrance will be unmixed with pain. When
Maximilian again meets her, she will tell him that she never can return
his affection, that she never can feel anything but friendship for
him—but she will marry him, make an excellent wife, too—and may, some
fine day, in this room, beside this very stove, quietly talk of you, and
wonder that she could ever have preferred anyone to her excellent
husband, whom we may suppose sitting just where you are now!”

“Really a most agreeable picture!” cried Hamilton, with ill-concealed
irritation of manner. “And pray what is to become of me?”

“I have already said you will forget more quickly than she can; and so,
after enjoying the world and its pomps and vanities for a few years, you
will marry a Lady Jane or Lady Mary Somebody, who will be quite as
amiable—if not as beautiful as Hildegarde?”

“You are considering this affair much too lightly,” cried Hamilton,
starting from his chair almost angrily. “You talk as if it was a mere
flirtation!”

“No: I have ceased to consider it as such,” rejoined A. Z. gravely. “I
wish to save you from self-reproach, and Hildegarde from real
unhappiness hereafter. The bitterness of parting is now over on both
sides. With the best intentions in the world, circumstances might induce
you to write the letter I spoke of—Hildegarde’s feelings now are very
different from what they will be when she has accustomed herself to
think of you as her companion for life. I would willingly save her youth
from a blight which, however her pride and strength of mind may enable
her to conceal it, will prevent the development of all her good
qualities, and perhaps turn her generous confidence into suspicious
distrust, her warmth of heart into callousness forever—but I have now
said enough—too much, perhaps;” and she walked to the window which she
opened, to ask Baron Z—, who was in the court-yard, what he thought of
the weather.

“No chance of a change,” he answered; “the barometer is still falling,
and it will not clear up until there is snow on the mountain tops, most
probably.”

“That is the only disagreeable thing in a mountainous country,” observed
A. Z., turning to Hamilton. “When it begins to rain, it never knows how
or when to stop. I am sorry, on your account, that the fine weather has
not lasted a little longer; but to-morrow we shall have a box of new
books, and perhaps you may find something to interest you among them.”

“I am sure,” said Hamilton, “that you will agree with me in thinking
that I ought not delay my return to Munich even a day longer, now that I
have quite decided on my future plans. I wish, if possible, to prevent
Hildegarde from going to Frankfort, where that Mademoiselle Hortense
intended to send her.”

“I scarcely know what I ought to say,” replied A. Z. “It is not to be
expected that you will remain here listening to my long stories and the
rain pattering against the windows, when you have a good excuse for
leaving.”

“A reason—not an excuse,” said Hamilton.

“Well then,” said A. Z., as she closed the window, “though I do not ask
you to give me a lock of your hair, I feel so much interested in your
affairs, that I hope you will ‘Trust me, and let me know your love’s
success,’ in a few lines which you may find time to write to me after
you have reached home.”


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XLIII.

                       ANOTHER KIND OF DISCOURSE.


TWENTY-FOUR hours afterwards, Hamilton was in Munich on his way to Major
Stultz’s. He had not yet taken leave of Crescenz, and hoped, when
ostensibly doing so, to obtain from her some information about her
sister’s plans and prospects. His old acquaintance, Walburg, was
delighted to see him, informed him that “her mistress was at home, quite
alone—the Major had gone to sup with some officers who had been in
Russia with him;” and while speaking, she threw open the drawing-room
door. Crescenz turned round, and then, with a blush of pleasure, rose
quickly and advanced towards Hamilton, exclaiming, “I knew you would not
leave Bavaria without coming to see me! I said so to Blazius, and to
Hildegarde too!”

“So you have spent another day at the Iron Works, and can tell me how
they all are.”

“No,” replied Crescenz; and the smile faded from her features as she
added, “Hildegarde was here, on her way to Frankfort.”

“So she is gone—actually gone!” cried Hamilton.

“She left us the day before yesterday. Blazius says he is glad our
parting is over, for I could do nothing but cry all the time she was
here.”

“And Hildegarde?” asked Hamilton.

“She appeared quite contented with her future prospects, and tried to
make me so too.”

“Quite contented,” repeated Hamilton.

“Yes; Blazius says she has not much feeling, and that I am a fool to
waste so much affection on her; but he does not know how kind she was to
me for so many years at school, helping me out of all my difficulties,
and taking my part on all occasions—he has no idea what Hildegarde can
do to those she loves!”

“Nor I either,” said Hamilton.

“Of course not,” said Crescenz, smiling, “as she only latterly began to
like you; but for ten years she was everything to me! After we left
school, indeed, or rather from the time we were at Seon, she changed a
good deal, certainly. You know the time that——”

“I know,” said Hamilton.

“But when she was here last week, she was just what she used to be; I
could have fancied we had gone back two or three years of our lives.”

“So she was quite cheerful!” said Hamilton, with a constrained smile.
“It seems she felt no regret at quitting the Iron Works?”

“Not much, I should think, when you were no longer there,” answered
Crescenz.

“What! What do you mean?” asked Hamilton, eagerly.

“Why, as you were the only person who could talk to her—she must have
found it very dull after you were gone, I suppose.”

“Oh!” said Hamilton, “is that all? Perhaps she did not say as much—did
not speak of me at all?”

“Oh yes; we often spoke of you,” said Crescenz, nodding her head.

“I flattered myself, at one time, that Hildegarde liked me——” began
Hamilton.

“She does like you—she said so repeatedly, and quite agreed with me in
everything about you, but she does not like you as Blazius thought she
would when you first went to the Iron Works. He said then it was very
inconsiderate of mamma to take you there—that she ought to have insisted
on your leaving the house when papa died!”

“She did propose my leaving,” said Hamilton.

“Yes, I know—that was after Blazius had spoken to her—and he was so
angry, when he heard you were going to the country, after all! He
said—he said——”

“What?” asked Hamilton.

“That with such opportunities, he should not be at all surprised if you
and Hildegarde went to—the—devil! He sometimes does use such very
improper words!”

Hamilton could not help smiling.

“You think I am joking,” she continued, “but I assure you, he said such
dreadful things, that I cannot repeat them—and I was so glad, when I
went to the Iron Works, to perceive that Hildegarde did not like you—in
that way——”

“In what way?” asked Hamilton, irresistibly impelled to talk to her as
he had in former times. She blushed so deeply, however, and became so
painfully confused, that he added gravely, “You mean that you saw she
only liked me as an acquaintance, or friend, and I believe you are
right.”

“Yes, that is exactly what I meant,” said Crescenz, apparently greatly
relieved, “for that last day, when you seemed to like Lina Berger more
than you had ever done either of us, she did not in the least mind
it—quite laughed at the idea!”

“Did she?” said Hamilton, with a look of annoyance, which Crescenz alone
could have failed to observe.

“Hildegarde never will tell me anything!” she continued, “but I have
made a discovery all the same!”

“Have you?” cried Hamilton, with a look of interest, which her
observations were seldom calculated to produce. “What is it?”

“I have found out, at last, who it is that she really loves.”

“Indeed! Are you quite sure?”

“You shall hear how I found out. Lina Berger came here, not to take
leave of Hildegarde, for you know they dislike each other—but because
she wished to hear something about you. Now, Hildegarde answered all her
questions with the greatest composure, and when Lina found that she
could not embarrass or annoy her about you, she suddenly turned the
conversation and spoke of Count Zedwitz. The moment she pronounced his
name Hildegarde’s whole countenance changed, and then Lina went on, and
told her that the old Count was dying, that Doctor Berger had been
several times to see him, and said he could not live more than a week or
ten days, and that, as his son had been written for, and was probably on
his way home, she now seriously advised Hildegarde not to leave Munich,
or at least Bavaria until all chance was over of his renewing his
proposal of marriage to her—that is, if she had still the slightest hope
that such an unheard of good fortune was in store for her—above all
things she ought to avoid going to Frankfort, as, notwithstanding all
Count Zedwitz’s professions of liberality, the idea of her having been a
governess _might_ be revolting to him!”

“Poor, dear Hildegarde!” cried Hamilton, compassionately. “Was she very
angry?”

“She became so pale and agitated that I expected some terrible scene,
such as we used to have at school; but to my great surprise, she thanked
Lina for her good advice, though she did not mean to follow it; said she
considered being a governess no sort of disgrace—rather the contrary, as
it led to the supposition at least, that her acquirements were more than
common, and that what Count Zedwitz might think on the subject was at
present a matter of indifference to her—and then she went out of the
room, and did not return until Lina was gone.”

“But, surely, you do not infer from this that she loves Zedwitz!” cried
Hamilton, cheerfully. “It seems to me as if the contrary conclusion
might be drawn.”

“You have not heard all,” said Crescenz. “After Lina was gone, though I
knew she had only been trying to vex Hildegarde, I thought the advice
might be good, as Blazius had said several times that it would be such
an excellent thing if that cross old Count would die at once, and leave
his son at liberty to marry Hildegarde. It is very wrong to wish anybody
to die, but Blazius does not mind saying things of that kind—I don’t
think he means all he says though, about the devil, or people being
damned—it would be very terrible if he did—and I am sure he learned all
those odious expressions in that frightful Russian campaign——”

“Well, a—and so—” said Hamilton, “when Hildegarde again came into the
room, you probably recommended her remaining here?”

“Yes—but you know, I never could expect Hildegarde to follow my advice!
and when she refused, I only just ventured, in a whisper, to ask her if
she thought that Count Zedwitz still loved her—and she said, ‘Yes,
better than any one ever loved, or will love me—better than I deserve,’
and then she went to the window and pretended to look out, but I saw
that she was crying. I am quite sure she has made up her mind to marry
him, but I don’t understand why she is so unhappy about it, especially
as he is a count, and Hildegarde is so fond of rank!”

“Is she?” said Hamilton, absently.

“Oh yes, rank, riches, station, and somebody to love her exclusively—and
Count Zedwitz can give her all these things, you know!”

“Very true—your arguments are conclusive,” said Hamilton, “and now it is
time for me to go——”

“But you will come again!” said Crescenz; “you will come to take leave
of Blazius?”

Hamilton shook his head.

“Are you really going away forever?” asked Crescenz, and her eyes filled
with tears as she added, in a slightly tremulous voice, “Hildegarde said
we should never hear of, never see you again!”

“And she said it, I am sure, with less regret than you do!” exclaimed
Hamilton, bitterly.

“I dare say you think me very foolish,” said Crescenz, trying to smile,
while large tears coursed each other down her cheeks.

“I think you very kind,” said Hamilton.

“If Blazius were at home, you would have stayed a little longer,
perhaps. I wish Blazius were here.”

Hamilton thought it was quite as well he was not, but did not say so;
and after taking leave of her, much more affectionately than he had
dared to do of her sister, he left the house considerably more
thoughtful than he had entered it.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XLIV.

                      THE JOURNEY HOME COMMENCES.


HAMILTON left Munich the next day in the mail for Frankfort; he had
secured the place beside the conductor in the front part of the coach,
which formed a kind of open carriage, and where he intended to smoke,
and think, and sleep undisturbed. His late conversation with Crescenz
had made a deep impression on him; it had again filled his mind with
doubts and fears, which deprived him of his habitual cheerfulness, while
his usual source of amusement when travelling—studying the characters or
foibles of his companions—had lost all interest for him. He did not ask
the name or condition of any one of the persons with whom he moved under
the same roof a whole night and two days, and no one contradicted the
young student, who, on leaving at Wurtzburg, observed with a glance
towards Hamilton, “As unsociable a fellow as ever I met! A thorough
Englishman!”

He wandered about the streets until the coach was again ready to start,
and then, although the weather had completely cleared up, and the
country, refreshed by the rain, was by no means uninteresting, he sunk
back into his corner, and overpowered by weariness, fell fast asleep.
When he awoke it was quite dark, and as he raised himself slowly from
his slumbers, the conductor called out, “Halt!—who is booked for
Aschaffenburg? Who gets out here?”

Some passenger from the inside of the coach spoke, and Hamilton asked,
“Is there a good hotel here?”

“Very good.”

“Then let me out—my legs are cramped, and my head and shoulders battered
and bruised. I say, Hans, you can go on to Frankfort, and bespeak rooms
for me at the Hotel d’Angleterre. Give me my carpet-bag and
dressing-case, as fast as you can,” and Hamilton was stamping his feet
on the ground with a feeling of relief amounting to pleasure, when a man
with a lantern came up to him and demanded his passport.

“My passport?—directly—I shall be in Frankfort about twelve o’clock
to-morrow, Hans,” cried Hamilton, as the coach drove off; and having
delivered up his passport, he watched the man with the lantern enter an
adjacent house, saw the light pass from one window to the other, until
it finally disappeared, and all was dark.

“This is pleasant,” he said, looking around him, “and I don’t know the
way to the hotel, or even the name of it!”

“I am here sir, with a wheelbarrow for the luggage,” said a voice near
him, and Hamilton’s eyes now becoming accustomed to the darkness, he
perceived a man standing close to him, and a dark figure at a little
distance sitting among some trunks and boxes.

“Can you show me the way to the best hotel?” asked Hamilton.

“To be sure I can—for what else am I here every night, wet or dry!”
answered the man, good-humouredly, as he placed Hamilton’s luggage in
the wheelbarrow. “If you have no objection, sir, I’ll take the lady’s
things too.”

“By all means,” said Hamilton, looking towards the dark figure, which
now rose and endeavoured to assist the man to move a rather large trunk.

“Allow me,” said Hamilton, instantly taking her place; and everything
was soon arranged.

“Thank you a thousand times,” whispered the lady, placing her arm within
his almost familiarly; and Hamilton, half surprised, half amused, looked
somewhat curiously at his companion as she afterwards unreservedly drew
closer to him, and at last clasped her small well-gloved hands over his
arm. They followed for some minutes in silence the man with the
wheelbarrow, who trudged on before them whistling; but as they drew near
to one of the miserable street lamps Hamilton leant forward and
endeavoured rather unceremoniously to peer under his companion’s bonnet;
a thick veil rendered the effort fruitless.

“You wish to see my face,” she said, in a voice that made him stop
suddenly, with an exclamation of astonishment; and when she pushed aside
her veil the flickering light played dimly over the well-known features
of Hildegarde.

And where were Hamilton’s doubts and fears at that
moment?—removed?—dispersed? No; but they were dormant—sleeping as
soundly, perhaps as uneasily, as he had been doing about an hour before.
He scarcely understood Hildegarde, as with repeated assurances that she
was very, very glad to see him again, she incoherently related that she
had travelled to Wurtzburg with some friends of Mademoiselle Hortense’s;
they had been very kind, and had insisted on her remaining with them a
couple of days, to recover from the fatigue of her night journey; that
they had accompanied her to the coach, and advised her to sleep at
Aschaffenburg; that she had recognised Hamilton’s voice when speaking to
Hans, had seen his face when the man demanded his passport, “And then,”
she added, “I knew that all my difficulties about travelling were at an
end; so I sat down on my trunk and waited to see when you would
recognise me!”

“How could I recognise your voice when you whispered, or your face, when
covered with that impervious veil? Indeed, it is impossible to see
anything at a few feet distance from these lamps, which seem but
intended to make the ‘darkness visible.’ The moment you spoke I knew
you.”

“That I expected,” said Hildegarde; “otherwise I should have been
tempted to preserve my incognito a little longer.”

“I am very glad you did not—but where is the man with our bags and
boxes?” he cried, looking round. He was no longer visible, though they
could still indistinctly hear the sound of the jogging of the
wheelbarrow over the rough paving-stones in the distance. With a merry
laugh they ran together down the street, and overtook him just as he
rolled his clumsy little vehicle under an archway, lighted by two
handsome lamps, and where their arrival was immediately announced by the
ringing of a large bell.

They reached Frankfort the next day, just in time to dine at the _table
d’hôte_; but Hildegarde’s appearance caused so many inquiries, that
Hamilton followed her to her room to advise her not dining there in
future.

“I shall scarcely be here to-morrow,” she said, pushing back her bonnet,
while she rummaged a little writing-desk for some paper. “Oh! here it
is,” she added, “Hortense’s letter of introduction. I am sure you will
be so kind as to go with me to find out the house of this lady—this
Baroness Waldorf!”

“Who?” cried Hamilton.

“Baroness Waldorf.”

“Why did you not tell me it was to her you were going?”

“Because I did not think it could interest you in any way—I never heard
you speak of her. Have you seen her? Do you know anything about her?”

“I met her at Edelhof—Zedwitz is guardian to her daughter.”

“Oh, tell me something about her,” cried Hildegarde, eagerly, to
Hamilton’s surprise quite indifferent to the latter part of his speech.
“Tell me all you know about her. Is she a person to whom I am likely to
become attached?”

“I don’t know—I rather think not. Oh, Hildegarde, let me advise you, as
a friend, to give up this plan altogether, and go back to your
step-mother—If you would only listen to me patiently for ten minutes——”

“I cannot listen to you,” said Hildegarde, interrupting him, “for I have
made an engagement—a promise to remain a whole year, under all
circumstances, with the Baroness Waldorf. She would not make any other
sort of agreement, as she is going to Florence for the winter. She alone
can release me from this promise—but I cannot say I wish it, as I rather
enjoy the idea of going to Italy.”

“Under other circumstances I could easily imagine it.”

“And under what other circumstances am I likely to see Italy—or even the
Rhine, near as it now is to me?”

Hamilton was silent.

“Let us go,” said Hildegarde, taking up her gloves. “You will not, I am
sure, try to dissuade me any longer, when I tell you that I cannot
endure the life I should have to lead at the Iron Works; my habits and
education have unfortunately made me totally unfit for it. I have made
the trial, and must now with regret confess that the details of domestic
life are not only tiresome, but absolutely disgusting to me.”

“So, then,” said Hamilton, “you have discovered that riches are
necessary to your happiness?”

“Not exactly riches,” replied Hildegarde, little aware of the importance
attached to her answer, “but something beyond the actual means of
subsistence—enough at least to insure me from the vulgar cares of life,
and to enable me to associate with people whose habits and manners are
similar to mine.”

“And how much would be necessary for this?” asked Hamilton, gravely.

“Oh, indeed I don’t know,” she answered carelessly, laughing, “nor is it
necessary to calculate. That I have it not is certain; and in being a
governess I see the only means of satisfying my wishes at present, and
securing a competence hereafter. If I remain ten years with the Baroness
Waldorf, I shall receive a pension for the rest of my life.”

“And do you think you could not endure these vulgar cares of life, as
you call them, even with a person you loved?” asked Hamilton, still more
earnestly.

“I shall never be tried in that way,” answered Hildegarde firmly, and
while she walked on, wholly occupied with her immediate concerns,
Hamilton altogether misunderstanding the meaning of her words, concluded
she referred to a marriage with Zedwitz at some future period. Thus
unconsciously tormenting each other, they reached the Baroness Waldorf’s
house, and finding a burly porter lounging outside the door, they asked
if she was at home.

“No—she was not—she had gone to Mayence.”

“And when is she expected to return?” asked Hildegarde, anxiously.

“We do not in the least know, Mademoiselle, she left very suddenly, in
consequence of a letter which she received. She is sometimes not more
than a few days absent, and most of the carriages and horses are still
here. Who shall I say——?”

“It is of no consequence,” said Hamilton, “we merely wished to know if a
young lady from Munich was not expected about this time?”

The man said he would inquire, entered the house, but returned almost
directly, saying, that no one was expected, excepting perhaps Count
Zedwitz on his way home.

Hamilton and Hildegarde walked on together for some minutes in silence;
at length the latter observed, half inquiringly, “I suppose I have no
right to be offended with this Baroness Waldorf? It must have been
urgent business which could make her leave Frankfort just when she
appointed me to be here?”

“I should think so,” said Hamilton, “but she might have made some
arrangement for your reception during her absence. This thoughtlessness
about you will scarcely prepossess you in her favour.”

“Rich people are seldom considerate,” began Hildegarde, as if she
intended to moralise; but suddenly stopping, she added: “You are
right—she has placed me in a very unpleasant position—if she do not
return in a day or two, I shall neither have the means of remaining here
nor returning home.”

“Our fortunate meeting at Aschaffenburg,” said Hamilton, “will save you
from all annoyances of that description, as you know I can arrange
everything with your mother. At all events, I shall not leave you now
until you are either at home again or residing with this—to say the
least—very thoughtless person.”

“But will not delay inconvenience you?” asked Hildegarde.

“Not in the least. As far as I am concerned I should be glad that the
Baroness would not return for six weeks! All places are alike to me
where you are; and much as we were together at the Iron Works, you have
more time to bestow on me here; and therefore I am proportionably
happier.”

This kind of speech she never answered; and after a short pause Hamilton
proposed showing her the gardens which surrounded the town, and in their
shady walks they wandered until evening.


                         ---------------------




                              CHAPTER XLV.

           WHAT OCCURRED AT THE HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE FRANKFORT.


THE next day after dinner, while Hamilton went to his banker’s,
Hildegarde looked out of her window, and watched, with a sort of quiet
indifference, the arrival of two travelling carriages at the hotel. Out
of the first sprang a tall large man, who, merely raising two fingers to
his travelling cap by way of salutation, instantly disappeared—and even
while the heated and tired horses were still being led up and down the
yard others were brought out, and the servant, after great bustling and
hurrying, followed his master into the hotel. Again the cracking of the
whips and ringing of bells became audible, and another and larger
carriage arrived—decidedly English. The well-built vehicle swung easily
with all its weight of imperials and servants’ seats behind, and out of
it stepped a tall, thin gentleman, with a grey hat, a grey coat, grey
trousers, grey gaiters, and grey whiskers! An elderly lady followed, her
face half concealed by her pendent lace veil, and two young and pretty
girls stopped for a moment to inspect the building they were about to
enter. Hildegarde looked at her watch, it was the hour that Hamilton
told her he would return, so she locked her door, and began slowly to
walk along the corridor and descend the stairs. The English family were
just turning into a large suite of rooms on the first floor as she
passed—the gentleman in grey had stopped at the door, his hat fast on
his head; he turned to his wife, who was entering, and observed, quite
loud enough for Hildegarde to hear, “By Jove, that’s the handsomest girl
I have seen for a long time!” The lady turned round and deliberately
raised her _lorgnette_ to her eye, while their two daughters, after a
hasty glance, exclaimed, “Oh, papa, I really do think she understood
you.” Hildegarde walked quickly on, but met so many servants and
strangers that she took refuge at last in the large dining-room, which
at that hour was generally quite unoccupied.

One solitary individual sat at the enormous table. He seemed to have
been dining, and Hildegarde walked to one of the windows without looking
at him. Soon after she heard him striding up and down the room, and as
the waiter entered with some fruit and _confitures_, he asked rather
impatiently, “Has my servant not yet dined? Tell him to make haste—he
knows we have no time to lose.”

The voice was familiar to Hildegarde, she unconsciously turned round to
look at the speaker, and was instantly recognised by Count Zedwitz, who,
with a look of astonishment, hurried toward her, exclaiming,
“Mademoiselle Rosenberg! What on earth has brought you to Frankfort?”

“I came here intending to go to a Baroness Waldorf as governess to her
daughter—she has gone to Mayence, I hear, and——”

“And you are here alone, unprotected, and I cannot offer to stay with
you—I do not know if you have heard that my father is dying—no hope
whatever of his recovery; I only received the intelligence yesterday,
and am now travelling night and day to reach home in time to see him
once more!”

At this moment the servant entered to say that the carriage was ready.

“Very well: you may go—and—shut the door—Hildegarde, I mean Mademoiselle
Rosenberg—do not remain here. Give up this idea of going to Ida Waldorf;
it will never answer—believe me you will be most unhappy!”

“It must answer,” said Hildegarde, “and I shall not be unhappy, for the
idea of being a governess is familiar to me from my infancy, and has
therefore lost all its terrors.”

“Excuse my questioning you,” cried Zedwitz quickly, “but may I ask how
you happen to become acquainted with the Baroness Waldorf?”

“I do not know her at all—I never saw her—it was all arranged by
Mademoiselle Hortense, one of the governesses of our school.”

“Did the Baroness Waldorf know your name?” asked Zedwitz, eagerly.

“At first, perhaps not,” answered Hildegarde, with a look of surprise,
“but in the letter which told her that I had left Munich, Mademoiselle
Hortense must have mentioned it—I should think my name a matter of very
little importance!”

“In this instance, you are mistaken—I—I fear the Baroness is not likely
to return for some time—I——”

“Her servant said she would not be long absent—that her leaving was
quite a sudden thing,” observed Hildegarde.

“Her leaving when she expected you was unpardonable, cruel, ungenerous!”
exclaimed Zedwitz, vehemently.

“I was rather shocked at first myself, but I afterwards thought she had
not perhaps received the letter in time——”

“She did receive it, I am sure she did—it was the letter which—Oh,
Mademoiselle Rosenberg, do not remain here any longer—return to your
relations, return with me now—at once.”

Hildegarde blushed intensely.

“I shall send my servant with the carriage,” he added quickly, “and we
can travel in the diligence, or in any way you please.”

“You are very kind,” said Hildegarde, “but I consider myself engaged to
this Baroness Waldorf, and until I hear from her——”

“You will not hear from her, you will never hear from her!” he cried,
impatiently, “and I must leave you; I cannot, dare not delay my return
home now!”

Again Hildegarde blushed, she endeavoured to name Hamilton, but the
words died on her lips, and her confusion increased every moment. Some
people began to stray into the room, and Zedwitz added in an agitated
whisper: “God forgive me for thinking of anything but my father when he
is lying on his death-bed; the peculiarity of our position must be my
excuse for telling you at such a time, that my feelings toward you are
unchanged, unchangeable. Return to your family, and let me hope that
time may so far overcome your dislike, or indifference, whichever it
be——”

“Oh, Count Zedwitz, it is neither,” said Hildegarde, with evident
effort. “I should be unworthy of such regard as you feel for me, were I
not now to tell you that—I have—long—loved another.”

“Hamilton of course—I always feared it.”

Hildegarde was silent.

“If you are engaged to him, tell me so; it is the only means of
effectually crushing all my hopes at once!”

“We have no engagement, he cannot enter into any; he does not even know
that I regard him otherwise than as a friend!”

“Then listen to me, Hildegarde: notwithstanding all the admiration, all
the love which he undoubtedly feels for you now—when he has been some
time at home among the friends and companions of his youth—he will
forget you!”

“I think he will,” said Hildegarde with a deep sigh.

“And you too will forget this youthful fancy,” continued Zedwitz.

“Youthful fancy!” she repeated slowly, “I fear I have neither youthful
fancies nor youthful feelings; I have had no youth!”

“It will come like a late spring, and bestow on you at once those
blessings which others receive so gradually, that they are insensible to
them.”

Hildegarde shook her head and turned to the window. Zedwitz seemed to
wish to say something which embarrassed him. “In case you should find
this hotel more expensive than you expected,” he began in an hesitating
manner.

“Oh, not at all expensive,” said Hildegarde. “I had no idea one could
live so cheaply at such a place!”

Zedwitz looked surprised; he would have been more so if he had seen the
bill which she had paid Hamilton with such childish satisfaction a
couple of hours before. It is needless to say that it had been written
by him, as soon as he had discovered that she had not the most remote
idea of the expenses of travelling, that he had taken advantage of her
ignorance to prevent her feeling any annoyance or uneasiness.

“I cannot tell you how unwilling I am to leave you,” said Zedwitz, after
a pause; “but go I must. Until we meet again, let me indulge the hope
that a time may come——”

Just at that moment the hotel-keeper entered the room and approached the
window where they were standing. Zedwitz turned round, and Hildegarde in
her anxiety to undeceive him, and fearing he was leaving her under a
false impression, stretched out her hand to detain him; the action was
misunderstood, he caught it between both his, and while she endeavoured
in vain to stammer a few words of explanation, he whispered, “Thank you
a thousand times, you do not know how even this faint ray of hope will
lighten the gloominess of my present journey!”

He then took the innkeeper aside, and spoke long and earnestly to him
about her, said he knew her family—requested him to let her know every
opportunity that might offer for a return to Munich in respectable
society—gave him his address, the name of his banker, and unlimited
credit on her account; and just as the innkeeper, with an only half
suppressed smile of amusement, was about to explain to him that he need
not be so uneasy about the lady, as she was already under the protection
of a young Englishman, Zedwitz, reproaching himself for the delay which
had occurred, sprang into the carriage, and a moment after it rolled
from under the archway past the window where Hildegarde still stood, a
prey to the most distressing and contending emotions.

After waiting more than half an hour longer, and Hamilton not appearing,
she retired to her room, supposing some unexpected business had detained
him; but when several hours elapsed, and he was still absent, she became
uneasy. A feeling of delicacy prevented her from making any inquiries,
and she sat at her window, long after dusk, trying to discover him in
every tall dark figure she saw moving near the entrance or in the court
below. A sensation of utter loneliness came over her, thoughts of the
most melancholy description chased each other through her mind; when,
from a reverie of this kind, she recognised the well-known quick step,
and a low knock at the door made her conscious that Hamilton was near;
all the painful reminiscences—uncertainties—Zedwitz—everything, was in a
moment forgotten; and she rose quickly and joyously from her chair to
meet him. It was too dark for Hamilton to see the tears which still
lingered in her long eyelashes, and too dark for her to observe the
flushed and irritated expression of his whole countenance.

“Shall I light the candles?” she asked cheerfully.

“If you wish it, but I prefer the room as it is.”

She sat down near him, and after a pause observed, “You were long
absent; was there any difficulty at the banker’s?”

“None whatever.” Another pause—then suddenly turning towards her, he
said quickly, “I have been thinking that as the Baroness Waldorf has a
house at Mayence, she may be longer absent than her servants supposed. A
few hours would take you to Mayence.”

“Do you think it necessary to follow her there?”

“Not exactly necessary, but why not? You have often wished to see the
Rhine.”

“Oh, it would be too delightful!” exclaimed Hildegarde.

“If you think so,” said Hamilton, every trace of annoyance disappearing
from his face, “why, the sooner we go the better.”

“But the expense,” said Hildegarde, hesitatingly.

“Will not be greater than remaining here; do not let that weigh with you
for a moment.”

“Perhaps I ought to write to my mother, or Hortense?”

“You cannot have an answer for several days, and it is better to wait
until you have seen the Baroness Waldorf; I should think whether you
were here or at Mayence must be a matter of indifference to them, and I
am sure your mother would be quite satisfied if she knew that you were
under my care!”

“That I think too,” said Hildegarde, “and I should like to put an end to
my present state of uncertainty as soon as possible. I do not,” she
continued, half laughing, “I do not feel any sort of scruples about
travelling with you; I suppose, because we have lived so long in the
same house, and I know you so well; but when Count Zedwitz to-day
proposed my returning home with him——”

“Zedwitz! To-day!” repeated Hamilton, amazed.

“Yes. In passing through Frankfort to-day, he dined and changed horses
here. I saw him for a few minutes when I was waiting for your return; he
strongly advised me not to go to the Baroness Waldorf, and seemed, oddly
enough, to think she had gone away on purpose.”

“Not impossible—not improbable. Did he explain, in any way, the cause of
his suspicions?”

“No, he had not time, his father is dying, and he is, of course, most
anxious to get home. He—he went away just as I was going to tell him
that you was here——” she stopped, embarrassed.

“Hildegarde, let us go to Mayence,” cried Hamilton, abruptly.

“As early as you please to-morrow morning,” she answered, cheerfully.

“Not to-morrow morning—this evening—in an hour—in half an hour!”

“But—but it is night—almost dark already.”

“Well, what difference does that make?”

“They told me never to travel at night; it was to avoid doing so that I
stopped at Aschaffenburg.”

“That was when you were alone, and travelling in a public carriage.”

“I do not, however, see any necessity for such haste,” she said quietly,
“and, therefore, if you have no objections, I should greatly prefer
waiting until morning.”

“But I have an objection, and you will greatly oblige me by leaving
to-night.”

“I suppose you have some very good reason for what appears to me a most
unnecessary exercise of the power which chance has given you over me?”

“I _have_ a reason,” began Hamilton, and there he stopped. How could he
tell her that he had recognised his own coat-of-arms on a carriage in
the yard—that he had questioned the _courier_, who was unpacking it, and
discovered that the same uncle who had been in Salzburg the year before,
was now on his way to Baden-Baden with his wife and daughters; that he
dreaded their discovering Hildegarde’s being with him, feared the
ungenerous conclusions they might draw from her present position; and
that, to avoid a chance meeting, he had wandered about the least
frequented streets, until the shades of evening, and the certainty of
their being engaged at the tea-table, had enabled him to pass their
apartments, with the hope of not being discovered. To attempt an
explanation with Hildegarde would be sufficient to make her insist on
his leaving her instantly; his only chance was to use his personal
influence and try to persuade her to leave Frankfort that night, before
they had been seen—before the “strangers’ book” had given rise to any
inquiries about them.

“Well,” said Hildegarde, “I have surely a right to hear your reason?”

“Right! Oh, if we talk of rights, it is you alone who should name the
day and hour of departure—you alone who have a right to dictate; but I
was asking a favour, I wish most particularly to be in Mayence at a very
early hour to-morrow.”

“And if we leave at three or four o’clock in the morning, will not that
be early enough?”

Hamilton looked only half satisfied.

“I do not like the appearance of going off at night in so sudden and
mysterious a manner—not even—with you,” said Hildegarde, candidly.

“Perhaps you are right—but at three o’clock in the morning if the
exertion be not too great.”

“Oh,” said Hildegarde, laughing, “you will find it more difficult to be
ready than I shall.”

“Not to-morrow,” said Hamilton; “I shall be at your door waiting for
you, even before the clock strikes.” And in the morning, when she opened
her door, there he stood. He unconsciously stepped lighter as he passed
the rooms containing his sleeping relations. Hildegarde pointed to them,
and said they were occupied by English people; she had seen them arrive
the day before, had passed them on her way down stairs, and, while still
talking of the grey man and the veiled lady, Hamilton hurried her into
the carriage and they drove off.


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XLVI.

                                 HALT!


IT was still early when Hildegarde and Hamilton reached Mayence; so
early, that, after lingering over their breakfast an unusually long
time, the latter said he would make some inquiries about the Baroness
Waldorf, and Hildegarde could go to her at a later hour. After a very
short absence he returned, and throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed,
“Well, certainly this is the most unaccountable conduct!”

“What is the matter?” asked Hildegarde, turning very pale, “has she left
Mayence too?”

“Yes—gone again; and without leaving any message for you!”

“There must be some extraordinary mistake or confusion either on her
part or Hortense’s! I could almost agree with Count Zedwitz, and think
she was purposely avoiding me, if I had not read the letters which she
wrote—her hopes that we should be long together—her regrets that I was
not a few years older—her entreaties that Hortense would not let me
leave Munich until she had found some person to take charge of me: and
now to leave me to wander about after her in this way! So apparently to
forget my existence! It is quite incomprehensible!”

“She has gone to Waldorf,” said Hamilton, “and a—Waldorf is not far from
Coblentz.”

“You surely would not advise me to pursue her farther!” cried
Hildegarde, indignantly.

“Oh, no! I have advised, and still advise you to go home.”

“And yet I shall make one effort more, though most unwillingly,” said
Hildegarde; “I should be ashamed to go home after a wild-goose chase of
this kind; I must know at least what to say to my relations. Suppose I
were to write to the Baroness, and await her answer here? That will—that
must explain everything.”

“Write,” said Hamilton, “and we can take it to the post ourselves, when
we go out with a _valet de place_, who must show us everything worth
seeing. I dare say we can spend two or three days very pleasantly here.”

“I shall be dreadfully in your debt!” observed Hildegarde, blushing.

“Not at all,” said Hamilton, with the most serious face imaginable. “You
have more than enough money for all your expenses here, though perhaps
not quite enough to take you home.”

The letter was written, and they sallied forth, preceded by a loquacious
_valet de place_, to whose remarks, after the first five minutes, they
did not pay the slightest attention.

When they were returning to the hotel, by a newly-made walk along the
banks of the Rhine, Hildegarde stopped to look at a new and
beautifully-built steamboat, on which there was a placard hung up to say
that she would sail the next morning for Cologne.

“Should you like to see the interior, Hildegarde?”

“Oh, of all things!” and the steamboat was examined with a degree of
curiosity, interest, and admiration, of which those accustomed to the
sight from infancy can form no idea. The captain of the ship, who
happened to be on board, attracted probably by her appearance, had every
drawer and cupboard opened for her inspection, and Hamilton was
beginning to find his explanations rather long and tiresome, when he
suddenly concluded them by hoping that she was to be one of his
passengers the next day.

“We have not yet quite decided,” said Hamilton, laughing at her
embarrassment; “though I do not,” he added, turning to her, “I do not in
fact see what there is to prevent us.”

“We shall have fine weather,” observed the captain, “and shall be in
Cologne in good time in the evening.”

“I don’t think we could do better, Hildegarde,” said Hamilton, in a low
voice in English.

“I am afraid it would be improper—wrong, without any object but
amusement! just consider for a moment.”

“I cannot,” said Hamilton, “see any greater impropriety in your passing
a day or two in a crowded steamboat, than at a hotel along with
me—rather less, perhaps, but I deny the impropriety altogether, when I
take into consideration that I have been one of your family for the last
year, and that you have learned so completely to consider me a
friend—almost a relation.”

“That is true,” said Hildegarde, “but still——”

“Then,” continued Hamilton, “you cannot have an answer to your letter
for three days at least—we shall be back just in time to receive it.
Whether we pass to-morrow night at Cologne or Mayence, is quite
unimportant, and I should like to show you the Rhine scenery. Let it be
hereafter associated in your mind with your recollections of me!”

This last sentence was pronounced half pathetically, half beseechingly,
and Hildegarde made no further opposition to a plan which accorded but
too well with her own inclinations.

We will spare our readers the description of the impression made on her
by the Rheingeau, Johannisberg, the Lurlei, Coblentz, Rolandseck, the
Drachenfels, etc., etc., etc.

“What a pretty room!” said Hildegarde to Hamilton, who had followed her
up the stairs of the Hôtel Bellevue at Deutz. “What a pretty room! We
have a complete view of the Rhine, and quite overlook the garden. I
really should like to stay here a week—if I dared.”

“I have no objection,” said Hamilton, laughing, “though I have just
heard there are so many princes and serene highnesses in the house that
I must sleep on the sofa in this room, if you have no objection; for
only this and the bedroom adjoining are to be had.”

The waiter entered the room just at this moment to inquire if M. and
Madame would sup there, or at the _table d’hôte_.

“Here,” said Hamilton, and he blushed deeply, as he turned to
Hildegarde, who was sitting on the window stool, but no longer looking
at the Rhine, or into the garden—she had fixed her eyes on the door as
the waiter closed it, and with parted lips and slightly contracted
brows, seemed expecting to hear more.

“You look quite shocked at that man’s stupid mistake,” said Hamilton,
with affected carelessness.

“It was not a stupid mistake; it was a very natural conclusion.”

“You mean on account of the rooms, perhaps? Don’t let that annoy you,
for you shall have undisturbed possession of both—I dare say I can get a
bed at one of the inns at the other side of the river—indeed, I should
have proposed it at once, only I did not like to leave you here alone.”

“I am afraid you will think me very selfish,” said Hildegarde.

“Not at all.”

“Unnecessarily prudish, then?”

“Rather.”

“You are right,” she said with a sigh, “after having gone off with you
in this—this very—thoughtless manner, any attempt at prudery is
preposterous—ridiculous! There is, in fact, nothing to prevent your
sleeping in this room, if you do not fear the sofa being too
uncomfortable.”

“There _is_ something to prevent me,” said Hamilton, “and that is, you
do not wish it. I will go at once across the bridge, and if there be any
room to be had, not quite at the other end of the town, I shall not
return until morning.”

“But had you not better wait until after supper?”

“It is scarcely advisable, for at this time of the year there are so
many travellers, that nothing in the neighbourhood may be to be had; and
you know we start early.” While he spoke, however, the waiter appeared
with the tray containing their supper, and half blushing, half laughing,
they sat down together, and between talking and eating, in the course of
a few minutes, forgot all about the matter.

It was the waiter, the “stupid man,” who was again to remind them of the
impropriety of their conduct. He had returned to say that the band of
one of the regiments at Cologne would play in the garden—perhaps Madame
would like a table and chair to be kept for her?

Hamilton did not venture to look at his companion, as he refused the
offered civility, but snatching up his hat, hurried away as fast as he
could.

But he returned, and very soon too, and great was his annoyance to find
Hildegarde already in her room, and the door closed; he walked backwards
and forwards, not very patiently or quietly, for about ten minutes, and
then knocked.

“Good night,” said Hildegarde.

“I am sorry to tell you that I have not been able to find a room,
excepting in a very out-of-the-way place: as the packet leaves so early,
and I am so apt to be late, I thought it better to ask you what I should
do?”

“I am very sorry,” began Hildegarde.

“So am I,” said Hamilton, “but as it cannot be helped, I think you might
just as well come out here for an hour, and talk over our journey back.”

“I am going to bed; I am tired.”

“Have you any objection to my smoking a cigar, if I open the window?”

“None whatever, you may smoke a dozen if you like.”

He opened the window and leaned out to watch the gay scene which was
passing below him. The garden was crowded with guests, and well lit with
candles, protected from the wind by glass globes; the murmuring of
voices, and gay laughter reached him, and had he not still entertained a
faint hope of seeing Hildegarde again, he would have joined the
revellers, not in the hope of actual enjoyment, but to banish thoughts
which were crowding thick upon him, and producing a state of nervous
irritation most unusual to him. He felt so provoked at Hildegarde’s
tranquil, friendly manner; it contrasted so painfully with his own state
of feverish uncertainty, that the jealous vision of Zedwitz unrepulsed,
rose, more and more distinctly before him. Would not the situation of
governess be intolerable to one of her proud nature?—and after having
tried it, would she not joyfully accept the hand of Zedwitz, who, she
said, “loved her better than anyone ever did—better than she deserved?”
These thoughts at length became intolerable, and with one bound he was
again at her door.

“Hildegarde, the band is beginning to play in the garden; will you not
come to listen to it?”

“No, thank you.”

“But you have not yet gone to bed, I hope?”

There was no answer audible.

“You have not yet gone to bed? I want to speak to you—open the door, I
beg—I entreat.”

“Whatever you have to say can be said to-morrow just as well as now.”

“I should rather say it now.”

“And I should rather hear it to-morrow.”

Hamilton knew her too well to persevere, and returned again to his
window, where he remained for more than an hour, unconscious of
everything passing beneath him, and merely hearing a confused sound of
instruments, which had the effect of producing an almost painful feeling
of fatigue. He closed the window, and looked rather despondingly round
the room, which, as a dormitory, promised but few comforts, he
extinguished the candles, and then threw himself at full length upon the
sofa: he had been thinking intensely, and as he lay there in the
darkened chamber, he resolved that another night should not find him in
his present state of uncertainty; and why should he endure it now? Why
not know his fate at once? He would insist on Hildegarde’s listening to
him, and answering him too! Starting up, his eyes were instantly
rivetted on a line of bright light visible under her door; she was still
awake; up perhaps. He knocked, and observed in a low voice, as he leaned
against the door, “Hildegarde, I cannot sleep!”

“I am so sorry!” she answered—“the sofa, I suppose——”

“Yes, the sofa,” said Hamilton.

“I wish,” she said, coming toward the door, “I wish I could resign this
room to you, but——”

“There is no necessity; give me some of the pillows which you do not
want, and I shall be quite comfortable.”

“How stupid of me not to have thought of that before!” she exclaimed,
opening the door. “When you were absent I could have arranged
everything, but the fact is, I have been for the last two hours
_thinking_—really thinking, more than I have ever done in my life!”

“So have I,” said Hamilton, quite overlooking the pillows she was
collecting for him. “Suppose we compare thoughts?”

“Not now, to-morrow.”

“Now, now; this very instant,” he said, seating himself on the sofa, and
motioning to her to take the place beside him. She shook her head, and
continued standing.

“What on earth do you mean by this reserve—this unusual prudery?” he
continued, moving towards the side against which she was leaning.

“Nothing,” she said, drawing back, “I only think it would be better to
defer anything you wish to speak about until to-morrow, it is so late—so
very late.”

“This is not the first time we have been together at midnight,” said
Hamilton, laughing; but as he spoke she blushed so deeply, that he
added, seriously, “When there was any impropriety in it, I told you; you
may believe me now, when I tell you there is none!”

“You are not quite infallible, I fear,” she said sorrowfully, “for you
did not see any impropriety in my travelling alone with you here, and I
now both see and feel it, and shall regret it all my life!”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Hamilton. “Have I ever said or done
anything——”

“Oh, no, never—never!” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him.

“Then why withdraw your confidence from me, if I have not done anything
to forfeit it?”

“I have the same confidence in you I ever had,” she answered, with a
sigh; “but I——have unfortunately lost all confidence in myself!”

“How do you mean?”

“I have discovered that it was not a wish to see the Rhine or be in a
steamboat which made me leave Mayence with you.”

“And what was it, then?” cried Hamilton, eagerly.

“It was the desire to be with you—to enjoy your society undisturbed for
a few days before we parted forever!”

“Not forever,” said Hamilton.

“I am ashamed to think how easily I allowed myself to imagine that I
ought to follow this Baroness Waldorf to Mayence, still more so to think
how soon I stifled my scruples about coming here—and so effectually,
too, that the whole obvious impropriety never struck me until this
evening, when the waiter——”

“Was guilty of the horrible supposition that you were my wife! Would
that be so dreadful?” asked Hamilton.

“The waiter showed me by this simple remark,” she continued, without
noticing his interruption, “that I ought never to have been with you as
I have been under any other circumstances, and I felt condemned at once.
I must return home to my step-mother.”

“Perhaps for a couple of years, it would be the best thing you could
do,” said Hamilton.

“To my step-mother or—to Mademoiselle Hortense?” she said, musingly, as
she seated herself on a chair, and unconsciously moved it towards him.
“Of course I have given up all idea of going to the Baroness Waldorf.”

“I am glad to hear it. I never liked the plan.”

“And I am so sorry to be obliged to give it up!”

“Do not regret it—it would not have answered. I never saw anyone for
whom the situation of governess was less eligible, notwithstanding your
excellent education and extraordinary talent for languages.”

“Eligible!” repeated Hildegarde. “You are right. I am no longer
eligible—I am no longer fit to direct the education of—of any girl!”

“I hope you will never speak to anyone else in this manner,” said
Hamilton, gravely. “You would make people suppose you had been guilty of
some serious misdemeanor.”

“I have been guilty of a misdemeanor,” said Hildegarde, despondingly,
“and one which I should think it necessary to confess to the Baroness
Waldorf before I entered her house; having done so, I conclude she would
refuse to resign her daughter to my care. To avoid the merited
mortification, I shall go home, tell everything to Hortense, and be
guided by her advice for the next year or two. And now,” she added, “I
have only one thing more to observe, and that is, that we ought to
repair our thoughtlessness as well as we can, or, rather, avoid a
continuation of it, by separating at once. I shall return to Mayence
to-morrow, and you must go on to England.”

“I will go to—Scotland, if you will go with me, Hildegarde,” said
Hamilton. “Don’t be angry, I am not joking. I have listened to the
subject of your two hours’ meditation, and now I expect you to listen to
mine.” And he entered into a long and, all things considered, not very
prejudiced exposition of the state of his affairs—informed her of the
£5,000 pounds which he should inherit in two years, and after hoping
that they could contrive to buy something and live somewhere with that
sum, ended, as he had begun, by proposing her going with him to
Scotland, and then returning to her mother until he could claim her
altogether.

She listened in silence, the expression of deep attention changing by
degrees into surprise and perplexity. It was the first time that the
idea of a marriage with him had entered her mind; she had taught herself
to consider it so completely an impossibility that his occasional
outbursts of passion or tenderness had ceased to make any impression on
her. Ashamed of the confession which she had so ingenuously made to him
just before, and not prepared for the sudden change of feelings which
his words produced, she turned away, and when he paused for an answer,
did not even make an attempt to speak.

As Hamilton waited in vain for an answer, his former doubts became
certainties—she liked, but did not love him. With a difficulty in
utterance, in strong contrast to his former fluency, he now stammered
out his hopes that he had not deceived himself as to the nature of her
feelings towards him.

“No—oh no,” answered Hildegarde, but without turning round.

“And you do or will try to love me sufficiently to——”

“Why force me to make unnecessary confessions,” she said, with a deep
blush; “rather let me ask you when you heard that you would inherit this
fortune which makes you independent. In Frankfort, perhaps?”

“No,” replied Hamilton, “I knew it when I was a child, and considered it
then, though not quite a fortune, certainly a very large sum of money.”

“And is it not a very large sum of money?”

“For a boy to buy playthings and ponies, yes; but for a man to live
upon——” he paused; there was too much intelligence in her eager glance.

“For a man,” she said, “brought up as you have been, it is probably too
little—nothing!”

“Not so,” cried Hamilton, quickly. “With my present ideas and feelings
it is a competence—it is all I require—all I wish.”

“You could then have married Crescenz if you had desired it?” she said,
slowly.

“I could never have loved her well enough to induce me to make the
sacrifice——”

“The sacrifice! And it is great—very great, perhaps?”

“It ceases to be one when made for you.”

“And you have only lately—only very lately, perhaps, been able to
resolve on this sacrifice?”

“Let me use your own words, Hildegarde. Do not force me to make
unnecessary confessions,” said Hamilton, blushing more deeply than she
herself had done.

She leaned on the table, and bent her head over her hands. Hamilton felt
very uncomfortable. “I expected,” he said, at length, with some
irritation, “I expected that this explanation would have been
differently received.”

“I wish,” she answered, “it had never been made. I would rather have
remembered you as I thought you—dependent on your father’s will—having
no option.”

“This is too much!” cried Hamilton, starting from the sofa, and striding
up and down the room. “I have fallen in your esteem when—but you do not
understand.”

“Probably not quite, but this is evident to me, the sacrifice must be
something enormous—beyond what I can imagine—or you would not have
hesitated so long, for—I think—yes—I am sure you—love me.”

Hamilton stopped opposite to her, and exclaimed, “Oh, Hildegarde, how
can you torture me in this manner!”

“I would rather torture myself,” she said, “but,” and she looked at him
steadily, “but I must nevertheless tell you that I cannot, will not,
accept your sacrifice!”

“Then, Hildegarde, you do not love me,” he cried impetuously.

“Do I not? Can you not see that I am giving the greatest proof of it of
which I am capable? Can you not believe that I, too, can make a
sacrifice?”

“I understand and appreciate your motives better than you have done
mine,” he answered. “Wounded pride is assisting your magnanimity. You
are mortified at my having hesitated—deliberated—it was prudent,
perhaps, but I am heartily sorry for it now. I see it has made you so
control your thoughts and inclinations that friendship, and not love, is
all I have obtained for an affection deserving something more—if you
knew but all——” he paused; but as Hildegarde made no attempt to speak,
he continued, “I thought, when we met at Aschaffenburg, I hoped, from
what you said just now—that—Hildegarde!” he cried vehemently, “you
require too much from me; spoiled by adulation, you expect me, without a
struggle, to change my nature, my habits, and my manners! I cannot rave
like your cousin——”

Hildegarde became deadly pale, she tried to speak, and moved her lips,
but no sound issued from them.

“Nor,” he continued, still more vehemently; “nor can I bear repulses,
like Zedwitz!”

Hamilton heard her murmur the words “ungenerous—unjust.”

“Forgive me, Hildegarde; I spoke in anger, and am sorry for it—I ought
not to have named your cousin—can you forgive me?”

She held out her hand in silence.

“Now,” he said, seating himself beside her, “don’t let us ask each other
any more questions, or talk any more of sacrifices; but, like a dear
love, you will promise to go to England with me to-morrow! won’t you?”

She remained silent, her eyes cast down, while she slowly shook her
head.

“You will not?”

“I dare not,” she answered, gently; but observing him again about to
start up, she laid her hand on his arm, and continued, “Do not ask me to
do what may cause us both unhappiness hereafter. I will enter into an
engagement with you on reasonable terms.”

“Oh—on reasonable terms!” he repeated ironically.

“I cannot go on—you are too unkind,” she said, while the tears started
to her eyes.

A long and painful pause ensued. Hamilton broke it by saying, “Well,
what are your terms—anything is better than nothing—name them—I agree to
everything provided I may claim you in two years.”

“Even if you do not,” said Hildegarde, “I promise to forgive you.”

“And forget me too, perhaps,” said Hamilton, with a forced smile.

“That I—cannot promise; but it is of little consequence what concerns
me. You must return home for these two years, weigh well this sacrifice
which you must make; it will not be altogether a pecuniary one, for I
suppose there is not the slightest chance of obtaining the consent of
your family to our marriage; and as you spoke of residing in Germany, I
conclude you must give up all your relations and your country too?”

“Go on,” said Hamilton, without moving, or looking at her.

“I shall consider myself bound by a promise, which I now freely make, to
await your decision—you are free.”

“Go on,” he again repeated, as he had done before.

“What can you desire more?”

“Why, nothing, though I almost expected you to propose committing to
paper, in due form, this most rational ‘engagement on reasonable
terms,’” and he drew some paper towards him as he spoke, and took up a
pen; directly, however, throwing it down, he exclaimed passionately,
“Oh, Hildegarde, this will never do! Much as I admire your decision of
character, and freedom from the usual weaknesses of your sex, I—I did
hope—I do wish that for once you would be like a girl of your age! I am
ready, without regret, to leave all my relations and friends, give up
all my hopes of fame or success in life—expatriate myself forever——”

“I see, I understand now,” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him. “A man
has hopes of fame, expectations of success in life. We have nothing of
that kind, and, therefore, our love is perfectly exclusive,
all-absorbing.”

“Not yours,” said Hamilton, “though I confess I expected something of
the kind from you, some little enthusiasm at least; however, our
contract is made, irrevocably—even though I see and feel that your love
is of the very coldest description, in fact, scarcely deserving the
name.”

“Oh, why,” cried Hildegarde, with all her natural vehemence of manner,
“why is there no sacrifice that I can make to convince you that you are
mistaken! There is none I would not make, provided it were not injurious
to _you_.”

Hamilton shook his head and turned away.

“You do not believe me? Try me—ask any proof—anything.”

He started from his seat, walked to the window, threw it wide open, and
leaned as far out as he could in the night air.

All this was too much for Hildegarde, her efforts had been great to
conceal her feelings, and she perceived she had been misunderstood; her
sincere desire to act magnanimously had been treated with contempt;
Hamilton, whom she had learned to trust without reserve or examination,
was displeased, angry with her, perhaps. Perplexed, worried, and
wearied, she did at length, what it would have been better had she done
half an hour before: she covered her face with her handkerchief, and
burst into tears.

The moment Hamilton turned round and perceived that she was crying as
heartily as could be desired of any girl of her age, he forgot his anger
at her unexpected opposition to his wishes, and rushing towards her,
commenced an incoherent succession of excuses, entreaties, and
explanations. It would have been difficult for a third person to have
known what he meant; Hildegarde, however, seemed to understand him
perfectly. In a short time she began to look up, and smile again, and in
about a quarter of an hour they were discussing their future plans in
the most amicable manner imaginable. Once more Hamilton had recourse to
the pen and paper, but this time it was to make a sketch of the
peasant’s house near Hohenfels, which was to be their home two years
hence. He would write to the Z—s about it directly, or go to them; that
would be better still!

No; Hildegarde thought it would be wiser to wait until he could
purchase.

“We shall have cows, and calves, and all those sort of things, I
suppose?” said Hamilton.

“I should think so,” replied Hildegarde, very gravely.

“I wonder shall we be able to keep a pair of horses?” said Hamilton.

“Cart-horses? Perhaps we may,” answered Hildegarde, merrily.

“No; but seriously, Hildegarde, I should like to know how many servants
we shall have!”

“Very few, I suspect,” said Hildegarde, “and therefore, directly I
return to my mother, I shall endeavour to learn to be really useful.”

“But,” said Hamilton, “but these domestic details, which were so
disgusting to you—these vulgar cares——”

“All, all will now be full of interest,” said Hildegarde, laughing; “I
really feel as if I could even learn to cook!”

“No, no; I do not wish that, we shall certainly have a cook! A. Z.
seemed to think we could get on quite comfortably if we lived in the
country! I shall not at all mind going out with the plough if it be
necessary, and you—you can spin, you know; nothing I admire so much as a
graceful figure at a spinning-wheel; you shall have one made of ebony,
and—but can you spin?”

“Not yet, but I can easily learn, and in time, I dare say, we shall have
a whole press full of linen.”

“Oh, I am sure we shall get on famously; the Z—s are not at all
rich—rather poor, I believe, and they are so happy, and really live so
respectably—they will be our neighbours, and I am sure you will like
them.”

“I remember, I rather liked her at Seon, because she lent me books,”
observed Hildegarde.

“They will be society for us—that is, if we ever want any. Baron Z— is
very cheerful, and his wife is really a very sensible woman. She
understands housekeeping, and soap-making, and all that sort of thing,
and will be of great use to you, I am sure. Then I shall rent half their
alp, and send up our cows there in summer, and then we shall go to look
after them, and make little parties with the Z—s. I must tell you all
about that.”

And he did tell her all about that, and so many other things too, that
the night wore away—the candles burnt down, and as at length the flame
extinguished itself in the melted wax, they looked at each other in the
grey, cold light of breaking day!

The two days which Hamilton and Hildegarde passed in the Rhine
steamboat, on their return to Mayence, were the happiest of their still
so youthful lives. As they sat together, watching the beautiful windings
of the river, or glancing up the sides of the wooded mountains, the most
perfect confidence was established between them. The events of the last
year were discussed with a minuteness which proved either that their
memories were exceedingly retentive, or that the most trifling
circumstances of that period had been full of unusual interest to both.
Their confessions and explanations were not ended even when they reached
Mayence, where Hildegarde found a letter from the Baroness Waldorf. As
she gave it to Hamilton, she observed: “After what you told me this
morning, I can pardon, though I cannot approve of her conduct—she says,
however, that she wrote to Hortense to prevent my leaving Munich, and I
am glad of it, as it will save me from all explanations, and I can show
both my mother and Hortense this letter too; so everything has ended
just as we could have wished.”

“Yes,” said Hamilton, “and we will endeavour to believe all the
Baroness’s excuses—I dare say she has changed all her plans—and perhaps,
she may _not_ engage a governess for her daughter for a year or two; we
will also consent to her marriage with Zedwitz—to whom she is as
attached as such a person can be—though she is not likely to rise in his
estimation by the proof which she has given of her jealousy—but what do
you mean to do with this order on her banker at Frankfort—this
peace-offering which she so diffidently calls her debt?”

“I—should like very much—to return it,” said Hildegarde, hesitatingly.

“I thought so,” said Hamilton, “and in the meanwhile I can write to A.
Z., to let her know that if we are all alive in two years we shall be
together, and to request Baron Z— to enter into negotiations with that
Felsenbauer, the peasant on the rocks, as he is called. I shall tell A.
Z. to send you my journal: it may amuse you to read it, and in the
margin you must write whatever is necessary in explanation, or, in
short, whatever you think likely to interest us when we look it over at
the end of ten or twelve years. A journal, you know, like mine, is
marvellously improved by age!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Hamilton accompanied Hildegarde on her way home as far as she would
allow him—the last day’s journey she chose to be alone, and at
Ingolstadt they parted. For two years? Or for ever?


                         ---------------------




                             CHAPTER XLVII.

                              CONCLUSION.


THERE may be some, there may be many of my readers who would think that
Hamilton had been a “confounded fool,” were they to hear that, at the
appointed time, he braved the threats, resisted all the bribes of his
uncle, remitted his five thousand pounds to Munich, and returned to
Bavaria, with the intention there to live and die, “the world (_viz._,
London) forgetting, by the world forgot.” We do not wish him to fall in
the opinion of anyone, and therefore request all persons disposed to
entertain such an opinion of him, under such circumstances, to close
this book, and imagine he acted as they would have done in his place.
Often have vows as solemn as his been broken, and for the same mercenary
motives which might have tempted him; and if the world have not
applauded, it has at least not censured such derelictions in a manner to
deter others from practising them.

Suppose him, then, reader, (not gentle reader, for such would never
consent to the supposition,) suppose him at the end of two years, a
man of the world, or a worldly man, whichever you please, Hildegarde
not exactly forgotten, but remembered only as a “beautiful girl with
whom he had been at one time so much in love as to have entertained
the absurd idea of rusticating with her on a couple of hundred pounds
per annum in the Bavarian Highlands!” Suppose him attached to some
embassy, young, handsome, and rich, the chosen partner of all still
dancing princesses! Or suppose we put an end to Uncle Jack at once,
and allow Hamilton, without further delay, to inherit a fortune which
would give him a position in the London and Yorkshire world; if you
wish it, we can double his income too—in books, fifty or sixty
thousand a year is quite a common thing, and as to old uncles, they
are only mentioned in order that they may die, just when their fortune
is necessary to the happiness or comfort of younger or more
interesting persons. Suppose——Suppose——Suppose you close the book, as
before recommended, for nothing of this kind occurred. Uncle Jack (who
in his youth had taken a trip to Gretna Green) might have pardoned his
nephew’s “loving not wisely, but too well;” but he neither would do
so, nor would he die, and so Hamilton, after having listened to his
father’s reproaches and expostulations, endured his brother’s sneers,
and steadily set at defiance his uncle’s anger, returned to Munich and
claimed his bride, of whose coldness or want of enthusiasm he was
never afterward heard to complain.

Felsenbauer’s little property was purchased, and Hans, after having
officiated as Hamilton’s “gentleman” for two years in England, returned
to his primitive occupation of directing the plough—not quite, indeed,
with the satisfaction of a Cincinnatus, for years elapsed before he
ceased to regret his fallen greatness, or to expatiate to his few
ignorant fellow-servants on the splendors of his master’s home.

Hamilton resigned himself more cheerfully than his servant to his change
of fortune; he never spoke of home, with which his communication became
very indirect and uncertain from the time his sister had married and
gone to reside in the north of Scotland. His brother John seldom wrote,
his father and uncle never; he made no effort to conciliate the latter,
not even taking advantage of the occasions, which presented themselves
at a later period, of requesting him to become a godfather to a little
Jack or a little Joan. He became a good farmer, a keen sportsman, and so
celebrated as a rifle shot, that he was feared as a competitor at all
the _Scheiben-Schiessen_ in the neighbourhood. He generally wore a
mountaineer’s dress—perhaps because it was comfortable, perhaps, also,
because it was becoming; and in the course of a few years his family
would scarcely have recognised him in the vigorous, sunburnt man, whose
very features were changed in expression by his altered mode of
life—energy and strength had taken the place of ease and gracefulness.
A. Z. pronounced the change advantageous, and often said it would have
been difficult to have found a more picturesquely bandit-looking figure
than his when, on a return from the hunt, he sprang on the rocky path
leading to his mountain home, his slouched hat shading the upper, as
much as his long moustache the lower part of his face.

As to Hildegarde, the calm, contented tenor of her life preserved her
beauty in so remarkable a manner, that Hamilton seriously believed she
grew handsomer every year; they and the Z—s almost lived together, no
summer heat or winter storm kept them asunder; their alpine parties, and
sledging expeditions to the neighbouring balls were made together, and
many a little adventure is still remembered by both families, with a
mixture of amusement and regret—regret that those times are
past—gone—never to return again.

At the end of eight years Uncle Jack, unsolicited, relented, and
Hamilton was recalled. Can it be believed that for some days he
hesitated to obey the mandate? that Hildegarde wept bitterly for the
first time since her marriage? But so it was. The offers which, ten
years before, would have filled their hearts with gratitude and joy,
were now accepted as a sacrifice made to the future prospects of their
children. A. Z. to the last insisted that she would be the greatest
sufferer of all. “In you,” she said, turning to Hildegarde, “I lose the
most patient and intelligent of listeners; in your husband, the most
attentive of friends; eight years’ intimate intercourse, such as ours
has been, has made you both so completely a part of our family, that,
knowing how much we shall miss you, Herrmann and I have at length come
to the long protracted, desperate resolution of leaving Hohenfels; we
ought to have done so long ago, on account of the education of our
children.”

“Oh, no, don’t leave Hohenfels; we shall be sure to return here next
year—every summer!” cried Hamilton and Hildegarde, almost together.

But they have not returned, nor are they likely to do so. The revolution
which commenced in Germany, in the year 1848, is still in progress; to
foretell how, or when it will end, would be difficult; this much is,
however, certain, that Bavaria is not likely to be soon again (if ever)
as tranquil and happy as when these pages were first written; _then_ the
most intelligent peasant would have refused to leave his waltz, his pot
of beer, or his joyous _jodel_, for the sake of any newspaper that ever
was printed, or even to hear a political discussion between the
schoolmaster and the parish priest! Great is the change which has taken
place in this respect; without any law to control the liberty of the
press, newspapers of the worst tendency now circulate in all directions,
and the peasant reads, thinks, and talks more of politics than of his
crops, and naturally feels inclined to adopt opinions calculated to
elevate him in his own estimation, and draw those down to his level whom
he had formerly considered far above him. In order to appreciate the
importance of this change, my countrymen must remember that in Germany
the peasantry is the army.

Hohenfels is sold. Baron Z—found the brewery more expensive than
profitable, when his visits of inspection were limited to an occasional
week or ten days. He is half inclined to purchase Hamilton’s house,
which still remains, shut up and uninhabited; presenting, as A. Z.
observed in her last letter, the perfect picture of a deserted house,
with all its “garden flowers growing wild.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

“After all, Hildegarde,” said Hamilton, one morning, as they looked out
of the breakfast-room window into his uncle’s handsome domain, “after
all, if we could conjure a few of your mountains, with some chamois upon
them, here, I believe I could again prefer England to Germany—that is,
in my present position—a poor man really can enjoy life in Germany—it is
only a rich one who could do so in England!”




                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).







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