“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: