“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?”