“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!”