“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.”