“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!”