“Get me a glass of water,” she said, moving unsteadily towards the refreshment-room, and sinking on a chair behind the door. She had become deadly pale, and was evidently suffering, but seemed determined to conquer the unusual weakness which threatened to overcome her.
When Hamilton again stood by her, he no longer felt angry; bending towards her he whispered, “If you repent any hasty promise which you may have made to your cousin, I shall be happy to be the bearer of any message or explanation.”
“Repent!” murmured Hildegarde, “no; I have promised, and I don’t repent; but you—you must not speak any more this evening to Oscar; he has apologised for his rudeness, and I know you are too generous ever to refer to the subject again.”
“But he spoke of some bribe—some favour,” began Hamilton.
“That is my affair, and not yours,” replied Hildegarde, rising as the dancers began to pour into the room. “And now take me to my father. After all,” she added, forcing a smile, “I believe I have wasted a great deal of genuine alarm on a pair of very worthless young men.”
“So it was not repentance about this promised favour, but anxiety about us, which has nearly caused you to faint?”
“Just so—my fears perhaps magnified the danger—but there was danger, more than you were aware of. Avoid my cousin,” she added, earnestly, “he is reckless now, but I trust better times are in store for him.” Though still fearfully pale, she walked steadily towards the end of the room where her father and mother were standing.
Raimund saw Hamilton leaving the room a few minutes afterwards, with hasty steps and a disturbed countenance. He looked after him and observed, with a sarcastic smile, to an acquaintance who was near him, “I have spoiled that Englishman’s supper; he is not likely to enjoy his pâté de foie gras or champagne under the orange-trees at Court to-night!”