Some days passed over remarkably tranquilly. Crescenz’s marriage was to take place in a fortnight, and she and Hildegarde had promised to be bridesmaids to Marie de Hoffmann the beginning of the ensuing week. Hildegarde made no further effort to warn Hamilton about her cousin; perhaps she now deemed it unnecessary, as the young men openly showed their mutual antipathy, and avoided even the most formal intercourse.
One fine afternoon, when Hamilton was about to drive out in his sledge, he perceived Crescenz hovering about him mysteriously. Major Stultz, who was in the room, seemed to embarrass her, but at length she murmured, in French, “I have something to say to you.”
“I have been aware of it for the last half hour, and have remained here on purpose to hear it,” said Hamilton.
“You always forget that Mr. Hamilton speaks German perfectly well, Crescenz,” observed Major Stultz. “I take it for granted you have no secret from me!”
“Oh, dear, no,” said Crescenz, with a slight laugh, “I always speak French when I am not thinking of anything in particular. You know for many years I never spoke any other language;” and while she spoke, she carelessly upset her work-basket, the contents of which rolled in all directions on the painted floor.
“Dear me! How awkward I am!” she exclaimed, half laughing, while Major Stultz, with evident difficulty, began to pick up the dispersed articles. “My scarlet wool is behind the sofa; Mr. Hamilton, will you be so kind——”
Hamilton moved the sofa. There was no scarlet wool, but a slip of paper dropped from Crescenz’s hand; he immediately took possession of it, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Thank you, thank you, I believe I have everything now. Oh, by-the-by, Mr. Hamilton, if you have time, I wish you would call on Lina Berger, and ask her why she has not been here since the ball?”
Hamilton hesitated.
“Tell her my wedding-day is fixed, and I want to consult her about my veil. You will go to her, I hope?”
“If—you—wish it—but——”