“What did you say?”
“Very little. That it was a melancholy affair altogether. That Oscar had possessed some good and many brilliant qualities, but that, had he lived, I feared he was not calculated to have made Marie happy.”
“Did she agree with you?”
“More than I wished. She said, that after the first month she had endeavoured to draw back, but that the Raimunds had not allowed her. She had long perceived that Oscar did not care for her daughter, and had suspected that I was the object of his love, and that I returned it too, but she said she was now convinced of her error, and begged my pardon for her unjust suspicion.”
“And you?”
“I pardoned her without difficulty, as you may suppose. Indeed, Oscar’s conduct must have alarmed and irritated any reasonable mother. Marie’s blindness has been incomprehensible to me.”
“You forget that love is blind.”
“Yes, to faults, but not to flagrant neglect.”
“To weaknesses, faults, ill usage, to everything,” said Hamilton.
“I suppose it is so,” said Hildegarde, thoughtfully. “Marie certainly was blind to all his errors, and will probably ever remain so. I was dazzled myself at first, as you may remember.”