CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE ARRANGEMENT.
After the interment of Mr. Rosenberg, some time passed over in melancholy monotony. Madame Rosenberg employed herself principally in the inspection and arrangement of papers; Hildegarde wandered about the house, endeavouring in an absent manner to make herself useful. She even tried to assist the new cook, but her efforts were so entirely unsuccessful, that her mother begged she would desist, as she had no sort of talent in that line.
Mr. Rosenberg had been a kind husband and an affectionate father; Hamilton had invariably found him an agreeable companion, but his constant occupation in his office, and an inveterate habit of going out every evening, had made his society an occurrence of such rarity, that Hamilton in a short time became quite resigned to his loss; in fact, but for the mourning dresses, Hildegarde’s unconquerable dejection, and the never-failing tears of Madame Rosenberg, as she circumstantially related to every visitor the history of her husband’s illness and death, he would soon have forgotten that he had ever existed. He attended the college lectures, studied German with his friend Biedermann, rode, walked, in short, continued all his former occupations, with the exception of his quarrels with Hildegarde—these had now entirely ceased; he obeyed her slightest directions, anticipated her wishes with a sort of quiet devotion so completely directed to her alone, but so unobtrusive, that Madame Rosenberg failed to observe more than that they had learned to live peaceably in the same house together, and praised them both more than once for having ceased their silly and useless quarrels.
One day, about the beginning of April, Hildegarde recalled him just as he was about to leave the house, saying that her mother wished to speak to him; he laughingly demanded if the probably not very important communication could not be deferred to another day, as he had promised to meet some friends at Tambosi’s in the Hofgarten. Hildegarde gravely shook her head, and said she believed her mother was waiting for him.
“What a bore!” he exclaimed, striding along the passage; “I suppose I shall be detained half an hour to hear a lecture about having forgotten to extinguish the candles last night, or having burned my boots on the stove! I really wish, Hildegarde, you would give your new cook instructions about my room—it is not at all necessary that your mother should be informed every time an accident occurs there.”
Madame Rosenberg was sitting at an old-fashioned scrutoire furnished with innumerable diminutive secret and apparent drawers; she had a small packet of bills beside her, and various heaps of money before her. When Hamilton entered, she immediately moved back her chair, and pointed to another beside her, which she wished him to occupy. Now that Hamilton had already become a little spoiled by Madame Rosenberg’s indulgence, praises, and deference to his opinion, he had learned to like her and even overlook her vulgarity; but in proportion as his affection had increased his respect had decreased, and like the spoiled son of a weak mother, he now stood leaning against the door, refusing with an impatient gesture the offered chair, and murmuring some unintelligible words about business and disappointments.
“I shall not detain you long,” said Madame Rosenberg, drawing out of her pocket an enormous linen handkerchief, and wiping away two large tears, which were obtrusively rolling down her cheeks. “I ought to have spoken to you long ago, but I have been thinking over and over the means of rendering my communication less disagreeable.”
“So,” cried Hamilton, closing the door, and advancing towards her, “so it is not about the boots you are going to lecture me?”
“No,” she replied, half laughing, “though I must say——”