“Have you ever seriously thought of taking such a step?”
“I believe I have talked more than thought on the subject. One thing I have resolved upon, and that is, to go as far as possible from home.”
“Should you like to go to a foreign country?”
“Foreign, as you understand the word—no, but I am not likely to have the power of choosing. Mademoiselle Hortense’s connections are all in Alsace, and my destination will probably be Strasburg.”
They walked on in silence, each absorbed in thoughts of no very agreeable description. As they drew near the house, Mr. Eisenmann came to meet them, accompanied by the Förster, who had begun to drop in regularly every evening, to drink a glass of beer with the old man. Hamilton greatly approved of the arrangement, as it left him at liberty to talk unreservedly in English to Hildegarde, who, however, would have preferred his absence, from the time that Hamilton had made her observe that his eyes were fixed upon her incessantly, and followed her wherever she went.
“This is the last evening you will be my housekeeper, Hildegarde,” said Mr. Eisenmann, as she pushed his arm-chair to the table, and placed his newspaper, which seemed to contain nothing but advertisements, beside the small brass lamp. “I can give you a good character, girl; you have a way with you that has made the people here obey you at once. She will make a good wife one of these days—eh, Mr. Hamilton? Eh, Förster Weidmann?”
Hildegarde smiled, and continued to perform her different evening duties. She gave her brothers their bread-and-milk, assisted the awkward maid-servant to arrange the supper-table, made the salad, carved the fowl, and presented each his plate with such quiet unobtrusiveness, that her motions were only apparent by the rustling of the large bunch of keys she was to resign to her mother the next day, but which now hung glittering in steel chains at her girdle à la châtelaine.
Hamilton had been agreeably surprised at finding Mr. Eisenmann by no means so illiterate as he had expected. On every subject relating to his trade he was perfectly well informed, and in other respects his opinions were those of a shrewd, intelligent man. He spent the greater part of each day at the Iron Works, his hands thrust into his pockets, a short and very brown meerschaum pipe between his teeth, and his eyes following the movements of his workmen; and sometimes, when provoked by their want of skill, or too dilatory movements, after a few impatient ejaculations, throwing aside his coat and working with them. In his house, too, Hamilton had now frequently seen him in his shirt-sleeves, without feeling any of the horror expected by Madame Rosenberg; in the evening he generally mounted a black silk nightcap, and when he had finished smoking his pipe and drinking his tankard of beer, and the Förster had taken leave, overcome by the fatigue of early rising and his daily exertions, he usually fell fast asleep, leaving his two companions to whisper, until the Scharwald clock struck nine, when wakening without any apparent effort, he sent them to bed, and retired for the night himself.
This evening—this last evening, as they choose to call it—the Förster showed no inclination to move, and his eyes now seemed to follow the motions of Hildegarde’s lips, as she murmured an occasional sentence to Hamilton; he tried in vain to join in their conversation, spoke of bringing his zither, proposed teaching them to play it, if they desired, and not finding either of them disposed to appreciate either his conversational or musical talents, he turned to the now drowsy old man, whom he contrived to waken completely by some reference to the eternal “good old times.”
“Pray, Hildegarde, turn away from that man,” said Hamilton, bending down to her, as she sat in one of the children’s low chairs beside him; “as long as he can look at you he finds it impossible to tear himself away—it is absolute cruelty—he is depriving Mr. Eisenmann of his sleep this evening. Unpardonably inconsiderate!” he added, almost angrily.