“Oh, don’t call them fortunate,” cried Hamilton; “age must be felt by everybody, though by some it may be borne cheerfully. Nothing is so disgusting as the affectation of youth in an old person. I consider it a positive misfortune to those who retain their youthful manners in old age! To grow old with dignity is not so easy as people imagine—I could write a pamphlet about it——”
“Pray do,” said Hildegarde, smiling, “I should like to learn to grow old—I—who have never really felt what it was to be young!”
“I am waiting to bid you good-night,” said Mr. Eisenmann at the door. “This is the last time I shall go the rounds, for I mean to resign my office to my daughter to-morrow—she locked all the doors, and bolted all the windows, for many a year before she was married!”
“He has just come in time,” said Hamilton, rising, “I believe I was getting very prosy.”
“And I very melancholy,” said Hildegarde.
The old man bade them good-night, and watched them gravely as they ascended the stairs and separated on the lobby.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
Madame Rosenberg took possession of her father’s house more quietly than had been expected; he resigned his keys and authority with a solemnity which quite subdued her, and a whole week elapsed before any extraordinary bustle was perceptible; at the end of that time a scrubbing, and washing, and painting began, which drove the old man to the neighbouring inn, and Hamilton into Munich, for some days. It was very disagreeable, but certainly the house appeared metamorphosed when it was at an end, and no complaints were heard, excepting a few faint murmurs from Mr. Eisenmann about the vine which was trained against the front of the house being covered with whitewash.
Hildegarde, to her infinite satisfaction, was not obliged to learn cooking—she had shown a too decided distaste and want of talent; she became, however, a tolerably expert ironer, and it was amusing to see Hamilton sitting, day after day, beside the table covered with heaps of linen, a volume of Schiller on the philosophy of Herder in his hand, reading aloud, in order (as he explained to Madame Rosenberg) to improve his German accent, about which his family had become very anxious of late, and from which he concluded they had some hopes of placing him at one of the German courts; however, he did not feel particularly interested on that subject, nor, indeed, on anything that had reference to the future; he lived from day to day, reckoning the time profitably or unprofitably spent, according to its having been or not having been spent in Hildegarde’s society; he might truly say with Proteus of Verona—