Hamilton’s hours that day were winged; they flew past uneasily, like birds before an approaching storm. The afternoon, evening, and night came; Mr. Eisenmann dozed, Madame Rosenberg inspected her sleeping children, and Hildegarde and Hamilton for the first time sat gravely and silently beside each other; neither of them had courage to attempt the mockery of unconcerned conversation; each equally feared a betrayal of weakness, and it was a relief to both when the time for moving arrived. Mr. Eisenmann retired quietly to his room on the ground floor; Madame Rosenberg, after wishing Hamilton good-night, took the house-keys out of the cupboard and commenced her usual nightly examination of all the windows and doors. Hamilton sprang up the stairs, and watched at the door of his chamber until he heard Hildegarde separate from her mother and begin to ascend; he waited until she had deposited her candle and work-basket on the table in her room, and as she afterwards advanced to close the door, he called her out on the lobby, and said, hurriedly, “Hildegarde, I shall have no opportunity of speaking to you alone to-morrow, and must take advantage of this to ask you to forgive and forget all my faults and failings.”
“I cannot remember any,” said Hildegarde.
“You say so, but I know you think that I endeavoured to gain your affections without any fixed purpose. That is true—I mean, this was true until lately—but that is of no importance now. Then, I must confess I—I was not sorry for the unpleasant termination of the affair with Zedwitz. I now, too, see that I ought not to have come here with you, still less should I have endeavoured to make you jealous or——”
“Oh, I give you absolution for all,” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him, “and hope you will endeavour to forget how often you have seen me impatient or in a passion.”
“I have already forgotten it, and wish I could forget everything else besides that has occurred during the last eleven months. We have been eleven months together, have we not?”
“I believe so,” answered Hildegarde, thoughtfully. “It appears to me much longer; my life has been so different from what it was before that time, I feel almost as if I had known you eleven years.”
The sound of closing doors no longer distant made Hamilton whisper anxiously, “I shall not find it easy to part from you with becoming firmness before so many witnesses to-morrow, Hildegarde; still less should I have courage to entreat you once more to accept the little watch which you so unkindly returned to me last Christmas. Will you again refuse it?”
“No,” she replied, “although I should have greatly preferred something of less value; I only wish I had something to bestow in return; but I have nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“Stay,” said Hamilton, with some hesitation, “you have something which you value highly, though I do not know why; a little mysterious bauble, which I should like to possess.”
“Name it, and it is yours,” said Hildegarde, eagerly.