“She did receive it, I am sure she did—it was the letter which—Oh, Mademoiselle Rosenberg, do not remain here any longer—return to your relations, return with me now—at once.”
Hildegarde blushed intensely.
“I shall send my servant with the carriage,” he added quickly, “and we can travel in the diligence, or in any way you please.”
“You are very kind,” said Hildegarde, “but I consider myself engaged to this Baroness Waldorf, and until I hear from her——”
“You will not hear from her, you will never hear from her!” he cried, impatiently, “and I must leave you; I cannot, dare not delay my return home now!”
Again Hildegarde blushed, she endeavoured to name Hamilton, but the words died on her lips, and her confusion increased every moment. Some people began to stray into the room, and Zedwitz added in an agitated whisper: “God forgive me for thinking of anything but my father when he is lying on his death-bed; the peculiarity of our position must be my excuse for telling you at such a time, that my feelings toward you are unchanged, unchangeable. Return to your family, and let me hope that time may so far overcome your dislike, or indifference, whichever it be——”
“Oh, Count Zedwitz, it is neither,” said Hildegarde, with evident effort. “I should be unworthy of such regard as you feel for me, were I not now to tell you that—I have—long—loved another.”
“Hamilton of course—I always feared it.”
Hildegarde was silent.
“If you are engaged to him, tell me so; it is the only means of effectually crushing all my hopes at once!”