“I wish,” she answered, “it had never been made. I would rather have remembered you as I thought you—dependent on your father’s will—having no option.”
“This is too much!” cried Hamilton, starting from the sofa, and striding up and down the room. “I have fallen in your esteem when—but you do not understand.”
“Probably not quite, but this is evident to me, the sacrifice must be something enormous—beyond what I can imagine—or you would not have hesitated so long, for—I think—yes—I am sure you—love me.”
Hamilton stopped opposite to her, and exclaimed, “Oh, Hildegarde, how can you torture me in this manner!”
“I would rather torture myself,” she said, “but,” and she looked at him steadily, “but I must nevertheless tell you that I cannot, will not, accept your sacrifice!”
“Then, Hildegarde, you do not love me,” he cried impetuously.
“Do I not? Can you not see that I am giving the greatest proof of it of which I am capable? Can you not believe that I, too, can make a sacrifice?”
“I understand and appreciate your motives better than you have done mine,” he answered. “Wounded pride is assisting your magnanimity. You are mortified at my having hesitated—deliberated—it was prudent, perhaps, but I am heartily sorry for it now. I see it has made you so control your thoughts and inclinations that friendship, and not love, is all I have obtained for an affection deserving something more—if you knew but all——” he paused; but as Hildegarde made no attempt to speak, he continued, “I thought, when we met at Aschaffenburg, I hoped, from what you said just now—that—Hildegarde!” he cried vehemently, “you require too much from me; spoiled by adulation, you expect me, without a struggle, to change my nature, my habits, and my manners! I cannot rave like your cousin——”
Hildegarde became deadly pale, she tried to speak, and moved her lips, but no sound issued from them.
“Nor,” he continued, still more vehemently; “nor can I bear repulses, like Zedwitz!”