“Even if you do not,” said Hildegarde, “I promise to forgive you.”
“And forget me too, perhaps,” said Hamilton, with a forced smile.
“That I—cannot promise; but it is of little consequence what concerns me. You must return home for these two years, weigh well this sacrifice which you must make; it will not be altogether a pecuniary one, for I suppose there is not the slightest chance of obtaining the consent of your family to our marriage; and as you spoke of residing in Germany, I conclude you must give up all your relations and your country too?”
“Go on,” said Hamilton, without moving, or looking at her.
“I shall consider myself bound by a promise, which I now freely make, to await your decision—you are free.”
“Go on,” he again repeated, as he had done before.
“What can you desire more?”
“Why, nothing, though I almost expected you to propose committing to paper, in due form, this most rational ‘engagement on reasonable terms,’” and he drew some paper towards him as he spoke, and took up a pen; directly, however, throwing it down, he exclaimed passionately, “Oh, Hildegarde, this will never do! Much as I admire your decision of character, and freedom from the usual weaknesses of your sex, I—I did hope—I do wish that for once you would be like a girl of your age! I am ready, without regret, to leave all my relations and friends, give up all my hopes of fame or success in life—expatriate myself forever——”
“I see, I understand now,” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him. “A man has hopes of fame, expectations of success in life. We have nothing of that kind, and, therefore, our love is perfectly exclusive, all-absorbing.”
“Not yours,” said Hamilton, “though I confess I expected something of the kind from you, some little enthusiasm at least; however, our contract is made, irrevocably—even though I see and feel that your love is of the very coldest description, in fact, scarcely deserving the name.”