The Initials: A Story of Modern Life

It was the first Sunday in October, and Major Stultz had just driven up to the door in a carriage, which he had hired to take his betrothed and her family to the October fête. In order to increase Crescenz’s pleasure, he had promised to take the three boys also, and though Mr. Rosenberg had declared his intention to walk, their party was still uncomfortably large. Fritz in his cadet uniform mounted the box, fully convinced that the equipage had considerably gained in appearance by his presence, and the others were endeavouring to wedge in the children between them, when a servant came running to the door, bearing a message from Madame de Hoffmann, who offered a seat in her carriage to one of the young ladies, if they did not mind going a little later.

“Oh, dear,” cried Madame Rosenberg, “now really that’s very civil—before I have returned her visit, too! Hildegarde, you will accept that offer, of course; and to tell the truth, I am glad you do not leave home so soon; Mr. Hamilton has not returned from church, and I wish you to see that he gets his dinner comfortably served. I know you don’t mind being an hour or so later, and the races don’t begin until three o’clock.”

Hildegarde descended from the carriage, seemingly satisfied with the arrangement, and the others drove off. She stopped on her way upstairs at the first floor, and requested to see the Hoffmanns in order to thank them, and ask when they intended to leave. Mademoiselle de Hoffmann came to meet her, and took her hand eagerly, while she exclaimed: “Ah, I knew you would be the one to go with us. Your sister, of course, could not leave Major Stultz—but surely you will come in and stay here until we are ready to go—in fact we are ready now, and I am only waiting for my bridegroom, who is to accompany us—I do not know if you are aware that I, like your sister, am a bride.”

“I have heard so,” replied Hildegarde. “Mamma intends to offer her congratulations in form to-morrow.”

“I don’t like being congratulated,” said Mademoiselle de Hoffmann abruptly; “it would be better if people waited a year or so, until they knew how a marriage turned out. It is, after all, an awful sort of lottery for a woman, and if she draw a blank——but pray, come into the drawing-room; this is no place to discuss such subjects.”

“I am sorry to say that I have some arrangements to make at home, but I shall return as soon as possible.”

“Pray do,” said Mademoiselle de Hoffmann. “I may as well tell you that I have taken such a fancy to you, that I cannot help hoping that we are destined to be very good friends.”

“I hope so too,” replied Hildegarde with unusual warmth of manner, and laughing gayly. Hamilton passed the door at the moment, on his return from church, and seemed not a little surprised to find her bestowing so much friendliness on a person he had supposed nearly a stranger. Hildegarde followed him up the stairs, and on entering their apartments, took off her bonnet, and prepared to obey her mother’s directions by bringing in his dinner herself. Hamilton had already become accustomed to these attentions, and therefore her appearance—with a napkin pinned on her dress in the form of an apron, and carrying a little tureen of soup—by no means astonished him. Having placed it on the table, she walked to the window, took up a book, and began to read.

“Have you all dined?” asked Hamilton.

“Yes, and all are gone too,” replied Hildegarde.

“You don’t mean to say that you must remain at home?” asked Hamilton, turning round quickly.

“Oh, no, I am to go with the Hoffmanns.”

“How did you happen to make that arrangement?”

Hildegarde came towards him to explain, stood for a moment behind his chair, then seated herself at the table near him, and while performing her office of waiter, entered into an unusually unrestrained conversation. They talked long and gayly, Hamilton at length beginning to think he would prefer staying at home with her to going to the fête, and was actually as much annoyed as she was surprised, when the Hoffmanns’ servant announced the carriage, and said they were waiting for her.

The day was clear and warm, the sky cloudless, and of that deep blue almost unknown in England. The sun shone brightly on the groups of merry pedestrians, who still continued to pour out of the town and its environs, towards the Thérèsian meadows. Notwithstanding the warm sunbeams, each peasant carried under his arm an enormous red or yellow umbrella. Many were furnished with cloaks, and some were dressed in the mountain costume, with which Hamilton had become acquainted at Berchtesgaden; but, in strong contrast to their picturesque appearance, there were others from the plains, with their long coats almost reaching to their heels—two large buttons between their shoulders, as if to mark the waist, and broad-brimmed, low-crowned hats. The cloth of which these most ugly garments were made was good, and in many cases fine. The hats, too, were shining, and decorated with thick gold tassels, and even the most careless observer could not fail to remark the absence of any appearance of poverty.

Hamilton rode as fast as the crowd would permit, wishing, considerately, that all nurses and children had remained at home, and wondering what business they could have at an agricultural fête and races. Then he thought of Hildegarde—Hildegarde as he had last seen her, gay and unrestrained, laughingly giving her opinion of the Hoffmanns, and relating with what self-possession Mademoiselle de Hoffmann had spoken of her intended marriage; and then she had taken the half of his bunch of grapes with a sort of unconscious familiarity flattering from its rarity. He had for some time been aware of a change in her manner, and he now began to hope that a feeling of good-will towards himself had been the cause; in this, he was, however, partly mistaken—the reconciliation or explanation with her step-mother had mostly effected the change. She felt that she had been unjustly prejudiced against both, and, ever ready to act from impulse, she now went from one extreme to the other, and at once gave Madame Rosenberg credit for virtues which she scarcely possessed—blamed herself unnecessarily, and received any remains of severity on the part of her step-mother, as a deserved punishment for her former unwarrantable dislike. Madame Rosenberg had not been insensible to the alteration which had taken place—she had more than once observed to her husband, “That Hildegarde was really a warm-hearted girl, and not nearly so often in a passion as she used to be. There was nothing like a mother’s care to form a girl’s character; she now understood how to manage her, and expected in time to like her quite as well as Crescenz.”

Hamilton, on reaching the Thérèsian meadow, looked round for the object of his thoughts—in a crowd of eight or ten thousand persons, the search was not immediately successful. The royal family had long been on the tribune, and the King was distributing the last prizes as Hamilton arrived. A movement in the crowd soon after commenced, which denoted preparations for the races; Hamilton rode towards the place where the jockeys were assembled, but when there, his horse became suddenly restive—he shied, reared, pranced, leaped forwards and sideways, and Hamilton, had he not been a practised rider, would have found it no easy matter to keep his seat. At length the animal seemed to become aware of the power of his rider, for his capers ceased by degrees, and he merely bent his head and tore up the ground with his fore-foot. Hamilton was about to return to the interrupted inspection of the jockeys and their horses, when a voice close to him observed, “You seemed alarmed for the safety of your English friend, mademoiselle—ask him if he will not give his horse to our servant, and look at the races from the carriage.”

Hamilton turned quickly round, and found that these words had been addressed by Madame de Hoffmann to Hildegarde; he rode close up to the latter, and said in a low voice, “I have been looking for you in vain the last half-hour, and just as I had given up the search, I find myself beside you—pray, present me to your friends; you have made me really wish to be acquainted with them.”

Hildegarde complied with his request, while an officer, who was sitting opposite to her, and who was instantly recognised by Hamilton as the admirer of the candlesticks and coffee-pots in the brazier’s shop, waited for a moment and then said, “I hope you mean to include me; if you do not choose to allow me to come under the denomination of friend, you cannot refuse to admit my right to that of relation, and very near relation, too.”

Hamilton looked astonished, and Hildegarde coloured slightly as she laughingly added, “My cousin, Count Raimund.”

Hamilton bowed with apparent indifference; but all that Zedwitz had said of Count Raimund flashed across his mind; he now felt convinced that there was no doubt of his gaining admittance to the Rosenberg family, and on the most dangerous footing possible—as cousin! He himself knew from experience all the advantages of this relationship, and the unreserved intimacy which it permitted; and though he tried to convince himself that Count Raimund, being already engaged to Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, would have neither time nor opportunity to pay Hildegarde extraordinary attention, a feeling of incipient jealousy, to which, however, he gave in thought the name of disinterested friendship, took possession of his mind, and he turned with something more than curiosity, to examine this cousin, this Raimund, said to be so dangerous. He was a slight young man with rather regular features, his mouth alone remarkably handsome, though his lips were, perhaps, too red and full for a man, his eyes light blue, hair and moustache remarkably fair; his complexion, which varied with every passing emotion, sometimes almost pale, sometimes sanguine, gave an appearance of perpetual animation to a countenance which would otherwise have, perhaps, failed to interest at first sight. He immediately addressed Hamilton, spoke of England, hunting, horses, races—of English customs and sports, with such correctness that Hamilton could not help exclaiming, “You must have been a long time in England to understand these things so well!”

“My information is altogether acquired from reading,” replied Raimund, smiling, and evidently flattered at Hamilton’s remark; either encouraged by it, or the approving smiles of his companions, he gave a description of races in different countries, from the most ancient to the present day, discovering considerable information, well applied, but brought it forward with such ill-concealed arrogance that Hamilton, already predisposed to dislike him, was soon disgusted, and taking advantage of the first pause and some confusion among the bystanders, he suddenly and violently checked his horse, threw him on his haunches, and backing him out of the crowd, galloped across the field. The races began, and although the horses did not promise much, it was impossible not to feel in some degree interested; he crossed the field several times at full speed, and in doing so he passed and repassed the carriage in which Hildegarde sat, when having met some Englishmen with whom he was slightly acquainted, he began to talk to them not very far distant from her.

“My fair cousin follows with her eyes, and rather seems to admire her English friend,” said Raimund with a laugh. “He certainly is handsome, but I never saw more haughty manners or prouder looks in my life. How does he contrive to get on with step-mamma?”

“Exceedingly well,” answered Hildegarde. “She gives him occasional lectures on his extravagant habits, which he receives with the most perfect good temper; but they do not seem to have much effect. I rather think his parents must be very rich, although he never speaks on the subject, for they send him large sums of money, which he leaves at his banker’s, as he says, with the best intentions possible he can find no opportunity of spending it.”

“It seems the lectures on extravagance were scarcely necessary,” observed Raimund, with a slight sneer; “from your account, he is more disposed to hoard than spend.”

“And yet he is really generous,” cried Hildegarde, warmly. “Mr. Biedermann, who is giving him lessons in German, says that he has been munificent to him; and I know that he gave old Hans, only the other day, a complete suit of clothes for the winter, to keep him warm when he is sawing wood in the yard; not to mention a great many occurrences in our house, where, had he not been disposed to give, he would have acted quite differently.”

“You are eloquent in his praise,” said Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, “and will force me to think well of him; though, to tell the truth, I feel half inclined to agree with Oscar in thinking him proud. It is true, I have only seen him for a few minutes, and on a very restive horse; but the glance which he bestowed upon us all was more scrutinising than agreeable, and he certainly did appear to have a tolerably good opinion of himself.”

“I cannot dispute that point,” replied Hildegarde, laughing; “but I wish to do him justice when I can, as I am only by degrees getting over an inveterate dislike which I took to him at first sight, without any reasonable cause.”

“So,” exclaimed Raimund, “if that be the case, I am satisfied. It must, however, be extremely disagreeable to have such a Don Magnifico forced into one’s domestic circle. I wonder your father did not rebel; but of course he must do whatever your mother chooses.”

“Oh! papa, mamma, and Crescenz liked him from the first,” said Hildegarde. “I was the only person who quarrelled with him, because I imagined that he was laughing at us, or seeking amusement at our expense, while he considered himself far, far above us. On a nearer acquaintance, it is impossible not to think him agreeable, clever, and, I must say, perfectly unaffected.”

“My dear, if you continue in this strain,” said Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, laughing slyly, “you will force us to think you altogether in love with him!”

“By no means,” observed Raimund; “were that the case, she would be more reserved in her praise. I am rather disposed to think that this Englishman, by some unaccountable perversion of taste, must have given the preference to my other cousin. Come, confess, Hildegarde! As to his living in your house, and not taking a fancy to one or the other, the thing is absolutely and totally impossible.”

“I believe,” replied Hildegarde, “he—he rather admired Crescenz until she was engaged to be married to Major Stultz.”

“Then he admires her still, you may depend upon it.”

“Perhaps he does; it is difficult to know Crescenz, and not both admire and love her,” replied Hildegarde; “but at all events he has ceased to pay her any attention, and does not speak more to her than to me.”

“You may be sure he makes up for lost time when he sees her alone,” cried Raimund, laughing. “By Jove, I envy him his recent position; what capital fun to—to supplant that stout old major!”

“He never thought of such a thing,” cried Hildegarde, eagerly; “he explained at once that he could not marry.”

“Better and better,” said Raimund, laughing oddly, “he seems perfectly to know what he is about.”

“I don’t understand you,” began Hildegarde, but Madame de Hoffmann called her attention to the races, and when they were over she had no time to think about the matter.

Hamilton could scarcely conceal his vexation, on his return home, when he heard that Hildegarde was engaged to spend the evening with the Hoffmanns. Mr. Rosenberg left them, as usual, immediately after supper; Major Stultz altogether monopolised Crescenz, Madame Rosenberg busied herself with a pack of cards, which she shuffled, cut, and spread out on the table before her with extraordinary interest, while Hamilton, accustomed as he now was to talk or read with Hildegarde, and missing her more than he liked to perceive, held a newspaper in his hand, and employed his thoughts in forming uncomfortable surmises respecting her and her cousin.

“Very odd,” said Madame Rosenberg, thoughtfully, holding a card to her lips; “very odd indeed;—the marriage is not in the cards!”

“I thought you were playing patience,” said Hamilton, looking up.

“Oh, no, I have been cutting the cards for Crescenz,” she said, in a low voice; “and oddly enough, her marriage is not in them. I must try it again,” she said, gathering up the pack and shuffling energetically.

Hamilton drew his chair to the table, and watched her as she slowly and thoughtfully placed the cards in regular rows before her, while murmuring, with evident dissatisfaction: “This is Crescenz and this is the Major, but ever so far asunder! And the marriage and love cards are all near him, while Crescenz’s thoughts are occupied about a present. Oh, ah! here is a letter full of money coming to our house; but I suppose it will be, as usual, from England, and for you, Mr. Hamilton. You are laughing at me, I see! Perhaps you don’t believe that I can tell fortunes?”

“I am convinced you can do so quite as well as anyone else.”

“That is saying too much,” said Madame Rosenberg. “Our washerwoman is very expert; but I know some who could astonish you!”

“I like being astonished,” said Hamilton, “and promise to be so if what you foretell comes to pass; but then you must predict something more surprising than that I should receive a letter containing money. This is more than probable, as my father is very liberal, and I said something about intending to buy a sledge this winter when I last wrote.”

“But suppose Crescenz’s marriage should be broken off—which Heaven forbid—what would you say then?”

“It will not be broken off, but it may be postponed. You said yourself yesterday that her trousseau could not be ready at the time expected; and as to her thoughts being occupied about a present, we all know that she is making a purse and cigar-case for Major Stultz.”

“Oh, if you explain everything in that way, I need not go on,” said Madame Rosenberg, laughing. “Here, for instance, is a false person in our house—a very false person; he is followed, too, by a number of unlucky, disagreeable cards; now, who can that be?”

“I hope you do not suspect me of being this false person?”

“Most certainly not,” repeated Madame Rosenberg, seriously. “I know few people of whom I think so highly; I always liked my English lodgers, and was sorry when they left me; but I feel as if you were a part of our family. You must observe that I talk to you and consult you about all our affairs a hundred times more than Major Stultz, who is actually about to become my son-in-law!”

“I am exceedingly flattered by your good opinion,” said Hamilton, “and am greatly relieved to find you do not suspect me to be this false friend, followed by ill-omened cards!”

“Set your mind at rest; this person seems in some way related to our family, and has light hair.”

“And you can see all this in these cards!” said Hamilton, laughing.

“Look here, and I will explain it easily,” said Madame Rosenberg. “You see this ace is our house——”

“Is that an ace?” said Hamilton. “The German cards are as difficult to learn as the handwriting. I do not know a single one of these cards.”

“They are easily learned. These are acorns, and these bells; these trifles, and these hearts.”

“But this ace of hearts is double; and what is the meaning of the basket of flowers and the blinded cupid?”

“Only for ornament.”

“This, then, I suppose, is the king of hearts; but where is the queen?”

“This, I believe, answers to your queen.”

“What! the man leaning on his sword?”

“I see you do not want to learn——”

“And yet I should rather like to know what these acorns and bells are intended to represent,” said Hamilton.

“Crescenz, come here and explain in French,” cried Madame Rosenberg.

Crescenz came most willingly. In a few minutes Hamilton imagined he knew the cards, and began to play some childish game which Crescenz taught him; they played for six-kreutzer pieces, and, as he continually mistook the cards, in the course of half an hour he had lost some florins. Crescenz’s exclamation of delight and triumph caused Madame Rosenberg at last to look round, and no sooner did she perceive how matters stood, than she took the money which Crescenz had won, returned it to Hamilton, notwithstanding all his protestations; and, taking some red and white counters out of her work-table drawer, divided them equally between them, while she observed that they might fancy them florins if they wished,—“it would be much more proper for young people than really playing for money.”

Crescenz did not know whether to be satisfied or vexed—but when her mother added a few words of reproach about her playing without her having the means of paying her debts, should she lose, she blushed deeply and stammered, “I—I have more than a florin pocket-money—and besides, Mr. Hamilton would have waited until Christmas, when papa always gives me a crown!”

“Oh, certainly,” said Hamilton, laughing, “I could have waited until Christmas without the least inconvenience.”

“I hope,” said Major Stultz, “that before Christmas, Crescenz will have made me her banker.”

“At all events,” Hamilton said to Madame Rosenberg, “you cannot treat me so like a child as to force me to take back what I have lost; but if you forbid our continuing to play, of course we must obey.”

“Well, play for kreutzers or pfennings, if you like, but it is a bad habit.”

The permission granted, Crescenz seemed to have lost all inclination to continue. She and Hamilton were soon after employed in building card-houses, while they kept up a sort of murmured conversation in French, possibly very interesting to them, but unintelligible to Madame Rosenberg and Major Stultz—the former had commenced knitting, the latter sat watching the varying countenance of his betrothed, as she, sometimes lowering her voice to a whisper, seemed to speak pensively, and quite forgot her occupation; the next moment, however, with childish delight, slyly blowing down the Chinese tower which had apparently cost Hamilton a world of trouble to erect. How long this occupation might have continued to interest them, it is impossible to say, for Hildegarde’s return caused Crescenz instantly to leave her place, and though Hamilton still continued to play with the cards, it was unconsciously. Crescenz’s eager inquiries of how Hildegarde had amused herself, if the Hoffmanns had pleased her on a nearer acquaintance, and if she had seen the future husband of Mademoiselle Hoffmann, were answered quickly and decidedly.

“I have spent a delightful day, the Hoffmanns are the most charming people I ever met, and the bridegroom is, without any exception, the most amusing and the cleverest person in the world!”

“Phew-w-w-w,” whistled Major Stultz.

“What is his name?” asked Crescenz.

“Count Raimund. He is our very nearest relation—our first cousin!”

“Our cousin! But—but—I thought the Raimunds did not wish to know us?”

“We have no right to make him answerable for the unkindness of his parents, Crescenz; and all I can say is, that he spoke at once of our near relationship, and as it was impossible to refuse to acknowledge it, we became intimate immediately. In fact, he gave me no choice, for he called me Hildegarde, and spoke of you as if he had known you all his life. He intends to call here to-morrow, to visit mamma!”

“Does he?” said Madame Rosenberg, dryly.

“He says you are his aunt, as you have married papa.”

“It is singular he never discovered the relationship until to-day! During your mother’s lifetime, I have heard, too, that the Raimunds pretended at times to forget your father’s name. The fact is, my dear, he thought it would flatter me to fancy myself aunt to a count, although there is actually no relationship whatever, and you thought so too, Hildegarde, or you would not have repeated so absurd a remark.”

Hildegarde’s face became crimson. “These were his words,” she said, with the quivering lips of half-subdued anger. “You may, of course, put what construction you please on them.”

“The words and their meaning are easily understood,” said Madame Rosenberg, laughing. “But why he has so suddenly chosen to acknowledge a relationship with you and Crescenz, and force upon me the honour of being his aunt, is more difficult to comprehend.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” said Major Stultz, glancing from Hildegarde to Crescenz, “not at all. A young man is always glad to gain admittance to a house where there are young ladies.”

“But, my dear Major, the man is engaged to be married to Mademoiselle de Hoffmann in January, and all other young women must be indifferent to him now!”

“Some men never become indifferent to young women, ma’am; and, if I am not mistaken, this Count Raimund is one of these persons. I think I have heard that he has been a very—a——”

“Very what?” asked Madame Rosenberg, quickly.

“Very wild—if not very profligate,” replied Major Stultz, distinctly.

“Then I shall take good care that if he comes to-morrow, it shall be his last as well as his first visit. But you are quite sure of what you say? Otherwise you know Rosenberg might be dissatisfied, and think that I was uncivil from personal dislike, for I do dislike these Raimunds, and that’s the truth. Fancy their pretending to think that I treated Hildegarde and Crescenz harshly after my marriage, and proposing to take them altogether from me!”

“I wonder why you did not resign us,” said Hildegarde, bitterly.

“For two reasons,” replied Madame Rosenberg. “First, you were never to be allowed to see your father, and he did not like that part of the arrangement. Secondly, you were to be educated to become governesses, and were to remain at school until you were given a situation in some foreign family, as they only wanted to get you out of the way on account of the relationship. Now, I had a promise of one free place at the same school, and did not despair of working out the other, while by coming home for a time there was a chance of your marrying into the bargain. And I was right, for here is Crescenz well provided for, and if you continue to improve as you have done of late, I foresee that I shall not long have you on my hands either. But to return to this Count Raimund, Major—tell me all you know or have heard about him.”

“I have heard more than I can tell you at present,” said Major Stultz, mysteriously, “such things are not a proper subject of conversation before young ladies.” Crescenz blushed. Hildegarde threw herself back in her chair and laughed contemptuously, as Madame Rosenberg adjourned to the next room with Major Stultz. “This is the first time,” she said, looking after them, “the first time that I have seen him attempt to act the part of son-in-law.”

“He is acting as a friend,” said Hamilton, gravely.

“How do you know that?”

“Perhaps I have heard more of Count Raimund than you imagine.”

“And suppose you have,” said Hildegarde, folding her hands together and looking Hamilton steadily in the face; “suppose, even, you have heard all that can be said against him, what does it amount to? Failings, faults, if you will, which, as he himself said this evening, every young man has been guilty of——Have you, yourself, been so immaculate that you feel authorised to judge him?”

Hamilton blushed deeply, but did not answer.

“I know,” continued Hildegarde, with increased warmth, “I know you think yourself superior to other people, but your present confusion proves that you have your weaknesses, too, with this difference, that you the while pretend to be a pattern of perfection, and others honestly confess their faults!”

“Oh, Hildegarde!” cried Crescenz, deprecatingly.

Hamilton crushed the card which he held in his hand, looked vexed, but still did not attempt to speak.

“It is hard,” continued Hildegarde, more quietly, though her cheeks flushed deeply, “it is hard to judge a young man like Oscar without knowing the temptations to which he has been subjected.”

Hamilton still remained silent; he began once more to build a tower with the cards.

“Do you not hear me?” she asked, impatiently.

“I am listening most attentively.”

“Then why don’t you say something?”

“Because a reply would only provoke another taunt on your part, and can answer no purpose whatever?”

“I see—you think I have been hasty—I did not mean it—I am sorry if I have offended you.”

Hamilton looked up and smiled, and Hildegarde continued—“We have so few relations—so very few. Oscar is our only cousin. I cannot tell you how I felt to-day when he called me Hildegarde, and told me to consider him a brother. You will think me romantic when I assure you that I experienced an instantaneous prepossession in his favour, or rather a sort of affection which I thought it quite impossible to feel for a stranger! I suppose the recollection of my mother, faint though it be, partly caused this feeling. At all events, I have found it impossible not to think him the most amusing, clever—in short, the most fascinating person I ever met.”

“Oh dear! How I should like to know him!” exclaimed Crescenz.

“Then he is so very accomplished!—speaks French so perfectly—and plays the pianoforte as I have never heard it played. Fancy his being able to compose for hours together without ever being at a loss! able to follow all his thoughts, and express them beautifully in music! sometimes so sad, so melancholy, then gay and passionate, according to the impulse.”

“I was not in the least aware that you cared for music,” said Hamilton, interrupting her with a look of unfeigned surprise, “you play the pianoforte so seldom, and——”

“And so badly,” said Hildegarde, interrupting him in her turn, “so badly, that you concluded I must be incapable of appreciating good music when I heard it? On the contrary, I am so sensitively alive to its beauties that I cannot endure mediocrity, and beyond that I know I should never arrive, when I take into consideration my want of time and patience!”

“Of your want of patience you are the best judge—time you have enough, if you want to employ it on music—for instance, you read enormously. Were the hours which you devote to——”

“Ah, bah!” cried Hildegarde, impatiently; “why should I plague myself studying music, which, after all, is half mechanical expertness most difficult to acquire, when in reading I gain information and amuse myself at the same time. If I could hope to play like Oscar, it would be different, but nothing else would satisfy me.”

“Then you do not care for vocal music,” said Hamilton.

“I rather give it the preference; because one has words to direct the thoughts; but then the voice is also an instrument—requires incessant practice, and so—and so—but you know very well that I have no patience!”

“So I thought, until I discovered that you had learned English so perfectly without an instructor; this proves that you have both patience and perseverance.”

“But, then, think of the reward! a new and extensive literature!”

“And if you really liked music, would it not also have rewarded you?”

“I see you have got the best side of the argument; and I must therefore suppose that I have no real talent for music. To appreciate Oscar’s playing, however, only requires feeling—it is a sort of thing one never could get tired of—something like the conversation of a person who talks well. I only hope you may soon have an opportunity of judging for yourself. I wish, too, you could hear him read aloud. I never imagined anything like it. He read for Mademoiselle de Hoffmann and me, and we both felt cold and warm alternately—it was too delightful!”

“What did he read?” asked Crescenz.

“Heine’s poems,” answered Hildegarde, drawing from her pocket a small volume—“this is called the Book of Songs; and he has given it to me. Shall I read you The Dream?”

“By all means,” said Hamilton.

Hildegarde began, her voice trembling from eagerness. She had, however, scarcely read a couple of verses, when her mother entered the room, and asked directly, “What have you got there, Hildegarde?”

“A book, mamma.”

“That is evident: but what book? You know I do not wish you to read anything but French; and this is German, and poetry into the bargain—and Count Raimund’s too!” she said, taking it out of Hildegarde’s unwilling hand—“You see, Major, he has already begun with his books, just as you told me. I dare say it is full of improprieties!”

“As well as I can recollect, you are mistaken,” said Hamilton. “Some of the poems are beautiful, and all original, and full of talent.”

“If that be the case, I suppose I may let her read them—but the book must be returned as soon as possible.”

“But——” began Hildegarde.

Crescenz pulled her sleeve, and whispered: “Don’t say he gave it to you.”

Hildegarde shook off her sister’s hand, while she said, “The book is mine: he gave it to me; and if I may read it, I may keep it, I suppose.”

“You may do no such thing,” cried her mother, with considerable irritation. “Should Count Raimund come to-morrow, I shall return him his book, and request him to keep the remainder of his library for his own perusal. He would have done better had he given it to his betrothed instead of you: and I shall tell him so.”

“I see you are determined to affront him,” said Hildegarde, angrily; “and, as you mean to return this book to-morrow, I may as well tell you that I shall not go to bed to-night until I have read every line of it.”

“Hildegarde! Hildegarde! I am afraid you are about to have one of your old fits of anger and obstinacy. It is unpardonable your being so childish, now that you are near seventeen years old! However, since you are a child, I must treat you as one; and you shall not have more candle than will light you to bed.”

Hildegarde put the book into her pocket, shoved her chair hastily back, and walked towards the stove. Major Stultz, while wishing Crescenz good-night, observed, in an audible whisper, “What a lucky man am I that you have fallen to my lot!”

Madame Rosenberg accompanied him out of the room, first stopping at the door to say to Hildegarde and Crescenz, “You must not think that I am actuated by personal dislike to Count Raimund if to-morrow I forbid him our house—he is a most dangerous person—has brought dishonour on two respectable families, and his last exploit was going off with the wife of one of his friends.”

Crescenz seemed utterly confounded by this speech, and turned to her sister, while she said, “Oh, Hildegarde! if this be true!”

“It is true.”

“Why, you praised him just now, and——”

“Well, I am ready to praise him again; and yet it is true. He intends, however, henceforward to lead a different life, and honestly confessed all his misdemeanours to Marie de Hoffmann and to me this evening. He did not spare himself, I can assure you!”

“His confession must have been very edifying,” observed Hamilton.

“It was very amusing,” replied Hildegarde, slightly laughing. “He related with such spirit, described such comical situations, and begged Mademoiselle de Hoffmann to forgive his thoughtlessness with such fervour, that she was not only obliged to pardon him, but also forced to confess that perhaps others would not have acted differently, had they been subjected to the same temptations.”

“He seems to have proved himself a sort of victim,” said Hamilton, without looking up.

“Almost,” said Hildegarde. “He was given all sorts of encouragement by the young ladies, who met him alone, and Madame de Sallenstein actually herself proposed going off with him.”

“He told you that, and the names also?”

“Certainly; he did not conceal the slightest circumstance, related all the conversations and adventures—no book could be more amusing! His first love was a daughter of a Captain Welden—there were four daughters, and they all took a fancy to him at the same time—the youngest was much the prettiest, and so——”

“Excuse my interrupting you,” cried Hamilton, “but really I cannot endure to hear you talk in this light manner—Count Raimund must be a fiend incarnate, if he can change you so completely in one day!”

“Indeed, I do think Hildegarde is changed,” chimed in Crescenz: “I never heard her talk so oddly before—and oh, Hildegarde, do you remember how hardly you judged Mr. Hamilton, when you only suspected that he—that I—I mean we—on account of Major Stultz, you know? Oh, think of all you said in Berchtesgaden!”

Crescenz’s eloquence did not seem to make much impression on Hildegarde—she merely shook her head impatiently.

“I find I have altogether mistaken your character,” said Hamilton, approaching her, and leaning his elbow on the stove, “altogether mistaken, it seems.”

“How do you mean?”

“I thought that, if from a false and romantic idea of generosity or liberality, you could be induced to overlook conduct like Count Raimund’s, you would at least be shocked to find him boasting of his villainy, and throwing the blame on his victims.”

Hildegarde blushed so deeply that it must have caused her acute pain—she threw herself into a chair, and turned away.

“Mr. Hamilton is quite right,” said Crescenz, “it was not honourable of Count Raimund to throw the blame on Captain Welden’s daughter, who, I dare say, was not the first to propose a rendezvous—and then to repeat everything and laugh! Oh! Hildegarde, he may be very amusing, but he cannot have a good heart!” She bent down towards her sister, and added in a whisper, “Mr. Hamilton would never have acted so!”

“Mr. Hamilton is, most probably, in no respect better than other people,” replied Hildegarde, quickly, but without turning round.

“Why, Hildegarde, you seem to forget that you said only yesterday—that he was superior to other people—so like somebody in a book you know, the hero who was too perfect to be natural, because he never was angry or——”

“Crescenz!” cried Hildegarde, literally bounding from her chair, “are you purposely trying to irritate me? or are you really what Lina Berger has often called you, a simpleton—a fool? Anything so nonsensical or silly as your remarks, I never in my life heard!”

“Now, Hildegarde, don’t be angry, you know these were your own words.”

“I shall in future carefully avoid making any remark to you which I do not intend to be repeated to the whole world,” said Hildegarde, walking up and down the room, and speaking hurriedly. “Everything that I say is misunderstood, and stupidly brought forward in the most provoking manner! Until to-night, I had no idea of your excessive silliness!”

“You are right—I see—I understand now,” cried Crescenz, with tears in her eyes: “I ought not to have repeated what you said before Mr. Hamilton, because he might think, perhaps, you liked him as I do—did, I mean to say—that is, he might fancy——”

“You tiresome girl, can you not at least be silent?” cried Hildegarde, stamping with her foot. “Mr. Hamilton may fancy what he pleases, but he knows that I disliked him from the commencement of our acquaintance, and if I did begin to think better of him, I have again returned to my first opinion—he is in no respect better than others; and had he anything to boast of, I am sure he would do so quite as inconsiderately as Oscar or anyone else.”

“I hope you are mistaken,” said Hamilton, quietly lighting his bedchamber candle, “but as I have never been put to the proof, I cannot answer for myself.”

Crescenz hung her head, and looked uneasily towards her sister, who was about to reply, when Madame Rosenberg appeared at the door, and they all prepared to retire for the night. Hamilton did not, as was his usual custom, linger at the door to continue the interrupted conversation, or talk some nonsense not adapted for the rational ears of their mother; he walked quickly to his room, seated himself at the table, and taking out his journal, was soon employed in writing the events of the day, with copious reflections. He was angry, very angry with Hildegarde, and yet, by some strange process of reasoning, he firmly persuaded himself that not a particle of jealousy was mixed with his just indignation. He began to suspect that his admiration for her person had induced him to give her credit for virtues which she did not possess; he was even ready to allow that he had greatly overrated her in every respect; but still the idea of her becoming his first love had that day so completely taken possession of his mind that it would not be banished, and imagining himself, as a younger son, privileged to fall in and out of love as often as he pleased, with perfect impunity, he determined at once to enter the lists, and break a lance with Count Raimund. In England his position was known; Crescenz had already forced him to be explicit on the subject, and had, he supposed, informed her sister; he therefore conceived he had a right to pay to Hildegarde all the attention she would accept, while her opinion of Count Raimund’s conduct that evening would, he thought, exonerate him from self-reproach, or future blame on her part. This was arguing most sophistically, and judging a few thoughtless words too harshly. He seemed to have forgotten that her mother had accused her of inordinate family pride, and it was this, perhaps, alone which had made her blind to her cousin’s faults, and explained, if it could not excuse, the utterance of opinions so unlike any that Hamilton had ever heard her express. He recollected, however, with peculiar complacency, the words which Crescenz had repeated respecting himself, and which Hildegarde had not denied. She had found a resemblance between him and some hero in a novel; that is, she was beginning to make a sort of hero of him, and he had not read and studied with her for so many weeks, without discovering that she had a warm imagination, romantic ideas, and passionate feelings. She did not, it is true, remind him of any particular heroine, nor, on consideration, did she seem adapted to form one at all, for who ever heard of a heroine whose passions “oozed out,” like Bob Acres’ courage, “at the palms of her hands,” or found vent in the clapping of doors and upsetting of chairs—not to mention considerable fluency of language when irritated? But then, her perfect face and figure covered a multitude of faults, her occasional violence of temper was rather amusing than otherwise, and on taking into consideration her extreme youth, it merely proved an energy of character far more interesting than the gentle insipidity of her sister. He perceived that her cousin had made a deep impression on her, and imagined, in consequence, that his quiet and respectful manner had not been appreciated—he remembered having heard his brother say, that very young or very elderly women prefer audacity to deference, and he wished with all his heart that it were morning, that he might begin a new line of operations. A knock at the door surprised him in the midst of these reflections, and made him hastily throw down his pen—scarcely waiting for permission to enter, Hildegarde had partly opened the door, and stood before him, her candle burned down in the socket, and already emitting the fitful gleams of light which precede extinction.

“I dare say you are surprised to see me at this hour,” she began.

“Not at all,” cried Hamilton, pushing away his table, “not at all, for I have just been thinking of you, and I suppose some sort of sympathy has made you think of me.”

“No, not exactly of you,” replied Hildegarde, with a smile, “but I have thought of your candles! You have often offered me one when I wished to read at night, and I always feared it would be dishonourable to take advantage of your offer, as it would be deceiving mamma. To-night, however, I have given her fair warning, so if you will permit me——”

Hamilton pushed a candle towards her, and was rather puzzled what to say next: she, in the mean time, very calmly extinguished her light and began to arrange the new one.

“I suppose you have half read your book by this time?” said Hamilton at length.

“No,” said Hildegarde, while she rolled a piece of paper round the candle. “No, I have been employed in making apologies to Crescenz. You must have thought me abominably rude to her this evening?”

“Rather,” replied Hamilton, greatly vexed to find that the determination to be audacious had made him more than usually restrained—almost timid in his manner.

“I thought you would have blamed me more,” continued Hildegarde, fastening the candle steadily, “but even your judgment, with all its severity, cannot equal my own in rigour, when the moment of anger is past. Crescenz forgave me directly, and in her good nature tried soon to excuse my loss of temper, and to reconcile me to myself.”

“A fault must be forgiven when so acknowledged,” said Hamilton, lightly. “But instead of talking of faults, which, by-the-by, is not the most agreeable subject of conversation, suppose you read me this dream, which was so unpleasantly interrupted this evening.”

“Not now,” said Hildegarde, “but I intend to write it out, and we can read it together to-morrow when Mr. Biedermann is gone.”

“No time like the present,” said Hamilton, pointing to a place beside him on the sofa. “Come, suppose we read the whole book?”

“If it were not so late, I should have no objection.”

“From your conversation this evening, I should not have expected you to make difficulties about such a trifle.”

“Conversation this evening,” repeated Hildegarde, thoughtfully.

“Have you then already forgotten all you said in defence of your cousin?” asked Hamilton, half laughing, while with his hand he gently induced her to take the unoccupied place beside him. “I thought your memory was more retentive.”

“But my defence of Oscar has no sort of connection with my remaining here until two or three o’clock in the morning to read Heine’s poems!” said Hildegarde, quietly fixing her large blue eyes on Hamilton’s face, with an expression of such perfect confidence, that his previous resolutions and his brother’s opinion lost at once all influence over him, and not for any consideration would he have shaken the reliance on his integrity legible in every feature of his companion’s face. He blushed deeply, as he answered evasively—“Perhaps there is more connection than you are aware of; but you must wait until to-morrow, and then if you wish it, I will tell you what I meant.”

“But why not now? I detest delay—besides, I shall forget to ask you to-morrow.”

“No, you will not forget,” said Hamilton, laughing.

“But why will you not tell me now?” asked Hildegarde.

“Because I fear to shock you unnecessarily.”

“But I am not easily shocked,” observed Hildegarde.

“So I perceived from what you said this evening.”

“It is really not generous of you to harp continually on my defence of Oscar; I am willing to acknowledge that you were quite right in what you said about him—I know, too, I was wrong to be angry with mamma and Crescenz—but I do not like to be so perpetually reminded of my faults by you—you are not old enough—and—and—you bore me with your real or affected superiority.”

“Did I affect superiority we should never have quarrelled,” replied Hamilton, with evident vexation; “I only quarrel with my equals.”

“I quarrel with everybody,” said Hildegarde, with a sigh; “a passionate temper is a great misfortune—but I can and will learn to control it. Perhaps the fear of my losing my temper, and not the fear of shocking me, prevented you from telling your thoughts just now? Do not wait until to-morrow, but speak freely and at once.”

“Excuse me,” said Hamilton, rising, “I have changed my mind, and will neither speak now nor to-morrow—I have no right to correct, and certainly no wish to bore you.”

“I might have guessed what your answer would have been,” cried Hildegarde, petulantly. “You store up every hasty word to bring forward just when I wish it forgotten! If you will not tell me, I may as well wish you good-night.” She took up the candle and walked to the door.

“Good-night,” said Hamilton, approaching as if to close it after her, and making no attempt whatever to detain her.

“As you feared to shock me,” said Hildegarde, stopping suddenly, “I suppose I have done something very wrong?” and she looked up inquiringly.

“I really do not know,” replied Hamilton, stiffly.

“You—you most disagreeable person—” she began angrily, but seeing that Hamilton was endeavouring to suppress a smile, she exclaimed: “Well, if this is not affecting superiority, I do not understand you at all!—What must I say to you? I was wrong to defend Oscar, he is unfortunately a—a—great reprobate, I suppose, but he is my cousin, my only cousin, and I admire him more than anyone I have ever seen.”

“You had better tell him so,” said Hamilton, ironically.

“It is not necessary, he is perfectly aware of his advantages,” she replied in the same tone.

“So I perceived at the races to-day.”

“That he did not please you I saw at once,” said Hildegarde, playing with the lock of the door. “You looked so unfriendly and haughty that the Hoffmanns could hardly believe all I said in your praise.”

“So you undertook my defence,” said Hamilton quickly.

“Of course, I always defend the absent, especially when they are censured by people who do not know them. If Oscar had not been attacked this evening, I should never have attempted to take his part—Perhaps you don’t believe me?”

“I do believe you—but I cannot understand how Madame de Hoffmann could allow him to speak so freely.”

“She is very deaf and he was seated at the pianoforte; Marie at one side of him, and I at the other—he spoke very gently, and sometimes played a few chords, which gave the appearance of a sort of recitation. Exactly what I imagined an improvisatore must be! I am sure he would make an excellent actor!”

“And I am sure he will prove a dangerous man,” said Hamilton.

“If he keeps his promises, Marie will nevertheless be very happy with him—he is a person one must admire, and might easily love—but I am keeping you from writing, and I dare say you would rather hear what I have to say to-morrow.”

“By no means—if you have anything more to say, I should like to hear it.”

“Oh, yes, I want to speak to you—about myself, not Oscar.”

“A much more interesting subject,” observed Hamilton.

“But then,” said Hildegarde, hesitating, “you will probably give me some severe answer, and make me repent my humility.”

“I promise to give you no severe answer,” said Hamilton, exceedingly flattered.

“Then I must beg of you to forget what I said just now. I am quite aware that I have more faults than people generally have, and if you will take the trouble to correct them, I shall be obliged to you. I have spent almost the whole of my life at school among girls of my own age, so, of course, I must know very little of the manners and customs of the world. I see Crescenz’s simplicity quickly enough, and to avoid falling into her errors, I try to act differently in every respect. Now, Crescenz, with all her weaknesses, makes herself beloved—not more than she deserves, for she is the most amiable creature in the world, while I am universally disliked. I think, therefore, that something must be wrong; I have no person whose advice I can ask. Papa overrates as much as mamma underrates me, and neither of them understands me at all. Do you remember one evening mamma’s saying that you, as an unbiassed looker-on, could judge between us? I refused you as arbitrator then, because I knew you liked mamma better than me; but I am now willing to accept of you as judge, Mentor, or whatever you please, for I am convinced that you only dislike me just enough to see my faults without exaggerating them; so I promise to bear your corrections with as much patience as my natural impatience will allow.”

During this speech Hamilton had been leaning against the wall, endeavouring to look as sage as Hildegarde evidently thought him; his eyes were bent on the ground, but a smile of ineffable satisfaction played round his mouth. Not for a moment did he hesitate to undertake the dangerous task. He would direct her studies, correct her faults, and make her mind as perfect as her form! What words he made use of to express this most magnanimous resolution he himself never could recollect; that he had spoken intelligibly was evident, for Hildegarde held out her hand and smiled brilliantly as she once more turned to the door. “I think,” she said, with some hesitation, “I think I could sleep more soundly to-night if you would begin your office at once, and tell me what I have done to-day that is reprehensible.”

“I must of course, if you desire it.”

“Let me guess. It is not Oscar’s defence?”

“No; we have already discussed that subject,” replied Hamilton.

“My—my losing my temper this evening, when mamma made the remark about Oscar’s saying she was his aunt?”

Hamilton shook his head.

“Well, then, my obstinacy about reading the book?”

“Humph!—obstinacy is certainly a fault, but was not what I meant on the present occasion.”

“Ah! now I know—because I asked you for a candle, and as I did not tell mamma I could get one from you, you think that I have acted dishonourably? Perhaps you are right, so I shall not take it, but go to bed in the dark as a punishment. Are you satisfied?”

“I ought to be, for you have not only confessed your fault, but imposed penance on yourself; and yet I must still say that you have not discovered the error to which I alluded.”

“Then, now you must tell me, for I can think of nothing else.”

“Is it possible,” said Hamilton, the colour as usual, mounting impetuously to his forehead, “is it possible that you are not aware of the impropriety of coming to my room at this hour?”

“I—I—came for—for the candle,” stammered Hildegarde, in painful confusion.

“I know you did; but you have remained here some time, and people——”

“Let me go—let me go,” she cried, impatiently pushing back the hand which he had placed on the lock of the door in order to have time to add a few words. “Let me go; I desire—I insist.”

He drew back, and she rushed past him into the dark passage without turning round or stopping until she reached the door of her room. He merely waited until she entered, and then once more sat down to write.