CHAPTER XXXII.
THE WEDDING AU TROISIÈME.
Several days passed over. Count Raimund’s death had been much discussed among his acquaintance, who almost unanimously agreed in thinking he had committed the rash act to avoid a connection so much beneath him. He was more regretted than he deserved; his various talents having made him unusually popular, and, in the society in which he had moved, people were not generally in the habit of studying character, or seeking motives of action. His circle was, however, so completely unknown to the Rosenbergs; they were so totally without any sort of communication with any member of it, now that Count Zedwitz had ceased to frequent their house, that they heard none of the remarks—not one of the particulars. It spared Hildegarde much anxiety, for his wounded hand, the blood-stained dagger, and open door, had caused many inquiries; and had it not been for a letter which he had written to his father (in the vain endeavour to exculpate himself), might have led to suspicions of murder.
The Rosenbergs heard nothing, and the preparations for Crescenz’s marriage began; they were conducted with ostentatious secrecy to please Mr. Rosenberg, who had consented to its taking place sooner than had been expected, as the Hoffmanns had left the house, and removed altogether to Augsburg. Madame Berger had promised to play waltzes if the company should prove numerous enough to enable them to dance, and Madame Lustig had spent two or three afternoons cooking for the supper. On the wedding-day, Hamilton was not a little surprised to find Crescenz sitting composedly at breakfast in her gingham morning wrapper, while her father left the room to go to his office as usual.
“I believe I have dressed too early,” he said, glancing at his studied toilet; “may I ask at what hour——”
“At five in the afternoon,” answered Hildegarde. “Mamma has determined to keep her promise, and has desired our friends to meet us at the Frauen Church. On our return it will be almost dark, and no one will know that we have a wedding in the house.”
“But we shall dance,” cried Crescenz, “and Major Stultz said I might waltz as often as I pleased with you this evening!”
“How very kind!” said Hamilton, smiling; “and how often do you intend to make use of the permission?”
“That depends upon you, I should think,” she answered, blushing.
“You had better not trust to my discretion. I shall be tempted to make up for lost time, and dance with you the whole evening. You have put no sugar in my coffee,” turning with a look of mock distress to Hildegarde. “Did you forget it on purpose to punish me for being so late?”
“No. I—I was thinking of something.”
“And that something?”
“Is not of much importance. I was thinking that, had you made that speech to Crescenz a few months ago, I should have been angry, for I should have imagined you were amusing yourself at her expense—whereas I now know that you mean nothing, but that you will dance with her two or three times this evening.”
“And,” said Hamilton, warmly, “and that I like to dance with her, and am obliged to her for wishing to dance with me. I mean that, too.”
“I knew you did,” cried Crescenz, triumphantly. “I am sure I always understood you better than Hildegarde, notwithstanding all her cleverness; but from the time that Count Zedwitz told her that you were already quite a man of the world, a—a—what was the word, Hildegarde?”
“I don’t remember the word,” she answered, calmly.
“It meant, I remember,” said Crescenz, “a person who was too cold and calculating for his years—who was too worldly to have much feeling.”
“That was unjust—that was saying too much,” cried Hamilton, colouring.
“So Hildegarde thought also, but she has always insisted that you are proud and calculating, and that you seek to amuse yourself with other people’s feelings and weaknesses.”
“Is this your opinion of me?” said Hamilton, turning to Hildegarde.
“It was,” she replied, steadily.
“Oh, Hildegarde is not afraid to say what she thinks; her opinion of you must have greatly changed, if it be what you would like to hear.”
Hildegarde moved behind her sister to hide the intense blush which now spread over her features, and, placing her hand on her shoulder, perhaps to prevent her from turning round, she said, in a low voice, and with an embarrassed manner, “Crescenz, you have no idea, I am sure, how you are paining me at this moment. You are forcing me to confess, that I have not in this instance acted towards you with my usual candour. I have the very highest opinion of Mr. Hamilton.”
“Well, to be sure!” exclaimed Crescenz, while she endeavoured to catch a glimpse of her sister’s face, but Hildegarde moved still further back, and continued: “That I disliked him at first is most true, more on your account, however, than on mine; for his open hostility to me was excusable—his covert attentions to you unpardonable.”
“But,” said Crescenz, who seemed altogether to have forgotten Hamilton’s presence; “but when did you begin to think differently of him?”
“From the time that he has ceased to be the subject of altercation between us,” answered Hildegarde, bending over her sister, and kissing her forehead.
“But, Hildegarde,” cried Crescenz, turning round with unexpected energy, “before we went to the ball, do you remember, when I told you that Lina Berger had said that Mr. Hamilton might still be my scha——”
Hildegarde’s two hands closed over her mouth, and the word was stifled in utterance. “Good gracious! I quite forgot he was still here,” she cried, making a slight effort to laugh, and then running out of the room.
A long pause ensued. Hildegarde began to arrange the cups and saucers on a tray, until Hamilton, without looking up, asked her if she could remember the very time when her opinion of him had changed.
“Perfectly; it was the night of Crescenz’s quarrel with Major Stultz. Your explanations by moonlight in our room were upright and honourable.”
“And you forgave my having flirted with her at Seon?”
“Yes; and I forgave your having tried to do the same with me here.”
“The case is totally different,” began Hamilton.
“There is some difference, I allow,” said Hildegarde; “you warned me so well, that it would have been inexcusable my not understanding you—besides, I had the advantage of hearing from Count Zedwitz, that you considered yourself at liberty to act as you pleased after having so fairly warned me.”
“Zedwitz’s love for you made him forget his friendship for me altogether,” said Hamilton, with some irritation.
“I do not blame your conduct to me,” said Hildegarde; “you wanted to improve yourself in German, and found quarrelling or flirting with me the most exciting method. I have profited by your society also, for I have not only learned to pronounce English, but,” she added, with an arch smile, “I begin to understand something of the art of flirting, too, of which, I do assure you, I knew nothing when our acquaintance began.”
“Oh, do not say that,” cried Hamilton; “you are only joking, I am sure, for you have no inclination that way, but your sister Crescenz——”
“My sister Crescenz knew nothing of your propensities that way at Seon, and, therefore, I blame your conduct towards her. Your love, if you ever felt any, was pardonable; people cannot help that, I believe—but your endeavours to make her dislike Major Stultz were quite unpardonable.”
“I acknowledge it,” said Hamilton, gravely, “and regret it.”
“That fault you were able in a measure to repair,” continued Hildegarde, “but, perhaps, you are not aware that you have been the cause of frequent altercations between me and my sister—and that almost total estrangement has taken place between us in consequence.”
“And is that my fault, too?” asked Hamilton.
“I don’t know,” she replied, sorrowfully. “Before we became acquainted with you, we never had the most trifling difference of opinion—and now we never think alike, and all confidence is at an end!”
“You take the matter too seriously,” said Hamilton; “I am convinced your sister is not aware of your estrangement.”
“I am afraid you are mistaken——” began Hildegarde, but at this moment Crescenz entered the room; she was dressed to go out, and asked her sister to accompany her.
“Let us be off,” said Hildegarde, “we have no time to lose.”
“May I go with you?” asked Hamilton.
“N—o, I rather think not,” replied Hildegarde.
“But he may come for us in an hour or so,” said Crescenz, nodding to him with a smile.
“Tell me where I shall find you.”
Crescenz coloured and hesitated. “In——in my——in the——in Major Stultz’s apartments.”
“We are going to arrange the furniture,” said Hildegarde, closing the door.
The hour had scarcely half elapsed, when Hamilton found himself again with the two sisters; he was without ceremony desired to make himself useful, and immediately employed in assisting to arrange a press which was to be filled with linen—afterwards the chairs and tables were moved about in all directions, the étagère admired, and finally they adjourned to the kitchen, where Crescenz, with amusing exultation, exhibited, one by one, her culinary utensils to Hamilton, explaining their uses, and assuring him that though her mother intended to give her Walburg as servant, she was determined to cook everything herself. While she was yet speaking, old Hans came to say she was expected home—they were to dine earlier than usual, and the hair-dresser was expected before two o’clock. She became very pale, and after having dismissed him, sat down on a little wooden stool, and began to cry. Hildegarde silently made a sign to Hamilton to leave them, and greatly wondering at the sudden change, he walked back to the drawing-room.
On glancing round at the furniture which Crescenz considered so splendid, he could not help smiling at the frugality of her taste. Was he to be envied for his more lavish ideas? Assuredly not. Everything in this world, from the diamond to the first thing beyond the absolute necessaries of life, is valued fictitiously. The actual worth depends on the mind of the possessor, and is regulated in civilised countries by unconsciously made comparisons—the mental effort losing itself in the result. To Crescenz the thin white muslin curtains were quite as desirable, even on a cold day in February, as to Hamilton the richest silk—the yellow sofa, with its hard-stuffed cushions and perpendicular sides, was intended to be a seat of honour for a guest, and was not adapted for reclining—even Hamilton must have failed in discovering a posture of repose upon it, and he had a most decided talent for making himself comfortable. The six chairs had long thin legs, but the wood which had been spared on the legs had been conscientiously bestowed on the backs, which were tastefully formed to represent hearts. A table, two chests of drawers, and the étagère completed the furniture of the room. As Hamilton stood before the latter, trying to admire the cups, saucers, glasses, and bronze candlesticks arranged upon it, and reflected in the looking-glasses which for that purpose formed the back, Hildegarde and her sister entered; Crescenz, with the traces of recent tears on her face, nevertheless looked complacently around her, for the twentieth time arranged the folds of the curtains, dusted the table with her handkerchief, and then led the way downstairs.
At five o’clock, a party of about sixteen or eighteen persons assembled in the private chapel of the Frauen Church to witness the marriage of Major Stultz and Crescenz Rosenberg. The bride shed no tears, she looked very pretty and very shy—the bridegroom rather stouter and redder than usual. Madame Rosenberg openly expressed her satisfaction, and hoped the day was not far distant when she should be in the same place, and for the same purpose, on Hildegarde’s account. Hildegarde was pale and silent, and Mr. Rosenberg alone showed that he was endeavouring to control his emotion.
On their return home, they found the rooms lighted, and supper prepared under the superintendence of Madame Lustig. They spent three hours at table, and then they danced, and then they ate, and then they danced again until past midnight, when, to conclude the festivity, punch was made. Let it not be supposed that this was, as in England, a simple mixture of water, sugar, and Cognac, or rum. In Germany, it is a complicated business, and notwithstanding the previous preparations of Madame Lustig, Madame Rosenberg and three or four matrons accompanied her to the kitchen to assist in the brewing. Each had a different receipt—and a separation of the parties became absolutely necessary, as one proposed using black, another green tea, for the mixture, while the others were for rice-water or wine. Hamilton, who had become a sort of authority in the house on all subjects, was consulted, but on his venturing to suggest pure water, Madame Rosenberg laughingly pushed him towards the drawing-room, saying, it was evident he knew nothing about the matter—he might dance until the punch was ready!
Most excellent it proved to be, however concocted, when at length Madame Rosenberg appeared with a soup-tureen full, and dispensed it ladlewise to the surrounding company, who then crowded round Major Stultz and Crescenz, in order to clink their glasses, and partake of a colossal sponge-cake, which the latter distributed in ample portions.
A short time afterwards, old Hans announced, “The carriage for Miss Crescenz,” and she retired with evident reluctance to put on her shawl. The whole company prepared to leave at the same time, and were soon altogether in the corridor. Crescenz embraced her step-mother, and somewhat formally thanked her for her kindness and generosity. She held out her hand to Hamilton, and then threw herself into her sister’s arms, and burst into tears. “Come, come, Crescenz,” cried her father, with an attempt at gayety he was far from feeling, “this will never do—you are taking leave as if seas and not streets were to separate us. Come,” and he drew her arm within his, and led her downstairs. The others followed, all but Hildegarde, and after a moment’s hesitation, Hamilton. They returned to the deserted drawing-room, where Hildegarde threw open the window and leaned out.
They soon heard Crescenz’s voice saying cheerfully, “Good-night, Lina—good-night, papa—good-night, Hildegarde.”
“Good-night,” answered her sister from the window, and the carriage drove off.
“Well, have we not spent a merry evening!” cried Madame Rosenberg, triumphantly, as she almost breathlessly entered the room a few minutes afterwards. “This has been a gay wedding after all, you see, Franz.”
“It has,” he answered, sinking dejectedly on the sofa; “I am quite provoked with myself for feeling so low-spirited. I believe I am not well.”
“Ah, bah,” cried his wife, laughing, “if you had been ill, you could not have supped as you have done. Perhaps, however, you have eaten too much fish, or turkey, or ham? At all events, I am sure you are tired and sleepy, so you may go to bed, while we put everything in order again.”
Mr. Rosenberg, as usual, followed his wife’s advice without contradiction. He held Hamilton’s hand for a moment as if he intended to say something more than the good-night which was scarcely audible.