The Initials: A Story of Modern Life

Madame Rosenberg took possession of her father’s house more quietly than had been expected; he resigned his keys and authority with a solemnity which quite subdued her, and a whole week elapsed before any extraordinary bustle was perceptible; at the end of that time a scrubbing, and washing, and painting began, which drove the old man to the neighbouring inn, and Hamilton into Munich, for some days. It was very disagreeable, but certainly the house appeared metamorphosed when it was at an end, and no complaints were heard, excepting a few faint murmurs from Mr. Eisenmann about the vine which was trained against the front of the house being covered with whitewash.

Hildegarde, to her infinite satisfaction, was not obliged to learn cooking—she had shown a too decided distaste and want of talent; she became, however, a tolerably expert ironer, and it was amusing to see Hamilton sitting, day after day, beside the table covered with heaps of linen, a volume of Schiller on the philosophy of Herder in his hand, reading aloud, in order (as he explained to Madame Rosenberg) to improve his German accent, about which his family had become very anxious of late, and from which he concluded they had some hopes of placing him at one of the German courts; however, he did not feel particularly interested on that subject, nor, indeed, on anything that had reference to the future; he lived from day to day, reckoning the time profitably or unprofitably spent, according to its having been or not having been spent in Hildegarde’s society; he might truly say with Proteus of Verona—

And three months passed like so many days, and three more would have followed them in blissful monotony, had not a circumstance, trivial in itself, led in its consequences to an abrupt termination of this mode of life, or waste of life—whichever the reader may consider it.

The Munich midsummer fair had commenced, and Madame Rosenberg, not having found time in one day to make her usual purchases, decided upon going a second; she put it off, however, until the very last, and when the morning came was suffering so much from headache that she was obliged to remain at home. As they had promised to dine at twelve o’clock with the Major, she thought it better to send Hildegarde and Gustle, and though at first she insisted that they were to go in their grandfather’s little old carriage, she at length yielded to Hamilton’s remonstrances and entreaties, and after he had passed a good half hour at her bedroom door, making promises of the most varied description, allowed them to drive with him, and be under his care during the day.

Crescenz received them, as usual, with childish delight; her greatest pleasure on such occasions was to astonish them with a variety of tarts and sweetmeats, and they always found it difficult to get away. On this day it was easier, for she intended to accompany them to the fair. Blazius had insisted on her buying some new muslin dresses, he was so thoughtful, and so generous! In fact, they were a very merry party; for Major Stultz had ceased to be jealous; his wife now really liked him, and was more obedient than a child; the thought of disputing his will had never entered her mind, and she appealed to him in the most infantine manner on every occasion, while, captivated by her beauty and innocence, he was invariably indulgent and generous almost to prodigality. She assured her sister, therefore, with the most perfect sincerity, as they walked together through the fair, that she considered herself the most fortunate woman in the world, that she could never have been so happy with anyone as with Major Stultz—no, not even with Mr. Hamilton—Blazius had quite convinced her of that!

They loitered about nearly two hours, and Hamilton, unutterably wearied, was slowly following Hildegarde, carrying her various little parcels of ribbons and pins, until the arrival of Hans with the carriage should relieve him, when he was suddenly seized by both arms and familiarly addressed by some persons behind him. They were two of his nearest relations, passing through Munich on their way home from Italy, and were evidently more glad to see him than he to see them.

“Where have you been hiding yourself, Alfred? We were at your supposed lodgings, and no one could tell us anything about you. Any letters left would be called for, which sounded very mysterious, as, had you left for Vienna or Berlin, your letters would have been forwarded sans façon, I suppose. Come, give an account of yourself. I shall be asked a thousand questions, you know, when I go home—that is, if you don’t accompany us, which you might as well do, all things considered, and—Uncle Jack——”

No, Hamilton had no intention of returning home until the very last day of his leave of absence had expired.

“Well, as we start in a day or two, you will spend the evening with us at least?”

At this moment Hans appeared, and said, “the carriage was ready.” Hamilton desired him to wait at the termination of the booths, and then turning to his companions said, with some embarrassment, “Spend the evening with you! oh, of course; but I have promised to drive home a lady who lives a little out of the town.”

“Oh, there’s a lady, is there?”

“Yes: she is at present with her sister, making some purchases.”

“Ah, perhaps these are also some of them?” cried one of his cousins, peeping with an affectation of extreme care into one of the parcels; “ribbons, I declare, and hair-pins! ergo, young—where is she?”

“I don’t—know,” replied Hamilton, looking down the row of booths, at one of which Hildegarde was standing.

“It’s that tall girl with the small waist, I’m certain.”

“Well, it is that tall girl,” said Hamilton, half laughing; “the sooner you let me go take her home, the sooner I shall be back with you.”

“Let him go, let him go,” cried his other cousin; and Hamilton, with an impatient gesture, walked quickly on, followed at a little distance by both. He took a hasty leave of Major Stultz and Crescenz, and hurried Hildegarde to the end of the fair. Just as they were seated in the phaeton, and Hamilton was taking the reins in his hand, his cousin called out, “Hollo, Alfred! you never asked where we were stopping. I think you are going to give us the slip!”

“You are at Havard’s, I suppose,” said Hamilton, not in the least endeavouring to correct the impatient movements of his horses.

“Yes. Wait a moment, I want to ask you a question.”

Hamilton bent down; his face, by degrees became crimson, and he glanced furtively at Hildegarde, as if he feared she might have overheard the whisper; but she, quite unconscious that so many eyes were fixed upon her, was leaning back, and absently twisting her purse round her fingers.

Hamilton drove off at a furious rate, but scarcely were they out of the town, when, throwing the reins to Hans, he stepped over the seat and placed himself beside Hildegarde.

“I am surprised,” she observed, with a smile, “that you did not remain with your friends, and send us home with Hans.”

“It would have been the wisest thing I could have done: it was confoundedly stupid, my not thinking of doing so. Stop!” he cried to Hans; but directly after, sinking back on his seat, he added, “No—go on,” and then murmured, “it is too late now. The best plan will be not to return. The less he knows, the less he can talk about.”

Hildegarde bent forward. “Talk about what?” she asked.

“You cannot understand,” he answered, quickly.

“No: I perceive I cannot. I have not the most remote idea whether or not you were glad to see these friends.”

“They are my relations, my cousins; and that one who last spoke to me—did you observe him?”

“Not particularly.”

“That is Harry Waldcott, a great friend of my brother John’s, the most amusing, worthless, extravagant fellow in the world. Were he to find out where I am, he would come to the Iron Works to-morrow, establish himself at the inn, use my horses, abuse myself, laugh at your step-mother, bully Mr. Eisenmann, and, for all I know, fall in love with you!”

“Dreadful person!” cried Hildegarde, laughing.

“As it is, he has seen enough—too much, unfortunately, I think,” he continued, with increasing irritation of manner. “I think I hear his exaggerations to my father, his insinuations when talking to my uncle! No: he shall never know where I am—nothing shall tempt me into Munich for a fortnight at least!”

“You think, perhaps, that your father and uncle would disapprove of your being at the Iron Works?”

“Think!” cried Hamilton, “I am sure of it. My father would say I was losing my time; my uncle, that I was making a fool of myself.”

Neither of them spoke a word until they reached home, and Hamilton was remarkably thoughtful during the remainder of the evening.

The next day he was as cheerful as ever; and having from his window seen Hildegarde walking towards the arbour with some paper and an ink-stand in her hand, he took up the book they were reading together, and followed her. She had just finished making a pen when he entered, and throwing it on the table, she leaned forward and began, rather formally:

“Mr. Hamilton——”

“Pray, call me Alfred—I have long wished it, and we are quite intimate enough to admit of your doing so. I called you Hildegarde the first month I was in your house.”

“It is perhaps an English custom,” she said, half inquiringly.

Hamilton did not answer. The fact was, at the commencement of their acquaintance he had considered both Hildegarde and her sister so infinitely beneath him in rank that he had almost immediately called them by their Christian names.

“I suppose,” she continued, “if I know you well enough to call you Alfred, I may venture to say——”

“You may venture to say anything you please.”

“Well, then—Alfred—I think the sooner you leave us—leave the Iron Works—the better.”

“Do you?” he said, with a tolerably successful effort to appear unconcerned. “I suppose what I said yesterday, when I was vexed, has made you come to this conclusion.”

“Yes; and though I cannot perceive that you have exactly been making a fool of yourself, I think it very evident that you have been losing your time here.”

“I wish I could lose the remainder of my life in the same way. I have been immeasurably happy lately.”

“You said your cousin would exaggerate—would insinuate——”

“Did you understand what I meant when I said that?” cried Hamilton, quickly.

“I believe I did; and I half wished you had allowed him to come here, and see that he was mistaken; he would soon have perceived that your friends have no cause for anxiety—that friendship alone exists between us.”

“He would have seen no such thing, Hildegarde, at least as far as I am concerned, and that you know as well as I do. That you have limited your measure of regard for me is a proof—of—of—no matter what; I am most happy that it is so.” And Hamilton felt at that moment as unhappy and indignant as he had ever been in his life.

“Do you not think,” said Hildegarde, bending over the table, as she played with the pen, “do you not think it would be better to leave us before you are ordered to do so?”

“No,” answered Hamilton, almost harshly.

“But,” she continued, bending still lower, to conceal her heightened colour, “but suppose I were not here, would you still remain?”

“Can you doubt it?” cried Hamilton, ironically. “How could I ever willingly quit this tranquil retreat? The pastoral beauties of these grounds! The society in every way so suited to my tastes and habits! The——”

“Enough, enough!” cried Hildegarde, seizing her pen, and with burning cheeks, but steady hand, she rapidly wrote a letter, while Hamilton, standing at the entrance, watched her with an odd mixture of anger and admiration. He waited until she had signed her name, and then placing his hand on the paper, asked if the letter concerned him.

“I might easily equivocate, and say no, as you are neither directly nor indirectly mentioned in it; but that would not be the truth. The letter is to Madame Hortense. I am now quite resolved to leave——this place.”

“May I read it?”

“If you insist——”

He took the letter; it was in French, short and forcibly written, as most letters are when composed under the influence of excited feelings. Hamilton’s anger increased as he read; her proud determination of manner irritated him beyond measure, and, ashamed of the agitation which his trembling hands betrayed, he first crushed and then tore it to pieces.

“My letter!” cried Hildegarde, starting up with all her former vehemence of manner. “How dare you——” she stopped and sat down, breathing quickly and audibly.

“You are in a passion,” said Hamilton.

“I was,” she replied, taking a long breath; “it is over.”

“Oh, no; be angry, I entreat; say—do something outrageous or I can have no hope of forgiveness. We have changed characters; you have learned to control your anger, and have me now in your power; be merciful!”

“Rather tell me to be candid,” she replied, rising; “writing that letter in your presence was an unnecessary display of self-control; I was not so calm as I wished you to suppose me.”

“Well, you certainly are the most honourable——”

“Don’t praise me,” she said, hastily; “I cannot listen to you when I am so dissatisfied with myself. I fancied my temper was corrected; I find it has merely not been tried.”

“Your temper is a very good one,” said Hamilton. “That you doubt yourself, and are on your guard, is rather an advantage than otherwise. I always have been considered so good-tempered, that when I feel angry it never occurs to me to conceal it, and the consequence is that you have seen me forget myself more than once.”

Just then Madame Rosenberg entered the garden, holding a very diminutive note in her hand. “I am come,” she said, “to remind you of a promise which you made to a lady, I hope with the consent of her husband.”

“I don’t know any lady likely to remind me of a promise, excepting, perhaps, Madame Berger.”

“Exactly; the Doctor will not be at home to-morrow, and as the weather is so fine she proposes spending the day here.”

“Well,” said Hamilton.

“Well, and Crescenz and the Major write to know if you will take them also in your phaeton when you drive into Munich for Lina.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Hamilton, laughing; “it was to Crescenz I made the offer, and it was Madame Berger who accepted it. You may remember, Hildegarde, the beginning of the month, when we all went to drink coffee at the Stultzs’, and had such excellent ices afterwards. I wonder they did not say anything yesterday when we were with them.”

“I suppose,” observed Madame Rosenberg, “that they saw Lina after you left; but at all events you will go for them?”

“Yes, and at a very early hour.”

“Oh, of course,” she cried, nodding her head jokingly; “that means at ten o’clock, I suppose.”

“It means at five o’clock.”

“Ah, bah! as if you could get up at four!”

“I can and will. Crescenz must give me breakfast, and I hope to be out of Munich before seven, for various reasons!”

“The dust, perhaps!”

“Dust or dirt,” said Hamilton, carelessly. “If Madame Berger cannot leave so early, we can send Hans with the carriage at a later hour; though I would rather she would stay at home as far as I am concerned.”

“I cannot believe that,” said Madame Rosenberg, “for I never saw you get on with anyone as you do with her; if I were the Doctor I would not allow it.”

“Nor I either, if I were the Doctor,” said Hamilton, laughing; “but he is not, perhaps, aware that her usual vivacity degenerates into romping when she is here, and she is much too young and much too pretty for anyone to expect that I——”

“Oh, after all there is no great harm; you only scamper about like a pair of children, but I should not like to see either Crescenz or Hildegarde doing the same.”

Hamilton looked at Hildegarde; there was something in the expression of her face which made him imagine that she, perhaps, had not quite approved of the scampering about of which her mother spoke.

“Am I to write an answer to this note?” she asked, as she took it out of Madame Rosenberg’s hand.

Her mother nodded her head, and left the garden. Hildegarde wrote, and Hamilton again leaned against the entrance of the arbour and looked in.

“Are you waiting for this letter too?” she asked, smiling.

“I was not thinking of it,” he replied. “I want to know if you, at least, believe that I would rather Madame Berger did not come here to-morrow?”

Hildegarde began to scribble on the blotting paper with great diligence.

“I see you do not believe me.”

“I do, partly, especially if you think you must be quieter than on former occasions, now that mamma has remarked it. The fact is, I think Lina altogether to blame, and I have often admired your forbearance.”

“Thank you,” cried Hamilton, “I am quite satisfied now.”

“Do not be quite satisfied with yourself,” said Hildegarde, “for I must tell you honestly that I am quite disposed to be unjust to Lina; more than ready to put an unkind construction on all she does or says.”

“Why?” asked Hamilton, with a blush of pleasure, as a faint vision of the “green-eyed monster” approaching Hildegarde floated before his imagination. “Why?”

“Because I dislike her. We waged war with each other for nearly ten years.”

“Ah, I remember, she told me you were rival beauties at school.”

“There was no rivalry on my part,” said Hildegarde quietly; “I never hesitated to acknowledge her beauty: it is of the most captivating description, and even when she is most disagreeable to me I admire her person.”

“You dislike her mind—her disposition, which is so different from yours,” said Hamilton.

“I cannot tolerate her want of truth and honour; her, to me, unfathomable cunning. In one word, I despise her.”

“You have been at no pains to conceal it,” observed Hamilton.

“There was no necessity,” said Hildegarde, beginning to fold up her note; “but,” she added, “you must not let my opinion weigh with you; you know I have strong, and often unreasonable, prejudices. At all events, Lina’s faults are not of a description to prevent one from passing a long summer’s day very agreeably in their society.”

“She is certainly an amusing person,” said Hamilton.

“She is clever,” said Hildegarde, gathering up her writing materials to carry into the house; “no one can deny that she has intellect; at school there were few to be compared to her.”