Hamilton was taken up senseless. Zedwitz rushed to his assistance. Madame Rosenberg could not leave her children, but was obliged to hold them fast by their hands. Major Stultz endeavoured with a half-offended air to tranquillise Crescenz, whose screams had begun to subside into a flood of tears. Raimund coolly exclaimed to Mademoiselle de Hoffmann that Hamilton had been aware of the viciousness of the horse when he purchased it, but had imagined himself too good a rider to be thrown. Hildegarde, having obtained a flacon de l’eau de Cologne from a stranger, was soon beside Zedwitz, endeavouring to restore Hamilton to consciousness; he very soon opened his eyes, looked around him, and on Zedwitz asking him where he was hurt, began to speak incoherently in English.

“We must get a carriage and take him home as soon as possible,” said Zedwitz; “he seems more seriously injured than I imagined from the slight wound on his temple.”

“Well, this is really dreadful!” exclaimed Madame Rosenberg; “and there is not a soul in our house, for I gave Walburg leave to go out. Here is the key of the door—what can I do with the boys?”

“Let me take charge of them,” said Madame de Hoffmann.

“I am as much obliged to you for the offer as if I could accept it,” replied Madame Rosenberg, “but unfortunately they are so unruly that I cannot leave them with you more than with their sisters and the Major. There is no help for it. Hildegarde, you must go in the carriage, and send old Hans directly for Doctor Berger.”

“May I not go, too?” said Crescenz, timidly; “I am so tired!”

“Oh, of course,” replied her mother, ironically; “another fit of screaming would greatly benefit Mr. Hamilton. Here, Hildegarde, take the key and be off.”

On their way home, Hamilton alone was loquacious; he spoke English incessantly, sometimes murmuring, sometimes vehemently. Hildegarde blushed deeply, and appeared unusually embarrassed, which Zedwitz interpreted to his own advantage, totally unconscious that she understood the ravings of Hamilton, which had already revealed much he was anxious to conceal from her; his last thought before his fall had been of her, his last feeling annoyance on her account, and he now unreservedly poured forth both with wild volubility.

“I think we had better bind a handkerchief over his forehead,” said Hildegarde at last. “The motion of the carriage has made the blood flow.”

“I ought to have thought of that,” said Zedwitz, assisting her; “he does not seem to know either of us, and evidently thinks you some other person. Who is this Helene of whom he is speaking now?”

“Some one in England, I suppose.”

“Poor fellow! most probably he fancies himself at home. I am very glad to perceive that he is beginning to be exhausted. There is something frightful in this sort of raving, even when one does not understand it.”

“Do you think there is any danger to be apprehended?” asked Hildegarde, calmly.

“I hope not; but his brain must be affected in some way, or he would not talk as he has done.”

Directly on reaching the house they sent for Doctor Berger, who came, accompanied by Mr. Biedermann; the latter declaring at once his intention of remaining to take care of his friend. Hamilton looked inquiringly from one to the other as they entered the room, and then said quickly in German, “I know you.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said the Doctor, adjusting his spectacles, and turning to Biedermann, he whispered, “They have been unnecessarily alarmed, it seems.”

“Yes, I know you. You are the ugly old doctor with the protruding chin who married Crescenz, after she had walked by moonlight at Seon.”

The Doctor shook his head and turned to Zedwitz for an explanation of the accident. This was quickly given, and he and Hildegarde waited with evident anxiety to hear the Doctor’s opinion. It was not so favourable as they had expected—severe remedies were necessary, and a fortnight elapsed before Hamilton was pronounced quite out of danger. During this time nothing could equal the attention bestowed on him by the Rosenberg family and his friend Biedermann, who passed every night on a sofa in his room. Zedwitz, too, spent daily hours with him—perhaps the visits of the latter were not quite disinterested, for he often met Hildegarde, who was employed to amuse Hamilton, as he was neither allowed to hear reading, nor to attempt to read himself. As soon as he was pronounced convalescent, he had a constant succession of visitors every day; not only his own acquaintance, but everyone who had seen him with the Rosenbergs; he felt at times perhaps quite as much bored as obliged, and remembered occasionally with regret that more dangerous part of his illness when Hildegarde had sat alone in his darkened chamber, and Crescenz gently opened the door every quarter of an hour to ask if he were better—her mother, at Major Stultz’s instigation, having strictly forbidden her to enter the room. Even the fussy visits of Madame Rosenberg, who invariably insisted on half making his bed and thumping all his pillows, were recollected with pleasure, and he wondered at the impatience with which he had received these well-meant civilities, having once forgotten himself so far as to wish in very correct German that the devil would come in ipsissim person and take her out of his presence! which speech had so alarmed her for the state of his brain that she had immediately sent off for the doctor.

The period of convalescence was not without its pleasures either, and Hamilton knew how to appreciate them. Hildegarde was obliged to read or talk to him whenever he choose, was forbidden to contradict or quarrel with him, and, when on one day he complained of cold hands, she had been ordered to knit cuffs for him, and had done so with apparent pleasure—then she had learned to play chess in order to take Biedermann’s place when he could not come, and had to submit to be checkmated as often as Hamilton pleased without losing her temper. He had insensibly grown tyrannical, too—upbraided her if she remained long out walking—refused to eat his dinner if she did not bring it to him, and insisted on the whole family spending the evenings in his room, thereby effectually preventing her from going to the Hoffmanns.

Among Hamilton’s most constant visitors was Madame Berger, and she was always welcome, for she amused him. “I should like to know,” she said one day, seating herself on the sofa beside him, “I should like to know how long you intend to play invalid? It is astonishing how desponding, almost pusillanimous, you men become when you are in the least ill! I lose all patience when I see the Doctor feeling his own pulse fifty times a day, and consulting half a dozen good friends if his heart beat a little quicker than usual—while I have palpitations every day of my life, and never think of complaining or fancying that I have a diseased heart! My father was even worse than the Doctor; if he had but a cold in his head, he immediately mounted a black silk nightcap with a tassel pendant, wrapped himself up in his dressing-gown, and wandered about the house discovering all sorts of things not intended for his eyes or ears, and finding fault with everybody and everything that came in his way, although at other times the best-natured man imaginable. He had a habit, too, on such occasions, of eating a bowl of soup every half hour, and then imagining it was illness which prevented him from enjoying his meals!”

Hamilton laughed, and at the same moment Hildegarde entered the room, carrying a tray, on which was placed a double-handled china basin, the contents of which, notwithstanding the cover, emitted a most savoury odour; the little slice of toasted bread on a plate beside it seeming intended to correct any doubts which might arise as to its being an invalid soup. She placed it on the table before him, removed the cover, and stood in waiting, as he first played with the spoon, and then fastidiously tasted it.

“You have not prepared this for me yourself,” he said, looking up discontentedly.

“No,” she replied; “I—I heard papa’s voice, and begged Walburg to——”

“I knew that,” cried Hamilton, pettishly. “Walburg always forgets the salt. Just taste it yourself, and you will be convinced that I cannot swallow it in its present state.”

“Let me try it,” cried Madame Berger; “I am an excellent judge of soup, have learned cookery, and all that sort of thing. Let me see,” said she, playing with the spoon exactly as Hamilton had done; “let me see; the smell is excellent, but the taste?—hum! might require a little more salt, perhaps, but—but still it is eatable. After a few spoonfuls one scarcely remarks the defect—and,” she continued, raising the bowl to her mouth, “and when one swallows it quickly, it is really quite refreshing this cold afternoon.”

Hamilton laughed; Hildegarde grew angry. “You may consider this a good joke, Lina,” she exclaimed, “but I find it very, very impertinent.”

“Now don’t get into a passion, my dear, about a miserable bowl of soup,” said Madame Berger, laughing maliciously; “it is really not worth while. Just go to the kitchen and bring another, and I promise not even to look at it.”

“But there is no more.”

“Ah, bah! as if I did not know that there was soup put aside for supper.”

“But not such soup as that,” cried Hildegarde, ingenuously; “mamma and Crescenz cooked it together, and I was not allowed to touch it for fear of its being spoiled.”

“What an opinion they must have of her cookery,” remarked Madame Berger, looking towards Hamilton.

“It is of no consequence,” he said, laughing; “I do not deserve any for having been so difficult to please.”

“I can bring you a cup of beef-tea—it is better than nothing,” said Hildegarde, leaving the room.

“Most careful nurse!” cried Madame Berger, smiling ironically.

“Most indefatigable—most kind,” exclaimed Hamilton, warmly.

“And most domineering,” added Madame Berger.

“I have not found her so.”

“Because you have never contradicted her, perhaps. For instance, what would you take now to refuse this cup of beef-tea when she brings it to you?”

“That would be ungrateful—almost rude,” said Hamilton.

“It will be bad enough to afford you an excuse, and I promise to assist you to brave her anger,” said Madame Berger, laughing.

Hamilton shook his head and looked a little embarrassed.

“Tell the truth, and say at once you dare not do it. She rules you, I perceive, as she does her sister Crescenz, all in the way of kindness, but no thraldom can be more complete. How I shall enjoy seeing you swallow the scalding water dignified with the name of beef-tea. I dare say this time there will be salt enough in it.”

“How mischievous you are,” cried Hamilton; “I do believe you want us to quarrel merely for your amusement, after having remained for three weeks the best of friends possible.”

“You are more than friends if you cannot take the liberty to refuse a cup of bad soup.”

Hamilton was about to reply, when the door was opened by Hans to admit Count Zedwitz.

“You have played truant to-day, Zedwitz,” said Hamilton, holding out his hand; “I expected you an hour ago.”

“I have been skating on the lake in the English Garden. There was a famous frost last night, and——”

“Skating! Here, Hans, look for my skates directly, there is nothing I enjoy more than skating. We will go out together.”

“But,” said Zedwitz, hesitating, “is it advisable to go out so late? Remember, you have been more than three weeks confined to the house. What will the Doctor say?”

“Hang the Doctor,” cried Hamilton, rising.

“I am sure I am exceedingly obliged to you,” said his wife, pretending to look offended.

“By way of precaution, and not to lose time, we will drive to the lake in a hackney coach,” said Hamilton. “Come with us,” he added, turning cavalierly to Madame Berger.

“I have no objection, provided you leave me at home on your way back.”

“Agreed,” cried Hamilton, entering his bedroom to make the necessary change in his dress.

Madame Berger was standing opposite a long glass, arranging her bonnet, Zedwitz turning over the leaves of some new book, and Hamilton issuing from his room, when Hildegarde again appeared, carrying another bowl of soup. She was so surprised at the appearance of the latter that she stopped in the middle of the room, and looked inquiringly from one to the other without speaking.

“Mr. Hamilton is going out to take a drive,” began Madame Berger, fearing Hildegarde might try to make him alter his intention.

“I am going with Zedwitz to skate in the English Gardens,” said Hamilton.

“Perhaps, Hildegarde, you will go with us; I can play chaperon on the occasion,” said Madame Berger.

Hildegarde did not vouchsafe an answer, but turning to Zedwitz, she said reproachfully: “This is not an hour to tempt an invalid to leave the house for the first time.”

“I assure you I have not tempted him,” replied Zedwitz; “I only mentioned having been skating to excuse my coming so late.”

“You surely will not think of going out this cold day,” she said, turning to Hamilton.

“The weather,” said Madame Berger, “is not likely to grow warmer at this time of the year, and I suppose he must leave the house some time or other.”

“In fact, I am no longer an invalid,” said Hamilton, “and the air, though cold, will do me good.”

“At least drink this beef-tea before you go,” said Hildegarde, approaching him.

“How on earth can you expect Mr. Hamilton to swallow such slop as this!” cried Madame Berger, raising the cover as she spoke.

Hildegarde angrily pushed away her hand.

“The carriage is at the door,” said Hans.

“Come,” cried Madame Berger, laughing, “you have no time to drink this hot water at present, and if you do not make haste I must decline going with you to admire your skating, for it will be too late for me. Have you courage?” she asked, giving Hamilton a look of intelligence.

Hildegarde had perceived that he wished to avoid drinking the beef-tea. She had placed it on the table, and was now standing near the stove apparently tranquil, but a slight contraction of her brows, and the extraordinary brilliancy of her eyes as she followed the motions of each speaker betrayed the anger with which she was struggling.

“I perceive you are annoyed,” said Zedwitz, when about to leave the room; “but,” he added, quickly, while the colour mounted to his temples, “you need not be uneasy about your patient; I will bring him back as soon as possible.”

“You are mistaken as to the cause of my annoyance,” said Hildegarde, with a forced smile; “I am angry with myself for having been such a fool as to prepare that soup.”

“You must excuse Hamilton this time. Madame Berger is such an impertinent little person!” said Zedwitz, as he closed the door.

In the meantime Hamilton had nearly descended the stairs. “I can tell you,” said Madame Berger, “that Hildegarde is in a towering passion. Did you not see her eyes flashing, and her lips grow blue? I should not wonder if at this moment she were literally dancing in your room!”

“I should like to see her,” said Hamilton, stopping suddenly.

“But if you go back you will have to swallow the soup as a peace-offering,” said Madame Berger.

“Do you think so? Zedwitz, will you assist Madame Berger into the carriage?—I must return to Hildegarde; but I promise not to detain you more than a minute.” He rushed up the stairs as he spoke, entered without noise by means of his skeleton key, and, passing through his bedroom, was able to ascertain the partial truth of Madame Berger’s assertion. Hildegarde was walking up and down the room with flushed cheeks, talking angrily to herself, and pushing everything that came in her way. “What a fool—what an egregious fool I was—to make a fire with my own hands to warm that soup!” She kicked the leg of the table as she spoke, making the plates and spoons clatter. “If ever I warm soup for him again I hope, yes, I hope, I may burn my arm as I have done this time.” She raised her sleeve and looked frowningly at the suffering limb, which in fact was extremely red and covered with blisters. While she endeavoured with her handkerchief to remove the long streaks of smut which still bore testimony to the origin of the mischief, Hamilton advanced; and, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, seized her hand, and held it firmly, while he gulped down the soup as fast as he was able. It was, as Madame Berger had said, very hot; and when he had deposited the bowl on the plate, tears actually stood in his eyes from the excess of his exertions.

“I feel quite warm now,” he said, turning to Hildegarde, who stood beside him in great confusion, fearing that she had been overheard, and, as usual, ashamed of her violence, now that it was over. She had covered her arm, and was endeavouring to release her hand, as he added, “You were quite right when you said it was too late for skating to-day. I shall merely drive out for half-an-hour, by way of a beginning. This sacrifice I make to your better judgment.”

Hildegarde looked up; her lips were no longer blue, and her eyes had regained their usual serenity. “To-morrow,” she observed, with evident satisfaction, “to-morrow you can go out directly after dinner, when the sun is shining.”

“Exactly; pray don’t forget to bespeak a little sunshine for me,” he cried, laughing, as he ran out of the room.

“Where is my little tormentor?” he asked, on perceiving that the carriage was unoccupied.

“How could you expect her to wait for you?” said Zedwitz, gravely. “She has had the good sense to go home.”

“I am glad of it,” cried Hamilton, springing gayly into the carriage, “very glad.”

“It is confoundedly cold,” said Zedwitz, impatiently throwing the folds of his cloak over his shoulder. “I must say your minute was a long one.”

“Why, my dear fellow, considering that I had to drink all that hot water, and put Hildegarde in good humour again, I do not think I required much time.”

Zedwitz looked out of the window in silence. Hamilton leaned back and indulged in reflection of no disagreeable kind.

“Halt!” cried Zedwitz, suddenly, “we are at the lake.”

“Let us drive on. I don’t mean to skate to-day,” said Hamilton.

“You don’t mean to skate!” exclaimed Zedwitz.

“No. I promised Hildegarde merely to take an airing.”

“Why did you not tell me that before?”

“Because I feared being deprived of your agreeable society.”

“Halt!” cried Zedwitz, vehemently; and the carriage stopped. “I can tell you,” he said, kicking the door to assist Hans in opening it, “I can tell you that you have just received an extremely great proof of my friendship, for if there be any one thing I particularly detest in this world, it is driving about in a machine of this kind. I have an inveterate antipathy to a hackney coach.”

“I understand and share your feelings on this subject, generally speaking,” said Hamilton, amused at his violence; “but after being confined to one’s room for three or four weeks, the air enjoyed even through the windows of a hackney coach is agreeable and refreshing. Come, you may as well drive back with me.”

“Sorry, I have a most particular engagement,” began Zedwitz, who was now standing on the road, and stamping his feet on the frozen ground, as if they had been cramped.

“You forget you intended to skate with me,” cried Hamilton, laughing, while he jumped out of the carriage, took Zedwitz’s arm, and walked off quickly with him, neither speaking for several minutes.

“Are you jealous?” asked Hamilton, at length.

“You know best whether or not I have cause to be.”

“You have no cause—although I am sorry to be obliged to confess to you that I too begin to find Hildegarde altogether irresistible, but she does not care in the least for me, and even were it otherwise, my case is more hopeless than yours. Your parents will at least vouchsafe to make a flattering opposition, which, as you are an only son, must terminate in consent if you are firm—mine would overwhelm me with scornful ridicule were I to hint at anything so preposterous as an early marriage. It is I, in fact, who ought to be jealous, and desperately jealous too, if you knew but all.”

“But her anxiety about you just now——”

“Was more natural than flattering,” said Hamilton; “she has got the habit of taking care of me during my illness, and even lately exacts a sort of obedience in trifles, which, however, I willingly pay, as she allows me to tyrannise in other respects.”

“But still, I consider you so very dangerous a rival——” began Zedwitz.

“By no means, for though I wish to gain some of Hildegarde’s esteem, if not affection, I can never speak to her seriously on that subject which alone could interfere with your wishes.”

“Do you advise me then to persevere?” asked Zedwitz.

“I must in future decline advising,” replied Hamilton; “my confession just now was in fact tantamount to an acknowledgment of my incapacity to do so.”

“Ah, bah!” cried Zedwitz, “your manner has convinced me that your love is not very deep-rooted—my fears are more for her than for you. If she once liked you, and confessed it, there is no saying how serious the affair might become.”

“Very true,” said Hamilton, “you might in that case prepare for a voyage to the moon, where you would be sure to find my senses in a little phial, nicely corked and labelled.”

“Pshaw! Tell me seriously, what would you do in such a case?”

“Seriously—I believe I should act like a fool. Apply to my father with the certainty of being refused, and laughed at into the bargain—write to my Uncle Jack, that he might have time to make a new will and disinherit me—and then, perhaps, enter into a seven years’ engagement.”

“Hildegarde would never consent to anything so absurd.”

“Not at present—but I thought you supposed her to return my——”

“Hang the supposition!” cried Zedwitz, impatiently, and they walked on in silence until Zedwitz again spoke: “I wish, Hamilton, that at least you would promise to tell me if ever you do enter into any kind of engagement with Hildegarde.”

“No,” said Hamilton, firmly, “I will make no such promise. Let us start fair, we both love her, each after his own manner. I will be honourable, and tell you that you stand high in her estimation, and that the fear of the opposition of your family, and not indifference on her part, caused her former refusal. I have had to combat with her personal dislike, and if I have overcome it, a very lukewarm kind of regard has taken place. To counterbalance your advantages, I live in the same house, and see her daily—hourly—often alone.”

“Let us start fair in good earnest,” cried Zedwitz, eagerly, “but in order to do so, you must establish yourself in my quarters. The rooms which belong to my father when he is in town are at your service; neither he nor my mother comes to Munich this season, as Agnes’s marriage takes place before the carnival. We will live together—visit the Rosenbergs together, and at the end of two or three months write a letter to Hildegarde, and——”

Hamilton began to laugh. “Had you proposed this plan at Seon, I might have agreed to it—but now it would be absurd to think of such a thing. Putting all other feelings out of the question, Hildegarde has become absolutely necessary to me. When I am ill, she tends me—when I am well, she reads with me, or for me, and amuses me; and when I am out of temper, she quarrels with me!”

“In the last particular I could supply her place,” said Zedwitz, “for I could quarrel with you easily enough. If I thought you really loved her, I should not so much mind, but you are deliberately seeking a few months’ amusement at her expense, and endeavouring to gain her affection without any object whatever; for as to your seven years’ engagement, I cannot for a moment believe you serious. Perhaps Englishwomen may consider this pardonable, but my countrywomen——”

“Your countrywomen unfortunately do not understand the meaning of the word flirtation,” said Hamilton, interrupting him. “I wish I had time and opportunity to explain it to them.”

“Explain to me what flirtation is,” said Zedwitz, gravely.

“No,” said Hamilton, “I shall do no such thing, for I see by your face that you are ready to preach a sermon upon the crime of endeavouring to please any of your fair countrywomen without having both the intention and power to marry with all possible despatch; and now, will you come upstairs with me?”

Zedwitz shook his head.

“I do not mean to press you,” said Hamilton, “for I must say I never found you less amusing than to-day. I wish you would make an agreement never to mention Hildegarde’s name to me.”

“It is an excellent idea,” said Zedwitz, “but, as I am sincerely attached to her, I hope you will consider it no breach of confidence, should I warn her against this flirtation love of yours.”

“None whatever,” replied Hamilton, laughing. “You cannot say more and will not probably say half as much in your warning as I have already said, when she was present, to her sister Crescenz.”

“You are incomprehensible,” said Zedwitz, shrugging his shoulders, and walking off with a slight frown on his usually good-humoured countenance.