“I more than half suspected the permission to enter was not intended for me,” said Hamilton, “but I really cannot leave you without having obtained pardon for having offended you last night. I cannot quit you for so long a time, without the certainty of your forgiveness.”
“It is granted—or rather I have nothing to forgive,” replied Hildegarde, “for you were quite right not to listen to my confession, though I remained up on purpose to favour you with it.” She had become very pale while speaking, and Hamilton was forcibly reminded of all her long and unwearied attentions to him during his illness. He wondered how he could ever, even for a moment, have forgotten them, and remained lost in thought, until, slightly pointing towards the door, she wished him a pleasant journey and much amusement. Instead of obeying the sign, he walked directly forward, saying, “You must not expect me to believe that I am forgiven until you have told me all I refused to hear yesterday evening.”
“How very unconscionable you are,” she said, with a faint smile. “When, however, I tell you that I wish you to leave my room, that I am too ill to talk, I am sure you——”
“Oh, of course, of course,” said Hamilton, quite aware of the reasonableness of her demand. “Only one thing you must tell me, and that is, what you said to Raimund which could induce him to threaten to kill himself.”
“Do not ask me,” said Hildegarde, uneasily.
“But that is exactly what I insist upon knowing,” persisted Hamilton.
“You said you came to ask forgiveness, but it seems you have fallen into your usual habit of commanding, and——”
“I do not command,” cried Hamilton, interrupting her, “I do not command; but,” he added in a very low voice, and approaching still nearer, “I entreat, I entreat you to tell me what you said to him.”
“I reminded him that he was betrothed to my friend,” began Hildegarde, slowly and unwillingly.
“Well, well; and then——”