“To my mother’s grave.”
He made no opposition, for he hoped that some sudden recollection would put an end to the unnatural calmness of her manner, and was, for this reason, not sorry to perceive that the grave-digger had already been at work; the place was measured, and some shovelfuls of earth had been thrown over the grave she came to visit.
She seemed for a few minutes to pray, and then sat down beside the stone cross, and began assiduously to arrange the leaves of the still green, though withered, ivy wreaths which she had placed on it in November.
“I am trying your patience unpardonably,” she observed at length, rising from her cheerless occupation, “and it is all to no purpose.”
“What do you mean?” asked Hamilton.
“I expected to feel something like sorrow for my father’s loss. You will be shocked when I tell you that I cannot feel anything resembling it. Before I came here I thought my odious apathy was caused by doubts of the reality of his death—those doubts are all removed—I know that he is dead; that in a few hours he will be in the grave, and moulder beside my mother’s skeleton, and I do not, cannot feel anything like grief!”
“You are too much stunned by the suddenness,” began Hamilton.
“Not so,” said Hildegarde, quietly, “I assure you I never felt more perfectly contented than at this moment; were it not that I shudder at my total want of sensibility.”
“If it be insensibility,” said Hamilton; “but you have so much decision, so much firmness of character, that——”
“No, no,” she cried, hastily interrupting him; “this is not firmness. Do not imagine that I feel emotion which I am endeavouring to conceal, or suppressing tears ready to flow; I only feel an almost irresistible inclination to walk or run without stopping!”