“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.