“And you do not mind our being drawn together?”
“Not in the least,” said Hildegarde, composedly.
“I believe you, I believe you. I am thoroughly convinced of your indifference, and require no further proof. I am sorry for it, but—perhaps it is all for the best.” At the door he turned back, and added, “We have not quarrelled, Hildegarde? we are friends at least?”
“Friends! oh, certainly, though ever so far apart,” answered Hildegarde, with a forced smile. “One so poor in friends as I am grasps even at the name.”
Hamilton noiselessly closed the door, and she bent over her work until some large tears began to drop on it, and a choking feeling in her throat induced her to go to the open window, where she leaned out as far as the numerous plants would permit, and gazed long into the orchard without distinguishing a single object that lay before her.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE RECALL.
About a fortnight after the foregoing events, as Hamilton was one morning sitting listlessly in the arbour at the end of the garden, Hildegarde came towards him carrying a large packet of letters, which Hans had just brought from Munich. As she placed herself beside him he looked at the different handwritings, and murmured, “My sister Helen—my father—John, and—from Uncle Jack, too! With what different feelings should I have received these letters a short time ago! Don’t go away, Hildegarde; I have no intention of making you any reproaches or speeches, and I may, perhaps, want your advice about fixing the day of my departure.”
She sat down on the steps leading into the arbour, leaned her elbow on her knee and her head in her hands, and remained perfectly immovable for more than half an hour. She was not musing on the past, or thinking of the future; she heard her heart beat distinctly, and would, perhaps, have endeavoured to count its throbs had she not felt irresistibly compelled to listen to a most inharmonious and lamentable ditty sung by the cook as she scoured her kitchen furniture near an open window. Some vague ideas of the happiness of those whose thoughts never soar beyond the polishing of pots and pans, or the concocting of meats within them, floated through her mind; and then appeared a vision of a nunnery garden, with very green grass and long gravel walks; and then Hamilton rustled the paper of his letters, and she expected him to speak, and when he did not she again listened to the monotonous song, and wondered if it had no end.
The song continued, but she ceased to hear it, for Hamilton spoke at length, and she turned round to answer him.