Lord Chetwynde sat stern and silent.
"You are inflexible in your cruelty," said Hilda at length, as she made one last and almost hopeless effort. "I have done. But will you not ask me something? Have you nothing to ask about your father? He loved me as a daughter. I was the one who nursed him in his last illness, and heard his last words. His dying eyes were fixed on me!"
As Hilda said this a sharp shudder passed through her.
"No," said Lord Chetwynde, "I have nothing to ask--nothing from _you_! Your last letter has quelled all desire. I would rather remain in ignorance, and know nothing of the last words of him whom I so loved than ask of _you_."
"He called me his daughter. He loved me," said Hilda, in a broken voice.
"And yet you were capable of turning away from his death-bed and writing that letter to his son. You did it coolly and remorselessly."
"It was the anguish of bereavement and despair."
"No; it was the malignancy of the Evil One. Nothing else could have prompted those hideous sneers. In real sorrow sneering is the last thing that one thinks of. But enough. I do not wish to speak in this way to a lady. Yet to you I can speak in no other way. I will therefore retire."
And, with a bow, Lord Chetwynde withdrew.
Hilda looked after him, as he left, with staring eyes, and with a face as pallid as that of a corpse. She rose to her feet. Her hands were clenched tight.