the man whom she was addressing was evident in her face and in the
tones of her voice. Yet Lord Chetwynde sat unmoved. Nothing in his
face or in his eyes gave indications of any response on his part.
Nothing whatever showed that any thing like soft pity or tender
consideration had modified the severity of his purpose or the
sternness of his fixed resolve. Yet Lord Chetwynde by nature was not
hard-hearted, and Hilda well knew this. In the years which she had
spent at the Castle she had heard from every quarter--from the Earl,
from Mrs. Hart, and from the servants--tales without number about his
generosity, his self-denial, his kindliness, and tender consideration
for I the feelings of others. Besides this, he had received from his
father along with that chivalrous nature the lofty sentiments of a
knight-errant, and in his boyish days had always been ready to
espouse the cause of any one in distress with the warmest enthusiasm.
In Hilda's present attitude, in her appearance, in her words, and
above all in her tears, there was every thing that would move such a
nature to its inmost depths. Had he ever seen any one at once so
beautiful and so despairing; and one, too, whose whole despair arose
from her feelings for him? Even his recollections of former disdain
might lose their bitterness in the presence of such utter
humiliation, such total self-immolation as this. His nature could not
have changed, for the Indian paper alluded to his "genial" character,
and his "heroic qualities." He must be still the same. What, then,
could there be which would be powerful enough to harden his feelings
and steel his heart against such a woeful and piteous sight as that
which was now exhibited to him? All these things Hilda thought as she
made her appeal, and broke down so completely at its close; these
things, too, she thought as the tears streamed from her eyes, and as
her frame was shaken by emotion.

Lord Chetwynde sat looking at her in silence for a long time. No
trace whatever of commiseration appeared upon his face; but he
continued as stern, as cold, and as unmoved, as in that first
interview when he had told her how he hated her. Bitter indeed must
that hate have been which should so crush out all those natural
impulses of generosity which belonged to him; bitter must the hate
have been; and bitter too must have been the whole of his past
experience in connection with this woman, which could end in such
pitiless relentlessness.