XIII. POMEROY COURT REVISITED…

XIII. POMEROY COURT REVISITED

Over a year had passed away since Zillah had come to live at Chetwynde Castle, and she had come at length to find her new home almost as dear to her as the old one. Still that old home was far from being forgotten. At first she never mentioned it; but at length as the year approached its close, there came over her a great longing to revisit the old place, so dear to her heart and so well remembered. She hinted to Lord Chetwynde what her desires were, and the Earl showed unfeigned delight at finding that Zillah's grief had become so far mitigated as to allow her to think of such a thing. So he urged her by all means to go.

"But of course you can't go just yet," said he. "You must wait till May, when the place will be at its best. Just now, at the end of March, it will be too cold and damp."

"And you will go with me--will you not?" pleaded Zillah.

"If I can, my child; but you know very well that I am not able to stand the fatigue of traveling."

"Oh, but you must make an effort and try to stand it this time. I can not bear to go away and leave you behind."

Lord Chetwynde looked affectionately down at the face which was upturned so lovingly toward his, and promised to go if he could. So the weeks passed away; but when May came he had a severe attack of gout, and though Zillah waited through all the month, until the severity of the disease had relaxed, yet the Earl did not find himself able to undertake such a journey. Zillah was therefore compelled either to give up the visit or else to go without him. She decided to do the latter. Roberts accompanied her, and her maid Mathilde. Hilda too, of course, went with her, for to her it was as great a pleasure as to Zillah to visit the old place, and Zillah would not have dreamed of going any where without her.

Pomeroy Court looked very much as it had looked while Zillah was living there. It had been well and even scrupulously cared for. The grounds around showed marks of the closest attention. Inside, the old housekeeper, who had remained after the General's death, with some servants, had preserved every thing in perfect order, and in quite the same state as when the General was living. This perfect preservation of the past struck Zillah most painfully. As she entered, the intermediate period of her life at Chetwynde seemed to fade away. It was to her as though she were still living in her old home. She half expected to see the form of her father in the hall. The consciousness of her true position was violently forced upon her. With the sharpness of the impression which was made upon her by the unchanged appearance of the old home, there came another none less sharp. If Pomeroy Court brought back to her the recollection of the happy days once spent there, but now gone forever, it also brought to her mind the full consciousness of her loss. To her it was infandum renovare dolorem. She walked in a deep melancholy through the dear familiar rooms. She lingered in profound abstraction and in the deepest sadness over the mournful reminders of the past. She looked over all the old home objects, stood in the old places, and sat in the old seats. She walked in silence through all the house, and finally went to her own old room, so loved, so well remembered. As she crossed the threshold and looked around she felt her strength give way. A great sob escaped her, and sinking into a chair where she once used to sit in happier days, she gave herself up to her recollections. For a long time she lost herself in these. Hilda had left her to herself, as though her delicacy had prompted her not to intrude upon her friend at such a moment; and Zillah thought of this with a feeling of grateful affection. At length she resumed to some degree her calmness, and summoning up all her strength, she went at last to the chamber where that dread scene had been enacted--that scene which seemed to her a double tragedy--that scene which had burned itself in her memory, combining the horror of the death of her dearest friend with the ghastly farce of a forced and unhallowed marriage. In that place a full tide of misery rushed over her soul. She broke down utterly. Chetwynde Castle, the Earl, Mrs. Hart, all were forgotten. The past faded away utterly. This only was her true home--this place darkened by a cloud which might never be dispelled.

"Oh, papa! Oh, papa!" she moaned, and flung herself upon the bed where he had breathed his last.

But her sorrow now, though overwhelming, had changed from its old vehemence. This change had been wrought in Zillah--the old, unreasoning passion had left her. A real affliction had brought out, by its gradual renovating and creative force, all the good that was in her. That the uses of adversity are sweet, is a hackneyed Shakspeareanism, but it is forever true, and nowhere was its truth more fully displayed than here. Formerly it happened that an ordinary check in the way of her desires was sufficient to send her almost into convulsions; but now, in the presence of her great calamity, she had learned to bear with patience all the ordinary ills of life. Her father had spoiled her; by his death she had become regenerate.

This tendency of her nature toward a purer and loftier standard was intensified by her visit to Pomeroy Court. Over her spirit there came a profounder earnestness, caught from the solemn scenes in the midst of which she found herself. Sorrow had subdued and quieted the wild impulsive motions of her soul. This renewal of that sorrow in the very place of its birth, deepened the effect of its first presence. This visit did more for her intellectual and spiritual growth than the whole past year at Chetwynde Castle.

They spent about a month here. Zillah, who had formerly been so talkative and restless, now showed plainly the fullness of the change that had come over her. She had grown into a life far more serious and thoughtful than any which she had known before. She had ceased to be a giddy and unreasoning girl. She had become a calm, grave, thoughtful woman. But her calmness and gravity and thoughtfulness were all underlaid and interpenetrated by the fervid vehemence of her intense Oriental nature. Beneath the English exterior lay, deep within her, the Hindu blood. She was of that sort which can be calm in ordinary life--so calm as to conceal utterly all ordinary workings of the fretful soul; but which, in the face of any great excitement, or in the presence of any great wrong, will be all overwhelmed and transformed into a furious tornado of passionate rage.

Zillah, thus silent and meditative, and so changed from her old self, might well have awakened the wonder of her friend. But whatever Hilda may have thought, and whatever wonder she may have felt, she kept it all to herself; for she was naturally reticent, and so secretive that she never expressed in words any feelings which she might have about things that went on around her. If Zillah chose to stay by herself, or to sit in her company without speaking a word, it was not in Hilda to question her or to remonstrate with her. She rather chose to accommodate herself to the temper of her friend. She could also be meditative and profoundly silent. While Zillah had been talkative, she had talked with her; now, in her silence, she rivaled her as well. She could follow Zillah in all her moods.

At the end of a month they returned to Chetwynde Castle, and resumed the life which they had been leading there. Zillah's new mood seemed to Hilda, and to others also, to last much longer than any one of those many moods in which she had indulged before. But this proved to be more than a mood. It was a change.

The promise which she had given to the Earl she had tried to fulfill most conscientiously. She really had striven as much as possible to "study." That better understanding, born of affection, which had arisen between them, had formed a new motive within her, and rendered her capable of something like application. But it was not until after her visit to Pomeroy Court that she showed any effort that was at all adequate to the purpose before her. The change that then came over her seemed to have given her a new control over herself. And so it was that, at last, the hours devoted to her studies were filled up by efforts that were really earnest, and also really effective.

Under these circumstances, it happened that Zillah began at last to engross Gualtier's attention altogether, during the whole of the time allotted to her; and if he had sought ever so earnestly, he could not have found any opportunity for a private interview with Hilda. What her wishes might be was not visible; for, whether she wished it or not, she did not, in any way, show it. She was always the same--calm, cool, civil, to her music-teacher, and devoted to her own share of the studies. Those little "asides" in which they had once indulged were now out of the question; and, even if a favorable occasion had arisen, Gualtier would not have ventured upon the undertaking. He, for his part, could not possibly know her thoughts: whether she was still cherishing her old designs, or had given them up altogether. He could only stifle his impatience, and wait, and watch, and wait. But how was it with her? Was she, too, watching and waiting for some opportunity? He thought so. But with what aim, or for what purpose? That was the puzzle. Yet that there was something on her mind which she wished to communicate to him he knew well; for it had at last happened that Hilda had changed in some degree from her cool and undemonstrative manner. He encountered sometimes--or thought that he encountered--an earnest glance which she threw at him, on greeting him, full of meaning, which told him this most plainly. It seemed to him to say: Wait, wait, wait; when the time comes. I have that to say which you will be glad to learn. What it might be he knew not, nor could he conjecture; but he thought that it might still refer to the secret of that mysterious cipher which had baffled them both.

Thus these two watched and waited. Months passed away, but no opportunity for an interview arose. Of course, if Hilda had been reckless, or if it had been absolutely necessary to have one, she could easily have arranged it. The park was wide, full of lonely paths and sequestered retreats, where meetings could have been had, quite free from all danger of observation or interruption. She needed only to slip a note into his hand, telling him to meet her at some place there, and he would obey her will. But Hilda did not choose to do any thing of the kind. Whatever she did could only be done by her in strict accordance with les convenances. She would have waited for months before she would consent to compromise herself so far as to solicit a stolen interview. It was not the dread of discovery, however, that deterred her; for, in a place like Chetwynde, that need not have been feared, and if she had been so disposed, she could have had an interview with Gualtier every week, which no one would have found out. The thing which deterred her was something very different from this. It was her own pride. She could not humble herself so far as to do this. Such an act would be to descend from the position which she at present occupied in his eyes. To compromise herself, or in any way put herself in his power, was impossible for one like her. It was not, however, from any thing like moral cowardice that she held aloof from making an interview with him; nor was it from any thing like conscientious scruples; nor yet from maidenly modesty. It arose, most of all, from pride, and also from a profound perception of the advantages enjoyed by one who fulfilled all that might be demanded by the proprieties of life. Her aim was to see Gualtier under circumstances that were unimpeachable--in the room where he had a right to come. To do more than this might lower herself in his eyes, and make him presumptuous.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XIV. NEW DISCOVERIES

At last the opportunity came for which they had waited so long. For many months Zillah's application to her studies had been incessant, and the Earl began to notice signs of weariness in her. His conscience smote him, and his anxiety was aroused. He had recovered from his gout, and as he felt particularly well he determined to take Zillah on a long drive, thinking that the change would be beneficial to her. He began to fear that he had brought too great a pressure to bear on her, and that she in her new-born zeal for study might carry her self-devotion too far, and do some injury to her health. Hilda declined going, and Zillah and the Earl started off for the day.

On that day Gualtier came at his usual hour. On looking round the room he saw no signs of Zillah, and his eyes brightened as they fell on Hilda.

"Mrs. Molyneux," said she, after the usual civilities, "has gone out for a drive. She will not take her lesson to-day."

"Ah, well, shall I wait till your hour arrives, or will you take your lesson now?"

"Oh, you need not wait," said Hilda; "I will take my lesson now. I think I will appropriate both hours."

There was a glance of peculiar meaning in Hilda's eyes which Gualtier noticed, but he cast his eyes meekly upon the floor. He had an idea that the long looked for revelation was about to be given, but he did not attempt to hasten it in any way. He was afraid that any expression of eagerness on his part might repel Hilda, and, therefore, he would not endanger his position by asking for any thing, but rather waited to receive what she might voluntarily offer.

Hilda, however, was not at all anxious to be asked. Now that she could converse with Gualtier, and not compromise herself, she had made up her mind to give him her confidence. It was safe to talk to this man in this room. The servants were few. They were far away. No one would dream of trying to listen. They were sitting close together near the piano.

"I have something to say to you," said Hilda at last.

Gualtier looked at her with earnest inquiry, but said nothing.

"You remember, of course, what we were talking about the last time we spoke to one another?"

"Of course, I have never forgotten that."

"It was nearly two years ago," said Hilda, "At one time I did not expect that such a conversation could ever be renewed. With the General's death all need for it seemed to be destroyed. But now that need seems to have arisen again."

"Have you ever deciphered the paper?" asked Gualtier.

"Not more than before," said Hilda. "But I have made a discovery of the very greatest importance; something which entirely confirms my former suspicions gathered from the cipher. They are additional papers which I will show you presently, and then you will see whether I am right or not. I never expected to find any thing of the kind. I found them quite by chance, while I was half mechanically carrying out my old idea. After the General's death I lost all interest in the matter for some time, for there seemed before me no particular inducement to go on with it. But this discovery has changed the whole aspect of the affair."

"What was it that you found?" asked Gualtier, who was full of curiosity. "Was it the key to the cipher, or was it a full explanation, or was it something different?"

"They were certain letters and business papers. I will show them to you presently. But before doing so I want to begin at the beginning. The whole of that cipher is perfectly familiar to me, all its difficulties are as insurmountable as ever, and before I show you these new papers I want to refresh your memory about the old ones.

"You remember, first of all," said she, "the peculiar character of that cipher writing, and of my interpretation. The part that I deciphered seemed to be set in the other like a wedge, and while this was decipherable the other was not."

Gualtier nodded.

"Now I want you to read again the part that I deciphered," said Hilda, and she handed him a piece of paper on which something was written. Gualtier took it and read the following, which the reader has already seen. Each sentence was numbered.

1. Oh may God have mercy on my wretched soul Amen 2. O Pomeroy forged a hundred thousand dollars 3. O N Pomeroy eloped with poor Lady Chetwynde 4. She acted out of a mad impulse in flying 5. She listened to me and ran off with me 6. She was piqued at her husband's act 7. Fell in with Lady Mary Chetwynd 8. Expelled the army for gaming 9. N Pomeroy of Pomeroy Berks 10. O I am a miserable villain

Gualtier looked over it and then handed it back.

"Yes," said he, "I remember, of course, for I happen to know every word of it by heart."

"That is very well," said Hilda, approvingly. "And now I want to remind you of the difficulties in my interpretation before going on any further.

"You remember that these were, first, the con fusion in the way of writing the name, for here there is 'O Pomeroy,' 'O N Pomeroy,' and 'N Pomeroy,' in so short a document.

"Next, there is the mixture of persons, the writer sometimes speaking in the first person and sometimes in the third, as, for instance, when he says, 'O N Pomeroy eloped with poor Lady Chetwynde;' and then he says, 'She listened to me and ran off with me.'

"And then there are the incomplete sentences, such as, 'Fell in with Lady Mary Chetwynd'--'Expelled the army for gaming.'

"Lastly, there are two ways in which the lady's name is spelled, 'Chetwynde,' and 'Chetwynd.'

"You remember we decided that these might be accounted for in one of two ways. Either, first, the writer, in copying it out, grew confused in forming his cipher characters; or, secondly, he framed the whole paper with a deliberate purpose to baffle and perplex."

"I remember all this," said Gualtier, quietly. "I have not forgotten it."

"The General's death changed the aspect of affairs so completely," said Hilda, "and made this so apparently useless, that I thought you might have forgotten at least these minute particulars. It is necessary for you to have these things fresh in your mind, so as to regard the whole subject thoroughly."

"But what good will any discovery be now?" asked Gualtier, with unfeigned surprise. "The General is dead, and you can do nothing."

"The General is dead," said Hilda; "but the General's daughter lives."

Nothing could exceed the bitterness of the tone in which she uttered these words.

"His daughter! Of what possible concern can all this be to her?" asked Gualtier, who wished to get at the bottom of Hilda's purpose.

"I should never have tried to strike at the General," said Hilda, "if he had not had a daughter. It was not him that I wished to harm. It was her."

"And now," said Gualtier, after a silence, "she is out of your reach. She is Mrs. Molyneux. She will be the Countess of Chetwynde. How can she be harmed?"

As he spoke he looked with a swift interrogative glance at Hilda, and then turned away his eyes.

"True," said Hilda, cautiously and slowly; "she is beyond my reach. Besides, you will observe that I was speaking of the past. I was telling what I wished--not what I wish."

"That is precisely what I understood," said Gualtier. "I only asked so as to know how your wishes now inclined. I am anxious to serve you in any way."

"So you have said before, and I take you at your word," said Hilda, calmly. "I have once before reposed confidence in you, and I intend to do so again."

Gualtier bowed, and murmured some words of grateful acknowledgment.

"My work now," said Hilda, without seeming to notice him, "is one of investigation. I merely wish to get to the bottom of a secret. It is to this that I have concluded to invite your assistance."

"You are assured of that already, Miss Krieff," said Gualtier, in a tone of deep devotion. "Call it investigation, or call it any thing you choose, if you deign to ask my assistance I will do any thing and dare any thing."

Hilda laughed harshly.

"In truth," said she, dryly, "this does not require much daring, but it may cause trouble--it may also take up valuable time. I do not ask for any risks, but rather for the employment of the most ordinary qualities. Patience and perseverance will do all that I wish to have done."

"I am sorry, Miss Krieff, that there is nothing more than this. I should prefer to go on some enterprise of danger for your sake."

He laid a strong emphasis on these last words, but Hilda did not seem to notice it. She continued, in a calm tone:

"All this is talking in the dark. I must explain myself instead of talking round about the subject. To begin, then. Since our last interview I could find out nothing whatever that tended to throw any light on that mysterious cipher writing. Why it was written, or why it should be so carefully preserved, I could not discover. The General's death seemed to make it useless, and so for a long time I ceased to think about it. It was only on my last visit to Pomeroy Court that it came to my mind. That was six or eight months ago.

"On going there Mrs. Molyneux gave herself up to grief, and scarcely ever spoke a word. She was much by herself, and brooded over her sorrows. She spent much time in her father's room, and still more time in solitary walks about the grounds. I was much by myself. Left thus alone, I rambled about the house, and one day happened to go to the General's study. Here every thing remained almost exactly as it used to be. It was here that I found the cipher writing, and, on visiting it again, the circumstances of that discovery naturally suggested themselves to my mind."

Hilda had warmed with her theme, and spoke with something like recklessness, as though she was prepared at last to throw away every scruple and make a full confidence. The allusion to the discovery of the cipher was a reminder to herself and to Gualtier of her former dishonorable conduct. Having once more touched upon this, it was easier for her to reveal new treachery upon her part. Nevertheless she paused for a moment, and looked with earnest scrutiny upon her companion. He regarded her with a look of silent devotion which seemed to express any degree of subserviency to her interests, and disarmed every suspicion. Reassured by this, she continued:

"It happened that I began to examine the General's papers. It was quite accidental, and arose merely from the fact that I had nothing else to do. It was almost mechanical on impart. At any rate I opened the desk, and found it full of documents of all kinds which had been apparently undisturbed for an indefinite period. Naturally enough I examined the drawer in which I had found the cipher writing, and was able to do so quite at my leisure. On first opening it I found only some business papers. The cipher was no longer there. I searched among all the other papers to find it, but in vain. I then concluded that he had destroyed it. For several days I continued to examine that desk, but with no result. It seemed to fascinate me. At last, however, I came to the conclusion that nothing more could be discovered.

"All this time Mrs. Molyneux left me quite to myself, and my search in the desk and my discouragement were altogether unknown to her. After about a week I gave up the desk and tore myself away. Still I could not keep away from it, and at the end of another week I returned to the search. This time I went with the intention of examining all the drawers, to see if there was not some additional place of concealment.

"It is not necessary for me to describe to you minutely the various trials which I made. It is quite enough for me now to say that I at last found out that in that very private drawer where I had first discovered the cipher writing there was a false bottom of very peculiar construction. It lay close to the real bottom, fitting in very nicely, and left room only for a few thin papers. The false bottom and the real bottom were so thin that no one could suspect any thing of the kind. Something about the position of the drawer led me to examine it minutely, and the idea of a false bottom came to my mind. I could not find out the secret of it, and it was only by the very rude process of prying at it with a knife that I at length made the discovery."

She paused.

"And did you find any thing?" said Gualtier, eagerly.

"I did."

"Papers?"

"Yes. The old cipher writing was there--shut up--concealed carefully, jealously--doubly concealed, in fact. Was not this enough to show that it had importance in the eyes of the man who had thus concealed it? It must be so. Nothing but a belief in its immense importance could possibly have led to such extraordinary pains in the concealment of it. This I felt, and this conviction only intensified my desire to get at the bottom of the mystery which it incloses. And this much I saw plainly--that the deciphering which I have made carries in itself so dread a confession, that the man who made it would willingly conceal it both in cipher writing and in secret drawers."

"But of course," said Gualtier, taking advantage of a pause, "you found something else besides the cipher. With that you were already familiar."

"Yes, and it is this that I am going to tell you about. There were some papers which had evidently been there for a long time, kept there in the same place with the cipher writing. When I first found them I merely looked hastily over them, and then folded them all up together, and took them away so as to examine them in my own room at leisure. On looking over them I found the names which I expected occurring frequently. There was the name of O. N. Pomeroy and the name of Lady Chetwynde. In addition to these there was another name, and a very singular one. The name is Obed Chute, and seems to me to be an American name. At any rate the owner of it lived in America."

"Obed Chute," repeated Gualtier, with the air of one who is trying to fasten something on his memory.

"Yes; and he seems to have lived in New York."

"What was the nature of the connection which he had with the others?"

"I should conjecture that he was a kind of guide, philosopher, and friend, with a little of the agent and commission-merchant," replied Hilda. "But it is impossible to find out anything in particular about him from the meagre letters which I obtained. I found nothing else except these papers, though I searched diligently. Every thing is contained here. I have them, and I intend to show them to you without any further delay."

Saying this Hilda drew some papers from her pocket, and handed them to Gualtier.

On opening them Gualtier found first a paper covered with cipher writing. It was the same which Hilda had copied, and the characters were familiar to him from his former attempt to decipher them. The paper was thick and coarse, but Hilda had copied the characters very faithfully.

The next paper was a receipt written out on a small sheet which was yellow with age, while the ink had faded into a pale brown:

"$100,000. NEW YORK, May 10, 1840.

"Received from O. N. Pomeroy the sum of one hundred thousand dollars in payment for my claim.

"OBED CHUTE."

It was a singular document in every respect; but the mention of the sum of money seemed to confirm the statement gathered from the cipher writing.

The next document was a letter:

"NEW YORK, August 23, 1840.

"DEAR SIR,--I take great pleasure in informing you that L. C. has experienced a change, and is now slowly recovering. I assure you that no pains shall be spared to hasten her cure. The best that New York can afford is at her service. I hope soon to acquaint you with her entire recovery. Until then, believe me,

"Yours truly, OBED CHUTE.

"Capt. O. N. POMEROY."

The next paper was a letter written in a lady's hand. It was very short:

"NEW YORK, September 20, 1840.

"Farewell, dearest friend and more than brother. After a long sickness I have at last recovered through the mercy of God and the kindness of Mr. Chute. We shall never meet again on earth; but I will pray for your happiness till my latest breath.

"MARY CHETWYNDE."

There was only one other. It was a letter also, and was as follows:

"NEW YORK, October 10, 1840.

"DEAR SIR,--I have great pleasure in informing you that your friend L. C. has at length entirely recovered. She is very much broken down, however; her hair is quite gray, and she looks twenty years older. She is deeply penitent and profoundly sad. She is to leave me to-morrow, and will join the Sisters of Charity. You will feel with me that this is best for herself and for all. I remain yours, very truly,

"OBED CHUTE.

"Capt. O. N. POMEROY."

Gualtier read these letters several times in deep and thoughtful silence. Then he sat in profound thought for some time.

"Well," said Hilda at length, with some impatience, "what do you think of these?"

"What do you think?" asked Gualtier.

"I?" returned Hilda. "I will tell you what I think; and as I have brooded over these for eight months now, I can only say that I am more confirmed than ever in my first impressions. To me, then, these papers seem to point out two great facts--the first being that of the forgery; and the second that of the elopement. Beyond this I see something else. The forgery has been arranged by the payment of the amount. The elopement also has come to a miserable termination. Lady Chetwynde seems to have been deserted by her lover, who left her perhaps in New York. She fell ill, very ill, and suffered so that on her recovery she had grown in appearance twenty years older. Broken-hearted, she did not dare to go back to her friends, but joined the Sisters of Charity. She is no doubt dead long ago. As to this Chute, he seems to me perhaps to have been a kind of tool of the lover, who employed him probably to settle his forgery business, and also to take care of the unhappy woman whom he had ruined and deserted. He wrote these few letters to keep the recreant lover informed about her fate. In the midst of these there is the last despairing farewell of the unhappy creature herself. All these the conscience-stricken lover has carefully preserved. In addition to these, no doubt for the sake of easing his conscience, he wrote out a confession of his sin. But he was too great a coward to write it out plainly, and therefore wrote it in cipher. I believe that he would have destroyed them all if he had found time; but his accident came too quickly for this, and he has left these papers as a legacy to the discoverer."

As Hilda spoke Gualtier gazed at her with unfeigned admiration.

"You are right," said he. "Every word that you speak is as true as fate. You have penetrated to the very bottom of this secret. I believe that this is the true solution. Your genius has solved the mystery."

"The mystery," repeated Hilda, who showed no emotion whatever at the fervent admiration of Gualtier--"the mystery is as far from solution as ever."

"Have you not solved it?"

"Certainly not. Mine, after all, are merely conjectures. Much more remains to be done. In the first place, I must find out something about Lady Chetwynde. For months I have tried, but in vain. I have ventured as far as I dared to question the people about here. Once I hinted to Mrs. Hart something about the elopement, and she turned upon me with that in her eyes which would have turned an ordinary mortal into stone. Fortunately for me, I bore it, and survived. But since that unfortunate question she shuns me more than ever. The other servants know nothing, or else they will reveal nothing. Nothing, in fact, can be discovered here. The mystery is yet to be explained, and the explanation must be sought elsewhere."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"Have you thought of any thing? You must have, or you would not have communicated with me. There is some work which you wish me to do. You have thought about it, and have determined it. What is it? Is it to go to America? Shall I hunt up Obed Chute? Shall I search through the convents till I find that Sister who once was Lady Chetwynde? Tell me. If you say so I will go."

Hilda mused; then she spoke, as though rather to herself than to her companion.

"I don't know. I have no plans--no definite aim, beyond a desire to find out what it all means, and what there is in it. What can I do? What could I do if I found out all? I really do not know. If General Pomeroy were alive, it might be possible to extort from him a confession of his crimes, and make them known to the world."

"If General Pomeroy were alive," interrupted Gualtier, "and were to confess all his crimes, what good would that do?"

"What good?" cried Hilda, in a tone of far greater vehemence and passion than any which had yet escaped her. "What good? Humiliation, sorrow, shame, anguish, for his daughter! It is not on his head that I wish these to descend, but on hers. You look surprised. You wonder why? I will not tell you--not now, at least. It is not because she is passionate and disagreeable; that is a trifle, and besides she has changed from that; it is not because she ever injured me--she never injured me; she loves me; but"--and Hilda's brow grew dark, and her eyes flashed as she spoke--"there are other reasons, deeper than all this--reasons which I will not divulge even to you, but which yet are sufficient to make me long and yearn and crave for some opportunity to bring down her proud head into the very dust."

"And that opportunity shall be yours," cried Gualtier, vehemently. "To do this it is only necessary to find out the whole truth. I will find it out. I will search over all England and all America till I discover all that you want to know. General Pomeroy is dead. What matter? He is nothing to you. But she lives, and is a mark for your vengeance."

"I have said more than I intended to," said Hilda, suddenly resuming her coolness. "At any rate, I take you at your word. If you want money, I can supply it."

"Money?" said Gualtier, with a light laugh. "No, no. It is something far more than that which I want. When I have succeeded in my search I will tell you. To tell it now would be premature. But when shall I start? Now?"

"Oh no," said Hilda, who showed no emotion one way or the other at the hint which he had thrown out. "Oh no, do nothing suddenly. Wait until your quarter is up. When will it be out?"

"In six weeks. Shall I wait?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, in six weeks I will go."

"Very well."

"And if I don't succeed I shall never come back."

Hilda was silent.

"Is it arranged, then?" said Gualtier, after a time.

"Yes; and now I will take my music lesson."

And Hilda walked over to the piano.

After this interview no further opportunity occurred. Gualtier came every day as before. In a fortnight he gave notice to the Earl that pressing private engagements would require his departure. He begged leave to recommend a friend of his, Mr. Hilaire. The Earl had an interview with Gualtier, and courteously expressed his regret at his departure, asking him at the same time to write to Mr. Hilaire and get him to come. This Gualtier promised to do.

Shortly before the time of Gualtier's departure Mr. Hilaire arrived. Gualtier took him to the Castle, and he was recognized as the new teacher.

In a few days Gualtier took his departure.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XV. FROM GIRLHOOD TO WOMANHOOD

One evening Zillah was sitting with Lord Chetwynde in his little sanctum. His health had not been good of late, and sometimes attacks of gout were superadded. At this time he was confined to his room.

Zillah was dressed for dinner, and had come to sit with him until the second bell rang. She had been with him constantly during his confinement to his room. At this time she was seated on a low stool near the fire, which threw its glow over her face, and lit up the vast masses of her jet-black hair. Neither of them had spoken for some time, when Lord Chetwynde, who had been looking steadily at her for some minutes, said, abruptly:

"Zillah, I'm sure Guy will not know you when he comes back."

She looked up laughingly. "Why, father? I think every lineament on my face must be stereotyped on his memory."

"That is precisely the reason why I say that he will not know you. I could not have imagined that three years could have so thoroughly altered any one."

"It's only fine feathers," said Zillah, shaking her head. "You must allow that Mathilde is incomparable. I often feel that were she to have the least idea of the appearance which I presented, when I first came here, there would be nothing left for me but suicide. I could not survive her contempt. I was always fond of finery. I have Indian blood enough for that; but when I remember my combinations of colors, it really makes me shudder; and my hair was always streaming over my shoulders in a manner more negligé than becoming."

"I do Mathilde full justice," returned Lord Chetwynde. "Your toilette and coiffure are now irreproachable; but even her power has its limits, and she could scarcely have turned the sallow, awkward girl into a lovely and graceful woman."

Zillah, who was unused to flattery, blushed very red at this tribute to her charms, and answered, quickly:

"Whatever change there may be is entirely due to Monmouthshire. Devonshire never agreed with me. I should have been ill and delicate to this day if I had remained there; and as to sallowness, I must plead guilty to that. I remember a lemon-colored silk I had, in which it was impossible to tell where the dress ended and my neck began. But, after all, father, you are a very prejudiced judge. Except that I am healthy now, and well dressed, I think I am very much the same personally as I was three years ago. In character, however, I feel that I have altered."

"No," he replied; "I have been looking at you for the last few minutes with perfectly unprejudiced eyes, trying to see you as a stranger would, and as Guy will when he returns. And now," he added, laughingly, "you shall be punished for your audacity in doubting my powers of discrimination, by having a full inventory given you. We will begin with the figure--about the middle height, perhaps a little under it, slight and graceful; small and beautifully proportioned head; well set on the shoulders; complexion no longer sallow or lemon-colored, but clear, bright, transparent olive; hair, black as night, and glossy as--"

But here he was interrupted by Zillah, who suddenly flung her arms about his neck, and the close proximity of the face which he was describing impeded further utterance.

"Hush, father," said she; "I won't hear another word, and don't you dare to talk about ever looking at me with unprejudiced eyes. I want you to love me without seeing my faults."

"But would you not rather that I saw your failings, Zillah, than that I clothed you with an ideal perfection?"

"No; I don't care for the love that is always looking out for faults, and has a 'but' even at the tenderest moments. That is not the love I give. Perhaps strangers might not think dear papa, and you, and Hilda absolutely perfect; but I can not see a single flaw, and I should hate myself if I could."

Lord Chetwynde kissed her fondly, but sighed as he answered:

"My child, you know nothing of the world. I fear life has some very bitter lessons in store for you before you will learn to read it aright, and form a just estimate of the characters of the people among whom you are thrown."

"But you surely would not have me think people bad until I have proved them to be so. Life would not be worth having if one must live in a constant state of suspicion."

"No, nor would I have you think all whom you love to be perfect. Believe me, my child, you will meet with but few friends in the world. Honor is an exploded notion, belonging to a past generation."

"You may be right, father, but I do not like the doctrine; so I shall go on believing in people until I find them to be different from what I thought."

"I should say to you, do so, dear--believe as long as you can, and as much as you can; but the danger of that is when you find that those whom you have trusted do not come up to the standard which you have formed. After two or three disappointments you will fall into the opposite extreme, think every one bad, and not believe in any thing or any body."

"I should die before I should come to that," cried Zillah, passionately. "If what you say is true, I had better not let myself like any body." Then, laughing up in his face, she added: "By-the-way, I wonder if you are safe. You see you have made me so skeptical that I shall begin by suspecting my tutor. No, don't speak," she went on, in a half-earnest, half-mocking manner, and put her hand before his mouth. "The case is hopeless, as far as you are concerned. The warning has come too late. I love you as I thought I should never love any one after dear papa."

Lord Chetwynde smiled, and pressed her fondly to his breast.

The steady change which had been going on in Zillah, in mind and in person, was indeed sufficient to justify Lord Chetwynde's remark. Enough has been said already about her change in personal appearance. Great as this was, however, it was not equal to that more subtle change which had come over her soul. Her nature was intense, vehement, passionate; but its development was of such a kind that she was now earnest where she was formerly impulsive, and calm where she had been formerly weak. A profound depth of feeling already was made manifest in this rich nature, and the thoughtfulness of the West was added to the fine emotional sensibility of the East; forming by their union a being of rare susceptibility, and of quick yet deep feeling, who still could control those feelings, and smother them, even though the concealed passion should consume like a fire within her.

Three years had passed since her hasty and repugnant marriage, and those years had been eventful in many ways. They had matured the wild, passionate, unruly girl into the woman full of sensibility and passion. They had also been filled with events upon which the world gazed in awe, which shook the British empire to its centre, and sent a thrill of horror to the heart of that empire, followed by a fierce thirst for vengeance. For the Indian mutiny had broken out, the horrors of Cawnpore had been enacted, the stories of sepoy atrocity had been told by every English fireside, and the whole nation had roused itself to send forth armies for vengeance and for punishment. Dread stories were these for the quiet circle at Chetwynde Castle; yet they had been spared its worst pains. Guy had been sent to the north of India, and had not been witness of the scenes of Cawnpore. He had been joined with those soldiers who had been summoned together to march on Delhi, and he had shared in the danger and in the final triumph of that memorable expedition.

The intensity of desire and the agony of impatience which attended his letters were natural. Lord Chetwynde thought only of one thing for many months, and that was his son's letters. At the outbreak of the mutiny, a dread anxiety had taken possession of him lest his son might be in danger. At first the letters came regularly, giving details of the mutiny as he heard them. Then there was a long break, for the army was on the march to Delhi. Then a letter came from the British camp before Delhi, which roused Lord Chetwynde from the lowest depths of despair to joy and exultation and hope. Then there was another long interval, in which the Earl, sick with anxiety, began to anticipate the worst, and was fast sinking into despondency, until, at last, a letter came, which raised him up in an instant to the highest pitch of exultation and triumph. Delhi was taken. Guy had distinguished himself, and was honorably mentioned in the dispatches. He had been among the first to scale the walls and penetrate into the beleaguered city. All had fallen into their hands. The great danger which had impended had been dissipated, and vengeance had been dealt out to those whose hands were red with English blood. Guy's letter, from beginning to end, was one long note of triumph. Its enthusiastic tone, coming, as it did, after a long period of anxiety, completely overcame the Earl. Though naturally the least demonstrative of men, he was now overwhelmed by the full tide of his emotions. He burst into tears, and wept for some time tears of joy. Then he rose, and walking over to Zillah, he kissed her, and laid his hand solemnly upon her head.

"My daughter," said he, "thank God that your husband is preserved to you through the perils of war, and that he is saved to you, and will come to you in safety and in honor."

The Earl's words sank deeply into Zillah's heart. She said nothing, but bowed her head in silence.

Living, as she did, where Guy's letters formed the chief delight of him whom she loved as a father, it would have been hard indeed for a generous nature like hers to refrain from sharing his feelings. Sympathy with his anxiety and his joy was natural, nay, inevitable. In his sorrow she was forced to console him by pointing out all that might be considered as bright in his prospects; in his joy she was forced to rejoice with him, and listen to his descriptions of Guy's exploits, as his imagination enlarged upon the more meagre facts stated in the letters. This year of anxiety and of triumph, therefore compelled her to think very much about Guy, and, whatever her feelings were, it certainly exalted him to a prominent place in her thoughts.

And so it happened that, as month succeeded to month; she found herself more and more compelled to identify herself with the Earl, to talk to him about the idol of his heart, to share his anxiety and his joy, while all that anxiety and all that joy referred exclusively to the man who was her husband, but whom, as a husband, she had once abhorred.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XVI. THE AMERICAN EXPEDITION

About three years had passed away since Zillah had first come to Chetwynde, and the life which she had lived there had gradually come to be grateful and pleasant and happy. Mr. Hilaire was attentive to his duty and devoted to his pupil, and Zillah applied herself assiduously to her music and drawing. At the end of a year Mr. Hilaire waited upon the Earl with a request to withdraw, as he wanted to go to the Continent. He informed the Earl, however, that Mr. Gualtier was coming back, and would like to get his old situation, if possible. The Earl consented to take back the old teacher; and so, in a few months more, after an absence of about a year and a half, Gualtier resumed his duties at Chetwynde Castle, vice Mr. Hilaire, resigned.

On his first visit after his return Hilda's face expressed an eagerness of curiosity which even her fine self-control could not conceal. No one noticed it, however, but Gualtier, and he looked at her with an earnest expression that might mean any thing or nothing. It might tell of success or failure; and so Hilda was left to conjecture. There was no chance of a quiet conversation, and she had either to wait as before, perhaps for months, until she could see him alone, or else throw away her scruples and arrange a meeting. Hilda was not long in coming to a conclusion. On Gualtier's second visit she slipped a piece of paper into his hand, on which he read, after he had left, the following:

"I will be in the West Avenue, near the Lake, this afternoon at three o'clock."

That afternoon she made some excuse and went out, as she said to Zillah, for a walk through the Park. As this was a frequent thing with her, it excited no comment. The West Avenue led from the door through the Park, and finally, after a long detour, ended at the main gate. At its farthest point there was a lake, surrounded by a dense growth of Scotch larch-trees, which formed a very good place for such a tryst--although, for that matter, in so quiet a place as Chetwynde Park, they might have met on the main avenue without any fear of being noticed. Here, then, at three o'clock, Hilda went, and on reaching the spot found Gualtier waiting for her.

She walked under the shadow of the trees before she said a word.

"You are punctual," said she at last.

"I have been here ever since noon."

"You did not go out, then?"

"No, I staid here for you."

His tone expressed the deepest devotion, and his eyes, as they rested on her for a moment, had the same expression.

Hilda looked at him benignantly and encouragingly.

"You have been gone long, and I dare say you have been gone far," she said. "It is this which I want to hear about. Have you found out any thing, and what have you found out?"

"Yes, I have been gone long," said Gualtier, "and have been far away; but all the time I have done nothing else than seek after what you wish to know. Whether I have discovered any thing of any value will be for you to judge. I can only tell you of the result. At any rate you will see that I have not spared myself for your sake."

"What have you done?" asked Hilda, who saw that Gualtier's devotion was irrepressible, and would find vent in words if she did not restrain him. "I am eager to hear."

Gualtier dropped his eyes, and began to speak in a cool business tone.

"I will tell you every thing, then, Miss Krieff," said he, "from the beginning. When I left here I went first to London, for the sake of making inquiries about the elopement. I hunted up all whom I could find whose memories embraced the last twenty years, so as to see if they could throw any light on this mystery. One or two had some faint recollection of the affair, but nothing of any consequence. At length I found out an old sporting character who promised at first to be what I wished. He remembered Lady Chetwynde, described her beauty, and said that she was left to herself very much by her husband. He remembered well the excitement that was caused by her flight. He remembered the name of the man with whom she had fled. It was Redfield Lyttoun."

"Redfield Lyttoun!" repeated Hilda, with a peculiar expression.

"Yes; but he said that, for his part, he had good reason for believing that it was an assumed name. The man who bore the name had figured for a time in sporting circles, but after this event it was generally stated that it was not his true name. I asked whether any one knew his true name. He said some people had stated it, but he could not tell. I asked what was the name. He said Pomeroy."

As Gualtier said this he raised his eyes, and those small gray orbs seemed to burn and flash with triumph as they encountered the gaze of Hilda. She said not a word, but held out her hand. Gualtier tremblingly took it, and pressed it to his thin lips.

"This was all that I could discover. It was vague; it was only partially satisfactory; but it was all. I soon perceived that it was only a waste of time to stay in London; and after thinking of many plans, I finally determined to visit the family of Lady Chetwynde herself. Of course such an undertaking had to be carried out very cautiously. I found out where the family lived, and went there. On arriving I went to the Hall, and offered myself as music-teacher. It was in an out-of-the-way place, and Sir Henry Furlong, Lady Chetwynde's brother, happened to have two or three daughters who were studying under a governess. When I showed him a certificate which the Earl here was kind enough to give me, he was very much impressed by it. He asked me all about the Earl and Chetwynde, and appeared to be delighted to hear about these things. My stars were certainly lucky. He engaged me at once, and so I had constant access to the place.

"I had to work cautiously, of course. My idea was to get hold of some of the domestics. There was an old fellow there, a kind of butler, whom I propitiated, and gradually drew into conversations about the family. My footing in the house inspired confidence in him, and he gradually became communicative. He was an old gossip, in his dotage, and he knew all about the family, and remembered when Lady Chetwynde was born. He at first avoided any allusion to her, but I told him long stories about the Earl, and won upon his sympathies so that he told me at last all that the family knew about Lady Chetwynde.

"His story was this: Lord Chetwynde was busy in politics, and left his wife very much to herself. A coolness had sprung up between them, which increased every day. Lady Chetwynde was vain, and giddy, and weak. The Redfield Lyttoun of whom I had heard in London was much at her house, though her husband knew nothing about it. People were talking about them every where, and he only was in the dark. At last they ran away. It was known that they had fled to America. That is the last that was ever heard of her. She vanished out of sight, and her paramour also. Not one word has ever been heard about either of them since. From which I conjecture that Redfield Lyttoun, when he had become tired of his victim, threw her off, and came back to resume his proper name, to lead a life of honor, and to die in the odor of sanctity. What do you think of my idea?"

"It seems just," said Hilda, thoughtfully.

"In the three months which I spent there I found out all that the family could tell; but still I was far enough away from the object of my search. I only had conjectures, I wanted certainty. I thought it all over; and, at length, saw that the only thing left to do was to go to America, and try to get upon their tracks. It was a desperate undertaking; America changes so that traces of fugitives are very quickly obliterated; and who could detect or discover any after a lapse of nearly twenty years? Still, I determined to go. There seemed to be a slight chance that I might find this Obed Chute, who figures in the correspondence. There was also a chance of tracing Lady Chetwynde among the records of the Sisters of Charity. Besides, there was the chapter of accidents, in which unexpected things often turn up. So I went to America. My first search was after Obed Chute. To my amazement, I found him at once. He is one of the foremost bankers of New York, and is well known all over the city. I waited on him without delay. I had documents and certificates which I presented to him. Among others, I had written out a very good letter from Sir Henry Furlong, commissioning me to find out about his beloved sister, and another from General Pomeroy, to the effect that I was his friend--"

"That was forgery," interrupted Hilda, sharply.

Gualtier bowed with a deprecatory air, and hung his head in deep abasement.

"Go on," said she.

"You are too harsh," said he, in a pleading voice. "It was all for your sake--"

"Go on," she repeated.

"Well, with these I went to see Obed Chute. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, square-headed man, with iron-gray hair, and a face--well, it was one of those faces that make you feel that the owner can do any thing he chooses. On entering his private office I introduced myself, and began a long explanation. He interrupted me by shaking hands with me vehemently, and pushing me into a chair. I sat down, and went on with my explanation. I told him that I had come out as representative of the Furlong family, and the friend of General Pomeroy, now dead. I told him that there were several things which I wished to find out. First, to trace Lady Chetwynde, and find out what had become of her, and bring her back to her friends, if she were alive; secondly, to clear up certain charges relative to a forgery; and, finally, to find out about the fate of Redfield Lyttoun.

"Mr. Obed Chute at first was civil enough, after his rough way; but, as I spoke, he looked at me earnestly, eying me from head to foot with sharp scrutiny. He did not seem to believe my story.

"'Well,' said he, when I had ended, 'is that all?'

"'Yes,' said I.

"'So you want to find out about Lady Chetwynde, and the forgery, and Redfield Lyttoun?'

"'Yes.'

"'And General Pomeroy told you to apply to me?'

"'Yes. On his dying bed,' said I, solemnly, 'his last words were: "Go to Obed Chute, and tell him to explain all."'

"'To explain all!' repeated Obed Chute.

"'Yes,' said I. '"The confession," said the General, "can not be made by me. He must make it."'

"'The confession!' he repeated.

"'Yes. And I suppose that you will not be unwilling to grant a dying man's request.'

"Obed Chute said nothing for some time, but sat staring at me, evidently engaged in profound thought. At any rate, he saw through and through me.

"'Young man,' said he at last, 'where are you lodging?'

"'At the Astor House,' said I, in some surprise. "'Well, then, go back to the Astor House, pack up your trunk, pay your bill, take your fare in the first steamer, and go right straight back home. When you get there, give my compliments' to Sir Henry Furlong, and tell him if he wants his sister he had better hunt her up himself. As to that affecting message which you have brought from General Pomeroy, I can only say, that, as he evidently did not explain this business to you, I certainly will not. I was only his agent. Finally, if you want to find Redfield Lyttoun, you may march straight out of that door, and look about you till you find him.'

"Saying this, he rose, opened the door, and, with a savage frown, which forbade remonstrance, motioned me out.

"I went out. There was evidently no hope of doing any thing with Obed Chute."

"Then you failed," said Hilda, in deep disappointment.

"Failed? No. Do you not see how the reticence of this Obed Chute confirms all our suspicions? But wait till you hear all, and I will tell you my conclusions. You will then see whether I have discovered any thing definite or not.

"I confess I was much discouraged at first at my reception by Obed Chute. I expected every thing from this interview, and his brutality baffled me. I did not venture back there again, of course. I thought of trying other things, and went diligently around among the convents and religious orders, to see if I could find out any thing about the fate of Lady Chetwynde. My letters of introduction from Sir H. Furlong and from Lord Chetwynde led these simple-minded people to receive me with confidence. They readily seconded my efforts, and opened their records to me. For some time my search was in vain; but, at last, I found what I wanted. One of the societies of the Sisters of Charity had the name of Sister Ursula, who joined them in the year 1840. She was Lady Chetwynde. She lived with them eight years, and then disappeared. Why she had left, or where she had gone, was equally unknown. She had disappeared, and that was the end of her. After this I came home."

"And you have found out nothing more?" said Hilda, in deep disappointment.

"Nothing," said Gualtier, dejectedly; "but are you not hasty in despising what I have found out? Is not this something?"

"I do not know that you have discovered anything but what I knew before," said Hilda, coldly. "You have made some conjectures--that is all."

"Conjectures!--no, conclusions from additional facts," said Gualtier, eagerly. "What we suspected is now, at least, more certain. The very brutality of that beast, Obed Chute, proves this. Let me tell you the conclusions that I draw from this:

"First, General Pomeroy, under an assumed name, that of Redfield Lyttoun, gained Lady Chetwynde's love, and ran away with her to America.

"Secondly, he forged a hundred thousand dollars, which forgery he hushed up through this Obed Chute, paying him, no doubt, a large sum for hush-money.

"Thirdly, he deserted Lady Chetwynde when he was tired of her, and left her in the hands of Obed Chute. She was ill, and finally, on her recovery, joined the Sisters of Charity.

"Fourthly, after eight years she ran away--perhaps to fall into evil courses and die in infamy.

"And lastly, all this must be true, or else Obed Chute would not have been so close, and would not have fired up so at the very suggestion of an explanation. If it were not true, why should he not explain? But if it be true, then there is every reason why he should not explain."

A long silence followed. Hilda was evidently deeply disappointed. From what Gualtier had said at the beginning of the interview, she had expected to hear something more definite. It seemed to her as though all his trouble had resulted in nothing. Still, she was not one to give way to disappointment, and she had too much good sense to show herself either ungrateful or ungracious.

"Your conclusions are, no doubt, correct," said she at last, in a pleasanter tone than she had yet assumed; "but they are only inferences, and can not be made use of--in the practical way in which I hoped they would be. We are still in the attitude of inquirers, you see. The secret which we hold is of such a character that we have to keep it to ourselves until it be confirmed."

Gualtier's face lighted up with pleasure as Hilda thus identified him with herself, and classed him with her as the sharer of the secret.

"Any thing," said he, eagerly--"any thing that I can do, I will do. I hope you know that you have only to say the word--"

Hilda waved her hand.

"I trust you," said she. "The time will come when you will have something to do. But just now I must wait, and attend upon circumstances. There are many things in my mind which I will not tell you--that is to say, not yet. But when the time comes, I promise to tell you. You may be interested in my plans--or you may not. I will suppose that you are."

"Can you doubt it, Miss Krieff?"

"No, I do not doubt it, and I promise you my confidence when any thing further arises."

"Can I be of no assistance now--in advising, or in counseling?" asked Gualtier, in a hesitating voice.

"No--whatever half-formed plans I may have relate to people and to things which are altogether outside of your sphere, and so you could do nothing in the way of counseling or advising."

"At least, tell me this much--must I look upon all my labor as wasted utterly? Will you at least accept it, even if it is useless, as an offering to you?"

Gualtier's pale sallow face grew paler and more sallow as he asked this; his small gray eyes twinkled with a feverish light as he turned them anxiously upon Hilda. Hilda, for her part, regarded him with her usual calmness.

"Accept it?" said she. "Certainly, right gladly and gratefully. My friend, if I was disappointed at the result, do not suppose that I fail to appreciate the labor. You have shown rare perseverance and great acuteness. The next time you will succeed."

This approval of his labors, slight as it was, and spoken as it was, with the air of a queen, was eagerly and thankfully accepted by Gualtier. He hungered after her approval, and in his hunger he was delighted even with crumbs.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XVII. A FRESH DISCOVERY

Some time passed away, and Hilda had no more interviews with Gualtier. The latter settled down into a patient, painstaking music-teacher once more, who seemed not to have an idea beyond his art. Hilda held herself aloof; and, even when she might have exchanged a few confidential words, she did not choose to do so. And Gualtier was content, and quiet, and patient.

Nearly eighteen months had passed away since Zillah's visit to Pomeroy Court, and she began to be anxious to pay another visit. She had been agitating the subject for some time; but it had been postponed from time to time, for various reasons, the chief one being the ill health of the Earl. At length, however, his health improved somewhat, and Zillah determined to take advantage of this to go.

This time, the sight of the Court did not produce so strong an effect as before. She did not feel like staying alone, but preferred having Hilda with her, and spoke freely about the past. They wandered about the rooms, looked over all the well-remembered places, rode or strolled through the grounds, and found, at every step, inside of the Court, and outside also, something which called up a whole world of associations.

Wandering thus about the Court, from one room to another, it was natural that Zillah should go often to the library, where her father formerly passed the greater part of his time. Here they chiefly staid, and looked over the hooks and pictures.

One day the conversation turned toward the desk, and Zillah casually remarked that her father used to keep this place so sacred from her intrusion that she had acquired a kind of awe of it, which she had not yet quite overcome. This led Hilda to propose, laughingly, that she should explore it now, on the spot; and, taking the keys, she opened it, and turned over some of the papers. At length she opened a drawer, and drew out a miniature. Zillah snatched it from her, and, looking at it for a few moments, burst into tears.

"It's my mother," she cried, amidst her sobs; "my mother! Oh, my mother!"

Hilda said nothing.

"He showed it to me once, when I was a little child, and I often have wondered, in a vague way, what became of it. I never thought of looking here."

"You may find other things here, also, if you look," said Hilda, gently. "No doubt your papa kept here all his most precious things."

The idea excited Zillah. She covered the portrait with kisses, put it in her pocket, and then sat down to explore the desk.

There were bundles of papers there, lying on the bottom of the desk, all neatly wrapped up and labeled in a most business-like manner. Outside there was a number of drawers, all of which were filled with papers. These were all wrapped in bundles, and were labeled, so as to show at the first glance that they referred to the business of the estate. Some were mortgages, others receipts, others letters, others returned checks and drafts. Nothing among these had any interest for Zillah.

Inside the desk there were some drawers, which Zillah opened. Once on the search, she kept it up most vigorously. The discovery of her mother's miniature led her to suppose that something else of equal value might be found here somewhere. But, after a long search, nothing whatever was found. The search, however, only became the more exciting, and the more she was baffled the more eager did she become to follow it out to the end. While she was investigating in this way, Hilda stood by her, looking on with the air of a sympathizing friend and interested spectator. Sometimes she anticipated Zillah in opening drawers which lay before their eyes, and in seizing and examining the rolls of papers with which each drawer was filled. The search was conducted by both, in fact, but Zillah seemed to take the lead.

"There's nothing more," said Hilda at last, as Zillah opened the last drawer, and found only some old business letters. "You have examined all, you have found nothing. At any rate, the search has given you the miniature; and, besides, it has dispelled that awe that you spoke of."

"But, dear Hilda, there ought to be something," said Zillah. "I hoped for something more. I had an idea that I might find something--I don't know what--something which I could keep for the rest of my life."

"Is not the miniature enough, dearest?" said Hilda, in affectionate tones. "What more could you wish for?"

"I don't know. I prize it most highly; but, still, I feel disappointed."

"There is no more chance," said Hilda.

"No; I have examined every drawer."

"You can not expect any thing more, so let us go away--unless," she added, "you expect to find some mysterious secret drawer somewhere, and I fancy there is hardly any room here for any thing of that kind."

"A secret drawer!" repeated Zillah, with visible excitement. "What an idea! But could there be one? Is there any place for one? I don't see any place. There is the open place where the books are kept, and, on each side, a row of drawers. No; there are no secret drawers here. But see--what is this?"

As Zillah said this she reached out her hand toward the lower part of the place where the books were kept. A narrow piece of wood projected there beyond the level face of the back of the desk. On this piece of wood there was a brass catch, which seemed intended to be fastened; but now, on account of the projection of the piece, it was not fastened. Zillah instantly pulled the wood, and it came out.

It was a shallow drawer, not more than half an inch in depth, and the catch was the means by which it was closed. A bit of brass, that looked like an ornamental stud, was, in reality, a spring, by pressing which the drawer sprang open. But when Zillah looked there the drawer was already open, and, as she pulled it out, she saw it all.

As she pulled it out her hand trembled, and her heart beat fast. A strange and inexplicable feeling filled her mind--a kind of anticipation of calamity--a mysterious foreboding of evil--which spread a strange terror through her. But her excitement was strong, and was not now to be quelled; and it would have needed something far more powerful than this vague fear to stop her in the search into the mystery of the desk.

When men do any thing that is destined to affect them seriously, for good or evil, it often happens that at the time of the action a certain unaccountable premonition arises in the mind. This is chiefly the case when the act is to be the cause of sorrow. Like the wizard with Lochiel, some dark phantom arises before the mind, and warns of the evil to come. So it was in the present case. The pulling out of that drawer was an eventful moment in the life of Zillah. It was a crisis fraught with future sorrow and evil and suffering. There was something of all this in her mind at that moment; and, as she pulled it out, and as it lay before her, a shudder passed through her, and she turned her face away.

"Oh, Hilda, Hilda!" she murmured. "I'm afraid--"

"Afraid of what?" asked Hilda. "What's the matter? Here is a discovery, certainly. This secret drawer could never have been suspected. What a singular chance it was that you should have made such a discovery!"

But Zillah did not seem to hear her. Before she had done speaking she had turned to examine the drawer. There were several papers in it. All were yellow and faded, and the writing upon them was pale with age. These Zillah seized in a nervous and tremulous grasp. The first one which she unfolded was the secret cipher. Upon this she gazed for some time in bewilderment, and then opened a paper which was inclosed within it. This paper, like the other, was faded, and the ink was pale. It contained what seemed like a key to decipher the letters on the other. These Zillah placed on one side, not choosing to do any more at that time. Then she went on to examine the others. What these were has already been explained. They were the letters of Obed Chute, and the farewell note of Lady Chetwynde. But in addition to these there was another letter, with which the reader is not as yet acquainted. It was as brown and as faded as the other papers, with writing as pale and as illegible. It was in the handwriting of Obed Chute. It was as follows:

"NEW YORK, October 20, 1841.

"DEAR SIR,--L. C. has been in the convent a year. The seventy thousand dollars will never again trouble you. All is now settled, and no one need ever know that the Redfield Lyttoun who ran away with L. C. was really Captain Pomeroy. There is no possibility that any one can ever find it out, unless you yourself disclose your secret. Allow me to congratulate you on the happy termination of this unpleasant business.

"Yours, truly, OBED CHUTE.

"Captain O. N. POMEROY."

Zillah read this over many times. She could not comprehend one word of it as yet. Who was L. C. she knew not. The mention of Captain Pomeroy, however, seemed to implicate her father in some "unpleasant business." A darker anticipation of evil, and a profounder dread, settled over her heart. She did not say a word to Hilda. This, whatever it was, could not be made the subject of girlish confidence. It was something which she felt was to be examined by herself in solitude and in fear. Once only did she look at Hilda. It was when the latter asked, in a tone of sympathy:

"Dear Zillah, what is it?" And, as she asked this, she stooped forward and kissed her.

Zillah shuddered involuntarily. Why? Not because she suspected her friend. Her nature was too noble to harbor suspicion. Her shudder rather arose from that mysterious premonition which, according to old superstitions, arises warningly and instinctively and blindly at the approach of danger. So the old superstition says that this involuntary shudder will arise when any one steps over the place which is destined to be our grave. A pleasant fancy!

Zillah shuddered, and looked up at Hilda with a strange dazed expression. It was some time before she spoke.

"They are family papers," she said. "I--I don't understand them. I will look over them."

She gathered up the papers abruptly, and left the room. As the door closed after her Hilda sat looking at the place where she had vanished, with a very singular smile on her face.

For the remainder of that day Zillah continued shut up in her own room. Hilda went once to ask, in a voice of the sweetest and tenderest sympathy, what was the matter. Zillah only replied that she was not well, and was lying down. She would not open her door, however. Again, before bedtime, Hilda went. At her earnest entreaty Zillah let her in. She was very pale, with a weary, anxious expression on her face.

Hilda embraced her and kissed her.

"Oh, my darling," said she, "will you not tell me your trouble? Perhaps I may be of use to you. Will you not give me your confidence?"

"Not just yet, Hilda dearest. I do not want to trouble you. Besides, there may be nothing in it. I will speak to the Earl first, and then I will tell you."

"And you will not tell me now?" murmured Hilda, reproachfully.

"No, dearest, not now. Better not. You will soon know all, whether it is good or bad. I am going back to Chetwynde to-morrow."

"To-morrow?"

"Yes," said Zillah, mournfully. "I must go back to end my suspense. You can do nothing. Lord Chetwynde only can tell me what I want to know. I will tell him all, and he can dispel my trouble, or else deepen it in my heart forever."

"How terrible! What a frightful thing this must be. My darling, my friend, my sister, tell me this--was it that wretched paper?"

"Yes," said Zillah. "And now, dearest, goodnight. Leave me--I am very miserable."

Hilda kissed her again.

"Darling, I would not leave you, but you drive me away. You have no confidence in your poor Hilda. But I will not reproach you. Goodnight, darling."

"Good-night, dearest."

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XVIII. A SHOCK

The discovery of these papers thus brought the visit to Pomeroy Court to an abrupt termination. The place had now become intolerable to Zillah. In her impatience she was eager to leave, and her one thought now was to apply to Lord Chetwynde for a solution of this dark mystery.

"Why, Zillah," he cried, as she came back; "what is the meaning of this? You have made but a short stay. Was Pomeroy Court too gloomy, or did you think that your poor father was lonely here without you? Lonely enough he was--and glad indeed he is to see his little Zillah."

And Lord Chetwynde kissed her fondly, exhibiting a delight which touched Zillah to the heart. She could not say any thing then and there about the real cause of her sudden return. She would have to wait for a favorable opportunity, even though her heart was throbbing, in her fierce impatience, as though it would burst. She took refuge in caresses and in general remarks as to her joy on finding herself back again, leaving him to suppose that the gloom which hung around Pomeroy Court now had been too oppressive for her, and that she had hurried away from it.

The subject which was uppermost in Zillah's mind was one which she hardly knew how to introduce. It was of such delicacy that the idea of mentioning it to the Earl filled her with repugnance. For the first day she was distrait and preoccupied. Other days followed. Her nights were sleepless. The Earl soon saw that there was something on her mind, and taxed her with it. Zillah burst into tears and sat weeping.

"My child," said the Earl, tenderly. "This must not go on. There can not be anything in your thoughts which you need hesitate to tell me. Will you not show some confidence toward me?"

Zillah looked at him, and his loving face encouraged her. Besides, this suspense was unendurable. Her repugnance to mention such a thing for a time made her silent; but at last she ventured upon the dark and terrible subject.

"Something occurred at Pomeroy Court," she said, and then stopped.

"Well?" said the Earl, kindly and encouragingly.

"It is something which I want very much to ask you about--"

"Well, why don't you?" said Lord Chetwynde. "My poor child, you can't be afraid of me, and yet it looks like it. You are very mysterious. This 'something' must have been very important to have sent you back so soon. Was it a discovery, or was it a fright? Did you find a dead body? But what is that you can want to ask me about? I have been a hermit for twenty years. I crept into my shell before you were born, and here I have lived ever since."

The Earl spoke playfully, yet with an uneasy curiosity in his tone. Zillah was encouraged to go on.

"It is something," said she, timidly and hesitatingly, "which I found among my father's papers."

Lord Chetwynde looked all around the room. Then he rose.

"Come into the library," said he. "Perhaps it is something very important; and if so, there need be no listeners."

Saying this he led the way in silence, followed by Zillah. Arriving there he motioned Zillah to a seat, and took a chair opposite hers, looking at her with a glance of perplexity and curiosity. Amidst this there was an air of apprehension about him, as though he feared that the secret which Zillah wished to tell might be connected with those events in his life which he wished to remain unrevealed. This suspicion was natural. His own secret was so huge, so engrossing, that when one came to him as Zillah did now, bowed down by the weight of another secret, he would naturally imagine that it was connected with his own. He sat now opposite Zillah, with this fear in his face, and with the air of a man who was trying to fortify himself against some menacing calamity.

"I have been in very deep trouble," began Zillah, timidly, and with downcast eyes. "This time I ventured into dear papa's study--and I happened to examine his desk."

She hesitated.

"Well?" said the Earl, in a low voice.

"In the desk I found a secret drawer, which I would not have discovered except by the merest chance; and inside of this secret drawer I found some papers, which--which have filled me with anxiety."

"A secret drawer?" said the Earl, as Zillah again paused. "And what were these papers that you found in it?" There was intense anxiety in the tones of his voice as he asked this question.

"I found there," said Zillah, "a paper written in cipher. There was a key connected with it, by means of which I was able to decipher it."

"Written in cipher? How singular!" said the Earl, with increasing anxiety. "What could it possibly have been?"

Zillah stole a glance at him fearfully and inquiringly. She saw that he was much excited and most eager in his curiosity.

"What was it?" repeated the Earl. "Why do you keep me in suspense? You need not be afraid of me, my child. Of course it is nothing that I am in any way concerned with; and even if it were--why--at any rate, tell me what it was."

The Earl spoke in a tone of feverish excitement, which was so unlike any thing that Zillah had ever seen in him before that her embarrassment was increased.

"It was something," she went on, desperately, and in a voice which trembled with agitation, "with which you are connected--something which I had never heard of before--something which filled me with horror. I will show it to you--but I want first to ask you one thing. Will you answer it?"

"Why should I not?" said the Earl, in a low voice.

"It is about Lady Chetwynde," said Zillah, whose voice had died away to a whisper.

The Earl's face seemed to turn to stone as he looked at her. He had been half prepared for this, but still, when it finally came, it was overwhelming. Once before, and once only in his life, had he told his secret. That was to General Pomeroy. But Zillah was different, and even she, much as he loved her, was not one to whom he could speak about such a thing as this.

"Well?" said he at last, in a harsh, constrained voice. "Ask what you wish."

Zillah started. The tone was so different from that in which Lord Chetwynde usually spoke that she was frightened.

"I--I do not know how to ask what I want to ask," she stammered.

"I can imagine it," said the Earl. "It is about my dishonor. I told General Pomeroy about it once, and it seems that he has kindly written it out for your benefit."

Bitterness indescribable was in the Earl's tones as he said this. Zillah shrank back into herself and looked with fear and wonder upon this man, who a few moments before had been all fondness, but now was all suspicion. Her first impulse was to go and caress him, and explain away the cipher so that it might never again trouble him in this way. But she was too frank and honest to do this, and, besides, her own desire to unravel the mystery had by this time become so intense that it was impossible to stop. The very agitation of the Earl, while it frightened her, still gave new power to her eager and feverish curiosity. But now, more than ever, she began to realize what all this involved. That face which caught her eyes, once all love, which had never before regarded her with aught but tenderness, yet which now seemed cold and icy--that face told her all the task that lay before her. Could she encounter it? But how could she help it? Dare she go on? Yet she could not go back now.

The Earl saw her hesitation.

"I know what you wish to ask," said he, "and will answer it. Child, she dishonored me--she dragged my name down into the dust! Do you ask more? She fled with a villain!"

That stern, white face, which was set in anguish before her, from whose lips these words seemed to be torn, as, one by one, they were flung out to her ears, was remembered by Zillah many and many a time in after years. At this moment the effect upon her was appalling. She was dumb. A vague desire to avert his wrath arose in her heart. She looked at him imploringly; but her look had no longer any power.

"Speak!" he said, impatiently, after waiting for a time. "Speak. Tell me what it is that you have found; tell me what this thing is that concerns me. Can it be any thing more than I have said?"

Zillah trembled. This sudden transformation--this complete change from warm affection to icy coldness--from devoted love to iron sternness--was something which she did not anticipate. Being thus taken unawares, she was all unnerved and overcome. She could no longer restrain herself.

"Oh, father!" she cried, bursting into tears, and flinging herself at his feet in uncontrollable emotion. "Oh, father! Do not look at me so--do not speak so to your poor Zillah. Have I any friend on earth but you?"

She clasped his thin, white hands in hers, while hot tears fell upon them. But the Earl sat unmoved, and changed not a muscle of his countenance. He waited for a time, taking no notice of her anguish, and then spoke, with no relaxation of the sternness of his tone.

"Daughter," said he, "do not become agitated. It was you yourself who brought on this conversation. Let us end it at once. Show me the papers of which you speak. You say that they are connected with me--that they filled you with horror. What is it that you mean? Something more than curiosity about the unhappy woman who was once my wife has driven you to ask explanations of me. Show me the papers."

His tone forbade denial. Zillah said not a word. Slowly she drew from her pocket those papers, heavy with fate, and, with a trembling hand, she gave them to the Earl. Scarcely had she done so than she repented. But it was too late. Beside, of what avail would it have been to have kept them? She herself had begun this conversation; she herself had sought for a revelation of this mystery. The end must come, whatever it might be.

"Oh, father!" she moaned, imploringly.

"What is it?" asked the Earl.

"You knew my dear papa all his life, did you not, from his boyhood?"

"Yes," said the Earl, mechanically, looking at the papers which Zillah had placed in his hand; "yes--from boyhood."

"And you loved and honored him?"

"Yes."

"Was there ever a time in which you lost sight of one another, or did not know all about one another?"

"Certainly. For twenty years we lost sight of one another completely. Why do you ask?"

"Did he ever live in London?" asked Zillah, despairingly.

"Yes," said the Earl; "he lived there for two years, and I scarcely ever saw him. I was in politics; he was in the army. I was busy every moment of my time; he had all that leisure which officers enjoy, and leading the life of gayety peculiar to them. But why do you ask? What connection has all this with the papers?"

Zillah murmured some inaudible words, and then sat watching the Earl as he began to examine the papers, with a face on which there were visible a thousand contending emotions. The Earl looked over the papers. There was the cipher and the key; and there was also a paper written out by Zillah, containing the explanation of the cipher, according to the key. On the paper which contained the key was a written statement to the effect that two-thirds of the letters had no meaning. Trusting to this, Zillah had written out her translation of the cipher, just as Hilda had before done.

The Earl read the translation through most carefully.

"What's this?" he exclaimed, in deeper agitation. Zillah made no reply. In fact, at that moment her heart was throbbing so furiously that she could not have spoken a word. Now had come the crisis of her fate, and her heart, by a certain deep instinct, told her this. Beneath all the agitation arising from the change in the Earl there was something more profound, more dread. It was a continuation of that dark foreboding which she had felt at Pomeroy Court--a certain fearful looking for of some obscure and shadowy calamity.

The Earl, after reading the translation, took the cipher writing and held up the key beside it, while his thin hands trembled, and his eyes seemed to devour the sheet, as he slowly spelled out the frightful meaning. It was bad for Zillah that these papers had fallen into his hands in such a way. Her evil star had been in the ascendant when she was drawn on to this. Coming to him thus, from the hand of Zillah herself, there was an authenticity and an authority about the papers which otherwise might have been wanting. It was to him, at this time; precisely the same as if they had been handed to him by the General himself. Had they been discovered by himself originally, it is possible--in fact, highly probable--that he would have looked upon them with different eyes, and their effect upon him would have been far otherwise. As it was, however, Zillah herself had found them and given them to him. Zillah had been exciting him by her agitation and her suffering, and had, last of all, been rousing him gradually up to a pitch of the most intense excitement, by the conversation which she had brought forward, by her timidity, her reluctance, her strange questionings, and her general agitation. To a task which required the utmost coolness of feeling, and calm impartiality of judgment, he brought a feverish heart, a heated brain, and an unreasoning fear of some terrific disclosure. All this prepared him to accept blindly whatever the paper might reveal.

As he examined the paper he did not look at Zillah, but spelled out the words from the characters, one by one, and saw that the translation was correct. This took a long time; and all the while Zillah sat there, with her eyes fastened on him; but he did not give her one look. All his soul seemed to be absorbed by the papers before him. At last he ended with the cipher writing--or, at least, with as much of it as was supposed to be decipherable--and then he turned to the other papers. These he read through; and then, beginning again, he read them through once more. One only exclamation escaped him. It was while reading that last letter, where mention was made of the name Redfield Lyttoun being an assumed one. Then he said, in a low voice which seemed like a groan wrung out by anguish from his inmost soul:

"Oh, my God! my God!"

At last the Earl finished examining the papers. He put them down feebly, and sat staring blankly at vacancy. He looked ten years older than when he had entered the dining-room. His face was as bloodless as the face of a corpse, his lips were ashen, and new furrows seemed to have been traced on his brow. On his face there was stamped a fixed and settled expression of dull, changeless anguish, which smote Zillah to her heart. He did not see her--he did not notice that other face, as pallid as his own, which was turned toward his, with an agony in its expression which rivaled all that he was enduring. No--he noticed nothing, and saw no one. All his soul was taken up now with one thought. He had read the paper, and had at once accepted its terrific meaning. To him it had declared that in the tragedy of his young life, not only his wife had been false, but his friend also. More--that it was his friend who had betrayed his wife. More yet--and there was fresh anguish in this thought--this friend, after the absence of many years, had returned and claimed his friendship, and had received his confidences. To him he had poured out the grief of his heart--the confession of life-long sorrows which had been wrought by the very man to whom he told his tale. And this was the man who, under the plea of ancient friendship, had bought his son for gold! Great Heaven! the son of the woman whom he had ruined--and for gold! He had drawn away his wife to ruin--he had come and drawn away his son--into what? into a marriage with the daughter of his own mother's betrayer.

Such were the thoughts, mad, frenzied, that filled Lord Chetwynde's mind as he sat there stunned--paralyzed by this hideous accumulation of intolerable griefs. What was Zillah to him now? The child of a foul traitor. The one to whom his noble son had been sold. That son had been, as he once said, the solace of his life. For his sake he had been content to live even under his load of shame and misery. For him he had labored; for his happiness he had planned. And for what? What? That which was too hideous to think of--a living death--a union with one from whom he ought to stand apart for evermore.

Little did Zillah know what thoughts were sweeping and surging through the mind of Lord Chetwynde as she sat there watching him with her awful eyes. Little did she dream of the feelings with which, at that moment, he regarded her. Nothing of this kind came to her. One only thought was present--the anguish which he was enduring. The sight of that anguish was intolerable. She looked, and waited, and at last, unable to bear this any longer, she sprang forward, and tore his hands away from his face.

"It's not! It's not!" she gasped. "Say you do not believe it! Oh, father! It's impossible!"

The Earl withdrew his hands, and shrank away from her, regarding her with that blank gaze which shows that the mind sees not the material form toward which the eyes are turned, but is taken up with its own thoughts.

"Impossible?" he repeated. "Yes. That is the word I spoke when I first heard that she had left me. Impossible? And why? Is a friend more true than a wife? After Lady Chetwynde failed me, why should I believe in Neville Pomeroy? And you--why did you not let me end my life in peace? Why did you bring to me this frightful--this damning evidence which destroys my faith not in man, but even in Heaven itself?"

"Father! Oh, father!" moaned Zillah.

But the Earl turned away. She seized his hand again in both hers. Again he shrank away, and withdrew his hand from her touch. She was abhorrent to him then!

This was her thought. She stepped back, and at once a wild revulsion of feeling took place within her also. All the fierce pride of her hot, impassioned Southern nature rose up in rebellion against this sudden, this hasty change. Why should he so soon lose faith in her father? He guilty!--her father!--the noble--the gentle--the stainless--the true--he! the pure in heart--the one who through all her life had stood before her as the ideal of manly honor and loyalty and truth? Never! If it came to a question between Lord Chetwynde and that idol of her young life, whose memory she adored, then Lord Chetwynde must go down. Who was he that dared to think evil for one moment of the noblest of men! Could he himself compare with the father whom she had lost, in all that is highest in manhood? No. The charge was foul and false. Lord Chetwynde was false for so doubting his friend.

All this flashed over Zillah's mind, and at that moment, in her revulsion of indignant pride, she forgot altogether all those doubts which, but a short time before, had been agitating her own soul --doubts, too, which were so strong that they had forced her to bring on this scene with the Earl. All this was forgotten. Her loyalty to her father triumphed over doubt, so soon as she saw another sharing that doubt.

But her thoughts were suddenly checked.

The Earl, who had but lately shrunk away from her, now turned toward her, and looked at her with a strange, dazed, blank expression of face, and wild vacant eyes. For a moment he sat turned toward her thus; and then, giving a deep groan, he fell forward out of his chair on the floor. With a piercing cry Zillah sprang toward him and tried to raise him up. Her cry aroused the household. Mrs. Hart was first among those who rushed to the room to help her. She flung her arms around the prostrate form, and lifted it upon the sofa. As he lay there a shudder passed through Zillah's frame at the sight which she beheld. For the Earl, in falling, had struck his head against the sharp corner of the table, and his white and venerable hairs were now all stained with blood, which trickled slowly over his wan pale face.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XIX. A NEW PERPLEXITY

At the sight of that venerable face, as white as marble, now set in the fixedness of death, whose white hair was all stained with the blood that oozed from the wound on his forehead, all Zillah's tenderness returned. Bitterly she reproached herself.

"I have killed him! It was all my fault!" she cried. "Oh, save him! Do something! Can you not save him?"

Mrs. Hart did not seem to hear her at all. She had carried the Earl to the sofa, and then she knelt by his side, with her arms flung around him. She seemed unconscious of the presence of Zillah. Her head lay on the Earl's breast. At last she pressed her lips to his forehead, where the blood flowed, with a quick, feverish kiss. Her white face, as it was set against the stony face of the Earl, startled Zillah. She stood mute.

The servants hurried in. Mrs. Hart roused herself, and had the Earl carried to his room. Zillah followed. The Earl was put to bed. A servant was sent off for a doctor. Mrs. Hart and Zillah watched anxiously till the doctor came. The doctor dressed the wound, and gave directions for the treatment of the patient. Quiet above all things was enjoined. Apoplexy was hinted at, but it was only a hint. The real conviction of the doctor seemed to be that it was mental trouble of some kind, and this conviction was shared by those who watched the Earl.

Zillah and Mrs. Hart both watched that night. They sat in an adjoining room. But little was said at first. Zillah was busied with her own thoughts, and Mrs. Hart was preoccupied, and more distrait than usual.

Midnight came. For hours Zillah had brooded over her own sorrows. She longed for sympathy. Mrs. Hart seemed to her to be the one in whom she might best confide. The evident affection which Mrs. Hart felt for the Earl was of itself an inducement to confidence. Her own affection for the aged housekeeper also impelled her to tell her all that had happened. And so it was that, while they sat there together, Zillah gradually told her about her interview with the Earl.

But the story which Zillah told did not comprise the whole truth. She did not wish to go into details, and there were many circumstances which she did not feel inclined to tell to the housekeeper. There was no reason why she should tell about the secret cipher, and very many reasons why she should not. It was an affair which concerned her father and her family. That her own fears were well founded she dared not suppose, and therefore she would not even hint about such fears to another. Above all, she was unwilling to tell what effect the disclosure of that secret of hers had upon the Earl. Better far, it seemed to her, it would be to carry that secret to the grave than to disclose it in any confidence to any third person. Whatever the result might be, it would be better to hold it concealed between the Earl and herself.

What Zillah said was to the effect that she had been asking the Earl about Lady Chetwynde; that the mention of the subject had produced an extraordinary effect; that she wished to withdraw it, but the Earl insisted on knowing what she had to say.

"Oh," she cried, "how bitterly I lament that I said any thing about it! But I had seen something at home which excited my curiosity. It was about Lady Chetwynde. It stated that she eloped with a certain Redfield Lyttoun, and that the name was an assumed one; but what," cried Zillah, suddenly starting forward--"what is the matter?"

While Zillah was speaking Mrs. Hart's face--always pale--seemed to turn gray, and a shudder passed through her thin, emaciated frame. She pressed her hand on her heart, and suddenly sank back with a groan.

Zillah sprang toward her and raised her up. Mrs. Hart still kept her hand on her heart, and gave utterance to low moans of anguish. Zillah chafed her hands, and then hurried off and got some wine. At the taste of the stimulating liquor the poor creature revived. She then sat panting, with her eyes fixed on the floor. Zillah sat looking at her without saying a word, and afraid to touch again upon a subject which had produced so disastrous an effect. Yet why should it? Why should this woman show emotion equal to that of the Earl at the very mention of such a thing? There was surely some unfathomable mystery about it. The emotion of the Earl was intelligible--that of Mrs. Hart was not so. Such were the thoughts that passed through her mind as she sat there in silence watching her companion.

Hours passed without one word being spoken. Zillah frequently urged Mrs. Hart to go to bed, but Mrs. Hart refused. She could not sleep, she said, and she would rather be near the Earl.

At length Zillah, penetrated with pity for the poor suffering woman, insisted on her lying down on the sofa. Mrs. Hart had to yield. She lay down accordingly, but not to sleep. The sighs that escaped her from time to time showed that her secret sorrow kept her awake.

Suddenly, out of a deep silence, Mrs. Hart sprang up and turned her white face toward Zillah. Her large, weird eyes seemed to burn themselves into Zillah's brain. Her lips moved. It was but in a whisper that she spoke:

"Never--never--never--mention it again--either to him or to me. It is hell to both of us!"

She fell back again, moaning.

Zillah sat transfixed, awe-struck and wondering.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XX. A MODEL NURSE, AND FRIEND IN NEED

Zillah did not tell Hilda about the particular cause of the Earl's sickness for some time, but Hilda was sufficiently acute to conjecture what it might be. She was too wary to press matters, and although she longed to know all, yet she refrained from asking. She knew enough of Zillah's frank and confiding nature to feel sure that the confidence would come of itself some day unasked. Zillah was one of those who can not keep a secret. Warm-hearted, open, and impulsive, she was ever on the watch for sympathy, and no sooner did she have a secret than she longed to share it with some one. She had divulged her secret to the Earl, with results that were lamentable. She had partially disclosed it to Mrs. Hart, with results equally lamentable. The sickness of the Earl and of Mrs. Hart was now added to her troubles; and the time would soon come when, from the necessities of her nature, she would be compelled to pour out her soul to Hilda. So Hilda waited.

Mrs. Hart seemed to be completely broken down. She made a feeble attempt to take part in nursing the Earl, but fainted away in his room. Hilda was obliged to tell her that she would be of more use by staying away altogether, and Mrs. Hart had to obey. She tottered about, frequently haunting that portion of the house where the Earl lay, and asking questions about his health. Zillah and Hilda were the chief nurses, and took turns at watching. But Zillah was inexperienced, and rather noisy. In spite of her affectionate solicitude she could not create new qualities within herself, and in one moment make herself a good nurse. Hilda, on the contrary, seemed formed by nature for the sick-room. Stealthy, quiet, noiseless, she moved about as silently as a spirit. Every thing was in its place. The medicines were always arranged in the best order. The pillows were always comfortable. The doctor looked at her out of his professional eyes with cordial approval, and when he visited he gave his directions always to her, as though she alone could be considered a responsible being. Zillah saw this, but felt no jealousy. She humbly acquiesced in the doctor's decision; meekly felt that she had none of the qualities of a nurse; and admired Hilda's genius for that office with all her heart. Added to this conviction of her own inability, there was the consciousness that she had brought all this upon the Earl--a consciousness which brought on self-reproach and perpetual remorse. The very affection which she felt for Lord Chetwynde of itself incapacitated her. A good nurse should be cool. Like a good doctor or a good surgeon, his affections should not be too largely interested. It is a mistake to suppose that one's dear friends make one's best nurses. They are very well to look at, but not to administer medicine or smooth the pillow. Zillah's face of agony was not so conducive to recovery as the calm smile of Hilda. The Earl did not need kisses or hot tears upon his face. What he did need was quiet, and a regular administration of medicines presented by a cool, steady hand.

The Earl was very low. He was weak, yet conscious of all that was going on. Zillah's heart was gladdened to hear once more words of love from him. The temporary hardness of heart which had appalled her had all passed away, and the old affection had returned. In a few feeble words he begged her not to let Guy know that he was sick, for he would soon recover, and it would only worry his son. Most of the words which he spoke were about that son. Zillah would have given any thing if she could have brought Guy to that bedside. But that was impossible, and she could only wait and hope.

Weeks passed away, and in the interviews which she had with Hilda Zillah gradually let her know all that had happened. She told her about the discovery of the papers, and the effect which they had upon the Earl. At last, one evening, she gave the papers to Hilda. It was when Zillah came to sit up with the Earl. Hilda took the papers solemnly, and said that she would look over them. She reproached Zillah for not giving her her confidence before, and said that she had a claim before any one, and if she had only told her all about it at Pomeroy Court, this might not have happened. All this Zillah felt keenly, and began to think that the grand mistake which she had made was in not taking Hilda into her confidence at the very outset.

"I do not know what these papers may mean," said Hilda; "but I tell you candidly that if they contain what I suspect, I would have advised you never to mention it to Lord Chetwynde. It was an awful thing to bring it all up to him."

"Then you know all about it?" asked Zillah, wonderingly.

"Of course. Every body knows the sorrow of his life. It has been public for the last twenty years. I heard all about it when I was a little girl from one of the servants. I could have advised you to good purpose, and saved you from sorrow, if you had only confided in me."

Such were Hilda's words, and Zillah felt new self-reproach to think that she had not confided in her friend.

"I hope another time you will not be so wanting in confidence," said Hilda, as she retired. "Do I not deserve it?"

"You do, you do, my dearest!" said Zillah, affectionately. "I have always said that you were like a sister--and after this I will tell you every thing."

Hilda kissed her, and departed.

Zillah waited impatiently to see Hilda again. She was anxious to know what effect these papers would produce on her. Would she scout them as absurd, or believe the statement? When Hilda appeared again to relieve her, all Zillah's curiosity was expressed in her face. But Hilda said nothing about the papers. She urged Zillah to go and sleep.

"I know what you want to say," said she, "but I will not talk about it now. Go off to bed, darling, and get some rest. You need it."

So Zillah had to go, and defer the conversation till some other time. She went away to bed, and slept but little. Before her hour she was up and hastened back.

"Why, Zillah," said Hilda, "you are half an hour before your time. You are wearing yourself out."

"Did you read the papers?" asked Zillah, as she kissed her.

"Yes," said Hilda, seriously.

"And what do you think?" asked Zillah, with a frightened face.

"My darling," said Hilda, "how excited you are! How you tremble! Poor dear! What is the matter?"

"That awful confession!" gasped Zillah, in a scarce audible voice.

"My darling," said Hilda, passing her arm about Zillah's neck, "why should you take it so to heart? You have no concern with it. You are Guy Molyneux's wife. This paper has now no concern with you."

Zillah started back as though she had been stung. Nothing could have been more abhorrent to her, in such a connection, than the suggestion of her marriage.

"You believe it, then?"

"Believe it! Why, don't you?" said Hilda, in wondering tones. "You do, or you would not feel so. Why did you ask the Earl? Why did you give it to me? Is it not your father's own confession?"

Zillah shuddered, and burst into tears.

"No," she cried at last; "I do not believe it. I will never believe it. Why did I ask the Earl! Because I believed that he would dispel my anxiety. That is all."

"Ah, poor child!" said Hilda, fondly. "You are too young to have trouble. Think no more of this."

"Think of it! I tell you I think of it all the time--night and day," cried Zillah, impetuously. "Think of it! Why, what else can I do than think of it?"

"But you do not believe it?"

"No. Never will I believe it."

"Then why trouble yourself about it?"

"Because it is a stain on my dear papa's memory. It is undeserved--it is inexplicable; but it is a stain. And how can I, his daughter, not think of it?"

"A stain!" said Hilda, after a thoughtful pause. "If there were a stain on such a name, I can well imagine that you would feel anguish. But there is none. How can there be? Think of his noble life spent in honor in the service of his country! Can you associate any stain with such a life?"

"He was the noblest of men!" interrupted Zillah, vehemently.

"Then do not talk of a stain," said Hilda, calmly. "As to Lord Chetwynde, he, at least, has nothing to say. To him General Pomeroy was such a friend as he could never have hoped for. He saved Lord Chetwynde from beggary and ruin. When General Pomeroy first came back to England he found Lord Chetwynde at the last extremity, and advanced sixty thousand pounds to help him. Think of that! And it's true. I was informed of it on good authority. Besides, General Pomeroy did more; for he intrusted his only daughter to Lord Chetwynde--"

"My God!" cried Zillah; "what are you saying? Do you not know, Hilda, that every word that you speak is a stab? What do you mean? Do you dare to talk as if my papa has shut the mouth of an injured friend by a payment of money? Do you mean me to think that, after dishonoring his friend, he has sought to efface the dishonor by gold? My God! you will drive me mad. You make my papa, and Lord Chetwynde also, sink down into fathomless depths of infamy."

"You torture my words into a meaning different from what I intended," said Hilda, quietly. "I merely meant to show you that Lord Chetwynde's obligations to General Pomeroy were so vast that he ought not even to suspect him, no matter how strong the proof."

Zillah waved her hands with a gesture of despair.

"No matter how strong the proof!" she repeated. "Ah! There it is again. You quietly assume my papa's guilt in every word. You have read those papers, and have believed every word."

"You are very unkind, Zillah. I was doing my best to comfort you."

"Comfort!" cried Zillah, in indescribable tones.

"Ah, my darling, do not be cross," said Hilda, twining her arms around Zillah's neck. "You know I loved your papa only less than you did. He was a father to me. What can I say? You yourself were troubled by those papers. So was I. And that is all I will say. I will not speak of them again."

And here Hilda stopped, and went about the room to attend to her duties as nurse. Zillah stood, with her mind full of strange, conflicting feelings. The hints which Hilda had given sank deep into her soul. What did they mean? Their frightful meaning stood revealed full before her in all its abhorrent reality.

Reviewing those papers by the light of Hilda's dark interpretation, she saw what they involved. This, then, was the cause of her marriage. Her father had tried to atone for the past. He had made Lord Chetwynde rich to pay for the dishonor that he had suffered. He had stolen away the wife, and given a daughter in her place. She, then, had been the medium of this frightful attempt at readjustment, this atonement for wrongs that could never be atoned for. Hilda's meaning made this the only conceivable cause for that premature engagement, that hurried marriage by the death-bed. And could there be any other reason? Did it not look like the act of a remorseful sinner, anxious to finish his expiation, and make amends for crime before meeting his Judge in the other world to which he was hastening? The General had offered up every thing to expiate his crime--he had given his fortune--he had sacrificed his daughter. What other cause could possibly have moved him to enforce the hideous mockery of that ghastly, that unparalleled marriage?

Beneath such intolerable thoughts as these, Zillah's brain whirled. She could not avoid them. Affection, loyalty, honor--all bade her trust in her father; the remembrance of his noble character, of his stainless life, his pure and gentle nature, all recurred. In vain. Still the dark suspicion insidiously conveyed by Hilda would obtrude; and, indeed, under such circumstances, Zillah would have been more than human if they had not come forth before her. As it was, she was only human and young and inexperienced. Dark days and bitter nights were before her, but among all none were more dark and bitter than this.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXI. A DARK COMMISSION

These amateur nurses who had gathered about the Earl differed very much, as may be supposed, in their individual capacities. As for Mrs. Hart, she was very quickly put out of the way. The stroke which had prostrated her, at the outset, did not seem to be one from which she could very readily recover. The only thing which she did was to totter to the room early in the morning, so as to find out how the Earl was, and then to totter hack again until the next morning. Mrs. Hart thus was incapable; and Zillah was not very much better. Since her conversation with Hilda there were thoughts in her mind so new, so different from any which she had ever had before, and so frightful in their import, that they changed all her nature. She became melancholy, self-absorbed, and preoccupied. Silent and distrait, she wandered about the Earl's room aimlessly, and did not seem able to give to him that close and undivided attention which he needed. Hilda found it necessary to reproach her several times in her usual affectionate way; and Zillah tried, after each reproach, to rouse herself from her melancholy, so as to do better the next time. Yet, the next time she did just as badly; and, on the whole, acquitted herself but poorly of her responsible task.

And thus it happened that Hilda was obliged to assume the supreme responsibility. The others had grown more than ever useless, and she, accordingly, grew more than ever necessary. To this task she devoted herself with that assiduity and patience for which she was distinguished. The constant loss of sleep, and the incessant and weary vigils which she was forced to maintain, seemed to have but little effect upon her elastic and energetic nature. Zillah, in spite of her preoccupation, could not help seeing that Hilda was doing nearly all the work, and remonstrated with her accordingly. But to her earnest remonstrances Hilda turned a deaf ear.

"You see, dear." said she, "there is no one but me. Mrs. Hart was herself in need of a nurse, and you are no better than a baby, so how can I help watching poor dear Lord Chetwynde?"

"But you will wear yourself out," persisted Zillah.

"Oh, we will wait till I begin to show signs of weariness," said Hilda, in a sprightly tone. "At present, I feel able to spend a great many days and nights here."

Indeed, to all her remonstrances Hilda was quite inaccessible, and it remained for Zillah to see her friend spend most of her time in that sick-room, the ruling spirit, while she was comparatively useless. She could only feel gratitude for so much kindness, and express that gratitude whenever any occasion arose. While Hilda was regardless of Zillah's remonstrances, she was equally so of the doctor's warnings. That functionary did not wish to see his best nurse wear herself out, and warned her frequently, but with no effect whatever. Hilda's self-sacrificing zeal was irrepressible and invincible.

While Hilda was thus devoting herself to the Earl with such tireless patience, and exciting the wonder and gratitude of all in that little household by her admirable self-devotion, there was another who watched the progress of events with perfect calmness, yet with deep anxiety. Gualtier was not able now to give his music lessons, yet, although he no longer could gain admission to the inmates of Castle Chetwynde, his anxiety about the Earl was a sufficient excuse for calling every day to inquire about his health. On those inquiries he not only heard about the Earl, but also about all the others, and more particularly about Hilda. He cultivated an acquaintance with the doctor, who, though generally disposed to stand on his dignity toward musicians, seemed to think that Gualtier had gained from the Earl's patronage a higher title to be noticed than any which his art could give. Besides, the good doctor knew that Gualtier was constantly at the Castle, and naturally wished to avail himself of so good an opportunity of finding out all about the internal life of this noble but secluded family. Gualtier humored him to the fullest extent, and with a great appearance of frankness told him as much as he thought proper, and no more; in return for which confidence he received the fullest information as to the present condition of the household. What surprised Gualtier most was Hilda's devotion. He had not anticipated it. It was real, yet what could be her motive? In his own language--What game was the little thing up to? This was the question which he incessantly asked himself, without being able to answer it. His respect for her genius was too great to allow him for one moment to suppose that it was possible for her to act without some deep motive. Her immolation of self, her assiduity, her tenderness, her skill, all seemed to this man so many elements in the game which she was playing. And for all these things he only admired her the more fervently. That she would succeed he never for a moment doubted; though what it was that she might be aiming at, and what it was that her success might involve, were inscrutable mysteries.

What game is the little thing up to? he asked himself, affectionately, and with tender emphasis. What game? And this became the one idea of his mind. Little else were his thoughts engaged in, except an attempt to fathom the depths of Hilda's design. But he was baffled. What that design involved could hardly have been discovered by him. Often and often he wished that he could look into that sick-chamber to see what the "little thing was up to." Yet, could he have looked into that chamber, he would have seen nothing that could have enlightened him. He would have seen a slender, graceful form, moving lightly about the room, now stooping over the form of the sick man to adjust or to smooth his pillow, now watchfully and warily administering the medicine which stood near the bed. Hilda was not one who would leave any thing to be discovered, even by those who might choose to lurk in ambush and spy at her through a keyhole.

But though Hilda's plans were for some time impenetrable, there came at last an opportunity when he was furnished with light sufficient to reveal them--a lurid light which made known to him possibilities in her which he had certainly not suspected before.

One day, on visiting Chetwynde Castle, he found her in the chief parlor. He thought that she had come there purposely in order to see him; and he was not disappointed. After a few questions as to the Earl's health, she excused herself, and said that she must hurry back to his room; but, as she turned to go, she slipped a piece of paper into his hand, as she had done once before. On it he saw the following words:

"Be in the West Avenue, at the former place, at three o'clock."

Gualtier wandered about in a state of feverish impatience till the appointed hour, marveling what the purpose might be which had induced Hilda to seek the interview. He felt that the purpose must be of far-reaching importance which would lead her to seek him at such a time; but what it was he tried in vain to conjecture.

At last the hour came, and Gualtier, who had been waiting so long, was rewarded by the sight of Hilda. She was as calm as usual, but greeted him with greater cordiality than she was in the habit of showing. She also evinced greater caution than even on the former occasion, and led the way to a more lonely spot, and looked all around most carefully, so as to guard against the possibility of discovery. When, at length, she spoke, it was in a low and guarded voice.

"I am so worn down by nursing," she said, "that I have had to come out for a little fresh air. But I would not leave the Earl till they absolutely forced me. Such is my devotion to him that there is an impression abroad through the Castle that I will not survive him."

"Survive him? You speak as though he were doomed," said Gualtier.

"He--is--very--low," said Hilda, in a solemn monotone.

Gualtier said nothing, but regarded her in silence for some time.

"What was the cause of his illness?" he asked at length. "The doctor thinks that his mind is affected."

"For once, something like the truth has penetrated that heavy brain."

"Do you know any thing that can have happened?" asked Gualtier, cautiously.

"Yes; a sudden shock. Strange to say, it was administered by Mrs. Molyneux."

"Mrs. Molyneux!"

"Yes."

"I am so completely out of your sphere that I know nothing whatever of what is going on. How Mrs. Molyneux can have given a shock to the Earl that could have reduced him to his present state, I can not imagine."

"Of course it was not intentional. She happened to ask the Earl about something which revived old memories and old sorrows in a very forcible manner. He grew excited--so much so, indeed, that he fainted, and, in falling, struck his head. That is the whole story."

"May I ask," said Gualtier, after a thoughtful pause, "if Mrs. Molyneux's ill-fated questions had any reference to those things about which we have spoken together, from time to time?"

"They had--and a very close one. In fact, they arose out of those very papers which we have had before us."

Gualtier looked at Hilda, as she said this, with the closest attention.

"It happened," said Hilda, "that Mrs. Molyneux, on her last visit to Pomeroy Court, was seized with a fancy to examine her father's desk. While doing so, she found a secret drawer, which, by some singular accident, had been left started, and a little loose--just enough to attract her attention. This she opened, and in it, strange to say, she found that very cipher which I have told you of. A key accompanied it, by which she was able to read as much as we have read; and there were also those letters with which you are familiar. She took them to her room, shut herself up, and studied them as eagerly as ever either you or I did. She then hurried back to Chetwynde Castle, and laid every thing before the Earl. Out of this arose his excitement and its very sad results."

"I did not know that there were sufficient materials for accomplishing so much," said Gualtier, cautiously.

"No; the materials were not abundant. There was the cipher, with which no one would have supposed that any thing could be done. Then there were those other letters which lay with it in the desk, which corroborated what the cipher seemed to say. Out of this has suddenly arisen ruin and anguish."

"There was also the key," said Gualtier, in a tone of delicate insinuation.

"True," said Hilda; "had the key not been inclosed with the papers, she could not have understood the cipher, or made any thing out of the letters."

"The Earl must have believed it all."

"He never doubted for an instant. By the merest chance, I happened to be in a place where I saw it all," said Hilda, with a peculiar emphasis. "I thought that he would reject it at first, and that the first impulse would be to scout such a charge. But mark this"--and her voice grew solemn--"there must have been some knowledge in his mind of things unknown to us, or else he could never have been so utterly and completely overwhelmed. It was a blow which literally crushed him--in mind and body."

There was a long silence.

"And you think he can not survive this?" asked Gualtier.

"No," said Hilda, in a very strange, slow voice, "I do not think--that--he--can--recover. He is old and feeble. The shock was great. His mind wanders, also. He is sinking slowly, but surely."

She paused, and looked earnestly at Gualtier, who returned her look with one of equal earnestness.

"I have yet to tell you what purpose induced me to appoint this meeting," said she, in so strange a voice that Gualtier started. But he said not a word.

Hilda, who was standing near to him, drew nearer still. She looked all around, with a strange light in her eyes. Then she turned to him again, and said, in a low whisper:

"I want you to get me something."

Gualtier looked at her inquiringly, but in silence. His eyes seemed to ask her, "What is it?"

She put her mouth close to his ear, and whispered something, heard only by him. But that low whisper was never forgotten. His face turned deathly pale. He looked away, and said not a word.

"Good-by," said Hilda; "I am going now." She held out her hand. He grasped it. At that moment their eyes met, and a look of intelligence flashed between them.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXII. THE JUDAS KISS

It has already been said that the Earl rallied a little so to recognize Zillah, all his old affection was exhibited, and the temporary aversion which he had manifested during that eventful time when he had seen the cipher writing had passed off without leaving any trace of its existence. It was quite likely indeed that the whole circumstance had been utterly obliterated from his memory, and when his eyes caught sight of Zillah she was to him simply the one whom he loved next best to Guy. His brain was in such a state that his faculties seemed dulled, and his memory nearly gone. Had he remembered the scene he would either have continued to regard Zillah with horror, or else, if affection had triumphed over a sense of injury, he would have done something or said something in his more lucid intervals to assure Zillah of his continued love. But nothing of the kind occurred. He clung to Zillah like a child, and the few faint words which he addressed to her simply recognized her as the object of an affection which had never met with an interruption. They also had reference to Guy, as to whether she had written to him yet, and whether any more letters had been received from him. A letter, which came during the illness, she tried to read, but the poor weary brain of the sick man could not follow her. She had to tell him in general terms of its contents.

For some weeks she had hoped that the Earl would recover, and therefore delayed sending the sad news to Guy. But at length she could no longer conceal from herself the fact that the illness would be long, and she saw that it was too serious to allow Guy to remain in ignorance. She longed to address him words of condolence, and sympathized deeply with him in the anxiety which she knew would be felt by a heart so affectionate as his.

And now as she thought of writing to him there came to her, more bitterly than ever, the thought of her false position. She write! She could not. It was Hilda who would write. Hilda stood between her and the one she wished to soothe. In spite of her warm and sisterly affection for her friend, and her boundless trust in her, this thought now sent a thrill of vexation through her; and she bitterly lamented the chain of events by which she had been placed in such a position. It was humiliating and galling. But could she not yet escape? Might she not even now write in her own name explaining all? No. It could not be--not now, for what would be the reception of such explanations, coming as they would with news of his father's illness! Would he treat them with any consideration whatever? Would not his anxiety about his father lead him to regard them with an impatient disdain? But perhaps, on the other hand, he might feel softened and accept her explanation readily, without giving any though to the strange deceit which had been practiced for so long a time. This gave her a gleam of hope; but in her perplexity she could not decide, so she sought counsel from Hilda as usual. Had Mrs. Hart being in the possession of her usual faculties she might possibly have asked her advice also; but, as it was, Hilda was the only one to whom she could turn.

Hilda listened to her with that sweet smile, and that loving and patient consideration, which she always gave to Zillah's confidences and appeals.

"Darling," said she, after a long and thoughtful silence, "I understand fully the perplexity which you feel. In fact, this letter ought to come from you, and from you only. I'm extremely sorry that I ever began this. I'm sure I did it from the very best motives. Who could ever have dreamed that it would become so embarrassing? And now I don't know what to do--that is, not just now."

"Do you think he would be angry at the deceit?"

"Do you yourself think so?" asked Hilda in reply.

"Why, that is what I am afraid of; but then--isn't it possible that he might be--softened, you know--by anxiety?"

"People don't get softened by anxiety. They get impatient, angry with the world and with Providence. But the best way to judge is to put yourself in his situation. Suppose you were in India, and a letter was written to you by your wife--or your husband, I suppose I should say--telling you that your father was extremely ill, and that he himself had been deceiving you for some years. The writing would be strange--quite unfamiliar; the story would be almost incredible; you wouldn't know what to think. You'd be deeply anxious, and yet half believe that some one was practicing a cruel jest on you. For my part, if I had an explanation to make I would wait for a time of prosperity arid happiness. Misfortune makes people so bitter."

"That is the very thing that I'm afraid of," said Zillah, despairingly. "And--oh dear, what shall I do?"

"You must do one thing certainly, and that is write him about his father. You yourself must do it, darling."

"Why, what do you mean? You were just now showing me that this was the very thing which I could not do."

"You misunderstand me," said Hilda, with a smile. "Why, do you really mean to say that you do not see how easy it is to get out of this difficulty?"

"Easy! It seems to me a terrible one."

"Why, my darling child, don't you see that after you write your letter I can copy it? You surely have nothing so very private to say that you will object to that. I suppose all that you want to do is to break the news to him as gently and tenderly as possible. You don't want to indulge in expressions of personal affection, of course."

"Oh, my dearest Hilda!" cried Zillah, overjoyed. "What an owl I am not to have thought of that! It meets the whole difficulty. I write--you copy it--and it will be my letter after all. How I could have been so stupid I do not see. But I'm always so. As to any private confidences, there is no danger of any thing of that kind taking place between people who are so very peculiarly situated as we are."

"I suppose not," said Hilda, with a smile.

"But it's such a bore to copy letters."

"My darling, can any thing be a trouble that I do for you? Besides, you know how very fast I write."

"You are always so kind," said Zillah, as she kissed her friend fondly and tenderly. "I wish I could do something for you; but--poor me!--I don't seem able to do any thing for any body--not even for the dear old Earl. What wouldn't I give to be like you!"

"You are far better as you are, darling," said Hilda, with perhaps a double meaning in her words. "But now go and write the letter, and bring it to me, and I will copy it as fast as I can, and send it to the post."

Under these circumstances that letter was written.

The Earl lingered on in a low stage, with scarcely any symptoms of improvement. At first, indeed, there was a time when he had seemed better, but that passed away. The relapse sorely puzzled the doctor. If he had not been in such good hands he might have suspected the nurse of neglect, but that was the last thing that he could have thought of Hilda. Indeed, Hilda had been so fearful of the Earl's being neglected that she had, for his sake, assumed these all-engrossing cares. Singularly enough, however, it was since her assumption of the chief duties of nursing him that the Earl had relapsed. The doctor felt that nothing better in the way of nursing him could be conceived of. Zillah thought that if it had not been for Hilda the Earl would scarcely have been alive. As for Hilda herself, she could only meekly deprecate the doctor's praises, and sigh to think that such care as hers should prove so unavailing.

The Earl's case was, indeed, a mysterious one. After making every allowance for the shock which he might have experienced, and after laying all possible stress upon that blow on his head which he had suffered when falling forward, it still was a subject of wonder to the doctor why he should not recover. Hilda had told him in general terms, and with her usual delicacy, of the cause of the Earl's illness, so that the doctor knew that it arose from mental trouble, and not from physical ailment. Yet, even under these circumstances, he was puzzled at the complete prostration of the Earl, and at the adverse symptoms which appeared as time passed on.

The Earl slept most of the time. He was in a kind of stupor. This puzzled the doctor extremely. The remedies which he administered seemed not to have their legitimate effect. In fact they seemed to have no effect, and the most powerful drugs proved useless in this mysterious case.

"It must be the mind," said the doctor to himself, as he rode home one day after finding the Earl in a lower state than usual. "It must be the mind; and may the devil take the mind, for hang me if I can ever make head or tail of it!"

Yet on the night when the doctor soliloquized in this fashion a change had come over the Earl which might have been supposed to be for the better. He was exceedingly weak, so weak, indeed, that it was only with a great effort that he could move his hand; but he seemed to be more sensible than usual. That "mind" which the doctor cursed seemed to have resumed something of its former functions. He asked various questions; and, among others, he wished to hear Guy's last letter. This Hilda promised he should hear on the morrow. Zillah was there at the time, and the Earl cast an appealing glance toward her; but such was her confidence in Hilda that she did not dream of doing any thing in opposition to her decision. So she shook her head, and bending over the Earl, she kissed him, and said, "To-morrow."

The Earl, by a great effort, reached up his thin, feeble hand and took hers. "You will not leave me?" he murmured.

"Certainly not, if you want me to stay," said Zillah.

The Earl, by a still greater effort, dragged her down nearer to him. "Don't leave me with her," he whispered.

Zillah started at the tone of his voice. It was a tone of fear.

"What is it that he says?" asked Hilda, in a sweet voice.

The Earl frowned. Zillah did not see it however. She looked back to Hilda and whispered, "He wants me to stay with him."

"Poor dear!" said Hilda. "Well, tell him that you will. It is a whim. He loves you, you know. Tell him that you'll stay."

And Zillah stooped down and told the Earl that she would stay.

There was trouble in the Earl's face. He lay silent and motionless, with his eyes fixed upon Zillah. Something there was in his eyes which expressed such mute appeal that Zillah wondered what it might be. She went over to him and sat by his side. He feebly reached out his thin hand. Zillah took it and held it in both of hers, kissing him as she did so.

"You will not leave me?" he whispered.

"No, dear father."

A faint pressure of her hand was the Earl's response, and a faint smile of pleasure hovered over his thin lips.

"Have you written to Guy?" he asked again.

"Yes. I have written for him to come home," said Zillah, who meant that Hilda had written in her name; but, in her mind, it was all the same.

The Earl drew a deep sigh. There was trouble in his face. Zillah marked it, but supposed that he was anxious about that son who was never absent from his thoughts. She did not attempt to soothe his mind in any way. He was not able to keep up a conversation. Nor did she notice that the pressure on her hand was stronger whenever Hilda, with her light, stealthy step, came near; nor did she see the fear that was in his face as his eyes rested upon her.

The Earl drew Zillah faintly toward him. She bent down over him.

"Send her away," said he, in a low whisper.

"Who? Hilda?" asked Zillah, in wonder.

"Yes. You nurse me--you stay with me."

Zillah at once arose. "Hilda," said she, "he wants me to stay with him to-night. I suppose he thinks I give up too much to you, and neglect him. Oh dear, I only wish I was such a nurse as you! But, since he wishes it, I will stay tonight; and if there is any trouble I will call you."

"But, my poor child," said Hilda, sweetly, "you have been here all day."

"Oh, well, it is his wish, and I will stay here all night."

Hilda remonstrated a little; but, finding that Zillah was determined, she retired, and Zillah passed all that night with the Earl. He was uneasy. A terror seemed to be over him. He insisted on holding Zillah's hand. At times he would start and look fearfully around. Was it Hilda whom he feared? Whatever his fear was, he said nothing; but after each start he would look eagerly up at Zillah, and press her hand faintly. And Zillah thought it was simply the disorder of his nervous system, or, perhaps, the effect of the medicines which he had taken. As to those medicines, she was most careful and most regular in administering them. Indeed, her very anxiety about these interfered with that watchfulness about the Earl himself which was the chief requisite. Fully conscious that she was painfully irregular and unmethodical, Zillah gave her chief thought to the passage of the hours, so that every medicine should be given at the right time.

It was a long night, but morning came at last, and with it came Hilda, calm, refreshed, affectionate, and sweet.

"How has he been, darling?" she asked.

"Quiet," said Zillah, wearily.

"That's right; and now, my dearest, go off and get some rest. You must be very tired."

So Zillah went off, and Hilda remained with the Earl.

Day was just dawning when Zillah left the Earl's room. She stooped over him and kissed him. Overcome by fatigue, she did not think much of the earnest, wistful gaze which caught her eyes. Was it not the same look which he had fixed on her frequently before?

The Earl again drew her down as she clasped his hand. She stooped over him.

"I'm afraid of her," he said, in a low whisper. "Send Mrs. Hart."

Mrs. Hart? The Earl did not seem to know that she was ill. No doubt his mind was wandering. So Zillah thought, and the idea was natural. She thought she would humor the delirious fancy. So she promised to send Mrs. Hart.

"What did he say?" asked Hilda, following Zillah out. Zillah told her according to her own idea.

"Oh, it's only his delirium," said Hilda. "He'll take me for you when I go back. Don't let it trouble you. You might send Mathilde if you feel afraid; but I hardly think that Mathilde would be so useful here as I."

"I afraid? My dear Hilda, can I take his poor delirious fancy in earnest? Send Mathilde? I should hardly expect to see him alive again."

"Alive again!" said Hilda, with a singular intonation.

"Yes; Mathilde is an excellent maid, but in a sick-room she is as helpless as a child. She is far worse than I am. Do we ever venture to leave him alone with her?"

"Never mind. Do you go to sleep, darling, and sweet dreams to you."

They kissed, and Zillah went to her chamber.

It was about dawn, and the morning twilight but dimly illumined the hall. The Earl's room was dark, and the faint night light made objects only indistinctly perceptible. The Earl's white face was turned toward the door as Hilda entered, with imploring, wistful expectancy upon it. As he caught sight of Hilda the expression turned to one of fear--that same fear which Zillah had seen upon it. What did he fear? What was it that was upon his mind? What fearful thought threw its shadow over his soul?

Hilda looked at him for a long time in silence, her face calm and impassive, her eyes intent upon him. The Earl looked back upon her with unchanged fear--looking back thus out of his weakness and helplessness, with a fear that seemed intensified by the consciousness of that weakness. But Hilda's face softened not; no gleam of tenderness mitigated the hard lustre of her eyes; her expression lessened not from its set purpose. The Earl said not one word. It was not to her that he would utter the fear that was in him. Zillah had promised to send Mrs. Hart. When would Mrs. Hart come? Would she ever come, or would she never come? He looked away from Hilda feverishly, anxiously, to the door; he strained his ears to listen for footsteps. But no footsteps broke the deep stillness that reigned through the vast house, where all slept except these two who faced each other in the sick-room.

There was a clock at the end of the corridor outside, whose ticking sounded dull and muffled from the distance, yet it penetrated, with clear, sharp vibrations, to the brain of the sick man, and seemed to him, in the gathering excitement of this fearful hour, to grow louder and louder, till each tick sounded to his sharpened sense like the vibrations of a bell, and seemed to be the funeral knell of his destiny; sounding thus to his ears, solemnly, fatefully, bodingly; pealing forth thus with every sound the announcement that second after second out of those few minutes of time which were still left him had passed away from him forever. Each one of those seconds was prolonged to his excited sense to the duration of an hour. After each stroke he listened for the next, dreading to hear it, yet awaiting it, and all the while feeling upon him the eyes of one of whom he was to be the helpless, voiceless victim.

There had been but a few minutes since Zillah left, but they seemed like long terms of duration to the man who watched and feared. Zillah had gone, and would not return. Would Mrs. Hart ever come? Oh, could Mrs. Hart have known that this man, of all living beings, was thus watching and hoping for her, and that to this man of all others her presence would have given a heavenly peace and calm! If she could but have known this as it was then it would have roused her even from the bed of death, and brought her to his side though it were but to die at the first sight of him. But Mrs. Hart came not. She knew nothing of any wish for her. In her own extreme prostration she had found, after a wakeful night, a little blessed sleep, and the watcher watched in vain.

The clock tolled on.

Hilda looked out through the door. She turned and went out into the hall. She came back and looked around the room. She went to the window and looked out. The twilight was fading. The gloom was lessening from around the dim groves and shadowy trees. Morning was coming. She went back into the room, and once more into the hall. There she stood and listened. The Earl followed her with his eyes--eyes that were full of awful expectation.

Hilda came back. The Earl summoned all his strength, and uttered a faint cry. Hilda walked up to him; she stooped down over him. The Earl uttered another cry. Hilda paused. Then she stooped down and kissed his forehead.

The Earl gasped. One word came hissing forth--"Judas!"

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXIII. THE HOUSE OF MOURNING

Zillah had scarcely fallen asleep when a shrill cry roused her. She started up. Hilda stood by her side with wild excitement in her usually impassive face. A cold thrill ran through Zillah's frame. To see Hilda in any excitement was an unknown thing to her; but now this excitement was not concealed.

"Oh, my darling! my darling!" she cried.

"What? what?" Zillah almost screamed. "What is it? What has happened?" Fear told her. She knew what had happened. One thing, and one only, could account for this.

"He's gone! It's over! He's gone! He's gone! Oh, darling! How can I tell it? And so sudden! Oh, calm yourself!" And Hilda flung her arms about Zillah, and groaned.

Zillah's heart seemed to stand still. She flung off Hilda's arms, she tore herself away, and rushed to the Earl's room. Such a sudden thing as this--could it be? Gone! And it was only a few moments since she had seen his last glance, and heard his last words.

Yes; it was indeed so. There, as she entered that room, where now the rays of morning entered, she saw the form of her friend--that friend whom she called father, and loved as such. But the white face was no longer turned to greet her; the eyes did not seek hers, nor could that cold hand ever again return the pressure of hers. White as marble was that face now, still and set in the fixedness of death; cold as marble was now that hand which hers clasped in that first frenzy of grief and horror; cold as marble and as lifeless. Never again--never again might she hold commune with the friend who now was numbered with the dead.

She sat in that room stricken into dumbness by the shock of this sudden calamity. Time passed. The awful news flashed through the house. The servants heard it, and came silent and awe-struck to the room; but when they saw the white face, and the mourner by the bedside, they stood still, nor did they dare to cross the threshold. Suddenly, while the little group of servants stood there in that doorway, with the reverence which is always felt for death and for sorrow, there came one who forced her way through them and passed into the room. This one bore on her face the expression of a mightier grief than that which could be felt by any others--a grief unspeakable--beyond words, and beyond thought. White-haired, and with a face which now seemed turned to stone in the fixedness of its great agony, this figure tottered rather than walked into the room. There was no longer any self-restraint in this woman, who for years had lived under a self-restraint that never relaxed; there was no thought as to those who might see or hear; there was nothing but the utter abandonment of perfect grief--of grief which had reached its height and could know nothing more; there was nothing less than despair itself--that despair which arises when all is lost--as this woman flung herself past Zillah, as though she had a grief superior to Zillah's, and a right to pass even her in the terrible precedence of sorrow. It was thus that Mrs. Hart came before the presence of the dead and flung herself upon the inanimate corpse, and wound her thin arms around that clay from which the soul had departed, and pressed her wan lips upon the cold brow from which the immortal dweller had passed away to its immortality.

In the depths of her own grief Zillah was roused by a cry which expressed a deeper grief than hers--a cry of agony--a cry of despair:

"Oh, my God! Oh, God of mercy! Dead! What? dead! Dead--and no explanation--no forgiveness!"

And Mrs. Hart fell down lifeless over the form of the dead.

Zillah rose with a wonder in her soul which alleviated the sorrow of bereavement. What was this? What did it mean?

"Explanation!" "Forgiveness!" What words were these? His housekeeper!--could she be any thing else? What had she done which required this lamentation? What was the Earl to her, that his death should cause such despair?

But amidst such thoughts Zillah was still considerate about this stricken one, and she called the servants, and they bore her away to her own room. This grief, from whatever cause it may have arisen, was too much for Mrs. Hart. Before this she had been prostrated. She now lost all consciousness, and lay in a stupor from which she could not be aroused.

The wondering questions which had arisen in Zillah's mind troubled her and puzzled her at first; but gradually she thought that she could answer them. Mrs. Hart, she thought, was wonderfully attached to the Earl. She had committed some imaginary delinquency in her management of the household, which, in her weak and semi-delirious state, was weighing upon her spirits. When she found that he was dead, the shock was great to one in her weak state, and she had only thought of some confession which she had wished to make to him.

When the doctor came that day he found Zillah still sitting there, holding the hand of the dead. Hilda came to tell all that she knew.

"About half an hour after Zillah left," she said, "I was sitting by the window, looking out to see the rising sun. Suddenly the Earl gave a sudden start, and sat upright in bed. I rushed over to him. He fell back. I chafed his hands and feet. I could not think, at first, that it was any thing more than a fainting fit. The truth gradually came to me. He was dead. An awful horror rushed over me. I fled from the room to Mrs. Molyneux, and roused her from sleep. She sprang up and hurried to the Earl. She knows the rest."

Such was Hilda's account.

As for the doctor, he could easily account for the sudden death. It was mind. His heart had been affected, and he had died from a sudden spasm. It was only through the care of Miss Krieff that the Earl had lived so long.

But so great was Hilda's distress that Zillah had to devote herself to the task of soothing her.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXIV. A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

Some weeks passed, and Zillah's grief gradually became lessened. She was far better able to bear this blow at this time than that first crushing blow which a few years before had descended so suddenly upon her young life. She began to rally and to look forward to the future. Guy had been written to, not by her, but, as usual, by Hilda, in her name. The news of her father's death had been broken to him as delicately as possible. Hilda read it to Zillah, who, after a few changes of expression, approved of it. This letter had the effect of impressing upon Zillah's mind the fact that Guy must soon come home. The absence must cease. In any case it could not last much longer. Either she would have had to join him, or he come back to her. The prospect of his arrival now stood before her, and the question arose how to meet it. Was it welcome or unpleasant? After all, was he not a noble character, and a valiant soldier--the son of a dear friend? Zillah's woman's heart judged him not harshly, and much of her thought was taken up with conjectures as to the probable results of that return. She began at length to look forward to it with hope; and to think that she might be happy with such a man for her husband. The only thing that troubled her was the idea that any man, however noble, should have the right of claiming her as his without the preliminary wooing. To a delicate nature this was intolerable, and she could only trust that he would be acceptable to her on his first appearance.

In the midst of these thoughts a letter arrived from Guy, addressed to that one who was now beyond its reach. Zillah opened this without hesitation, for Lord Chetwynde had always been in the habit of handing them to her directly he had read them.

Few things connected with those whom we have loved and lost are more painful, where all is so exquisitely painful, than the reading of letters by them or to them. The most trivial commonplaces--the lightest expressions of regard--are all invested with the tenderest pathos, and from our hearts there seems rung out at every line the despairing refrain of "nevermore--nevermore." It was thus, and with blending tears, that Zillah read the first part of Guy's letter, which was full of tender love and thoughtful consideration. Soon, however, this sadness was dispelled; her attention was arrested; and every other feeling was banished in her absorbing interest in what she read. After some preliminary paragraphs the letter went on thus:

"You will be astonished, my dear father, and, I hope, pleased, to learn that I have made up my mind to return to England as soon as possible. As you may imagine, this resolve is a sudden one, and I should be false to that perfect confidence which has always existed between us, if I did not frankly acquaint you with the circumstances which have led to my decision. I have often mentioned to you my friend Captain Cameron of the Royal Engineers, who is superintending the erection of some fortifications overlooking the mountain pass. Isolated as we are from all European society, we have naturally been thrown much together, and a firm friendship has grown up between us. We constituted him a member of our little mess, consisting of my two subalterns and myself, so that he has been virtually living with us ever since our arrival here.

"Not very long ago our little circle received a very important addition. This was Captain Cameron's sister; who, having been left an orphan in England, and having no near relatives there, had come out to her brother. She was a charming girl. I had seen nothing of English ladies for a long time, and so it did not need much persuasion to induce me to go to Cameron's house after Miss Cameron had arrived. Circumstances, rather than any deliberate design on my part, drew me there more and more, till at length all my evenings were spent there, and, in fact, all my leisure time. I always used to join Miss Cameron and her brother on their morning rides and evening walks; and very often, if duty prevented him from accompanying her, she would ask me to take his place as her escort. She was also as fond of music as I am; and, in the evening, we generally spent most of the time in playing or singing together. She played accompaniments to my songs, and I to hers. We performed duets together; and thus, whether in the house or out of it, were thrown into the closest possible intercourse. All this came about so naturally that several months had passed away in this familiar association before I began even to suspect danger, either for myself or for her. Suddenly, however, I awakened to the consciousness of the fact as it was. All my life was filled by Inez Cameron--all my life seemed to centre around her--all my future seemed as black as midnight apart from her. Never before had I felt even a passing interest in any woman. Bound as I had been all my life, in boyhood by honor, and in early manhood by legal ties, I had never allowed myself to think of any other woman; and I had always been on my guard so as not to drift into any of those flirtations with which men in general, and especially we officers, contrive to fritter away the freshness of affection. Inexperience, combined with the influence of circumstances, caused me to drift into this position; and the situation became one from which it was hard indeed to extricate myself. I had, however, been on my guard after a fashion. I had from the first scrupulously avoided those galanteries and façons de parler which are more usual in Indian society than elsewhere. Besides, I had long before made Cameron acquainted with my marriage, and had taken it for granted that Inez knew it also. I thought, even after I had found out that I loved her, that there was no danger for her--and that she had always merely regarded me as a married man and a friend. But one day an accident revealed to me that she knew nothing about my marriage, and had taken my attentions too favorably for her own peace of mind. Ah, dear father, such a discovery was bitter indeed in many ways. I had to crush out my love for my sake and for hers. One way only was possible, and that was to leave her forever. I at once saw Cameron, and told him frankly the state of the case, so far as I was concerned. Like a good fellow, as he was, he blamed himself altogether. 'You see, Molyneux,' he said, 'a fellow is very apt to overlook the possible attractiveness of his own sister.' He made no effort to prevent me from going, but evidently thought it my only course. I accordingly applied at once for leave, and to-night I am about to start for Calcutta, where I will wait till I gain a formal permit, and I will never see Inez again. I have seen her for the last time. Oh, father! those words of warning which you once spoke to me have become fatally true. Chetwynde has been too dearly bought. At this moment the weight of my chains is too heavy to be borne. If I could feel myself free once more, how gladly would I give up all my ancestral estates! What is Chetwynde to me? What happiness can I ever have in it now, or what happiness can there possibly be to me without Inez? Besides, I turn from the thought of her, with her refined beauty, her delicate nature, her innumerable accomplishments, her true and tender heart, and think of that other one, with her ungovernable passions, her unreasoning temper, and her fierce intractability, where I can see nothing but the soul of a savage, unredeemed by any womanly softness or feminine grace. Oh; father! was it well to bind me to a Hindu? You will say, perhaps, that I should not judge of the woman by the girl. But, father, when I saw her first at ten, I found her impish, and at fifteen, when I married her, she was no less so, only perhaps more intensified. Fierce words of insult were flung at me by that creature. My God! it is too bitter to think of. Her face is before me now, scowling and malignant, while behind it, mournful and pitying, yet loving, is the pale sweet face of Inez.

"But I dare not trust myself further. Never before have I spoken to you about the horror which I feel for that Hindu. I did not wish to pain you. I fear I am selfish in doing so now. But, after all, it is better for you to know it once for all. Otherwise the discovery of it would be all the worse. Besides, this is wrung out from me in spite of myself by the anguish of my heart.

"Let me do justice to the Hindu. You have spoken of her sometimes--not often, however, and I thank you for it--as a loving daughter to you. I thank her for that, I am sure. Small comfort, however, is this to me. If she were now an angel from heaven, she could not fill the place of Inez.

"Forgive me, dear father. This shall be the last of complaints. Henceforth I am ready to bear my griefs. I am ready for the sacrifice. I can not see her yet, but when I reach England I must see you somehow. If you can not meet me, you must manage to send her off to Pomeroy, so that I may see you in peace. With you I will forget my sorrows, and will be again a light-hearted boy.

"Let me assure you that I mean to keep my promise made years ago when I was a boy. It shall be the effort of my life to make my wife happy. Whether I succeed or not will be another thing. But I must have time.

"No more now. I have written about this for the first and the last time. Give my warmest and fondest love to nurse. I hope to see you soon, and remain, dear father,

"Your affectionate son,

"Guy Molyneux."

For some time after reading this letter Zillah sat as if stunned. At first she seemed scarcely able to take in its full meaning. Gradually, however, it dawned upon her to its widest extent. This, then, was the future that lay before her, and this was the man for whose arrival she had been looking with such mingled feelings. Little need was there now for mingled feelings. She knew well with what feeling to expect him. She had at times within the depths of her heart formed an idea that her life would not be loveless; but now--but now--This man who was her husband, and the only one to whom she could look for love--this man turned from her in horror; he hated her, he loathed her--worse, he looked upon her as a Hindu--worse still, if any thing could be worse, his hate and his loathing were made eternal; for he loved another with the ardor of a first fresh love, and his wife seemed to him a demon full of malignity, who stood between him and the angel of his heart and the heaven of his desires. His words of despair rang within her ears. The opprobrious epithets which he applied to her stung her to the quick. Passionate and hot-hearted, all her woman's nature rose up in arms at this horrible, this unlooked-for assault. All her pride surged up within her in deep and bitter resentment. Whatever she might once have been, she felt that she was different now, and deserved not this. At this moment she would have given worlds to be able to say to him, "You are free. Go, marry the woman whom you love." But it was too late.

Not the least did she feel Guy's declaration that he would try to make her happy. Her proud spirit chafed most at this. He was going to treat her with patient forbearance, and try to conceal his abhorrence. Could she endure this? Up and down the room she paced, with angry vehemence, asking herself this question.

She who had all her life been surrounded by idolizing love was now tied for life to a man whose highest desire with regard to her was that he might be able to endure her. In an agony of grief, she threw herself upon the floor. Was there no escape? she thought. None? none? Oh, for one friend to advise her!

The longer Zillah thought of her position the worse it seemed to her. Hours passed away, and she kept herself shut up in her room, refusing to admit any one, but considering what was best to do. One thing only appeared as possible under these circumstances, and that was to leave Chetwynde. She felt that it was simply impossible for her to remain there. And where could she go? To Pomeroy Court? But that had been handed over to him as part of the payment to him for taking her. She could not go back to a place which was now the property of this man. Nor was it necessary. She had money of her own, which would enable her to live as well as she wished. Thirty thousand pounds would give her an income sufficient for her wants; and she might find some place where she could live in seclusion. Her first wild thoughts were a desire for death; but since death would not come, she could at least so arrange matters as to be dead to this man. Such was her final resolve.

It was with this in her mind that she went out to Hilda's room. Hilda was writing as she entered, but on seeing her she hastily shut her desk, and sprang forward to greet her friend.

"My darling!" said she. "How I rejoice to see you! Is it some new grief? Will you never trust me? You are so reticent with me that it breaks my heart."

"Hilda," said she, "I have just been reading a letter from Lord Chetwynde to his father. He is about to return home."

Zillah's voice, as she spoke, was hard and metallic, and Hilda saw that something was wrong. She noticed that Zillah used the words Lord Chetwynde with stern emphasis, instead of the name Guy, by which she, like the rest, had always spoken of him.

"I am glad to hear it, dear," said Hilda, quietly, and in a cordial tone; "for, although you no doubt dread the first meeting, especially under such painful circumstances, yet it will be for your happiness."

"Hilda," said Zillah, with increased sternness, "Lord Chetwynde and I will never meet again."

Hilda started back with unutterable astonishment on her face.

"Never meet again!" she repeated--"not meet Lord Chetwynde--your husband? What do you mean?"

"I am going to leave Chetwynde as soon as possible, and shall never again cross its threshold."

Hilda went over to Zillah and put her arms around her.

"Darling," said she, in her most caressing tones, "you are agitated. What is it? You are in trouble. What new grief can have come to you? Will you not tell me? Is there anyone living who can sympathize with you as I can?"

At these accents of kindness Zillah's fortitude gave way. She put her head on her friend's shoulder and sobbed convulsively. The tears relieved her. For a long time she wept in silence.

"I have no one now in the world but you, dearest Hilda. And you will not forsake me, will you?"

"Forsake you, my darling, my sister? forsake you? Never while I live! But why do you speak of flight and of being forsaken? What mad fancies have come over you?"

Zillah drew from her pocket the letter which she had read.

"Here," she said, "read this, and you will know all."

Hilda took the letter and read it in silence, all through, and then commencing it again, she once more read it through to the end.

Then she flung her arms around Zillah, impulsively, and strained her to her heart.

"You understand all now?"

"All," said Hilda.

"And what do you think?"

"Think! It is horrible!"

"What would you do?"

"I?" cried Hilda, starting up.

"I would kill myself."

Zillah shook her head. "I am not quite capable of that--not yet--though it may be in me to do it--some time. But now I can not. My idea is the same as yours, though. I will go into seclusion, and be dead to him, at any rate."

Hilda was silent for a few moments. Then she read the letter again.

"Zillah," said she, with a deep sigh, "it is very well to talk of killing one's self, as I did just now, or of running away; but, after all, other things must be considered. I spoke hastily; but I am calmer than you, and I ought to advise you calmly. After all, it is a very serious thing that you speak of; and, indeed, are you capable of such a thing? Whatever I may individually think of your resolve, I know that you are doing what the world will consider madness; and it is my duty to put the case plainly before you. In the first place, then, your husband does not love you, and he loves another--very hard to bear, I allow; but men are fickle, and perhaps ere many months have elapsed he may forget the cold English beauty as he gazes on your Southern face. You are very beautiful, Zillah; and when he sees you he will change his tone. He may love you at first sight."

"Then I should despise him," said Zillah, hotly. "What kind of love is that which changes at the sight of every new face? Besides, you forget how he despises me. I am a Hindu in his eyes. Can contempt ever change into love? If such a miracle could take place, I should never believe in it. Those bitter words in that letter would always rankle in my heart."

"That is true," said Hilda, sorrowfully. "Then we will put that supposition from us. But, allowing you never gain your husband's love, remember how much there is left you. His position, his rank, are yours by right--you are Lady Chetwynde, and the mistress of Chetwynde Castle. You can fill the place with guests, among whom you will be queen. You may go to London during the season, take the position to which you are entitled there as wife of a peer, and, in the best society which the world affords, you will receive all the admiration and homage which you deserve. Beauty like yours, combined with rank and wealth, may make you a queen of society. Have you strength to forego all this, Zillah?"

"You have left one thing out in your brilliant picture," replied Zillah. "All this may, indeed, be mine--but--mine on sufferance. If I can only get this as Lord Chetwynde's wife, I beg leave to decline it. Besides, I have no ambition to shine in society. Had you urged me to remember all that the Earl has done for me, and try to endure the son for the sake of the father, that might possibly have had weight. Had you shown me that my marriage was irrevocable, and that the best thing was to accept the situation, and try to be a dutiful wife to the son of the man whom I called father, you might perhaps for a moment have shaken my pride. I might have stifled the promptings of those womanly instincts which have been so frightfully outraged, and consented to remain passively in a situation where I was placed by those two friends who loved me best. But when you speak to me of the dazzling future which may lie before me as Lord Chetwynde's wife, you remind me how little he is dependent for happiness upon any thing that I can give him; of the brilliant career in society or in politics which is open to him, and which will render domestic life superfluous. I have thought over all this most fully; but what you have just said has thrown a new light upon it. In the quiet seclusion in which I have hitherto lived I had almost forgotten that there was an outside world, where men seek their happiness. Can you think that I am able to enter that world, and strive to be a queen of society, with no protecting love around me to warn me against its perils or to shield me from them? No! I see it all. Under no circumstances can I live with this man who abhors me. No toleration can be possible on either side. The best thing for me to do is to die. But since I can not die, the next best thing is to sink out of his view into nothingness. So, Hilda, I shall leave Chetwynde, and it is useless to attempt to dissuade me."

Zillah had spoken in low, measured tones, in words which were so formal that they sounded like a school-girl's recitation--a long, dull monotone--the monotony of despair. Her face drooped--her eyes were fixed on the floor--her white hands clasped each other, and she sat thus--an image of woe. Hilda looked at her steadily. For a moment there flashed over her lips the faintest shadow of a smile--the lips curled cruelly, the eyes gleamed coldly--but it was for a moment. Instantly it had passed, and as Zillah ceased, Hilda leaned toward her and drew her head down upon her breast.

"Ah, my poor, sweet darling! my friend! my sister! my noble Zillah!" she murmured. "I will say no more. I see you are fixed in your purpose. I only wished you to act with your eyes open. But of what avail is it? Could you live to be scorned--live on sufferance? Never! I would die first. What compensation could it be to be rich, or famous, when you were the property of a man who loathed you? Ah, my dear one! what am I saying? But you are right. Yes, sooner than live with that man I would kill myself."

A long silence followed.

"I suppose you have not yet made any plans, darling," said Hilda at last.

"Yes I have. A thousand plans at once came sweeping through my mind, and I have some general idea of what I am to do," said Zillah. "I think there will be no difficulty about the details. You remember, when I wished to run away, after dear papa's death--ah, how glad I am that I did not--how many happy years I should have lost--the question of money was the insuperable obstacle; but that is effectually removed now. You know my money is so settled that it is payable to my own checks at my bankers', who are not even the Chetwyndes' bankers; for the Earl thought it better to leave it with papa's men of business."

"You must be very careful," said Hilda, "to leave no trace by which Lord Chetwynde can find you out. You know that he will move heaven and earth to find you. His character and his strict ideas of honor would insure that. The mere fact that you bore his name, would make it gall and wormwood to him to be ignorant of your doings. Besides, he lays great stress on his promise to your father."

"He need not fear," said Zillah. "The dear old name, which I love almost as proudly as he does, shall never gain the lightest stain from me. Of course I shall cease to use it now. It would be easy to trace Lady Chetwynde to any place. My idea is, of course, to take an assumed name. You and I can live quietly and raise no suspicions that we are other than we seem. But, Hilda, are you sure that you are willing to go into exile with me? Can you endure it? Can you live with me, and share my monotonous life?"

Hilda looked steadily at Zillah, holding her hand the while. "Zillah," said she, in a solemn voice, "whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God!"

A deep silence followed. Zillah pressed Hilda's hand and stifled a half sob.

"At any rate," said Hilda, "whoever else may fail, you--you have, at least, one faithful heart--one friend on whom you can always rely. No, you need not thank me," said she, as Zillah fondly kissed her and was about to speak; "I am but a poor, selfish creature, after all. You know I could never be happy away from you. You know that there is no one in the world whom I love but you; and there is no other who loves me. Do I not owe every thing to General Pomeroy and to you, my darling?"

"Not more than I owe to you, dear Hilda. I feel ashamed when I think of how much I made you endure for years, through my selfish exactions and my ungovernable temper. But I have changed a little I think. The Earl's influence over me was for good, I hope. Dear Hilda, we have none but one another, and must cling together."

Silence then followed, and they sat for a long time, each wrapped up in plans for the future.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXV. CUTTING THE LAST TIE

Fearful that her courage might fail if she gave herself any more time to reflect on what she was doing, Zillah announced to the household, before the close of that day, that the shock of Lord Chetwynde's death rendered a change necessary for her, and that she should leave home as soon as she could conveniently do so. She also told them of their master's expected return, and that every thing must be in readiness for his reception, so that, on her return, she might have no trouble before her. She gave some faint hints that she might probably meet him at London, in order to disarm suspicion, and also to make it easier for Chetwynde himself to conceal the fact of her flight, if he wished to do so. She never ceased to be thoughtful about protecting his honor, as far as possible. The few days before Zillah's departure were among the most wretched she had ever known. The home which she so dearly loved, and which she had thought was to be hers forever, had to be left, because she felt that she was not wanted there. She went about the grounds, visited every favorite haunt and nook--the spots endeared to her by the remembrance of many happy hours passed among them--and her tears flowed fast and bitterly as she thought that she was now seeing them for the last time. The whole of the last day at Chetwynde she passed in the little church, under which every Molyneux had been buried for centuries back. It was full of their marble effigies. Often had she watched the sunlight flickering over their pale sculptured faces. One of these forms had been her especial delight; for she could trace in his features a strong family resemblance to Lord Chetwynde. This one's name was Guy. Formerly she used to see a likeness between him and the Guy who was now alive. He had died in the Holy Land; but his bones had been brought home, that they might rest in the family vault. She had been fond of weaving romances as to his probable history and fate; but no thought of him was in her mind to-day, as she wept over the resting-place of one who had filled a father's place to her, or as she knelt and prayed in her desolation to Him who has promised to be a father to the fatherless. Earnestly did she entreat that His presence might be with her, His providence direct her lonely way. Poor child! In the wild impulsiveness of her nature she thought that the sacrifice which she was making of herself and her hopes must be acceptable to Him, and pleasing in His sight. She did not know that she was merely following her own will, and turning her back upon the path of duty. That duty lay in simple acceptance of the fate which seemed ordained for her, whether for good or evil. Happy marriages were never promised by Him; and, in flying from one which seemed to promise unhappiness, she forgot that "obedience is better than sacrifice," even though the sacrifice be that of one's self.

Twilight was fast closing in before she reached the castle, exhausted from the violence of her emotion, and faint and weak from her long fasting. Hilda expressed alarm at her protracted absence, and said that she was just about going in search of her. "My darling," said she, "you will wear away your strength. You are too weak now to leave. Let me urge you, for the last time, to stay; give up your mad resolution."

"No," said Zillah. "You know you yourself said that I was right."

"I did not say that you were right, darling. I said what I would do in your place; but I did not at all say, or even hint, that it would be right."

"Never mind," said Zillah, wearily; "I have nerved myself to go through with it, and I can do it. The worst bitterness is over now. There is but one thing more for me to do, and then the ties between me and Chetwynde are severed forever."

At Hilda's earnest entreaty she took some refreshment, and then lay down to rest; but, feeling too excited to sleep, she got up to accomplish the task she had before her. This was to write a letter to her husband, telling him of her departure, and her reason for doing so. She wished to do this in as few words as possible, to show no signs of bitterness toward him, or of her own suffering. So she wrote as follows:

"CHETWYNDE CASTLE, March 20, 1859."

My LORD,--Your last letter did not reach Chetwynde Castle until after your dear father had been taken from us. It was therefore opened and read by me. I need not describe what my feelings were on reading it; but will only say, that if it were possible for me to free you from the galling chains that bind you to me, I would gladly do so. But, though it be impossible for me to render you free to marry her whom you love, I can at least rid you of my hated presence. I can not die; but I can be as good as dead to you. To-morrow I shall leave Chetwynde forever, and you will never see my face again. Search for me, were you inclined to make it, will lie useless. I shall probably depart from England, and leave no trace of my whereabouts. I shall live under an assumed name, so as not to let the noble name of Chetwynde suffer any dishonor from me. If I die, I will take care to have the news sent to you.

"Do not think that I blame you. A man's love is not under his own control. Had I remained, I know that as your wife, I should have experienced the utmost kindness and consideration. Such kindness, however, to a nature like mine would have been only galling. Something more than cold civility is necessary in order to render endurable the daily intercourse of husband and wife. Therefore I do not choose to subject myself to such a life.

"In this, the last communication between us, I must say to you what I intended to reserve until I could say it in person. It needed but a few weeks' intimate association with your dear father, whom I loved as my father, and whom I called by that name, to prove how utterly I had been mistaken as to the motives and circumstances that led to our marriage. I had his full and free forgiveness for having doubted him; and I now, as a woman, beg to apologize to you for all that I might have said as a passionate girl.

"Let me also assure you, my lord, of my deep sympathy for you in the trial which awaits you on your return, when you will find Chetwynde Castle deprived of the presence of that father whom you love. I feel for you and with you. My loss is only second to yours; for, in your father, I lost the only friend whom I possessed.

"Yours, very respectfully,

"ZILLAH."

Hilda of course had to copy this, for the objection to Zillah's writing was as strong as before, and an explanation was now more difficult to make than ever. Zillah, however, read it in Hilda's handwriting, and then Hilda took it, as she always did to inclose it for the mail.

She took it to her own room, drew from her desk a letter which was addressed to Guy, and this was the one which she posted. Zillah's letter was carefully destroyed. Yet Zillah went with Hilda to the post-office, so anxious was she about her last letter, and saw it dropped in the box, as she supposed.

Then she felt that she had cut the last tie.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXVI. FLIGHT AND REFUGE

About a fortnight after the events narrated in our last chapter a carriage stopped before the door of a small cottage situated in the village of Tenby on the coast of Pembrokeshire. Two ladies in deep mourning got out of it, and entered the gate of the garden which lay between them and the house; while a maid descended from the ramble, and in voluble French, alternating with broken English, besought the coachman's tender consideration for the boxes which he was handing down in a manner expressive of energy and expedition, rather than any regard for their contents. A resounding "thump" on the ground, caused by the sudden descent of one of her precious charges, elicited a cry of agony from the Frenchwoman, accompanied by the pathetic appeal:

"Oh, mon Dieu! Qu'est ce que vous faites la? Prenez garde donc!"

This outbreak attracted the attention of the ladies, who turned round to witness the scene. On seeing distress depicted on every lineament of her faithful Abigail's face, the younger of the two said, with a faint smile:

"Poor Mathilde! That man's rough handling will break the boxes and her heart at the same time. But after all it will only anticipate the unhappy end, for I am sure that she will die of grief and ennui when she sees the place we have brought her to. She thought it dreadful at Chetwynde that there were so few to see and to appreciate the results of her skill, yet even there a few could occasionally be found to dress me for. But when she finds that I utterly repudiate French toilettes for sitting upon the rocks, and that the neighboring fishermen are not as a rule judges of the latest coiffure, I am afraid to think of the consequences. Will it be any thing less than a suicide, do you think, Hilda?"

"Well, Zillah," said Hilda, "I advised you not to bring her. A secret intrusted to many ceases to be a secret. It would have been better to leave behind you all who had been connected with Chetwynde, but especially Mathilde, who is both silly and talkative."

"I know that her coming is sorely against your judgment, Hilda; but I do not think that I run any risk. I know you despise me for my weakness, but I really like Mathilde, and could not give her up and take a new maid, unless I had to. She is very fond of me, and would rather be with me, even in this outlandish place, than in London, even, with any one else. You know I am the only person she has lived with in England. She has no friends in the country, so her being French is in her favor. She has not the least idea in what county 'ce cher mais triste Shateveen' is situated; so she could not do much harm even if she would, especially as her pronunciation of the name is more likely to bewilder than to instruct her hearers."

By this time they had entered the house, and Zillah, putting her arm in Hilda's, proceeded to inspect the mansion. It was a very tiny one; the whole house could conveniently have stood in the Chetwynde drawing-room; but Zillah declared that she delighted in its snugness. Every thing was exquisitely neat, both within and without. The place had been obtained by Hilda's diligent search. It had belonged to a coast-guard officer who had recently died, and Hilda, by means of Gualtier, obtained possession of the whole place, furniture and all, by paying a high rent to the widow. A housekeeper and servants were included in the arrangements. Zillah was in ecstasies with her drawing-room, which extended he whole length of the house, having at the front an alcove window looking upon the balcony and thence upon the sea, and commanding at the back a beautiful view of the mountains beyond. The views from all the windows were charming, and from garret to cellar the house was nicely furnished and well appointed, so that after hunting into every nook and corner the two friends expressed themselves delighted with their new home.

The account which they gave of themselves to those with whom they were brought in contact was a very simple one, and not likely to excite suspicion. They were sisters--the Misses Lorton--the death of their father not long before had rendered them orphans. They had no near relations, but were perfectly independent as to means. They had come to Tenby for the benefit of the sea air, and wished to lead as quiet and retired a life as possible for the next two years. They had brought no letters, and they wished for no society.

They soon settled down into their new life, and their days passed happily and quietly. Neither of them had ever lived near the sea before, so that it was now a constant delight to them. Zillah would sit for hours on the shore, watching the breakers dashing over the rocks beyond, and tumbling at her feet; or she would play like a child with the rising tide, trying how far she could run out with the receding wave before the next white-crested billow should come seething and foaming after her, as if to punish her for her temerity in venturing within the precincts of the mighty ocean. Hilda always accompanied her, but her amusements took a much more ambitious turn. She had formed a passion for collecting marine curiosities; and while Zillah sat dreamily watching the waves, she would clamber over the rocks in search of sea-weeds, limpets, anemones, and other things of the kind, shouting out gladly whenever she had found any thing new. Gradually she extended her rambles, and explored all the coast within easy walking distance, and became familiar with every bay and outlet within the circuit of several miles. Zillah's strength had not yet fully returned, so that she was unable to go on these long rambles.

One day Zillah announced an intention of taking a drive inland, and urged Hilda to come with her.

"Well, dear, I would rather not unless you really want me to. I want very much to go on the shore to-day. I found some beautiful specimens on the cliffs last night; but it was growing too late for me to secure them, so I determined to do so as early as possible this afternoon."

"Oh," said Zillah, with a laugh, "I should not dream of putting in a rivalry with your new passion. I should not stand a chance against a shrimp; but I hope your new aquarium will soon make its appearance, or else some of your pets will come to an untimely end, I fear I heard the house-maid this morning vowing vengeance against 'them nasty smellin' things as Miss Lorton were always a-litterin' the house with.'"

"She will soon get rid of them, then. The man has promised me the aquarium in two or three days, and it will be the glory of the whole establishment. But now--good-by, darling--I must be off at once, so as to have as much daylight as possible."

"You will be back before me, I suppose."

"Very likely; but if I am not, do not be anxious. I shall stay on the cliffs as late as I can."

"Oh, Hilda! I do not like your going alone. Won't you take John with you? I can easily drive by myself."

"Any fate rather than that," said Hilda, laughing. "What could I do with John?"

"Take Mathilde, then, or one of the maids."

"Mathilde! My dear girl, what are you thinking of? You know she has never ventured outside of the garden gate since we have been here. She shudders whenever she looks at 'cette vilaine mer,' and no earthly consideration could induce her to put her foot on the shore. But what has put it in your head that I should want any one with me to-day, when I have gone so often without a protector?"

"I don't know," said Zillah. "You spoke about not being home till late, and I felt nervous."

"You need not be uneasy then, darling, on that account. I shall leave the cliffs early, I only want to be untrammeled, so as to ramble about at random. At any rate I shall be home in good time for dinner, and will be as hungry as a hunter, I promise you. I only want you not to fret your foolish little head if I am not here at the very moment I expect."

"Very well," said Zillah, "I will not, and I must not keep you talking any longer."

"Au revoir," said Hilda, kissing her. "An revoir," she repeated, gayly.

Zillah smiled, and as she rose to go and dress for the drive Hilda took her path to the cliffs.

It was seven o'clock when Zillah returned.

"Is Miss Lorton in?" she asked, as she entered.

"No, miss," answered the maid.

"I will wait dinner then," said Zillah; and after changing her things she went out on the balcony to wait for Hilda's return.

Half an hour passed, and Hilda did not come.

Zillah grew anxious, and looked incessantly at her watch. Eight o'clock came--a quarter after eight.

Zillah could stand it no longer. She sent for John.

"John," said she, "I am getting uneasy about Miss Lorton. I wish you would walk along the beach and meet her. It is too late for her to be out alone."

John departed on his errand, and Zillah felt a sense of relief at having done something, but this gave way to renewed anxiety as time passed, and they did not appear. At length, after what seemed an age to the suffering girl, John returned, but alone.

"Have you not found her?" Zillah almost shrieked.

"No, miss," said the man, in a pitying tone.

"Then why did you come back?" she cried. "Did I not tell you to go on till you met her?"

"I went as far as I could, miss."

"What do you mean?" she asked, in a voice pitched high with terror.

The man came close up to her, sympathy and sorrow in his face.

"Don't take on so, miss," said he; "and don't be downhearted. I dare say she has took the road, and will be home shortly; that way is longer, you know."

"No; she said she would come by the shore. Why did you not go on till you met her?"

"Well, miss, I went as far as Lovers' Bay; but the tide was in, and I could go no farther."

Zillah, at this, turned deadly white, and would have fallen if John had not caught her. He placed her on the sofa and called Mathilde.

Zillah's terror was not without cause. Lovers' Bay was a narrow inlet of the sea, formed by two projecting promontories. At low tide a person could walk beyond these promontories along the shore; but at high tide the water ran up within; and there was no standing room any where within the inclosure of the precipitous cliff. At half tide, when the tide was falling, one might enter here; but if the tide was rising, it was of course not to be attempted. Several times strangers had been entrapped here, sometimes with fatal results. The place owed its name to the tragical end which was met with here by a lover who was eloping with his lady. They fled by the shore, and came to the bay, but found that the rising tide had made the passage of the further ledge impossible. In despair the lover seized the lady, and tried to swim with her around this obstacle, but the waves proved stronger than love; the currents bore them out to sea; and the next morning their bodies were found floating on the water, with their arms still clasped around one another in a death embrace. Such was the origin of the name; and the place had always been looked upon by the people here with a superstitious awe, as a place of danger and death.

The time, however, was one which demanded action; and Zillah, hastily gulping down some restoratives which Mathilde had brought, began to take measures for a search.

"John," said she, "you must get a boat, and go at once in search of Miss Lorton. Is there nowhere any standing room in the bay--no crevice in the rocks where one may find a foothold?"

"Not with these spring-tides, miss," said John. "A man might cling a little while to the rocks; but a weak lady--" John hesitated.

"Oh, my God!" cried Zillah, in an agony; "she may be clinging there now, with every moment lessening her chance! Fly to the nearest fishermen, John! Ten pounds apiece if you get to the bay within half an hour! And any thing you like if you only bring her back safe!"

Away flew John, descending the rocks to the nearest cottage. There he breathlessly stated his errand; and the sturdy fisherman and his son were immediately prepared to start. The boat was launched, and they set out. It was slightly cloudy, and there seemed some prospect of a storm. Filled with anxiety at such an idea, and also inspired with enthusiasm by the large reward, they put forth their utmost efforts; and the boat shot through the water at a most unwonted pace. Twenty minutes after the boat had left the strand it had reached the bay. All thought of mere reward faded out soon from the minds of these honest men. They only thought of the young lady whom they had often seen along the shore, who might even now be in the jaws of death. Not a word was spoken. The sound of the waves, as they dashed on the rocks alone broke the stillness. Trembling with excitement, they swept the boat close around the rocky promontory. John, standing up in the bow, held aloft a lantern, so that every cranny of the rocks might be brought out into full relief. At length an exclamation burst from him.

"Oh, Heavens! she's been here!" he groaned.

The men turned and saw in his hand the covered basket which Hilda always took with her on her expeditions to bring home her specimens. It seemed full of them now.

"Where did you find it?" they asked.

"Just on this here ledge of rock."

"She has put it down to free her hands. She may be clinging yet," said the old fisherman. "Let us call."

A loud cry, "Miss Lorton!" rang through the bay. The echo sent it reverberating back; but no human voice mingled with the sound.

Despondingly and fearfully they continued the search, still calling at times, until at last, as they reached the outer point, the last hope died, and they ceased calling.

"I'm afeard she's gone," said John.

The men shook their heads. John but expressed the general opinion.

"God help that poor young thing at the cottage!" said the elder fisherman. "She'll be mighty cut up, I take it, now."

"They was all in all to each other," said John, with a sigh.

By this time they had rounded the point. Suddenly John, who had sat down again, called out:

"Stop! I see something on the water yonder!"

The men looked in the direction where he pointed, and a small object was visible on the surface of the water. They quickly rowed toward it. It was a lady's hat, which John instantly recognized as Hilda's. The long crape veil seemed to have caught in a stake which arose from the sandy beach above the water, placed there to mark some water level, and the hat floated there. Reverently, as though they were touching the dead, did those rough men disentangle the folds, and lay the hat on the basket.

"There is no hope now," said the younger fisherman, after a solemn silence. "May our dear Lord and our Blessed Lady," he added, crossing himself as he spoke, "have mercy on her soul!"

"Amen!" repeated the others, gently.

"However shall I tell my poor little missis," said John, wiping his eyes.

The others made no response. Soon they reached the shore again. The old man whispered a few words to his son, and then turned to John:

"I say, comrade," said he; "don't let her--" a jerk of his head in the direction of the cottage indicated to whom the pronoun referred--"don't let her give us that. We've done naught but what we'd have done for any poor creature among these rocks. We couldn't take pay for this night's job--my son nor me. And all we wish is, that it had been for some good; but it wasn't the Lord's will; and it ain't for us to say nothin' agin that; only you'll tell your missis, when she he's a bit better, that we made bold to send her our respectful sympathy."

John gave this promise to the honest fellows, and then went slowly and sadly back to make his mournful report.

During John's absence Zillah had been waiting in an agony of suspense, in which Mathilde made feeble efforts to console her. Wringing her hands, she walked up and down in front of the house; and at length, when she heard footsteps coming along the road, she rushed in that direction. She recognized John. So great was her excitement that she could not utter one word. She clutched his arm in a convulsive grasp. John said nothing. It was easier for him to be silent. In fact he had something which was more eloquent than words. He mournfully held out the basket and the hat.

In an instant Zillah recognized them. She shrieked, and fell speechless and senseless on the hard ground.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXVII. AN ASTOUNDING LETTER

It needed but this new calamity to complete the sum of Zillah's griefs. She had supposed that she had already suffered as much as she could. The loss of her father, the loss of the Earl, the separation from Mrs. Hart, were each successive stages in the descending scale of her calamities. Nor was the least of these that Indian letter which had sent her into voluntary banishment from her home. It was not till all was over that she learned how completely her thoughts had associated themselves with the plans of the Earl, and how insensibly her whole future had become penetrated with plans about Guy, The overthrow of all this was bitter; but this, and all other griefs, were forgotten in the force of this new sorrow, which, while it was the last, was in reality the greatest. Now, for the first time, she felt how dear Hilda had been to her. She had been more than a friend--she had been an elder sister. Now, to Zillah's affectionate heart, there came the recollection of all the patient love, the kind forbearance, and the wise counsel of this matchless friend. Since childhood they had been inseparable. Hilda had rivaled even her doting father in perfect submission to all her caprices, and indulgence of all her whims. Zillah had matured so rapidly, and had changed so completely, that she now looked upon her former willful and passionate childhood with impatience, and could estimate at its full value that wonderful meekness with which Hilda had endured her wayward and imperious nature. Not one recollection of Hilda came to her but was full of incidents of a love and devotion passing the love of a sister.

It was now, since she had lost her, that she learned to estimate her, as she thought, at her full value. That loss seemed to her the greatest of all; worse than that of the Earl; worse even than that of her father. Never more should she experience that tender love, that wise patience, that unruffled serenity, which she had always known from Hilda. Never more should she possess one devoted friend--the true and tried friend of a life--to whom she might go in any sorrow, and know and feel that she would receive the sympathy of love and the counsel of wisdom. Nevermore--no, nevermore! Such was the refrain that seemed constantly to ring in her ears, and she found herself murmuring those despairing lines of Poe, where the solitary word of the Raven seems

"Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never--nevermore!'"

It was awful to her to be, for the first time in her life, alone in the world. Hitherto, amidst her bitterest afflictions, she had always had some one whom she loved. After her father's death she had Lord Chetwynde and Mrs. Hart; and with these she always had Hilda. But now all were gone, and Hilda was gone. To a passionate and intense nature like hers, sorrow was capable of giving pangs which are unknown to colder hearts, and so she suffered to a degree which was commensurate with her ardent temperament.

Weeks passed on. Recovering from the first shock, she sank into a state of dreamy listlessness, which, however, was at times interrupted by some wild hopes which would intrude in spite of herself. These hopes were that Hilda, after all, might not be lost. She might have been found by some one and carried off somewhere. Wild enough were these hopes, and Zillah saw this plainly, yet still they would intrude. Yet, far from proving a solace, they only made her situation worse, since they kept her in a state of constant suspense--a suspense, too, which had no shadow of a foundation in reason. So, alone, and struggling with the darkest despair, Zillah passed the time, without having sufficient energy of mind left to think about her future, or the state of her affairs.

As to her affairs--she was nothing better than a child. She had a vague idea that she was rich; but she had no idea of where her money might be. She knew the names of her London agents; but whether they held any funds of hers or not, she could not tell. She took it for granted that they did. Child as she was, she did not know even the common mode of drawing a check. Hilda had done that for her since her flight from Chetwynde.

The news of the unhappy fate of the elder Miss Lorton had sent a shock through the quiet village of Tenby, and every where might be heard expressions of the deepest sympathy with the younger sister, who seemed so gentle, so innocent, so inexperienced, and so affectionate. All had heard of the anguish into which she had been thrown by the news of the fearful calamity, and a respectful commiseration for grief so great was exhibited by all. The honest fishermen who had gone first on the search on that eventful night had not been satisfied, but early on the following morning had roused all the fishing population, and fifty or sixty boats started oft' before dawn to scour the coast, and to examine the sea bottom. This they kept up for two or three days; but without success. Then, at last, they gave up the search. Nothing of this, however, was known to Zillah, who, at that particular time, was in the first anguish of her grief, and lay prostrated in mind and body. Even the chattering Mathilde was awed by the solemnity of woe.

The people of Tenby were nearly all of the humbler class. The widow who owned the house had moved away, and there were none with whom Zillah could associate, except the rector and his wife. They were old people, and had no children. The Rev. Mr. Harvey had lived there all his life, and was now well advanced in years. At the first tidings of the mournful event he had gone to Zillah's house to see if he could be of any assistance; but finding that she was ill in bed, he had sent his wife to offer her services. Mrs. Harvey had watched over poor Zillah in her grief, and had soothed her too. Mathilde would have been but a poor nurse for one in such a situation, and Mrs. Harvey's motherly care and sweet words of consolation had something, at least, to do with Zillah's recovery.

When she was better, Mrs. Harvey urged her to come and stay with them for a time. It would give her a change of scene, she said, and that was all-important. Zillah was deeply touched by her affectionate solicitude, but declined to leave her house. She felt, she said, as though solitude would be best for her under such circumstances.

"My dear child," said Mrs. Harvey, who had formed almost a maternal affection for Zillah, and had come to address her always in that way--"my dear child, you should not try to deepen your grief by staying here and brooding over it. Every thing here only makes it worse. You must really come with me, if for only a few days, and see if your distress will not be lightened somewhat."

But Zillah said that she could not bear to leave, that the house seemed to be filled with Hilda's presence, and that as long as she was there there was something to remind her of the one she had lost. If she went away she should only long to go back.

"But, my child, would it not be better for you to go to your friends?" said Mrs. Harvey, as delicately as possible.

"I have no friends," said Zillah, in a faltering voice. "They are all gone."

Zillah burst into tears: and Mrs. Harvey, after weeping with her, took her departure, with her heart full of fresh sympathy for one so sweet, and so unhappy.

Time passed on, and Zillah's grief had settled down into a quiet melancholy. The rector and his wife were faithful friends to this friendless girl, and, by a thousand little acts of sympathy, strove to alleviate the distress of her lonely situation. For all this Zillah felt deeply grateful, but nothing that they might do could raise her mind from the depths of grief into which it had fallen. But at length there came a day which was to change all this.

That day she was sitting by the front window in the alcove, looking out to where the sea was rolling in its waves upon the shore. Suddenly, to her surprise, she saw the village postman, who had been passing along the road, open her gate, and come up the path. Her first thought was that her concealment had been discovered, and that Guy had written to her. Then a wild thought followed that it was somehow connected with Hilda. But soon these thoughts were banished by the supposition that it was simply a note for one of the servants. After this she fell into her former melancholy, when suddenly she was roused by the entrance of John, who had a letter in his hand.

"A letter for you, miss," said John, who had no idea that Zillah was of a dignity which deserved the title of "my lady."

Zillah said not a word. With a trembling hand she took the letter and looked at it. It was covered with foreign post-marks, but this she did not notice. It was the handwriting which excited her attention.

"Hilda!" she cried, and sank back breathless in her chair. Her heart throbbed as though it would burst. For a moment she could not move; but then, with a violent effort, she tore open the letter, and, in a wild fever of excited feeling, read the following:

"NAPLES, June 1, 1859.

"MY OWN DEAREST DARLING,---What you must have suffered in the way of wonder about my sudden disappearance, and also in anxiety about your poor Hilda, I can not imagine. I know that you love me dearly, and for me to vanish from your sight so suddenly and so strangely must have caused you at least some sorrow. If you have been sorrowing for me, my sweetest, do not do so any more. I am safe and almost well, though I have had a strange experience.

"When I left you on that ill-fated evening, I expected to be back as I said. I walked up the beach thoughtlessly, and did not notice the tide or any thing about it. I walked a long distance, and at last felt tired, for I had done a great deal that day. I happened to see a boat drawn up on the shore, and it seemed to be a good place to sit down and rest. I jumped in and sat down on one of the seats. I took off my hat and scarf, and luxuriated in the fresh sea breeze that was blowing over the water. I do not know how long I sat there--I did not think of it at that time, but at last I was roused from my pleasant occupation very suddenly and painfully. All at once I made the discovery that the boat was moving under me. I looked around in a panic. To my horror, I found that I was at a long distance from the shore. In an instant the truth flashed upon me. The tide had risen, the boat had floated off, and I had not noticed it. I was fully a mile away when I made this discovery, and cool as I am (according to you), I assure you I nearly died of terror when the full reality of my situation occurred to me. I looked all around, but saw no chance of help. Far away on the horizon I saw numerous sails, and nearer to me I saw a steamer, but all were too distant to be of any service. On the shore I could not see a living soul.

"After a time I rallied from my panic, and began to try to get the boat back. But there were no oars, although, if there had been, I do not see how I could have used them. In my desperate efforts I tried to paddle with my hands, but, of course, it was utterly useless. In spite of all my efforts I drifted away further and further, and after a very long time, I do not know how long, I found that I was at an immense distance from the shore. Weakened by anxiety and fear, and worn out by my long-continued efforts, I gave up, and, sitting down again, I burst into a passion of tears. The day was passing on. Looking at the sun I saw that it was the time when you would be expecting me back. I thought of you, my darling, waiting for me--expecting me--wondering at my delay. How I cursed my folly and thoughtlessness in ever venturing into such danger! I thought of your increasing anxiety as you waited, while still I did not come. I thought, Oh, if she only knew where her poor Hilda is--what agony it would give her! But such thoughts were heart-breaking, and at last I dared not entertain them, and so I tried to turn my attention to the misery of my situation. Ah, my dearest, think--only think of me, your poor Hilda, in that boat, drifting helplessly along over the sea out into the ocean!

"With each moment my anguish grew greater. I saw no prospect of escape or of help. No ships came near; no boats of any kind were visible. I strained my eyes till they ached, but could see nothing that gave me hope. Oh, my darling, how can I tell you the miseries of that fearful time! Worse than all, do what I might, I still could not keep away from me the thoughts of you, my sweetest. Still they would come--and never could I shake off the thought of your face, pale with loving anxiety, as you waited for that friend of yours who would never appear. Oh, had you seen me as I was--had you but imagined, even in the faintest way, the horrors that surrounded me, what would have been your feelings! But you could never have conceived it. No. Had you conceived it you would have sent every one forth in search of me.

"To add to my grief, night was coming on. I saw the sun go down, and still there was no prospect of escape. I was cold and wretched, and my physical sufferings were added to those of my mind. Somehow I had lost my hat and scarf overboard. I had to endure the chill wind that swept over me, the damp piercing blast that came over the waters, without any possibility of shelter. At last I grew so cold and benumbed that I lay down in the bottom of the boat, with the hope of getting out of the way of the wind. It was indeed somewhat more sheltered, but the shelter at best was but slight. I had nothing to cover myself with, and my misery was extreme.

"The twilight increased, and the wind grew stronger and colder. Worst of all, as I lay down and looked up, I could see that the clouds were gathering, and knew that there would be a storm. How far I was out on the sea I scarcely dared conjecture. Indeed, I gave myself up for lost, and had scarcely any hope. The little hope that was left was gradually driven away by the gathering darkness, and at length all around me was black. It was night. I raised myself up, and looked feebly out upon the waves. They were all hidden from my sight. I fell back, and lay there for a long time, enduring horrors, which, in my wildest dreams, I had never imagined as liable to fall to the lot of any miserable human being.

"I know nothing more of that night, or of several nights afterward. When I came back to consciousness I found myself in a ship's cabin, and was completely bewildered. Gradually, however, I found out all. This ship, which was an Italian vessel belonging to Naples, and was called the Vittoria, had picked me up on the morning after I had drifted away. I was unconscious and delirious. They took me on board, and treated me with the greatest kindness. For the tender care which was shown me by these rough but kindly hearts Heaven only can repay them; I can not. But when I had recovered consciousness several days had elapsed, the ship was on her way to Naples, and we were already off the coast of Portugal. I was overwhelmed with astonishment and grief. Then the question arose, What was I to do? The captain, who seemed touched to the heart by my sorrow, offered to take the ship out of her course and land me at Lisbon, if I liked; or he would put me ashore at Gibraltar. Miserable me! What good would it do for me to be landed at Lisbon or at Gibraltar? Wide seas would still intervene between me and my darling. I could not ask them to land me at either of those places. Besides, the ship was going to Naples, and that seemed quite as near as Lisbon, if not more so. It seemed to me to be more accessible--more in the line of travel--and therefore I thought that by going on to Naples I would really be more within your reach than if I landed at any intervening point. So I decided to go on.

"Poor me! Imagine me on board a ship, with no change of clothing, no comforts or delicacies of any kind, and at the same time prostrated by sickness arising from my first misery. It was a kind of low fever, combined with delirium, that affected me. Most fortunately for me, the captain's wife sailed with him, and to her I believe my recovery is due. Poor dear Margarita! Her devotion to me saved me from death. I gave her that gold necklace that I have worn from childhood. In no other way could I fittingly show my gratitude. Ah, my darling! the world is not all bad. It is full of honest, kindly hearts, and of them all none is more noble or more pure than my generous friend the simple wife of Captain Gaddagli. May Heaven bless her for her kindness to the poor lost stranger who fell in her way!

"My sweet Zillah, how does all this read to you? Is it not wildly improbable? Can you imagine your Hilda floating out to sea, senseless, picked up by strangers, carried off to foreign countries? Do you not rejoice that it was so, and that you do not have to mourn my death? My darling, I need not ask. Alas! what would I not give to be sitting with your arms around me, supporting my aching head, while I told you of all my suffering?

"But I must go on. My exposure during that dreadful night had told fearfully upon me. During the voyage I could scarcely move. Toward its close, however, I was able to go on deck, and the balmy air of the Mediterranean revived me. At length we reached Naples Bay. As we sailed up to the city, the sight of all the glorious scenery on every side seemed to fill me with new life and strength. The cities along the shore, the islands, the headlands, the mountains, Vesuvius, with its canopy of smoke, the intensely blue sky, the clear transparent air, all made me feel as though I had been transported to a new world.

"I went at once to the Hotel de l'Europe, on the Strada Toledo. It is the best hotel here, and is very comfortable. Here I must stay for a time, for, my darling, I am by no means well. The doctor thinks that my lungs are affected. I have a very bad cough. He says that even if I were able to travel, I must not think of going home yet, the air of Naples is my only hope, and he tells me to send to England for my friends. My friends! What friends have I? None. But, darling, I know that I have a friend--one who would go a long distance for her poor suffering Hilda. And now, darling, I want you to come on. I have no hesitation in asking this, for I know that you do not feel particularly happy where you are, and you would rather be with me than be alone. Besides, my dearest, it is to Naples that I invite you--to Naples, the fairest, loveliest place in all the world! a heaven upon earth! where the air is balm, and every scene is perfect beauty! You must come on, for your own sake as well as mine. You will be able to rouse yourself from your melancholy. We will go together to visit the sweet scenes that lie all around here; and when I am again by your side, with your hand in mine, I will forget that I have ever suffered.

"Do not be alarmed at the journey. I have thought out all for you. I have written to Mr. Gualtier, in London, and asked him to bring you on here. He will be only too glad to do us this service. He is a simple-minded and kind-hearted man. I have asked him to call on you immediately to offer his services. You will see him, no doubt, very soon after you get this letter. Do not be afraid of troubling him. We can compensate him fully for the loss of his time.

"And now, darling, good-by. I have written a very long letter, and feel very tired. Come on soon, and do not delay. I shall count the days and the hours till you join me. Come on soon, and do not disappoint your loving

"HILDA.

"P.S.--When you come, will you please bring on my turquoise brooch and my green bracelet. The little writing-desk, too, I should like, if not too much trouble. Of course you need not trouble about the house. It will be quite safe as it stands, under the care of your housekeeper and servants, till we get back again to England. Once more, darling, good-by.

"H."

This astonishing letter was read by Zillah with a tumult of emotions that may be imagined but not described. As she finished it the reaction in her feelings was too much to be borne. A weight was taken off her soul. In the first rush of her joy and thankfulness she burst into tears, and then once more read the letter, though she scarce could distinguish the words for the tears of joy that blinded her eyes.

To go to Naples--and to Hilda! what greater happiness could be conceived of? And that thoughtful Hilda had actually written to Gualtier! And she was alive! And she was in Naples! What a wonder to have her thus come back to her from the dead! With such a torrent of confused thoughts Zillah's mind was filled, until at length, in her deep gratitude to Heaven, she flung herself upon her knees and poured forth her soul in prayer.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us