A STARTLING VISITOR.
After dinner the General had retired to his room, supposing that Guy
and the Earl would wish to be together. He had much to think of.
First of all there was his daughter Zillah, in whom all his being was
bound up. Her miniature was on the mantle-piece of the room, and to
this he went first, and taking it up in his hands he sat down in an
arm-chair by the window, and feasted his eyes upon it. His face bore
an expression of the same delight which a lover shows when looking at
the likeness of his mistress. At times a smile lighted it up, and so
wrapt up was he in this that more than an hour passed before he put
the picture away. Then he resumed his seat by the window and looked
out. It was dusk; but the moon was shining brightly, and threw a
silvery gleam over the dark trees of Chetwynde, over the grassy
slopes, and over the distant hills. That scene turned his attention
in a new direction. The shadows of the trees seemed to suggest the
shadows of the past. Back over that past his mind went wandering,
encountering the scenes, the forms, and the faces of long ago--the
lost, the never-to-be-forgotten. It was not that more recent past of
which he had spoken to the Earl, but one more distant--one which
intermingled with the Earl's past, and which the Earl's story had
suggested.
It brought back old loves and old hates; it suggested memories which
had lain dormant for years, but now rose before him clothed in fresh
power, as vivid as the events from which they flowed. There was
trouble in these memories, and the General's mind was agitated, and
in his agitation he left the chair and paced the room. He rang for
lights, and after they came he seated himself at the table, took
paper and pens, and began to lose himself in calculations.
Some time passed, when at length ten o'clock came, and the General
heard a faint tap at the door. It was so faint that he could barely
hear it, and at first supposed it to be either his fancy or else one
of the death-watches making a somewhat louder noise than usual. He
took no further notice of it, but went on with his occupation, when
he was again interrupted by a louder knock. This time there was no
mistake. He rose and opened the door, thinking that it was the Earl
who had brought him some information as to his son's views.
Opening the door, he saw a slight, frail figure, dressed in a
nun-like garb, and recognized the housekeeper. If possible she seemed
paler than usual, and her eyes were fixed upon him with a strange
wistful earnestness. Her appearance was so unexpected, and her
expression so peculiar, that the General involuntarily started back.
For a moment he stood looking at her, and then, recovering with an
effort his self-possession, he asked:
"Did you wish to see me about any thing, Mrs. Hart?"
"If I could speak a few words to you I should be grateful," was the
answer, in a low, supplicating tone.
"Won't you walk in, then?" said the General, in a kindly voice,
feeling a strange commiseration for the poor creature, whose face,
manner, and voice exhibited so much wretchedness.
The General held the door open, and waited for her to enter. Then
closing the door he offered her a chair, and resumed his former seat.
But the housekeeper declined sitting. She stood looking strangely
confused and troubled, and for some time did not speak a word. The
General waited patiently, and regarded her earnestly. In spite of
himself he found that feeling arising within him which had occurred
in the morning-room--a feeling as if he had somewhere known this
woman before. Who was she? What did it mean? Was he a precious old
fool, or was there really some important mystery connected with Mrs.
Hart? Such were his thoughts.
Perhaps if he had seen nothing more of Mrs. Hart the Earl's account
of her would have been accepted by him, and no thoughts of her would
have perplexed his brain. But her arrival now, her entrance into his
room, and her whole manner, brought back the thoughts which he had
before with tenfold force, in such a way that it was useless to
struggle against them. He felt that there was a mystery, and that the
Earl himself not only knew nothing about it, but could not even
suspect it. But _what_ was the mystery? That he could not, or perhaps
dared not, conjecture. The vague thought which darted across his mind
was one which was madness to entertain. He dismissed it and waited.
At last Mrs. Hart spoke.
"Pardon me, Sir," she said, in a faint, low voice, "for troubling
you. I wished to apologize for intruding upon you in the
morning-room. I did not know you were there."
She spoke abstractedly and wearily. The General felt that it was not
for this that she had thus visited him, but that something more lay
behind. Still he answered her remark as if he took it in good faith.
He hastened to reassure her. It was no intrusion. Was she not the
housekeeper, and was it not her duty to go there? What could she
mean?
At this she looked at him, with a kind of solemn yet eager scrutiny.
"I was afraid," she said, after some hesitation, speaking still in a
dull monotone, whose strangely sorrowful accents were marked and
impressive, and in a voice whose tone was constrained and stiff, but
yet had something in it which deepened the General's perplexity--"I
was afraid that perhaps you might have witnessed some marks of
agitation in me. Pardon me for supposing that you could have troubled
yourself so far as to notice one like me; but--but--I--that is, I am
a little--eccentric; and when I suppose that I am alone that
eccentricity is marked. I did not know that you were in the room, and
so I was thrown off my guard."
Every word of this singular being thrilled through the General. He
looked at her steadily without speaking for some time. He tried to
force his memory to reveal what it was that this woman suggested to
him, or who it was that she had been associated with in that dim and
shadowy past which but lately he had been calling up. Her voice,
too--what was it that it suggested? That voice, in spite of its
constraint, was woeful and sad beyond all description. It was the
voice of suffering and sorrow too deep for tears--that changeless
monotone which makes one think that the words which are spoken are
uttered by some machine.
Her manner also by this time evinced a greater and a deeper
agitation. Her hands mechanically clasped each other in a tight,
convulsive grasp, and her slight frame trembled with irrepressible
emotion. There was something in her appearance, her attitude, her
manner, and her voice, which enchained the General's attention, and
was nothing less than fascination. There was something yet to come,
to tell which had led her there, and these were only preliminaries.
This the General felt. Every word that she spoke seemed to be a mere
formality, the precursor of the real words which she wished to utter.
What was it? Was it her affection for Guy? Had she come to ask about
the betrothal? Had she come to look at Zillah's portrait? Had she
come to remonstrate with him for arranging a marriage between those
who were as yet little more than children? But what reason had she
for interfering in such an affair? It was utterly out of place in one
like her. No; there was something else, he could not conjecture what.
All these thoughts swept with lightning speed through his mind, and
still the poor stricken creature stood before him with her eyes
lowered and her hands clasped, waiting for his answer. He roused
himself, and sought once more to reassure her. He told her that he
had noticed nothing, that he had been looking out of the window, and
that in any case, if he had, he should have thought nothing about it.
This he said in as careless a tone as possible, willfully misstating
facts, from a generous desire to spare her uneasiness and set her
mind at rest.
"Will you pardon me, Sir, if I intrude upon your kindness so far as
to ask one more question?" said the housekeeper, after listening
dreamily to the General's words. "You are going away, and I shall not
have another opportunity."
"Certainly," said the General, looking at her with unfeigned
sympathy. "If there is any thing that I can tell you I shall be happy
to do so. Ask me, by all means, any thing you wish."
"You had a private interview with the Earl," said she, with more
animation than she had yet shown.
"Yes."
"Pardon me, but will you consider it impertinence if I ask you
whether it was about your past life? I know it is impertinent; but
oh, Sir, I have my reasons." Her voice changed suddenly to the
humblest and most apologetic accent.
The General's interest was, if possible, increased; and, if there
were impertinence in such a question from a housekeeper, he was too
excited to be conscious of it. To him this woman seemed more than
this.
"We were talking about the past," said he, kindly. "We are very old
friends. We were telling each other the events of our lives. We
parted early in life, and have not seen one another for many years.
We also were arranging some business matters."
Mrs. Hart listened eagerly, and then remained silent for a long time.
"His old friend," she murmured at last; "his old friend! Did you find
him much altered?"
"Not more than I expected," replied the General, wonderingly. "His
secluded life here has kept him from the wear and tear of the world.
It has not made him at all misanthropical or even cynical. His heart
is as warm as ever. He spoke very kindly of you."
Mrs. Hart started, and her hands involuntarily clutched each other
more convulsively. Her head fell forward and her eyes dropped.
"What did he say of me?" she asked, in a scarce audible voice, and
trembling visibly as she spoke.
The General noticed her agitation, but it caused no surprise, for
already his whole power of wondering was exhausted. He had a vague
idea that the poor old thing was troubled for fear she might from
some cause lose her place, and wished to know whether the Earl had
made any remarks which might affect her position. So with this
feeling he answered in as cheering a tone as possible:
"Oh, I assure you, he spoke of you in the highest terms. He told me
that you were exceedingly kind to Guy, and that you were quite
indispensable to himself."
"'Kind to Guy'--'indispensable to him,'" she repeated in low tones,
while tears started to her eyes. She kept murmuring the words
abstractedly to herself, and for a few moments seemed quite
unconscious of the General's presence. He still watched her, on his
part, and gradually the thought arose within him that the easiest
solution for all this was possible insanity. Insanity, he saw, would
account for every thing, and would also give some reason for his own
strange feelings at the sight of her. It was, he thought, because he
had seen this dread sign of insanity in her face--that sign only less
terrible than that dread mark which is made by the hand of the King
of Terrors. And was she not herself conscious to some extent of this?
he thought. She had herself alluded to her eccentricity. Was she not
disturbed by a fear that he had noticed this, and, dreading a
disclosure, had come to him to explain? To her a stranger would be an
object of suspicion, against whom she would feel it necessary to be
on her guard. The people of the house were doubtless accustomed to
her ways, and would think nothing of any freak, however whimsical;
but a stranger would look with different eyes. Few, indeed, were the
strangers or visitors who ever came to Chetwynde Castle; but when one
did come he would naturally be an object of suspicion to this poor
soul, conscious of her infirmity, and struggling desperately against
it. Such thoughts as these succeeded to the others which had been
passing through the General's mind, and he was just beginning to
think of some plan by which he could soothe this poor creature, when
he was aware of a movement on her part which made him look up
hastily. Her eyes were fastened on his. They were large, luminous,
and earnest in their gaze, though dimmed by the grief of years. Tears
were in them, and the look which they threw toward him was full of
agony and earnest supplication. That emaciated face, that snow-white
hair, that brow marked by the lines of suffering, that slight figure
with its sombre vestments, all formed a sight which would have
impressed any man. The General was so astonished that he sat
motionless, wondering what it was now that the diseased fancy of one
whom he still believed to be insane would suggest. It was to him that
she was looking; it was to him that her shriveled hands were
outstretched. What could she want with him?
[Illustration: "But The Woman, With A Low Moan, Flung Herself On The
Floor Before Him."]
She drew nearer to him while he sat thus wondering. She stooped
forward and downward, with her eyes still fixed on his. He did not
move, but watched her in amazement. Again that thought which the
sight of her had at first suggested came to him. Again he thrust it
away. But the woman, with a low moan, suddenly flung herself on the
floor before him, and reaching out her hands clasped his feet, and he
felt her feeble frame all shaken by sobs and shudders. He sat
spell-bound. He looked at her for a moment aghast. Then he reached
forth his hands, and without speaking a word took hers, and tried to
lift her up. She let herself be raised till she was on her knees, and
then raised her head once more. She gave him an indescribable look,
and in a low voice, which was little above a whisper, but which
penetrated to the very depths of his soul, pronounced one single
solitary word,---.
The General heard it. His face grew as pale and as rigid as the face
of a corpse; the blood seemed to leave his heart; his lips grew
white; he dropped her hands, and sat regarding her with eyes in which
there was nothing less than horror. The woman saw it, and once more
fell with a low moan to the floor.
"My God!" groaned the General at last, and said not another word, but
sat rigid and mute while the woman lay on the floor at his feet. The
horror which that word had caused for some time overmastered him, and
he sat staring vacantly. But the horror was not against the woman who
had called it up, and who lay prostrate before him. She could not
have been personally abhorrent, for in a few minutes, with a start,
he noticed her once more, and his face was overspread by an anguish
of pity and sympathy. He raised her up, he led her to a couch, and
made her sit down, and then sat in silence before her with his face
buried in his hands. She reclined on the couch with her countenance
turned toward him, trembling still, and panting for breath, with her
right hand under her face, and her left pressed tightly against her
heart. At times she looked at the General with mournful inquiry, and
seemed to be patiently waiting for him to speak. An hour passed in
silence. The General seemed to be struggling with recollections that
overwhelmed him. At last he raised his head, and regarded her in
solemn silence, and still his face and his eyes bore that expression
of unutterable pity and sympathy which dwelt there when he raised her
from the floor.
After a time he addressed her in a low voice, the tones of which were
tender and full of sadness. She replied, and a conversation followed
which lasted for hours. It involved things of fearful moment--crime,
sin, shame, the perfidy of traitors, the devotion of faithful ones,
the sharp pang of injured love, the long anguish of despair, the
deathless fidelity of devoted affection. But the report of this
conversation and the recital of these things do not belong to this
place. It is enough to say that when at last Mrs. Hart arose it was
with a serener face and a steadier step than had been seen in her for
years.
That night the General did not close his eyes. His friend, his
business, even his daughter, all were forgotten, as though his soul
were overwhelmed and crushed by the weight of some tremendous
revelation.
[Illustration.]