CORRESPONDENCE.
Time sped rapidly and uneventfully by. Guy's letters from India
formed almost the only break in the monotony of the household. Zillah
soon found herself, against her will, sharing in the general
eagerness respecting these letters. It would have been a very strong
mind indeed, or a very obdurate heart, which could have remained
unmoved at Lord Chetwynde's delight when he received his boy's
letters. Their advent was also the Hegira from which every thing in
the family dated. Apart, however, from the halo which surrounded
these letters, they were interesting in themselves. Guy wrote easily
and well. His letters to his father were half familiar, half filial;
a mixture of love and good-fellowship, showing a sort of union, so to
speak, of the son with the younger brother. They were full of humor
also, and made up of descriptions of life in the East, with all its
varied wonders. Besides this, Guy happened to be stationed at the
very place where General Pomeroy had been Resident for so many years;
and he himself had command of one of the hill stations where Zillah
herself had once been sent to pass the summer. These places of which
Guy's letters treated possessed for her a peculiar interest,
surrounded as they were by some of the pleasantest associations of
her life; and thus, from very many causes, it happened that she
gradually came to take an interest in these letters which increased
rather than diminished. In one of these there had once come a note
inclosed to Zillah, condoling with her on her father's death. It was
manly and sympathetic, and not at all stiff. Zillah had received it
when her bitter feelings were in the ascendant, and did not think of
answering it until Hilda urged on her the necessity of doing so. It
is just possible that if Hilda had made use of different arguments
she might have persuaded Zillah to send some sort of an answer, if
only to please the Earl. The arguments, however, which she did use
happened to be singularly ill chosen. The "husband" loomed largely in
them, and there were very many direct allusions to marital authority.
As these were Zillah's sorest points, such references only served to
excite fresh repugnance, and strengthen Zillah's determination not to
write. Hilda, however, persisted in her efforts; and the result was
that finally, at the end of one long and rather stormy discussion,
Zillah passionately threw the letter at her, saying:
"If you are so anxious to have it answered, do it yourself. It is a
world of pities he is not your husband instead of mine, you seem so
wonderfully anxious about him."
"It is unkind of you to say that," replied Hilda, in a meek voice,
"when you know so well that my sympathy and anxiety are all for you,
and you alone. You argue with me as though I had some interest in it;
but what possible interest can it be to me?"
"Oh, well, dearest Hilda," said Zillah, instantly appeased; "I'm
always pettish; but you won't mind, will you? You never mind my
ways."
"I've a great mind to take you at your word," said Hilda, after a
thoughtful pause, "and write it for you. It ought to be answered, and
you won't; so why should I not do the part of a friend, and answer it
for you?"
Zillah started, and seemed just a little nettled.
"Oh, I don't care," she said, with assumed indifference. "If you
choose to take the trouble, why I am sure I ought to be under
obligations to you. At any rate, I shall be glad to get rid of it so
long as I have nothing to do with it. I suppose it must be done."
Hilda made some protestations of her devotion to Zillah, and some
further conversation followed, all of which resulted in this--that
_Hilda wrote the letter in Zillah's name_, and signed that name _in
her own hand_, and under Zillah's own eye, and with Zillah's
half-reluctant, half-pettish concurrence.
Out of this beginning there flowed results of an important character,
which were soon perceived even by Zillah, though she was forced to
keep her feelings to herself. Occasional notes came afterward from
time to time for Zillah, and were answered in the same way by Hilda.
All this Zillah endured quietly, but with real repugnance, which
increased until the change took place in her feelings which has been
mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, when she at length
determined to put an end to such an anomalous state of things and
assert herself. It was difficult to do so. She loved Hilda dearly,
and placed perfect confidence in her. She was too guileless to dream
of any sinister motive in her friend; and the only difficulty of
which she was conscious was the fear that Hilda might suspect the
change in her feelings toward Guy. The very idea of Hilda's finding
this out alarmed her sensitive pride, and made her defer for a long
time her intent. At length, however, she felt unable to do so any
longer, and determined to run the risk of disclosing the state of her
feelings.
So one day, after the receipt of a note to herself, a slight degree
more friendly than usual, she hinted to Hilda rather shyly that she
would like to answer it herself.
"Oh, I am so glad, darling!" cried Hilda, enthusiastically. "It will
be so much nicer for you to do it yourself. It will relieve me from
embarrassment, for, after all, my position was embarrassing--writing
for you always--and then, you know, you will write far better letters
than I can."
"It will be a Heaven-born gift, then," returned Zillah, laughing, "as
I never wrote a letter in my life."
"That is nothing," said Hilda. "I write for another; but you will be
writing for yourself, and that makes all the difference in the world,
you know."
"Well, perhaps so. You see, Hilda, I have taken a fancy to try my
hand at it," said Zillah, laughingly, full of delight at the ease
with which she had gained her desire. "You see," she went on, with
unusual sprightliness of manner, "I got hold of a 'Complete
Letter-Writer' this morning; and the beauty, elegance, and even
eloquence of those amazing compositions have so excited me that I
want to emulate them. Now it happens that Guy is the only
correspondent that I have, and so he must be my first victim."
So saying, Zillah laughingly opened her desk, while Hilda's dark eyes
regarded her with sharp and eager watchfulness. "You must not make it
too eloquent, dear," said she. "Remember the very commonplace
epistles that you have been giving forth in your name."
"Don't be alarmed," said Zillah. "If it is not exactly like a child's
first composition we shall all have great cause for thankfulness."
So saying, she took out a sheet of paper.
"Here," said she, "is an opportunity of using some of this
elaborately monogrammed paper which poor darling papa got for me,
because I wanted to see how they could work my unpromising 'Z' into a
respectable cipher. They have made it utterly illegible, and I
believe that is the great point to be attained."
Thus rattling on, she dated her letter, and began to write. She wrote
as far as
"MY DEAR GUY"--Then she stopped, and read it aloud.--"This is really
getting most exciting," she said, in high good-humor. "Now what comes
next? To find a beginning--there's the rub. I must turn to my
'Complete Letter-Writer.' Let me see. '_Letter from a Son at
School_'--that won't do. '_From a Lady to a Lover returning a
Miniature_--nor that. '_From a Suitor requesting to be allowed to pay
his attentions to a Lady_'--worse and worse. '_From a Father
declining the application of a Suitor for his Daughter's
hand_'--absurd! Oh, here we are--'_From a Wife to a Husband who is
absent on urgent business_.' Oh, listen, Hilda!" and Zillah read:
"'_BELOVED AND HONORED HUSBAND,--The grief which wrung my heart at
your departure has been mitigated by the delight which I experienced
at the receipt of your most welcome letters_.' Isn't that delightful?
Unluckily his departure didn't wring my heart at all, and, worse
still, I have no grief at his absence to be mitigated by his letters.
Alas! I'm afraid mine must be an exceptional case, for even my
'Complete Letter-Writer,' my vade-mecum, which goes into such
charming details, can not help me. After all I suppose I must use my
own poor brains."
After all this nonsense Zillah suddenly grew serious. Hilda seemed to
understand the cause of her extravagant volatility, and watched her
closely. Zillah began to write, and went on rapidly, without a
moment's hesitation; without any signs whatever of that childish
inexperience at which she had hinted. Her pen flew over the paper
with a speed which seemed to show that she had plenty to say, and
knew perfectly well how to say it. So she went on until she had
filled two pages, and was proceeding to the third. Then an
exclamation from Hilda caused her to look up.
"My dear Zillah," cried Hilda, who was sitting in a chair a little
behind her, "what in the world are you thinking of? From this
distance I can distinguish your somewhat peculiar caligraphy--with
its bold down strokes and decided 'character,' that people talk
about. Now, as you know that I write a little, cramped, German hand,
you will have to imitate my humble handwriting, or else I'm afraid
Captain Molyneux will be thoroughly puzzled--unless, indeed, you tell
him that you have been employing an amanuensis. That will require a
good deal of explanation, but--" she added, after a thoughtful pause,
"I dare say it will be the best in the end."
At these words Zillah started, dropped her pen, and sat looking at
Hilda perfectly aghast. "I never thought of that," she murmured, and
sat with an expression of the deepest dejection. At length a long
sigh escaped her. "You are right, Hilda," she said. "Of course it
will need explanation; but how is it possible to do that in a letter?
It can't be done. At least I can't do it. What shall I do?"
She was silent, and sat for a long time, looking deeply vexed and
disappointed.
"Of course," she said at last, "he will have to know all when he
comes back; but that is nothing. How utterly stupid it was in me not
to think of the difference in our writing! And now I suppose I must
give up my idea of writing a letter. It is really hard--I have not a
single correspondent."
Her deep disappointment, her vexation, and her feeble attempt to
conceal her emotions, were not lost upon the watchful Hilda. But the
latter showed no signs that she had noticed any thing.
"Oh, don't give it up!" she answered, with apparent eagerness. "I
dare say you can copy my hand accurately enough to avoid detection.
Here is a note I wrote yesterday. See if you can't imitate that, and
make your writing as like mine as possible."
So saying she drew a note from her pocket and handed it to Zillah.
The other took it eagerly, and began to try to imitate it, but a few
strokes showed her the utter impossibility of such an undertaking.
She threw down the pen, and leaning her head upon her hand, sat
looking upon the floor in deeper dejection than ever.
"I can't copy such horrid cramped letters," she said, pettishly; "why
should you write such a hand? Besides, I feel as if I were really
forging, or doing something dreadful. I suppose," she added, with
unconcealed bitterness of tone, "we shall have to go on as we began,
and you must be _Zillah Molyneux_ for some time longer."
Hilda laughed.
"Talk of forging!" she said. "What is forging if that is not? But
really, Zillah, darling, you seem to me to show more feeling about
this than I ever supposed you could possibly be capable of. Are you
aware that your tone is somewhat bitter, and that if I were sensitive
I might feel hurt? Do you mean by what you said to lay any blame to
me?"
She spoke so sadly and reproachfully that Zillah's heart smote her.
At once her disappointment and vexation vanished at the thought that
she had spoken unkindly to her friend.
"Hilda!" she cried, "you can not think that I am capable of such
ingratitude. You have most generously given me your services all this
time. You have been right, from the very first, and I have been
wrong. You have taken a world of trouble to obviate the difficulties
which my own obstinacy and temper have caused. If any trouble could
possibly arise, I only could be to blame. But, after all, none can
arise. I'm sure Captain Molyneux will very readily believe that I
disliked him too much when he first went away to dream of writing to
him. He certainly had every reason for thinking so."
"Shall you tell him that?" said Hilda, mildly, without referring to
Zillah's apologies.
"Certainly I shall," said Zillah, "if the opportunity ever arises.
The simple truth is always the easiest and the best. I think he is
already as well aware as he can be of that fact; and, after all, why
should I, or how could I, have liked him under the circumstances? I
knew nothing of him whatever; and every thing--yes, every thing, was
against him."
"You know no more of him now," said Hilda; "and yet, though you are
very reticent on the subject, I have a shrewd suspicion, my darling,
that you do not dislike him."
As she spoke she looked earnestly at Zillah as if to read her inmost
soul.
Zillah was conscious of that sharp, close scrutiny, and blushed
crimson, as this question which thus concerned her most sacred
feelings was brought home to her so suddenly. But she answered, as
lightly as she could:
"How can you say that, or even hint at it? How absurd you are, Hilda!
I know no more of him now than I knew before. Of course I hear very
much about him at Chetwynde, but what of that? He certainly pervades
the whole atmosphere of the house. The one idea of Lord Chetwynde is
Guy; and as for Mrs. Hart, I think if he wished to use her for a
target she would be delighted. Death at such hands would be bliss to
her. She treasures up every word he has ever spoken, from his
earliest infancy to the present day."
"And I suppose that is enough to account for the charm which you seem
to find in her society," rejoined Hilda. "It has rather puzzled me, I
confess. For my own part I have never been able to break through the
reserve which she chooses to throw around her. I can not get beyond
the barest civilities with her, though I'm sure I've tried to win her
good-will more than I ever tried before, which is rather strange,
for, after all, there is no reason whatever why I should try any
thing of the kind. She seems to have a very odd kind of feeling
toward me. She looks at me sometimes so strangely that she positively
gives me an uncomfortable feeling. She seems frightened to death if
my dress brushes against hers. She shrinks away. I believe she is not
sane. In fact, I'm sure of it."
"Poor old Mrs. Hart!" said Zillah. "I suppose she does seem a little
odd to you; but I know her well, and I assure you she is as far
removed from insanity as I am. Still she is undoubtedly queer. Do you
know, Hilda, she seems to me to have had some terrible sorrow which
has crushed all her spirit and almost her very life. I have no idea
whatever of her past life. She is very reticent. She never even so
much as hints at it."
"I dare say she has very good reasons," interrupted Hilda. "Don't
talk that way about her, dear Hilda. You are too ill-natured, and I
can't bear to have ill-natured things said about the dear old thing.
You don't know her as I do, or you would never talk so."
"Oh, Zillah--really--you feel my little pleasantries too much. It was
only a thoughtless remark."
"She seems to me," said Zillah, musingly, after a thoughtful silence,
"to be a very--very mysterious person. Though I love her dearly, I
see that there is some mystery about her. Whatever her history may be
she is evidently far above her present position, for when she does
allow herself to talk she has the manner and accent of a refined
lady. Yes, there is a deep mystery about her, which is utterly beyond
my comprehension. I remember once when she had been talking for a
long time about Guy and his wonderful qualities, I suddenly happened
to ask her some trivial question about her life before she came to
Chetwynde; but she looked at me so wild and frightened, that she
really startled me. I was so terrified that I instantly changed the
conversation, and rattled on so as to give her time to recover
herself, and prevent her from discovering my feelings."
"Why, how very romantic!" said Hilda, with a smile. "You seem, from
such circumstances, to have brought yourself to consider our very
prosaic housekeeper as almost a princess in disguise. I, for my part,
look upon her as a very common person, so weak-minded, to say the
least, as to be almost half-witted. As to her accent, that is
nothing. I dare say she has seen better days. I have heard more than
once of ladies in destitute or reduced circumstances who have been
obliged to take to housekeeping. After all, it is not bad. I'm sure
it must be far better than being a governess."
"Well, if I am romantic, you are certainly prosaic enough. At all
events I love Mrs. Hart dearly. But come, Hilda, if you are going to
write you must do so at once, for the letters are to be posted this
afternoon."
Hilda instantly went to the desk and began her task. Zillah, however,
went away. Her chagrin and disappointment were so great that she
could not stay, and she even refused afterward to look at the note
which Hilda showed her. In fact, after that she would never look at
them at all.
Some time after this Zillah and Mrs. Hart were together on one of
those frequent occasions which they made use of for confidential
interviews. Somehow Zillah had turned the conversation from. Guy in
person to the subject of her correspondence, and gradually told all
to Mrs. Hart. At this she looked deeply shocked and grieved.
"That girl," she said, "has some secret motive."
She spoke with a bitterness which Zillah had never before noticed in
her.
"Secret motive!" she repeated, in wonder; "what in the world do you
mean?"
"She is bad and deceitful," said Mrs. Hart, with energy; "you are
trusting your life and honor in the hands of a false friend."
Zillah started back and looked at Mrs. Hart in utter wonder.
"I know," said she at last, "that you don't like Hilda, but I feel
hurt when you use such language about her. She is my oldest and
dearest friend. She is my sister virtually. I have known her all my
life, and know her to her heart's core. She is incapable of any
dishonorable action, and she loves me like herself."
All Zillah's enthusiastic generosity was aroused in defending against
Mrs. Hart's charge a friend whom she so dearly loved.
Mrs. Hart sadly shook her head.
"My dear child," said she, "you know I would not hurt your feelings
for the world. I am sorry. I will say nothing more about _her_, since
you love her. But don't you feel that you are in a very false
position?"
"But what can I do? There is the difficulty about the handwriting.
And then it has gone on so long."
"Write to him at all hazards," said Mrs. Hart, "and tell him every
thing."
Zillah shook her head.
"Well, then--will you let me?"
"How can I? No; it must be done by myself--if it ever is done; and as
to writing it myself--I can not."
Such a thought was indeed abhorrent. After all it seemed to her in
itself nothing. She employed an amanuensis to compose those formal
notes which went in her name. And what fault was there? To Mrs. Hart,
whose whole life was bound up in Guy, it was impossible to look at
this matter except as to how it affected him. But Zillah had other
feelings--other memories. The very proposal to write a "confession"
fired her heart with stern indignation. At once all her resentment
was roused. Memory brought back again in vivid colors that hideous
mockery of a marriage over the death-bed of her father, with
reference to which, in spite of her changed feelings, she had never
ceased to think that it might have been avoided, and ought to have
been. Could she stoop to confess to this man any thing whatever?
Impossible!
Mrs. Hart did not know Zillah's thoughts. She supposed she was trying
to find a way to extricate herself from her difficulty. So she made
one further suggestion.
"Why not tell all to Lord Chetwynde? Surely you can do that easily
enough. He will understand all, and explain all."
"I can not," said Zillah, coldly. "It would be doubting my
friend--the loving friend who is to me the same as a sister--who is
the only companion I have ever had. She is the one that I love
dearest on earth, and to do any thing apart from her is impossible.
You do not know her--I do--and I love her. For her I would give up
every other friend."
At this Mrs. Hart looked sadly away, and then the matter of the
letters ended. It was never again brought up.