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.
[Illustration.]
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.