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."