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.