A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
Some weeks passed, and Zillah's grief gradually became lessened. She
was far better able to bear this blow at this time than that first
crushing blow which a few years before had descended so suddenly upon
her young life. She began to rally and to look forward to the future.
Guy had been written to, not by her, but, as usual, by Hilda, in her
name. The news of her father's death had been broken to him as
delicately as possible. Hilda read it to Zillah, who, after a few
changes of expression, approved of it. This letter had the effect of
impressing upon Zillah's mind the fact that Guy must soon come home.
The absence must cease. In any case it could not last much longer.
Either she would have had to join him, or he come back to her. The
prospect of his arrival now stood before her, and the question arose
how to meet it. Was it welcome or unpleasant? After all, was he not a
noble character, and a valiant soldier--the son of a dear friend?
Zillah's woman's heart judged him not harshly, and much of her
thought was taken up with conjectures as to the probable results of
that return. She began at length to look forward to it with hope; and
to think that she might be happy with such a man for her husband. The
only thing that troubled her was the idea that any man, however
noble, should have the right of claiming her as his without the
preliminary wooing. To a delicate nature this was intolerable, and
she could only trust that he would be acceptable to her on his first
appearance.
In the midst of these thoughts a letter arrived from Guy, addressed
to that one who was now beyond its reach. Zillah opened this without
hesitation, for Lord Chetwynde had always been in the habit of
handing them to her directly he had read them.
Few things connected with those whom we have loved and lost are more
painful, where all is so exquisitely painful, than the reading of
letters by them or to them. The most trivial commonplaces--the
lightest expressions of regard--are all invested with the tenderest
pathos, and from our hearts there seems rung out at every line the
despairing refrain of "nevermore--nevermore." It was thus, and with
blending tears, that Zillah read the first part of Guy's letter,
which was full of tender love and thoughtful consideration. Soon,
however, this sadness was dispelled; her attention was arrested; and
every other feeling was banished in her absorbing interest in what
she read. After some preliminary paragraphs the letter went on thus:
"You will be astonished, my dear father, and, I hope, pleased, to
learn that I have made up my mind to return to England as soon as
possible. As you may imagine, this resolve is a sudden one, and I
should be false to that perfect confidence which has always existed
between us, if I did not frankly acquaint you with the circumstances
which have led to my decision. I have often mentioned to you my
friend Captain Cameron of the Royal Engineers, who is superintending
the erection of some fortifications overlooking the mountain pass.
Isolated as we are from all European society, we have naturally been
thrown much together, and a firm friendship has grown up between us.
We constituted him a member of our little mess, consisting of my two
subalterns and myself, so that he has been virtually living with us
ever since our arrival here.
"Not very long ago our little circle received a very important
addition. This was Captain Cameron's sister; who, having been left an
orphan in England, and having no near relatives there, had come out
to her brother. She was a charming girl. I had seen nothing of
English ladies for a long time, and so it did not need much
persuasion to induce me to go to Cameron's house after Miss Cameron
had arrived. Circumstances, rather than any deliberate design on my
part, drew me there more and more, till at length all my evenings
were spent there, and, in fact, all my leisure time. I always used to
join Miss Cameron and her brother on their morning rides and evening
walks; and very often, if duty prevented him from accompanying her,
she would ask me to take his place as her escort. She was also as
fond of music as I am; and, in the evening, we generally spent most
of the time in playing or singing together. She played accompaniments
to my songs, and I to hers. We performed duets together; and thus,
whether in the house or out of it, were thrown into the closest
possible intercourse. All this came about so naturally that several
months had passed away in this familiar association before I began
even to suspect danger, either for myself or for her. Suddenly,
however, I awakened to the consciousness of the fact as it was. All
my life was filled by Inez Cameron--all my life seemed to centre
around her--all my future seemed as black as midnight apart from her.
Never before had I felt even a passing interest in any woman. Bound
as I had been all my life, in boyhood by honor, and in early manhood
by legal ties, I had never allowed myself to think of any other
woman; and I had always been on my guard so as not to drift into any
of those flirtations with which men in general, and especially we
officers, contrive to fritter away the freshness of affection.
Inexperience, combined with the influence of circumstances, caused me
to drift into this position; and the situation became one from which
it was hard indeed to extricate myself. I had, however, been on my
guard after a fashion. I had from the first scrupulously avoided
those _galanteries_ and _façons de parler_ which are more usual in
Indian society than elsewhere. Besides, I had long before made
Cameron acquainted with my marriage, and had taken it for granted
that Inez knew it also. I thought, even after I had found out that I
loved her, that there was no danger for her--and that she had always
merely regarded me as a married man and a friend. But one day an
accident revealed to me that she knew nothing about my marriage, and
had taken my attentions too favorably for her own peace of mind. Ah,
dear father, such a discovery was bitter indeed in many ways. I had
to crush out my love for my sake and for hers. One way only was
possible, and that was to leave her forever. I at once saw Cameron,
and told him frankly the state of the case, so far as I was
concerned. Like a good fellow, as he was, he blamed himself
altogether. 'You see, Molyneux,' he said, 'a fellow is very apt to
overlook the possible attractiveness of his own sister.' He made no
effort to prevent me from going, but evidently thought it my only
course. I accordingly applied at once for leave, and to-night I am
about to start for Calcutta, where I will wait till I gain a formal
permit, and I will never see Inez again. I have seen her for the last
time. Oh, father! those words of warning which you once spoke to me
have become fatally true. Chetwynde has been too dearly bought. At
this moment the weight of my chains is too heavy to be borne. If I
could feel myself free once more, how gladly would I give up all my
ancestral estates! What is Chetwynde to me? What happiness can I ever
have in it now, or what happiness can there possibly be to me without
Inez? Besides, I turn from the thought of her, with her refined
beauty, her delicate nature, her innumerable accomplishments, her
true and tender heart, and think of that other one, with her
ungovernable passions, her unreasoning temper, and her fierce
intractability, where I can see nothing but the soul of a savage,
unredeemed by any womanly softness or feminine grace. Oh; father! was
it well to bind me to a Hindu? You will say, perhaps, that I should
not judge of the woman by the girl. But, father, when I saw her first
at ten, I found her impish, and at fifteen, when I married her, she
was no less so, only perhaps more intensified. Fierce words of insult
were flung at me by that creature. My God! it is too bitter to think
of. Her face is before me now, scowling and malignant, while behind
it, mournful and pitying, yet loving, is the pale sweet face of Inez.
"But I dare not trust myself further. Never before have I spoken to
you about the horror which I feel for that Hindu. I did not wish to
pain you. I fear I am selfish in doing so now. But, after all, it is
better for you to know it once for all. Otherwise the discovery of it
would be all the worse. Besides, this is wrung out from me in spite
of myself by the anguish of my heart.
"Let me do justice to the Hindu. You have spoken of her
sometimes--not often, however, and I thank you for it--as a loving
daughter to you. I thank her for that, I am sure. Small comfort,
however, is this to me. If she were now an angel from heaven, she
could not fill the place of Inez.
"Forgive me, dear father. This shall be the last of complaints.
Henceforth I am ready to bear my griefs. I am ready for the
sacrifice. I can not see _her_ yet, but when I reach England I must
see you somehow. If you can not meet me, you must manage to send her
off to Pomeroy, so that I may see you in peace. With you I will
forget my sorrows, and will be again a light-hearted boy.
"Let me assure you that I mean to keep my promise made years ago when
I was a boy. It shall be the effort of my life to make my wife happy.
Whether I succeed or not will be another thing. But I must have time.
"No more now. I have written about this for the first and the last
time. Give my warmest and fondest love to nurse. I hope to see you
soon, and remain, dear father,
"Your affectionate son,
"Guy Molyneux."
For some time after reading this letter Zillah sat as if stunned. At
first she seemed scarcely able to take in its full meaning.
Gradually, however, it dawned upon her to its widest extent. This,
then, was the future that lay before her, and this was the man for
whose arrival she had been looking with such mingled feelings. Little
need was there now for mingled feelings. She knew well with what
feeling to expect him. She had at times within the depths of her
heart formed an idea that her life would not be loveless; but
now--but now--This man who was her husband, and the only one to whom
she could look for love--this man turned from her in horror; he hated
her, he loathed her--worse, he looked upon her as a Hindu--worse
still, if any thing could be worse, his hate and his loathing were
made eternal; for he loved another with the ardor of a first fresh
love, and his wife seemed to him a demon full of malignity, who stood
between him and the angel of his heart and the heaven of his desires.
His words of despair rang within her ears. The opprobrious epithets
which he applied to her stung her to the quick. Passionate and
hot-hearted, all her woman's nature rose up in arms at this horrible,
this unlooked-for assault. All her pride surged up within her in deep
and bitter resentment. Whatever she might once have been, she felt
that she was different now, and deserved not this. At this moment she
would have given worlds to be able to say to him, "You are free. Go,
marry the woman whom you love." But it was too late.
Not the least did she feel Guy's declaration that he would try to
make her happy. Her proud spirit chafed most at this. He was going to
treat her with patient forbearance, and try to conceal his
abhorrence. Could she endure this? Up and down the room she paced,
with angry vehemence, asking herself this question.
She who had all her life been surrounded by idolizing love was now
tied for life to a man whose highest desire with regard to her was
that he might be able to endure her. In an agony of grief, she threw
herself upon the floor. Was there no escape? she thought. None? none?
Oh, for one friend to advise her!
The longer Zillah thought of her position the worse it seemed to her.
Hours passed away, and she kept herself shut up in her room, refusing
to admit any one, but considering what was best to do. One thing only
appeared as possible under these circumstances, and that was to leave
Chetwynde. She felt that it was simply impossible for her to remain
there. And where could she go? To Pomeroy Court? But that had been
handed over to him as part of the payment to him for taking her. She
could not go back to a place which was now the property of this man.
Nor was it necessary. She had money of her own, which would enable
her to live as well as she wished. Thirty thousand pounds would give
her an income sufficient for her wants; and she might find some place
where she could live in seclusion. Her first wild thoughts were a
desire for death; but since death would not come, she could at least
so arrange matters as to be dead to this man. Such was her final
resolve.
It was with this in her mind that she went out to Hilda's room. Hilda
was writing as she entered, but on seeing her she hastily shut her
desk, and sprang forward to greet her friend.
"My darling!" said she. "How I rejoice to see you! Is it some new
grief? Will you never trust me? You are so reticent with me that it
breaks my heart."
"Hilda," said she, "I have just been reading a letter from Lord
Chetwynde to his father. He is about to return home."
Zillah's voice, as she spoke, was hard and metallic, and Hilda saw
that something was wrong. She noticed that Zillah used the words Lord
Chetwynde with stern emphasis, instead of the name Guy, by which she,
like the rest, had always spoken of him.
"I am glad to hear it, dear," said Hilda, quietly, and in a cordial
tone; "for, although you no doubt dread the first meeting, especially
under such painful circumstances, yet it will be for your happiness."
"Hilda," said Zillah, with increased sternness, "Lord Chetwynde and I
will never meet again."
Hilda started back with unutterable astonishment on her face.
"Never meet again!" she repeated--"not meet Lord Chetwynde--your
husband? What do you mean?"
"I am going to leave Chetwynde as soon as possible, and shall never
again cross its threshold."
Hilda went over to Zillah and put her arms around her.
"Darling," said she, in her most caressing tones, "you are agitated.
What is it? You are in trouble. What new grief can have come to you?
Will you not tell me? Is there anyone living who can sympathize with
you as I can?"
At these accents of kindness Zillah's fortitude gave way. She put her
head on her friend's shoulder and sobbed convulsively. The tears
relieved her. For a long time she wept in silence.
"I have no one now in the world but you, dearest Hilda. And you will
not forsake me, will you?"
"Forsake you, my darling, my sister? forsake you? Never while I live!
But why do you speak of flight and of being forsaken? What mad
fancies have come over you?"
Zillah drew from her pocket the letter which she had read.
"Here," she said, "read this, and you will know all."
Hilda took the letter and read it in silence, all through, and then
commencing it again, she once more read it through to the end.
Then she flung her arms around Zillah, impulsively, and strained her
to her heart.
"You understand all now?"
"All," said Hilda.
"And what do you think?"
"Think! It is horrible!"
"What would you do?"
"I?" cried Hilda, starting up.
"I would kill myself."
Zillah shook her head. "I am not quite capable of that--not
yet--though it may be in me to do it--some time. But now I can not.
My idea is the same as yours, though. I will go into seclusion, and
be dead to him, at any rate."
Hilda was silent for a few moments. Then she read the letter again.
"Zillah," said she, with a deep sigh, "it is very well to talk of
killing one's self, as I did just now, or of running away; but, after
all, other things must be considered. I spoke hastily; but I am
calmer than you, and I ought to advise you calmly. After all, it is a
very serious thing that you speak of; and, indeed, are you capable of
such a thing? Whatever I may individually think of your resolve, I
know that you are doing what the world will consider madness; and it
is my duty to put the case plainly before you. In the first place,
then, your husband does not love you, and he loves another--very hard
to bear, I allow; but men are fickle, and perhaps ere many months
have elapsed he may forget the cold English beauty as he gazes on
your Southern face. You are very beautiful, Zillah; and when he sees
you he will change his tone. He may love you at first sight."
"Then I should despise him," said Zillah, hotly. "What kind of love
is that which changes at the sight of every new face? Besides, you
forget how he despises me. I am a Hindu in his eyes. Can contempt
ever change into love? If such a miracle could take place, I should
never believe in it. Those bitter words in that letter would always
rankle in my heart."
"That is true," said Hilda, sorrowfully. "Then we will put that
supposition from us. But, allowing you never gain your husband's
love, remember how much there is left you. His position, his rank,
are yours by right--you are Lady Chetwynde, and the mistress of
Chetwynde Castle. You can fill the place with guests, among whom you
will be queen. You may go to London during the season, take the
position to which you are entitled there as wife of a peer, and, in
the best society which the world affords, you will receive all the
admiration and homage which you deserve. Beauty like yours, combined
with rank and wealth, may make you a queen of society. Have you
strength to forego all this, Zillah?"
"You have left one thing out in your brilliant picture," replied
Zillah. "All this may, indeed, be mine--but--mine on sufferance. If I
can only get this as Lord Chetwynde's wife, I beg leave to decline
it. Besides, I have no ambition to shine in society. Had you urged me
to remember all that the Earl has done for me, and try to endure the
son for the sake of the father, that might possibly have had weight.
Had you shown me that my marriage was irrevocable, and that the best
thing was to accept the situation, and try to be a dutiful wife to
the son of the man whom I called father, you might perhaps for a
moment have shaken my pride. I might have stifled the promptings of
those womanly instincts which have been so frightfully outraged, and
consented to remain passively in a situation where I was placed by
those two friends who loved me best. But when you speak to me of the
dazzling future which may lie before me as Lord Chetwynde's wife, you
remind me how little he is dependent for happiness upon any thing
that I can give him; of the brilliant career in society or in
politics which is open to him, and which will render domestic life
superfluous. I have thought over all this most fully; but what you
have just said has thrown a new light upon it. In the quiet seclusion
in which I have hitherto lived I had almost forgotten that there was
an outside world, where men seek their happiness. Can you think that
I am able to enter that world, and strive to be a queen of society,
with no protecting love around me to warn me against its perils or to
shield me from them? No! I see it all. Under no circumstances can I
live with this man who abhors me. No toleration can be possible on
either side. The best thing for me to do is to die. But since I can
not die, the next best thing is to sink out of his view into
nothingness. So, Hilda, I shall leave Chetwynde, and it is useless to
attempt to dissuade me."
Zillah had spoken in low, measured tones, in words which were so
formal that they sounded like a school-girl's recitation--a long,
dull monotone--the monotony of despair. Her face drooped--her eyes
were fixed on the floor--her white hands clasped each other, and she
sat thus--an image of woe. Hilda looked at her steadily. For a moment
there flashed over her lips the faintest shadow of a smile--the lips
curled cruelly, the eyes gleamed coldly--but it was for a moment.
Instantly it had passed, and as Zillah ceased, Hilda leaned toward
her and drew her head down upon her breast.
"Ah, my poor, sweet darling! my friend! my sister! my noble Zillah!"
she murmured. "I will say no more. I see you are fixed in your
purpose. I only wished you to act with your eyes open. But of what
avail is it? Could you live to be scorned--live on sufferance? Never!
_I_ would die first. What compensation could it be to be rich, or
famous, when you were the property of a man who loathed you? Ah, my
dear one! what am I saying? But you are right. Yes, sooner than live
with that man I would kill myself."
A long silence followed.
"I suppose you have not yet made any plans, darling," said Hilda at
last.
"Yes I have. A thousand plans at once came sweeping through my mind,
and I have some general idea of what I am to do," said Zillah. "I
think there will be no difficulty about the details. You remember,
when I wished to run away, after dear papa's death--ah, how glad I am
that I did not--how many happy years I should have lost--the question
of money was the insuperable obstacle; but that is effectually
removed now. You know my money is so settled that it is payable to my
own checks at my bankers', who are not even the Chetwyndes' bankers;
for the Earl thought it better to leave it with papa's men of
business."
"You must be very careful," said Hilda, "to leave no trace by which
Lord Chetwynde can find you out. You know that he will move heaven
and earth to find you. His character and his strict ideas of honor
would insure that. The mere fact that you bore his name, would make
it gall and wormwood to him to be ignorant of your doings. Besides,
he lays great stress on his promise to your father."
"He need not fear," said Zillah. "The dear old name, which I love
almost as proudly as he does, shall never gain the lightest stain
from me. Of course I shall cease to use it now. It would be easy to
trace Lady Chetwynde to any place. My idea is, of course, to take an
assumed name. You and I can live quietly and raise no suspicions that
we are other than we seem. But, Hilda, are you sure that you are
willing to go into exile with me? Can you endure it? Can you live
with me, and share my monotonous life?"
Hilda looked steadily at Zillah, holding her hand the while.
"Zillah," said she, in a solemn voice, "whither thou goest, I will
go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my
people, and thy God my God!"
[Illustration: "Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go."]
A deep silence followed. Zillah pressed Hilda's hand and stifled a
half sob.
"At any rate," said Hilda, "whoever else may fail, you--you have, at
least, one faithful heart--one friend on whom you can always rely.
No, you need not thank me," said she, as Zillah fondly kissed her and
was about to speak; "I am but a poor, selfish creature, after all.
You know I could never be happy away from you. You know that there is
no one in the world whom I love but you; and there is no other who
loves me. Do I not owe every thing to General Pomeroy and to you, my
darling?"
"Not more than I owe to you, dear Hilda. I feel ashamed when I think
of how much I made you endure for years, through my selfish exactions
and my ungovernable temper. But I have changed a little I think. The
Earl's influence over me was for good, I hope. Dear Hilda, we have
none but one another, and must cling together."
Silence then followed, and they sat for a long time, each wrapped up
in plans for the future.