TOO MUCH TOGETHER.
Windham had exhibited the deepest interest in all these
investigations. On the day after Zillah's interview with the chief of
police he called and informed them that his business in England,
though important, was not pressing, and that he intended to remain in
Marseilles for a few days, partly for the sake of seeing how the
investigations of the police would turn out, and partly, as he said,
for the sake of enjoying a little more of the society of his friend
Chute. Thenceforth he spent very much of his time at Chute's hotel,
and Zillah and he saw very much of one another. Perhaps it was the
fact that he only was altogether of Zillah's own order; or it may
have been the general charm of his manner, his noble presence, his
elevated sentiments, his rich, full, ringing English voice. Whatever
it may have been, however, she did not conceal the pleasure which his
society afforded her. She was artless and open; her feelings
expressed themselves readily, and were made manifest in her looks and
gestures. Still, there was a melancholy behind all this which Windham
could not but notice--a melancholy penetrating far beneath the
surface talk in which they both indulged.
He, on his part, revealed to Zillah unmistakably the same profound
melancholy which has already been mentioned. She tried to conjecture
what it was, and thought of no other thing than the bereavement which
was indicated by the sombre emblem on his hat. Between these two
there was never laughter, rarely levity; but their conversation, when
it turned even on trifles, was earnest and sincere. Day after day
passed, and each interview grew to be more pleasant than the
preceding one. Often Obed Chute joined in the conversation; but their
minds were of a totally different order from his; and never did they
feel this so strongly as when some hard, dry, practical, and
thoroughly sensible remark broke in upon some little delicate flight
of fancy in which they had been indulging.
One day Windham came to propose a ride. Zillah assented eagerly. Obed
did not care to go, as he was anxious to call on the chief of police.
So Zillah and Windham rode out together into the country, and took
the road by the sea coast, where it winds on, commanding magnificent
sea views or sublime prospects of distant mountains at almost every
turning. Hitherto they had always avoided speaking of England. Each
seemed instinctively to shun the mention of that name; nor did either
ever seek to draw the other out on that subject. What might be the
rank of either at home, or the associations or connections, neither
ever ventured to inquire. Each usually spoke on any subject of a
general nature which seemed to come nearest. On this occasion,
however, Windham made a first attempt toward speaking about himself
and his past. Something happened to suggest India. It was only with a
mighty effort that Zillah kept down an impulse to rhapsodize about
that glorious land, where all her childhood had been passed, and
whose scenes were still impressed so vividly upon her memory. The
effort at self-restraint was successful; nor did she by any word show
how well known to her were those Indian scenes of which Windham went
on to speak. He talked of tiger hunts; of long journeys through the
hot plain or over the lofty mountain; of desperate fights with savage
tribes. At length he spoke of the Indian mutiny. He had been at
Delhi, and had taken part in the conflict and in the triumph. What
particular part he had taken he did not say, but he seemed to have
been in the thick of the fight wherever it raged. Carried away by the
glorious recollections that crowded upon his memory, he rose to a
higher eloquence than any which he had before attempted. The passion
of the fight came back. He mentioned by name glorious companions in
arms. He told of heroic exploits--dashing acts of almost superhuman
valor, where human nature became ennobled and man learned the
possibilities of man. The fervid excitement that burned in his soul
was communicated to the fiery nature of Zillah, who was always so
quick to catch the contagion of any noble emotion; his admiration for
all that was elevated, and true and pure found an echo in the heart
of her who was the daughter of General Pomeroy and the pupil of Lord
Chetwynde. Having herself breathed all her life an atmosphere of
noble sentiments, her nature exulted in the words of this
high-souled, this chivalric man, who himself, fresh from a scene
which had tried men's souls as they had not been tried for many an
age, had shared the dangers and the triumphs of those who had fought
and conquered there. No, never before had Zillah known such hours as
these, where she was brought face to face with a hero whose eye,
whose voice, whose manner, made her whole being thrill, and whose
sentiments found an echo in her inmost soul.
And did Windham perceive this? Could he help it? Could he avoid
seeing the dark olive face which flushed deep at his words--the
large, liquid, luminous eyes which, beneath those deep-fringed lids,
lighted up with the glorious fires of that fervid soul--the delicate
frame that quivered in the strong excitement of impassioned feelings?
Could he avoid seeing that this creature of feeling and of passion
thrilled or calmed, grew indignant or pitiful, became stern or
tearful, just as he gave the word? Could he help seeing that it was
in his power to strike the keynote to which all her sensitive nature
would respond?
Yet in all Zillah's excitement of feeling she never asked any
questions. No matter what might be the intensity of desire that
filled her, she never forgot to restrain her curiosity. Had she not
heard before of this regiment and that regiment from the letters of
Guy? Windham seemed to have been in many of the places mentioned in
those letters. This was natural, as he belonged to the army which had
taken Delhi. But in addition to this there was another wonder--there
were those hill stations in which she had lived, of which Windham
spoke so familiarly. Of course--she thought after due
reflection--every British officer in the north of India must be
familiar with places which are their common resort; but it affected
her strangely at first; for hearing him speak of them was like
hearing one speak of home.
Another theme of conversation was found in his eventful voyage from
India. He told her about the outbreak of the flames, the alarm of the
passengers, the coward mob of panic-stricken wretches, who had lost
all manliness and all human feeling in their abject fear. Then he
described the tall form of Obed Chute as it towered above the crowd.
Obed, according to Windham's account, when he first saw him, had two
men by their collars in one hand, while in the other he held his
revolver. His voice with its shrill accent rang out like a trumpet
peal as he threatened to blow out the brains of any man who dared to
touch a boat, or to go off the quarter-deck. While he threatened he
also taunted them. "_You_ Britishers!" he cried. "If you are--which I
doubt--then I'm ashamed of the mother country."
Now it happened that Obed Chute had already given to Zillah a full
description of his first view of Windham, on that same occasion. As
he stood with his revolver, he saw Windham, he said--pale, stern,
self-possessed, but active, with a line of passengers formed, who
were busy passing buckets along, and he was just detailing half a
dozen to relieve the sailors at the pumps. "That man," concluded Obed
Chute, "had already got to work, while I was indulging in a
'spread-eagle.'"
Windham, however, said nothing of himself, so that Zillah might have
supposed, for all that he said, that he himself was one of that
panic-stricken stricken crowd whom Obed Chute had reviled and
threatened.
Nor was this all. These rides were repeated every day. Obed Chute
declared that this was the best thing for her in the world, and that
she must go out as often as was possible. Zillah made no objection.
So the pleasure was renewed from day to day. But Windham could speak
of other things than battle, and murder, and sudden death. He was
deeply read in literature. He loved poetry with passionate ardor. All
English poetry was familiar to him. The early English metrical
romance, Chaucer, Spenser, the Elizabethan dramatists, Waller,
Marvell, and Cowley, Lovelace and Suckling, were all appreciated
fully. He had admiration for the poets of the Restoration; he had no
words to express the adoration which he felt for Milton; Gray and
Collins he knew by heart; Thomson and Cowper he could mention with
appreciation; while the great school of the Revolutionary poets
rivaled all the rest in the admiration which they extorted from him.
Tennyson and the Brownings were, however, most in his thoughts; and
as these were equally dear to Zillah, they met on common ground. What
struck Zillah most was the fact that occasional stray bits, which she
had seen in magazines, and had treasured in her head, were equally
known, and equally loved by this man, who would repeat them to her
with his full melodious voice, giving thus a new emphasis and a new
meaning to words whose meaning she thought she already felt to the
full. In these was a deeper meaning, as Windham said them, than she
had ever known before. He himself seemed to have felt the meaning of
some of these. What else could have caused that tremulous tone which,
in its deep musical vibrations, made these words ring deep within her
heart? Was there not a profounder meaning in the mind of this man,
whose dark eyes rested upon hers with such an unfathomable depth of
tenderness and sympathy--those eyes which had in them such a magnetic
power that even when her head was turned away she could _feel_ them
resting upon her, and knew that he was looking at her--with what deep
reverence! with what unutterable longing! with what despair! Yes,
despair. For on this man's face, with all the reverence and longing
which it expressed, there was never any hope, there was never any
look of inquiry after sympathy; it was mute reverence--silent
adoration; the look that one may cast upon a divinity, content with
the offer of adoration, but never dreaming of a return.
The days flew by like lightning. Zillah passed them in a kind of
dream. She only seemed awake when Windham came. When he left, all was
barrenness and desolation. Time passed, but she thought nothing of
Naples. Obed had explained to her the necessity of waiting at
Marseilles till fresh news should come from Hilda, and had been
surprised at the ease with which she had been persuaded to stay. In
fact, for a time Hilda seemed to have departed out of the sphere of
her thoughts, into some distant realm where those thoughts never
wandered. She was content to remain here--to postpone her departure,
and wait for any thing at all. Sometimes she thought of the end of
all this. For Windham must one day depart. This had to end. It could
not last. And what then? Then? Ah then! She would not think of it.
Calamities had fallen to her lot before, and it now appeared to her
that another calamity was to come--dark, indeed, and dreadful; worse,
she feared, than others which she had braved in her young life.
For one thing she felt grateful. Windham never ventured beyond the
limits of friendship. To this he had a right. Had he not saved her
from death? But he never seemed to think of transgressing the
strictest limits of conventional politeness. He never indulged at
even the faintest attempt at a compliment. Had he even done this much
it would have been a painful embarrassment. She would have been
forced to shrink back into herself and her dreary life, and put an
end to such interviews forever. But the trial did not come, and she
had no cause to shrink back. So it was that the bright golden hours
sped onward, bearing on the happy, happy days; and Windham lingered
on, letting his English business go.
Another steamer had arrived from Naples, and yet another, but no word
came from Hilda. Zillah had written to her address, explaining every
thing, but no answer came. The chief of police had received an answer
to his original message, stating that the authorities at Naples would
do all in their power to fulfill his wishes; but since then nothing
further had been communicated. His efforts to search after Gualtier
and Mathilde, in France, were quite unsuccessful. He urged Obed Chute
and Miss Lorton to wait still longer, until something definite might
be found. Windham waited also. Whatever his English business was, he
deferred it. He was anxious, he said, to see how these efforts would
turn out, and he hoped to be of use himself.
Meanwhile Obed Chute had fitted up the yacht, and had obliterated
every mark of the casualty with which she had met. In this the party
sometimes sailed. Zillah might perhaps have objected to put her foot
on board a vessel which was associated with the greatest calamity of
her life; but the presence of Windham seemed to bring a
counter-association which dispelled her mournful memories. She might
not fear to trust herself in that vessel which had once almost been
her grave, with the man who had saved her from that grave. Windham
showed himself a first-rate sailor. Zillah wondered greatly how he
could have added this to his other accomplishments, but did not
venture to ask him. There was a great gulf between them; and to have
asked any personal question, however slight, would have been an
attempt to leap that gulf. She dared not ask any thing. She herself
was in a false position. She was living under an assumed name, and
constant watchfulness was necessary. The name "Lorton" had not yet
become familiar to her ears. Often when addressed, she caught herself
thinking that some one else was spoken to. But after all, as to the
question of Windham's seamanship, that was a thing which was not at
all wonderful, since every Englishman of any rank is supposed to own
a yacht, and to know all about it.
Often Obed and his family went out with them; but often these two
went out alone. Perhaps there was a conventional impropriety in this;
but neither Obed nor his sister thought of it; Windham certainly was
not the one to regard it; and Zillah was willing to shut her eyes to
it. And so for many days they were thrown together. Cruising thus
over the Mediterranean, that glory of seas--the blue, the dark, the
deep--where the transparent water shows the sea depths far down, with
all the wonders of the sea; where the bright atmosphere shows sharply
defined the outlines of distant objects--cruising here on the
Mediterranean, where France stretches out her hand to Italy; where on
the horizon the purple hills arise, their tops covered with a diadem
of snow; where the air breathes balm, and the tideless sea washes
evermore the granite base of long mountain chains, evermore wearing
away and scattering the debris along the sounding beach. Cruising
over the Mediterranean--oh! what is there on earth equal to this?
Here was a place, here was scenery, which might remain forever fixed
in the memories of both of these, who now, day after day, under these
cloudless skies, drifted along. Drifting? Yes, it was drifting. And
where were they drifting to? Where? Neither of them asked. In fact,
they were drifting nowhere; or, rather, they were drifting to that
point where fate would interpose, and sever them, to send them onward
upon their different courses. They might drift for a time; but, at
last, they must separate, and then--what? Would they ever again
reunite? Would they ever again meet? Who might say?
Drifting!
Well, if one drifts any where, the Mediterranean is surely the best
place; or, at least, the most favorable; for there all things combine
to favor, in the highest degree, that state of moral "drifting" into
which people sometimes fall.
The time passed quickly. Weeks flew by. Nothing new had been
discovered. No information had come from Naples. No letter had come
from Hilda. While Zillah waited, Windham also waited, and thus passed
six or seven weeks in Marseilles, which was rather a long time for
one who was hurrying home on important business. But he was anxious,
he said, to see the result of the investigations of the police. That
result was, at length, made known. It was nothing; and the chief of
police advised Obed Chute to go on without delay to Naples, and urge
the authorities there to instant action. He seemed to think that they
had neglected the business, or else attended to it in such a way that
it had failed utterly. He assured Obed Chute that he would still
exert all his power to track the villain Gualtier, and, if possible,
bring him to justice. This, Obed believed that he would do; for the
chief had come now to feel a personal as well as a professional
interest in the affair, as though somehow his credit were at stake.
Under these circumstances, Obed prepared to take his family and Miss
Lorton to Naples, by the next steamer.
Windham said nothing. There was a pallor on the face of each of them
as Obed told them his plan--telling it, too, with the air of one who
is communicating the most joyful intelligence, and thinking nothing
of the way in which such joyous news is received. Zillah made no
observation. Involuntarily her eyes sought those of Windham. She read
in his face a depth of despair which was without
hope--profound--unalterable--unmovable.
That day they took their last ride. But few words passed between
them. Windham was gloomy and taciturn. Zillah was silent and sad. At
length, as they rode back, they came to a place on the shore a few
miles away from the city. Here Windham reined in his horse, and, as
Zillah stopped, he pointed out to the sea.
The sun was setting. Its rich red light fell full upon the face of
Zillah, lighting it up with radiant glory as it did on that memorable
morning when her beautiful face was upturned as her head lay upon his
breast, and her gleaming ebon hair floated over his shoulders. He
looked at her. Her eyes were not closed now, as they were then, but
looked back into his, revealing in their unfathomable depths an abyss
of melancholy, of sorrow, of longing, and of tenderness.
"Miss Lorton," said Windham, in a deep voice, which was shaken by an
uncontrollable emotion, and whose tremulous tones thrilled through
all Zillah's being, and often and often afterward recurred to her
memory--"Miss Lorton, this is our last ride--our last interview. Here
I will say my last farewell. To-morrow I will see you, but not alone.
Oh, my friend, my friend, my sweet friend, whom I held in my arms
once, as I saved you from death, we must now part forever! I go--I
must go. My God! where? To a life of horror! to a living death! to a
future without one ray of hope! Once it was dark enough, God knows;
but now--but; now it is intolerable; for since I have seen you I
tremble at the thought of encountering that which awaits me in
England!"
He held out his hand as he concluded. Zillah's eyes fell. His words
had been poured forth with passionate fervor. She had nothing to say.
Her despair was as deep as his. She held out her hand to meet his. It
was as cold as ice. He seized it with a convulsive grasp, and his
frame trembled as he held it.
Suddenly, as she looked down, overcome by her own agitation, a sob
struck her ears. She looked up. He seemed to be devouring her with
his eyes, as they were fixed on her wildly, hungrily, yet
despairingly. And from those eyes, which had so often gazed steadily
and proudly in the face of death, there now fell, drop by drop, tears
which seemed wrung out from his very heart. It was but for a moment.
As he caught her eyes he dropped her hand, and hastily brushed his
tears away. Zillah's heart throbbed fast and furiously; it seemed
ready to burst. Her breath failed; she reeled in her saddle. But the
paroxysm passed, and she regained her self-command.
"Let us ride home," said Windham, in a stern voice.
They rode home without speaking another word.
The next day Windham saw them on board the steamer. He stood on the
wharf and watched it till it was out of sight. Then he departed in
the train for the north, and for England.