FACE TO FACE.
Some time passed away after the conversation related in the last
chapter, and one evening Hilda was in her boudoir alone, as usual.
She was somewhat paler, more nervous, and less calm than she had been
a few months previously. Her usual stealthy air had now developed
into one of wary watchfulness, and the quiet noiselessness of her
actions, her manner, and her movements had become intensified into a
habit of motionless repose, accompanied by frequent fits of deep
abstraction. On the present occasion she was reclining on her couch,
with her hand shading her eyes. She had been lying thus for some
time, lost in thought, and occasionally rousing herself sharply from
her meditations to look around her with her watchful and suspicious
eyes. In this attitude she remained till evening came, and then, with
the twilight, she sank into a deep abstraction, one so deep that she
could not readily rouse herself.
It was with a great start, therefore, that she rose to her feet as a
sudden noise struck her ears. It was the noise of a carriage moving
rapidly up through the avenue toward the house. For a carriage to
come to Chetwynde Castle at any time was a most unusual thing; but
for one to come after dark was a thing unheard of. At once there came
to Hilda a thought like lightning as to who it might be that thus
drove up; the thought was momentous and overwhelming; it might have
been sufficient to have destroyed all courage and all presence of
mind had her nerves been, by the slightest degree, less strong. But
as it was, her nerve sustained her, and her courage did not falter
for one single instant. With a calm face and firm step she advanced
to the window. With a steady hand she drew the curtains aside and
looked out. Little could lie seen amidst the gloom at first; but at
length, as she gazed, she was able to distinguish the dim outline of
a carriage, as it emerged from the shadows of the avenue and drove up
to the chief door.
Then she stepped back toward the door of her boudoir, and listened,
but nothing could be heard. She then lighted two lamps, and, turning
to a cheval-glass at one end of her room, she put one lamp on each
side, so that the light might strike on her to the best advantage,
and then scrutinized herself with a steady and critical glance. Thus
she stood for a long time, watchful and motionless, actuated by a
motive far different from any thing like vanity; and if she received
gratification from a survey of herself, it was any thing but
gratified pride. It was a deeper motive than girlish curiosity that
inspired such stern self-inspection; and it-was a stronger feeling
than vanity that resulted from it. It was something more than things
like these which made her, at so dread a moment, look so anxiously at
her image in the glass.
As she stood there a tap came at the door.
"Come in," said Hilda, in her usual calm tone, turning as she spoke
to face the door.
It was the maid.
"My lady," said she, "his lordship has just arrived."
To her, at that moment, such intelligence could have been nothing
less than tremendous. It told her that the crisis of her life had
come; and to meet it was inevitable, whatever the result might be. He
had come. He, the one whom she must face; not the crude boy, but the
man, tried in battle and in danger and in judgment, in the camp and
in the court; the man who she now knew well was not surpassed by many
men among that haughty race to which he belonged. This man was
accustomed to face guilt and fear; he had learned to read the soul;
he had become familiar with all that the face may make known of the
secret terrors of conscience. And how could she meet the calm eyes of
one who found her here in such a relation toward him? Yet all this
she had weighed before in her mind; she was not unprepared. The hour
and the man had come. She was found ready.
She regarded the maid for a few moments in silence. At last she
spoke.
"Very well," she said, coldly, and without any perceptible emotion of
any kind. "I will go down to meet his lordship."
His lordship has just arrived! The words had been spoken, and the
speaker had departed, but the words still echoed and re-echoed
through the soul of the hearer. What might this involve? and what
would be the end of this arrival?
Suddenly she stepped to the door and called the maid.
"Has any one accompanied his lordship?"
"No, my lady."
"He came alone?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Did Mr. M'Kenzie see him?"
"No, my lady. He is not in the house."
Hilda closed the door, went back, and again stood before the mirror.
Some time elapsed as she stood there regarding herself, with strange
thoughts passing through her mind. She did not find it necessary,
however, to make any alterations in her appearance. She did not
change one fold in her attire, or vary one hair of her head from its
place. It was as though this present dress and this present
appearance had been long ago decided upon by her for just such a
meeting as this. Whether she had anticipated such a meeting so
suddenly--whether she was amazed or not--whether she was at all taken
by surprise or not, could not appear in any way from her action or
her demeanor. In the face of so terrible a crisis, whose full meaning
and import she must have felt profoundly, she stood there, calm and
self-contained, with the self-poise of one who has been long
prepared, and who, when the hour big with fate at last may come, is
not overwhelmed, but rises with the occasion, goes forth to the
encounter, and prepares to contend with destiny.
It was, perhaps, about half an hour before Hilda went down. She went
with a steady step and a calm face down the long corridor, down the
great stairway, through the chief hall, and at length entered the
drawing-room.
On entering she saw a tall man standing there, with his back turned
toward the door, looking up at a portrait of the late Earl. So
intently was he occupied that he did not hear her entering; but a
slight noise, made by a chair as she passed it, startled him, and he
turned and looked at her, disclosing to her curious yet apprehensive
gaze the full features and figure of the new Lord Chetwynde. On that
instant, as he turned and faced her, she took in his whole face and
mien and stature. She saw a broad, intellectual brow, covered with
dark clustering hair; a face bronzed by the suns of India and the
exposure of the campaign, the lower part of which was hidden by a
heavy beard and mustache; and a tall, erect, stalwart frame, with the
unmistakable air of a soldier in every outline. His mien had in it a
certain indescribable grace of high breeding, and the commanding air
of one accustomed to be the ruler of men. His eyes were dark, and
full of quiet but resistless power; and they beamed upon her
lustrously, yet gloomily, and with a piercing glance of scrutiny from
under his dark brows. His face bore the impress of a sadness deeper
than that which is usually seen--sadness that had reigned there
long--a sadness, too, which had given to that face a more sombre cast
than common, from some grief which had been added to former ones. It
was but for a moment that he looked at her, and then he bowed with
grave courtesy. Hilda also bowed without a word, and then waited for
Lord Chetwynde to speak.
But Lord Chetwynde did not speak for some time. His earnest eyes were
still fixed upon the one before him, and though it might have been
rudeness, yet it was excusable, from the weight which lay on his
soul.
[Illustration: "Hilda Stood There, Calm, Watchful, And Expectant."]
Hilda, for her part, stood there, calm, watchful, and expectant. That
slender and graceful figure, with its simple and elegant dress, which
set off to the utmost the perfection of her form, looked certainly
unlike the ungrown girl whom Lord Chetwynde had seen years before.
Still more unlike was the face. Pale, with delicate, transparent
skin, it was not so dark as that face which had dwelt in his memory.
Her eyes did not seem so wild and staring as those of the imp whom he
had married; but deep, dark, and strong in their gaze, as they looked
back steadily into his. The hair was now no longer disordered, but
enfolded in its dark, voluminous masses, so as to set off to the best
advantage the well-shaped head, and slender, beautifully rounded
neck. The one whom he remembered had been hideous; this one was
beautiful. But the beauty that he saw was, nevertheless, hard, cold,
and repellent. For Hilda, in her beauty and grace and intellectual
subtilty, stood there watchful and vigilant, like a keen fencer on
guard, waiting to see what the first spoken word might disclose;
waiting to see what that grand lordly face, with its air of command,
its repressed grief, its deep piercing eyes, might shadow forth.
A singular meeting; but Lord Chetwynde seemed to think it natural
enough, and after a few moments he remarked, in a quiet voice:
"Lady Chetwynde, the morning-room will be more suitable for the
interview which I wish, and, if you have no objection, we will go
there."
At the sound of these words a great revulsion took place in Hilda's
feelings, and a sense of triumph succeeded to that intense anxiety
which for so long a time had consumed her. The sound of that name by
which he had addressed her had shown her at once that the worst part
of this crisis had passed away. He had seen her. He had scrutinized
her with those eyes which seemed to read her soul, and the end was
that he had taken her for what she professed to be. He had called her
"Lady Chetwynde!" After this what more was there which could excite
fear? Was not her whole future now secured by the utterance of those
two words? Yet Hilda's self-control was so perfect, and her vigilance
so consummate, that no change whatever expressed in her face the
immense revolution of feeling within her. Her eyes fell--that was
all; and as she bowed her head silently, by that simple gesture which
was at once natural and courteous, she effectually concealed her
face; so that, even if there had been a change in its expression, it
could not have been seen. Yet, after all, the triumph was but
instantaneous. It passed away, and soon there came another feeling,
vague, indefinable--a premonition of the future--a presentiment of
gloom; and though the intensity of the suspense had passed, there
still remained a dark anxiety and a fear which were unaccountable.
Lord Chetwynde led the way to the morning-room, and on arriving there
he motioned her to a seat. Hilda sat down. He sat opposite in another
chair, not far off. On the wall, where each could see it, hung his
portrait--the figure of that beardless, boyish, dashing young
officer--very different from this matured, strong-souled man; so
different, indeed, that it seemed hardly possible that they could be
the same.
Lord Chetwynde soon began.
"Lady Chetwynde," said he, again addressing her by that name, and
speaking in a firm yet melancholy voice, "it is not often that a
husband and a wife meet as you and I do now; but then it is not often
that two people become husband and wife as you and I have. I have
come from India for the sake of having a full understanding with you.
I had, until lately, an idea of coming here under an assumed name,
with the wish of sparing you the embarrassment which I supposed that
the presence of Lord Chetwynde himself might possibly cause you. In
fact, I traveled most of the way home from India under an assumed
name with that intent. But before I reached England I concluded that
there was no necessity for trying to guard against any embarrassment
on your part, and that it would be infinitely better to see you in my
own person and talk to you without disguise."
He paused for a moment.
"Had you chosen to come all the way in your own name, my lord," said
Hilda, speaking now for the first time, "I should have seen your name
in the list of passengers, and should have been better prepared for
the honor of your visit."
"Concealment would have been impossible," continued Lord Chetwynde,
gloomily, half to himself, and without appearing to have heard
Hilda's words, "here, in my home. Though all the old servants are
gone, still the old scenes remain; and if I had come here as a
stranger I should have shown so deep an interest in my home that I
might have excited suspicion. But the whole plan was impossible, and,
after all, there was no necessity for it, as I do not see that your
feelings have been excited to madness by my appearance. So far, then,
all is well. And now to come to the point; and you, I am sure, will
be the first to excuse my abruptness in doing so. The unfortunate
bond that binds us is painful enough to you. It is enough for me to
say that I have come home for two reasons: first, to see my home,
possibly for the last time; and secondly, to announce to you the
decision at which I have arrived with regard to the position which we
shall hereafter occupy toward one another."
Hilda said nothing. Awe was a feeling which was almost unknown to
her; but something of that had come over her as, sitting in the
presence of this man, she heard him say these words; for he spoke
without any particular reference to her, and said them with a grand,
authoritative air, with the tone of one accustomed to rule and to
dispense justice. In uttering these concluding words it seemed to be
his will, his decision, that he was announcing to some inferior
being.
"First," he went on to say, "let me remind you of our unhappy
betrothal. You were a child, I a boy. Our parents are responsible for
that. They meant well. Let us not blame them.
"Then came our marriage by the death-bed of your father. You were
excited, and very naturally so. You used bitter words to me then
which I have never forgotten. Every taunt and insult which you then
uttered has lived in my memory. Why? Not because I am inclined to
treasure up wrong. No. Rather because you have taken such extreme
pains to keep alive the memory of that event. You will remember that
in every one of those letters which you have written to me since I
left England there has not been one which has not been filled with
innuendoes of the most cutting kind, and insults of the most galling
nature. My father loved you. I did not. But could you not, for his
sake, have refrained from insult? Why was it necessary to turn what
at first was merely coolness into hate and indignation?
"I speak bitterly about those letters of yours. It was those which
kept me so long in India. I could not come to see my father because
you were here, and I should have to come and see you. I could not
give him trouble by letting him know the truth, because he loved you.
Thus you kept me away from him and from my home at a time when I was
longing to be here; and, finally, to crown your cruelty, you
sedulously concealed from me the news of my father's illness till it
was too late. He died; and then--then you wrote that hideous letter,
that abomination of insult and vindictiveness, that cruel and
cowardly stab, which you aimed at a heart already wrung by the grief
of bereavement! In the very letter which you wrote to tell me of that
sudden and almost intolerable calamity you dared to say that my
father--that gentle and noble soul, who so loved you and trusted
you--that he, the stainless gentleman, the soul of honor--_he_ had
cheated _you_, and that his death was the punishment inflicted by
Providence for his sin; that he had made a cunning and dishonest plan
to get you for the sake of your fortune; that _I_ had been his
accomplice; and that by his death the vengeance of Divine justice was
manifested on both of us!"
Deep and low grew the tones of Lord Chetwynde's voice as he spoke
these words--deep and low, yet restrained with that restraint which
is put over the feelings by a strong nature, and yet can not hide
that consuming passion which underlies all the words, and makes them
burn with intensest heat. Here the hot fire of his indignation seemed
to be expressed in a blighting and withering power; and Hilda shrank
within herself involuntarily in fear, trembling at this terrific
denunciation.
Lord Chetwynde made a slight gesture. "Calm yourself," said he; "you
can not help your nature. Do you suppose for one moment that I, by
any possibility, can expect an explanation? Not at all. I have
mentioned this for the first and for the last time. Even while your
letters were lying before me I did not deign to breathe one word
about them to my father, from whom I kept no other secret, even
though I knew that, while he loved you and trusted you, both his love
and his trust were thrown away. I would not add to his troubles by
showing him the true character of the woman to whom he had sold me
and bound me fast, and whom he looked on with affection. That sorrow
I determined to spare him, and so I kept silent. So it was that I
always spoke of you with the formulas of respect, knowing well all
the time that you yourself did not deserve even that much. But he
deserved it, and I quenched my own indignation for his sake. But now
there is no longer any reason why I should play the hypocrite, and so
I speak of these things. I say this simply to let you know how your
conduct and character are estimated by one whose opinion is valued by
many honorable gentlemen.
"Even after his death," continued Lord Chetwynde, "I might possibly
have had some consideration for you, and, perhaps, would not have
used such plain language as I now do. But one who could take
advantage of the death of my father to give vent to spleen, and to
offer insult to one who had never offended her, deserves no
consideration. Such conduct as yours, Lady Chetwynde, toward me, has
been too atrocious to be ever forgiven or forgotten. To this you will
no doubt say, with your usual sneer, that my forgiveness is not
desired. I am glad if it is not.
"To your father, Lady Chetwynde, I once made a vow that I would
always be careful about your happiness. I made it thoughtlessly, not
knowing what I was promising, not in any way understanding its full
import. I made it when full of gratitude for an act of his which I
regarded only by itself, without thinking of all that was required of
me. I made it as a thoughtless boy. But that vow I intend now, as a
mature man, to fulfill, most sacredly and solemnly. For I intend to
care for your happiness, and that, too, in a way which will be most
agreeable to you. I shall thus be able to keep that rash and hasty
vow, which I once thought I would never be able to keep. The way in
which I intend to keep it is one, Lady Chetwynde, which will insure
perfect happiness to one like you; and as you are, no doubt, anxious
to know how it is possible for me to do such a thing, I will hasten
to inform you.
"The way in which I intend, Lady Chetwynde, to fulfill my vow and
secure your perfect happiness is, first of all, by separating myself
from you forever. This is the first thing. It is not such an
accomplishment of that vow as either your father or mine anticipated;
but in your eyes and mine it will be a perfect fulfillment. Fortunate
it is for me that the thing which you desire most is also the very
thing which I most desire. Your last letter settled a problem which
has been troubling me for years.
"This, however, is only part of my decision. I will let you know the
rest as briefly as possible. When your father came from India, and
made that memorable visit to my father, which has cost us both so
dear, Chetwynde was covered with mortgages to the extent of sixty
thousand pounds. Your father made an unholy bargain with mine, and in
order to secure a protector for you, he gave to my father the money
which was needed to disencumber the estate. It was, in fact, your
dowry, advanced beforehand.
"The principals in that ill-omened arrangement are both dead. I am no
longer a boy, but a man; the last of my line, with no one to consider
but myself. An atrocious wrong has been done, unintentionally, to me,
and also to you. That wrong I intend to undo, as far as possible. I
have long ago decided upon the way. I intend to give back to you this
dowry money; and to do so I will break the entail, sell Chetwynde,
and let it go to the hands of strangers. My ancient line ends in me.
Be it so. I have borne so many bitter griefs that I can bear this
with resignation. Never again shall you, Lady Chetwynde, have the
power of flinging at me that taunt which you have so often flung. You
shall have your money back, to the last farthing, and with interest
for the whole time since its advance. In this way I can also best
keep my vow to General Pomeroy; for the only mode by which I can
secure your happiness is to yield the care of it into your own hands.
"For the present you will have Chetwynde Castle to live in until its
sale. Every thing here seems quite adapted to make you happy. You
seem to have appropriated it quite to yourself. I can not find one of
those faithful old domestics with whom my boyhood was passed. You
have surrounded yourself with your own servants. Until your money is
paid you will be quite at liberty to live here, or at Pomeroy Court,
whichever you prefer. Both are yours now, the Castle as much as
Pomeroy Court, as you remarked, with your usual delicacy, in your
last letter, since they both represent your own money.
"And now," said Lord Chetwynde, in conclusion, "we understand one
another. The time for taunts and sneers, for you, is over. Any
letters hereafter that may come to me in your handwriting will be
returned unopened. The one aim of my life hereafter shall be to undo,
as far as possible, the wrong done to us both by our parents. That
can never be all undone; but, at any rate, you may be absolutely
certain that you will get back every penny of the money which is so
precious to you, with interest. As to my visit here, do not let it
disturb you for one moment. I have no intention of making a scene for
the benefit of your gaping servants. My business now is solely to see
about my father's papers, to examine them, and take away with me
those that are of immediate use. While I am here we will meet at the
same table, and will be bound by the laws of ordinary courtesy. At
all other times we need not be conscious of one another's existence.
I trust that you will see the necessity of avoiding any open
demonstrations of hatred, or even dislike. Let your feelings be
confined to yourself, Lady Chetwynde; and do not make them known to
the servants, if you can possibly help it."
Lord Chetwynde seemed to have ended; for he arose and sauntered up to
the portrait, which he regarded for some time with fixed attention,
and appeared to lose himself in his thoughts. During the remarks
which he had been making Hilda had sat looking at the floor. Unable
to encounter the stern gaze of the man whom she felt to be her
master, she had listened in silence, with downcast eyes. There was
nothing for her to say. She therefore did the very best thing that
she could do under the circumstances--she said nothing. Nor did she
say any thing when he had ended. She saw him absorb himself in
regarding his own portrait, and apparently lose himself in his
recollections of the past. Of her he seemed to have now no
consciousness. She sat looking at him, as his side face was turned
toward her, and his eyes fixed on the picture. The noble profile,
with its clear-cut features, showed much of the expression of the
face--an expression which was stern, yet sad and softened--that face
which, just before, had been before her eyes frowning, wrathful,
clothed with consuming terrors--a face upon which she could not look,
but which now was all mournful and sorrowful. And now, as she gazed,
the hard rigidity of her beautiful features relaxed, the sharp
glitter of her dark eyes died out, their stony lustre gave place to a
soft light, which beamed upon him with wonder, with timid awe--with
something which, in any other woman, would have looked like
tenderness. She had not been prepared for one like this. In her
former ideas of him he had been this boy of the portrait, with his
boyish enthusiasm, and his warm, innocent temperament. This idea she
had relinquished, and had known that he had changed during the years
into the heroic soldier and the calm judge. She had tried to
familiarize herself with this new idea, and had succeeded in doing so
to a certain extent. But, after all, the reality had been too much
for her. She had not been prepared for one like this, nor for such an
effect as the sight of him had produced. At this first interview he
had overpowered her utterly, and she had sat dumb and motionless
before him. All the sneering speeches which she had prepared in
anticipation of the meeting were useless. She found no place for
them. But there was one result to this interview which affected her
still more deeply than this discovery of his moral superiority. The
one great danger which she had always feared had passed away. She no
longer had that dread fear of discovery which hitherto had harassed
her; but in the place of this there suddenly arose another fear--a
fear which seemed as terrible as the other, which darkened over her
during the course of that scene till its close, and afterward--such
an evil as she never before could have thought herself capable of
dreading, yet one which she had brought upon herself.
What was that?
His contempt--his hate--his abhorrence--this was the thing which now
seemed so terrible to her.
For in the course of that interview a sudden change had come over all
her feelings. In spite of her later judgment about him, which she had
expressed to Gualtier, there had been in her mind a half contempt for
the man whom she had once judged of by his picture only, and whom she
recollected as the weak agent in a forced marriage. That paragraph in
the Indian paper had certainly caused a great change to take place in
her estimate of his character; but, in spite of this, the old
contempt still remained, and she had reckoned upon finding beneath
the mature man, brave though he was, and even wise though he might
be, much of that boy whom she had despised. But all this passed away
as a dream, out of which she had a rude awakening. She awoke suddenly
to the full reality, to find him a strong, stern, proud man, to whom
her own strength was as weakness. While he uttered his grand
maledictions against her he seemed to her like a god. He was a mighty
being, to whom she looked up from the depths of her soul, half in
fear, half in adoration. In her weakness she admired his strength;
and in her wily and tortuous subtlety she worshiped this
straightforward and upright gentleman, who scorned craft and cunning,
and who had sat in stern judgment upon her, to make known to her _his
will_.
For some time she sat looking at him as he stood, with her whole
nature shaken by these new, these unparalleled emotions, till,
finally, with a start, she came to herself, and, rising slowly, she
glided out of the room.