AN EFFORT AT CONCILIATION.
Lord Chetwynde's occupations kept him for the greater part of his
time in his father's library, where he busied himself in examining
papers. Many of these he read and restored to their places, but some
he put aside, in order to take them with him. Of the new steward he
took no notice whatever. He considered the dismissal of the old one
and the appointment of Gualtier one of those abominable acts which
were consistent with all the other acts of that woman whom he
supposed to be his wife. Besides, the papers which he sought had
reference to the past, and had no connection with the affairs of the
present. In the intervals of his occupation he used to go about the
grounds, visiting every one of those well-known places which were
associated with his childhood and boyhood. He sought out his father's
grave, and stood musing there with feelings which were made up of
sadness, mingled with something like reproach for the fearful mistake
which his father had made in the allotment of the son's destiny.
True, he had been one of the consenting parties; but when he first
gave that consent he was little more than a boy, and not at all
capable of comprehending the full meaning of such an engagement. His
father had ever since solemnly held him to it, and had appealed to
his sense of honor in order to make him faithful. But now the father
was dead, the son was a mature man, tried in a thousand scenes of
difficulty and danger--one who had learned to think for himself, who
had gained his manhood by a life of storms, in which of late there
had been crowded countless events, each of which had had their weight
in the development of his character. They had left him a calm,
strong, resolute man--a man of thought and of action--a graduate of
the school of Indian affairs--a school which, in times that tried
men's souls, never failed to supply men who were equal to every
emergency.
[Illustration: "He Sought Out His Father's Grave, And Stood Musing
There."]
At the very outset he had found out the condition of Mrs. Hart. The
sight of his loved nurse, thus prostrated, filled him with grief. The
housekeeper who now attended her knew nothing whatever of the cause
of her prostration. Lord Chetwynde did not deign to ask any questions
of Hilda; but in his anxiety to learn about Mrs. Hart, he sought out
the doctor who had attended his father, and from him he learned that
Mrs. Hart's illness had been caused by her anxiety about the Earl.
The knowledge of this increased, if possible, his own care. He made
the closest inquiry as to the way in which she was treated, engaged
the doctor to visit her, and doubled the housekeeper's salary on
condition that she would be attentive to his beloved nurse. These
measures were attended with good results, for under this increased
care Mrs. Hart began to show signs of improvement. Whether she would
ever again be conscious was yet a question. The doctor considered her
mind to be irretrievably affected.
Meanwhile, throughout all these days, Hilda's mind was engrossed with
the change which had come over her--a change so startling and so
unexpected that it found her totally unprepared to deal with it. They
met every day at the dinner-table, and at no other times. Here Lord
Chetwynde treated her with scrupulous courtesy; yet beyond the
extreme limits of that courtesy she found it impossible to advance.
Hilda's manner was most humble and conciliatory. She who all her life
had felt defiant of others, or worse, now found herself enthralled
and subdued by the spell of this man's presence. Her wiliness, her
stealthiness, her constant self-control, were all lost and forgotten.
She had now to struggle incessantly against that new tenderness which
had sprung up unbidden within her. She caught herself looking forward
wistfully every day to the time when she could meet him at the table
and hear his voice, which, even in its cold, constrained tones, was
enough for her happiness. It was in vain that she reproached and even
cursed herself for her weakness. The weakness none the less existed;
and all her life seemed now to centre around this man, who hated her.
Into a position like this she had never imagined that she could
possibly be brought. All her cunning and all her resources were
useless here. This man seemed so completely beyond her control that
any effort to win him to her seemed useless. He believed her to be
his wife, he believed himself bound by honor to secure her happiness,
and yet his abhorrence of her was so strong that he never made any
effort to gain her for himself. Now Hilda saw with bitterness that
she had gone too far, and that her plans and her plots were recoiling
upon her own head. They had been too successful. The sin of Lord
Chetwynde's wife had in his eyes proved unpardonable.
Hilda's whole life now became a series of alternate struggles against
her own heart, and longings after another who was worse than
indifferent to her. Her own miserable weakness, so unexpected, and
yet so complete and hopeless, filled her at once with anger and
dismay. To find all her thoughts both by day and night filled with
this one image was at once mortifying and terrible. The very
intensity of her feelings, which would not stop short at death itself
to gain their object, now made her own sufferings all the greater.
Every thing else was forgotten except this one absorbing desire; and
her complicated schemes and far-reaching plans were thrust away. They
had lost their interest. Henceforth all were reduced to one
thought--how to gain Lord Chetwynde to herself.
As long as he staid, something like hope remained; but when he would
leave, what hope could there be? Would he not leave her forever? Was
not this the strongest desire of his heart? Had he not said so? Every
day she watched, with a certain chilling fear at her heart, to see if
there were signs of his departure. As day succeeded to day, however,
and she found him still remaining, she began to hope that he might
possibly have relented somewhat, and that the sentence which he had
spoken to her might have become modified by time and further
observation of her.
So at the dinner-table she used to sit, looking at him, when his eyes
were turned away, with her earnest, devouring gaze, which, as soon as
he would look at her again, was turned quickly away with the timidity
of a young bashful child. Such is the tenderness of love that Hilda,
who formerly shrank at nothing, now shrank away from the gaze of this
man. Once, by a great effort, as he entered the dining-room she held
out her hand to greet him. Lord Chetwynde, however, did not seem to
see it, for he greeted her with his usual distant civility, and
treated her as before. Once more she tried this, and yet once again,
but with the same result; and it was then that she knew that Lord
Chetwynde refused to take her hand. It was not oversight--it was a
deliberate purpose. At another time it would have seemed an insult
which would have filled her with rage; now it seemed a slight which
filled her with grief. So humiliated had she become, and so
completely subdued by this man, that even this slight was not enough,
but she still planned vague ways of winning his attention to her, and
of gaining from him something more than a remark about the weather or
about the dishes.
At length one day she formed a resolution, which, after much
hesitation, she carried out. She was determined to make one bold
effort, whatever the result might be. It was at their usual place of
meeting--the dinner-table.
"My lord," said she, with a tremulous voice, "I wish to have an
interview with you. Can you spare me the time this evening?"
She looked at him earnestly, with mute inquiry. Lord Chetwynde
regarded her in some surprise. He saw her eyes fixed upon him with a
timid entreaty, while her face grew pale with suspense. Her breathing
was rapid from the agitation that overcame her.
"I had some business this evening," said Lord Chetwynde, coldly, "but
as you wish an interview, I am at your service."
"At what time, my lord?"
"At nine," said Lord Chetwynde.
Nine o'clock came, and Hilda was in the morning-room, which she had
mentioned as the place of meeting, and Lord Chetwynde came there
punctually. She was sitting near the window. Her pale face, her rich
black locks arranged in voluminous masses about her head, her dark
penetrating eyes, her slender and graceful figure, all conspired to
make Hilda beautiful and attractive in a rare degree. Added to this
there was a certain entreaty on her face as it was turned toward him,
and a soft, timid lustre in her eyes which might have affected any
other man. She rose as Lord Chetwynde entered, and bowed her
beautiful head, while her graceful arms, and small, delicately shaped
hands hung down at her side.
Lord Chetwynde bowed in silence.
"My lord," said Hilda, in a voice which was tremulous from an
uncontrollable emotion, "I wished to see you here. We met here once
before; you said what you wished; I made no reply; I had nothing to
say; I felt your reproaches; they were in some degree just and
well-merited; but I might have said something--only I was timid and
nervous, and you frightened me."
Here Hilda paused, and drew a long breath. Her emotion nearly choked
her, but the sound of her own voice sustained her, and, making an
effort, she went on:
"I have nothing to say in defense of my conduct. It has made you hate
me. Your hate is too evident. My thoughtless spite has turned back
upon myself. I would willingly humiliate myself now if I thought that
it would affect you or conciliate you. I would acknowledge any folly
of mine if I thought that you could be brought to look upon me with
leniency. What I did was the act of a thoughtless girl, angry at
finding herself chained up for life, spiteful she knew not why. I had
only seen you for a moment, and did not know you. I was mad. I was
guilty; but still it is a thing that may be considered as not
altogether unnatural under the circumstances. And, after all, it was
not sincere--it was pique, it was thoughtlessness--it was not that
deep-seated malice which you have laid to my charge. Can you not
think of this? Can you not imagine what may have been the feelings of
a wild, spoiled, untutored girl, one who was little better than a
child, one who found herself shackled she knew not how, and who
chafed at all restraint? Can you not understand, or at least imagine,
such a case as this, and believe that the one who once sinned has now
repented, and asks with tears for your forgiveness?"
Tears? Yes, tears were in the eyes of this singular girl, this girl
whose nature was so made up of strength and weakness. Her eyes were
suffused with tears as she looked at Lord Chetwynde, and finally, as
she ceased, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud.
Now, nothing in nature so moves a man as a woman's tears. If the
woman be beautiful, and if she loves the man to whom she speaks, they
are irresistible. And here the woman was beautiful, and her love for
the man whom she was addressing was evident in her face and in the
tones of her voice. Yet Lord Chetwynde sat unmoved. Nothing in his
face or in his eyes gave indications of any response on his part.
Nothing whatever showed that any thing like soft pity or tender
consideration had modified the severity of his purpose or the
sternness of his fixed resolve. Yet Lord Chetwynde by nature was not
hard-hearted, and Hilda well knew this. In the years which she had
spent at the Castle she had heard from every quarter--from the Earl,
from Mrs. Hart, and from the servants--tales without number about his
generosity, his self-denial, his kindliness, and tender consideration
for I the feelings of others. Besides this, he had received from his
father along with that chivalrous nature the lofty sentiments of a
knight-errant, and in his boyish days had always been ready to
espouse the cause of any one in distress with the warmest enthusiasm.
In Hilda's present attitude, in her appearance, in her words, and
above all in her tears, there was every thing that would move such a
nature to its inmost depths. Had he ever seen any one at once so
beautiful and so despairing; and one, too, whose whole despair arose
from her feelings for him? Even his recollections of former disdain
might lose their bitterness in the presence of such utter
humiliation, such total self-immolation as this. His nature could not
have changed, for the Indian paper alluded to his "genial" character,
and his "heroic qualities." He must be still the same. What, then,
could there be which would be powerful enough to harden his feelings
and steel his heart against such a woeful and piteous sight as that
which was now exhibited to him? All these things Hilda thought as she
made her appeal, and broke down so completely at its close; these
things, too, she thought as the tears streamed from her eyes, and as
her frame was shaken by emotion.
Lord Chetwynde sat looking at her in silence for a long time. No
trace whatever of commiseration appeared upon his face; but he
continued as stern, as cold, and as unmoved, as in that first
interview when he had told her how he hated her. Bitter indeed must
that hate have been which should so crush out all those natural
impulses of generosity which belonged to him; bitter must the hate
have been; and bitter too must have been the whole of his past
experience in connection with this woman, which could end in such
pitiless relentlessness.
At length he answered her. His tone was calm, cool, and impassive,
like his face; showing not a trace of any change from that tone in
which he always addressed her; and making known to her, as she sat
with her face buried in her hands, that whatever hopes she had
indulged in during his silence, those hopes were altogether vain.
"Lady Chetwynde," he began, "all that you have just said I have
thought over long ago, from beginning to end. It has all been in my
mind for years. In India there were always hours when the day's
duties were over, and the mind would turn to its own private and
secret thoughts. From the very first, you, Lady Chetwynde, were
naturally the subject of those thoughts to a great degree. That
marriage scene was too memorable to be soon forgotten, and the
revelation of your character, which I then had, was the first thing
which showed me the full weight of the obligation which I had so
thoughtlessly accepted. Most bitterly I lamented, on my voyage out,
that I had not contrived some plan to evade so hasty a fulfillment of
my boyish promise, and that I had not satisfied the General in some
way which would not have involved such a scene. But I could not
recall the past, and I felt bound by my father's engagement. As to
yourself, I assure you that in spite of your malice and your insults
I felt most considerately toward you. I pitied you for being, like
myself, the unwilling victim of a father's promise and of a sick
man's whim, and learned to make allowance for every word and action
of yours at that time. Not one of those words or actions had the
smallest effect in imbittering my mind toward you. Not one of those
words which you have just uttered has suggested an idea which I have
not long ago considered, and pondered over in secret, in silence, and
in sorrow. I made a large allowance also for that hate which you must
have felt toward one who came to you as I did, in so odious a
character, to violate, as I did, the sanctities of death by the
mockery of a hideous marriage. All this--all this has been in my
mind, and nothing that you can say is able in any way to bring any
new idea to me. There are other things far deeper and far more
lasting than this, which can not be answered, or excused, or
explained away--the long persistent expressions of unchanging hate."
Lord Chetwynde was silent. Hilda had heard all this without moving or
raising her head. Every word was ruin to her hopes. But she still
hoped against hope, and now, since she had an opportunity to speak,
she still tried to move this obdurate heart.
"Hate!" she exclaimed, catching at his last word--"hate! what is
that? the fitful, spitefull feeling arising out of the recollection
of one miserable scene--or perhaps out of the madness of anger at a
forced marriage. What is it? One kind word can dispel it."
As she said this she did not look up. Her face was buried in her
hands. Her tone was half despairing, half imploring, and broken by
emotion.
"True," said Lord Chetwynde. "All that I have thought of, and I used
to console myself with that. I used to say to myself, 'When we meet
again it will be different. When she knows me she can not hate me.'"
"You were right," faltered Hilda, with a sob which was almost a
groan. "And what then? Say--was it a wonder that I should have felt
hate? Was there ever any one so tried as I was? My father was my only
friend. He was father and mother and all the world to me. He was
brought home one day suddenly, injured by a frightful accident, and
dying. At that unparalleled moment I was ordered to prepare for
marriage. Half crazed with anxiety and sorrow, and anticipating the
very worst--at such a time death itself would have been preferable to
that ceremony. But all my feelings were outraged, and I was dragged
down to that horrible scene. Can you not see what effect the
recollection of this might afterward have? Can you not once again
make allowances, and think those thoughts which you used to think?
Can you not still see that you were right in supposing that when we
might meet all would be different, and that she who might once have
known you could not hate you?"
"No," said Lord Chetwynde, coldly and severely.
Hilda raised her head, and looked at him with mute inquiry.
"I will explain," said Lord Chetwynde. "I have already said all that
I ought to say; but you force me to say more, though I am unwilling.
Your letters, Lady Chetwynde, were the things which quelled and
finally killed all kindly feelings."
"Letters!" burst in Hilda, with eager vehemence. "They were the
letters of a hot-tempered girl, blinded by pique and self-conceit,
and carelessly indulging in a foolish spite which in her heart she
did not seriously feel."
"Pardon me," said Lord Chetwynde, with cold politeness, "I think you
are forgetting the circumstances under which they were written--for
this must be considered as well as the nature of the compositions
themselves. They were the letters of one whom my father loved, and of
whom he always spoke in the tenderest language, but who yet was so
faithless to him that she never ceased to taunt me with what she
called our baseness. She never spared the old man who loved her. For
months and for years these letters came. It was something more than
pique, something more than self-conceit or spite, which lay at the
bottom of such long-continued insults. The worst feature about them
was their cold-blooded cruelty. Nothing in my circumstances or
condition could prevent this--not even that long agony before
Delhi"--added Lord Chetwynde, in tones filled with a deeper
indignation--"when I, lost behind the smoke and cloud and darkness of
the great struggle, was unable to write for a long time; and,
finally, was able to give my account of the assault and the triumph.
Not even that could change the course of the insults which were so
freely heaped upon me. And yet it would have been easy to avoid all
this. Why write at all? There was no heavy necessity laid upon you.
That was the question which I used to put to myself. But you
persisted in writing, and in sending to me over the seas, with
diabolical pertinacity, those hideous letters in which every word was
a stab."
While Lord Chetwynde had been speaking Hilda sat looking at him, and
meeting his stern glance with a look which would have softened any
one less bitter. Paler and paler grew her face, and her hands
clutched one another in tremulous agitation, which showed her strong
emotion.
"Oh, my lord!" she cried, as he ceased, "can you not have mercy?
Think of that black cloud that came down over my young life, filling
it with gloom and horror. I confess that you and your father appeared
the chief agents; but I learned to love _him_, and then all my
bitterness turned on _you_--you, who seemed to be so prosperous, so
brave, and so honored. It was you who seemed to have blighted my
life, and so I was animated by a desire to make you feel something of
what I had felt. My disposition is fiery and impetuous; my father's
training made it worse. I did not know you; I only felt spite against
you, and thus I wrote those fatal letters. I thought that you could
have prevented that marriage if you had wished, and therefore could
never feel any thing but animosity. But now the sorrows through which
I have passed have changed me, and you yourself have made me see how
mad was my action. But oh, my lord, believe me, it was not
deliberate, it was hasty passion! and now I would be willing to wipe
out every word in those hateful letters with my heart's blood!"
Hilda's voice was low but impassioned, with a certain burning fervor
of entreaty; her words had become words almost of prayer, so deep was
her humiliation. Her face was turned toward him with an imploring
expression, and her eyes were fixed on his in what seemed an agony of
suspense. But not even that white face, with its ashen lips and its
anguish, nor those eyes with their overflowing tears, nor that voice
with its touching pathos of woe, availed in any way to call up any
response of pity and sympathy in the breast of Lord Chetwynde.
"You use strong language, Lady Chetwynde," said he, in his usual
tone. "You forget that it is you yourself who have transformed all my
former kindliness, in spite of myself, into bitterness and gall. You
forget, above all, that last letter of yours. You seem to show an
emotion which I once would have taken as real. Pardon me if I now say
that I consider it nothing more than consummate acting. You speak of
consideration. You hint at mercy. Listen, Lady Chetwynde"--and here
Lord Chetwynde raised his right hand with solemn emphasis. "You
turned away from the death-bed of my father, the man who loved you
like a daughter, to write to me that hideous letter which you
wrote--that letter, every word of which is still in my memory, and
rises up between us to sunder us for evermore. You went beyond
yourself. To have spared the living was not needed; but it was the
misfortune of your nature that you could not spare the dead. While he
was, perhaps, yet lying cold in death near you, you had the heart to
write to me bitter sneers against him. Even without that you had done
enough to turn me from you always. But when I read that, I then knew
most thoroughly that the one who was capable, under such
circumstances, of writing thus could only have a mind and heart
irretrievably bad--bad and corrupt and base. Never, never, never,
while I live, can I forget the utter horror with which that letter
filled me!"
"Oh, my God!" said Hilda, with a groan.
Lord Chetwynde sat stern and silent.
"You are inflexible in your cruelty," said Hilda at length, as she
made one last and almost hopeless effort. "I have done. But will you
not ask me something? Have you nothing to ask about your father? He
loved me as a daughter. I was the one who nursed him in his last
illness, and heard his last words. His dying eyes were fixed on me!"
As Hilda said this a sharp shudder passed through her.
"No," said Lord Chetwynde, "I have nothing to ask--nothing from
_you_! Your last letter has quelled all desire. I would rather remain
in ignorance, and know nothing of the last words of him whom I so
loved than ask of _you_."
"He called me his daughter. He loved me," said Hilda, in a broken
voice.
"And yet you were capable of turning away from his death-bed and
writing that letter to his son. You did it coolly and remorselessly."
"It was the anguish of bereavement and despair."
"No; it was the malignancy of the Evil One. Nothing else could have
prompted those hideous sneers. In real sorrow sneering is the last
thing that one thinks of. But enough. I do not wish to speak in this
way to a lady. Yet to you I can speak in no other way. I will
therefore retire."
And, with a bow, Lord Chetwynde withdrew.
Hilda looked after him, as he left, with staring eyes, and with a
face as pallid as that of a corpse. She rose to her feet. Her hands
were clenched tight.
"He loves another," she groaned; "otherwise he never, never, never
could have been so pitiless!"