ANOTHER REVELATION.
Time passed on, and Zillah once more regained something like her old
spring and elasticity; yet the sadness of her situation was no way
relaxed. In addition to the griefs of the past, there now arose the
problem of the future. What was she to do? Was she to go on thus
forever with these kind friends? or was she to leave them? The
subject was a painful and a perplexing one, and always brought before
her the utter loneliness of her position with the most distressing
distinctness. Generally she fought against such feelings, and tried
to dismiss such thoughts, but it was difficult to drive them from her
mind.
At length it happened that all her funds were exhausted, and she felt
the need of a fresh supply. So she conferred with Obed Chute, and
told him the name of her London bankers, after which he drew out a
check for her for a hundred pounds, which she signed. The draft was
then forwarded.
A fortnight passed away. It was during this interval that Obed had
his famous Salerno expedition, which he narrated to Zillah on his
return, to her immense delight. Never in his life had Obed taken such
pleasure in telling a story as on this occasion. Zillah's eager
interest, her animated face, her sparkling eyes, all encouraged him
to hope that there was yet some spirit left in her in spite of her
sorrows; and at length, at the narration of the reception of the
Neapolitan's order to surrender, Zillah burst into a fit of laughter
that was childish in its abandon and heartiness.
About a week or ten days after this, Obed came home one day with a
very serious face. Zillah noticed it at once, and asked him anxiously
if any thing had happened.
"My poor child," said he, "I'm afraid that there is more trouble in
store for you. I feared as much some time ago, but I had to wait to
see if my fears were true."
Zillah regarded him fearfully, not knowing what to think of such an
ominous beginning. Her heart told her that it had some reference to
Hilda. Had he found out any thing about her? Was she ill? Was she
dying? These were her thoughts, but she dared not put them into
words.
"I've kept this matter to myself till now," continued Obed; "but I do
not intend to keep it from you any longer. I've spoken to sister
about it, and she thinks that you'd better know it. At any rate," he
added, "it isn't as bad as some things you've borne; only it comes on
top of the rest, and seems to make them worse."
Zillah said not a word, but stood awaiting in fear this new blow.
"Your draft," said Obed, "has been returned."
"My draft returned?" said Zillah, in astonishment. "What do you
mean?"
"I will tell you all I know," said Obed. "There is villainy at the
bottom of this, as you will see. Your draft came back about ten days
ago. I said nothing to you about it, but took it upon myself to write
for explanations. Last evening I received this"--and he drew a letter
from his pocket. "I've meditated over it, and shown it to my sister,
and we both think that there are depths to this dark plot against you
which none of us as yet have even begun to fathom. I've also
forwarded an account of this and a copy of this letter to the police
at Marseilles, and to the police here, to assist them in their
investigations. I'm afraid the police here won't do much, they're so
upset by their panic about Garibaldi."
As Obed ended he handed the letter to Zillah, who opened it without a
word, and read as follows:
"LONDON, September 10, 1859.
"SIR,--In answer to your favor of 7th instant, we beg leave to state
that up to the 15th of June last we held stock and deposits from Miss
Ella Lorton--i. e., consols, thirty thousand pounds (£30,000); also
cash, twelve hundred and seventy-five pounds ten shillings (£1275
10s.). On the 15th of June last the above-mentioned Miss Ella Lorton
appeared in person, and, with her own check, drew out the cash
balance. On the 17th June she came in person and withdrew the stock,
in consols, which she had deposited with us, amounting to thirty
thousand pounds (£30,000) as aforesaid. That it was Miss Ella Lorton
herself there is no doubt; for it was the same lady who deposited the
funds, and who has sent checks to us from time to time. The party you
speak of, who sent the check from Naples, must be an impostor, and we
recommend you to hand her over to the police.
"We have the honor to be, Sir, your most obedient servants, TILTON
AND BROWNE.
"OBED CHUTE, Esq."
On reading this Zillah fell back into a chair as though she had been
shot, and sat looking at this fatal sheet with wild eyes and haggard
face. Obed made an effort to cry for help, but it sounded like a
groan. His sister came running in, and seeing Zillah's condition, she
took her in her arms.
"Poor child! poor sweet child!" she cried.
[Illustration: "His Sister, Seeing Zillah's Condition, Took Her In
Her Arms."]
"It's too much! It's too much! She will die if this goes on."
But Zillah rapidly roused herself. It was no soft mood that was over
her now; it was not a broken heart that was now threatening her. This
letter seemed to throw a flood of light over her dark and mysterious
persecution, which in an instant put an end to all those tender
longings after her loved Hilda which had consumed her. Now her eyes
flashed, and the color which had left her cheeks flushed hack again,
mounting high with the full sweep of her indignant passion. She
started to her feet, her hands clenched, and her brows frowning
darkly.
"You are right," she said to Obed, in a low, stern voice. "I am
betrayed--and she--_she alone_ has been my betrayer. She! my sister!
the one who lived on my father's bounty; who was my companion in
childhood; who shared my bed; who had all my love and trust--she has
betrayed me! Ah, well," she added, with a long sigh; "since it is so,
it is best for me to know it. Do not be grieved, dear friends. Do not
look so sadly and so tenderly at me. I know your loving hearts. You,
at least, do not look as though you believed me to be an impostor."
And she held out her hands to the brother and sister. Obed took that
little hand which she extended, and pressed it reverently to his
lips.
"Sit down, my poor child," said Miss Chute, tenderly. "You are
excited. Try to be calm, if you can."
"I am calm, and I will be calm," said Zillah, faintly.
"Come," said Obed. "We will talk no more about it now. To-morrow, or
next day, or next week, we will talk about it. You must rest. You
must drive out, or sail out, or do something. I'll tell you what I'll
do. I'll order the yacht and take you to Salerno."
Zillah looked at him with a faint smile, appreciating his well-meant
reference to that famous town, and Obed left her with his sister.
A week passed, and Zillah was not allowed to speak of this subject.
But all the time she was oppressed by a sense of her utterly
desperate situation. As long as she had believed herself rich she had
not felt altogether helpless; but now!--now she found herself a
pauper, alone in the wide world, a dependent on the kindness of these
noble-hearted friends. What could she do? This could not go on
forever. What could she do--she, a girl without resources? How could
she ever support herself? What would become of her?
Could she go back to that home from which she had fled? Never! That
thought came once, and was instantly scouted as impossible. Sooner
than do that she would die of starvation. What, then, could she do?
Live on as a burden to these kind friends? Alas! how could she? She
thought wildly of being a governess; but what could she teach?--she,
who had idled away nearly all her life. Then she thought of trying to
get back her money from those who had robbed her. But how could this
be done?
For, to do this, it would be necessary to obtain the help of Obed
Chute; and, in that case, she would have to tell him all. And could
she do this? Could she reveal to another the secret sorrow of her
life? Could she tell him about their fatal marriage; about the Earl;
about Guy's letter, and her flight from home? No; these things were
too sacred to be divulged to any one, and the very idea of making
them known was intolerable. But if she began to seek after Hilda it
would be necessary to tell her true name, at least to Obed Chute, and
all about her, a thing which would involve the disclosure of all her
secret. It could not be done. Hilda had betrayed her, sought out her
life, and robbed her--of this there no longer remained any doubt; and
she was helpless; she could neither seek after her rights, nor
endeavor to obtain redress for her wrongs.
At length she had a conversation with Obed Chute about her draft. She
told him that when she first went to Tenby her sister had persuaded
her to withdraw all her money from her former bankers and deposit it
with Messrs. Tilton and Browne. Hilda herself had gone to London to
have it done. She told Obed that they were living in seclusion, that
Hilda had charge of the finances, and drew all the checks. Of course
Messrs. Tilton and Browne had been led to believe that she was the
Ella Lorton who had deposited the money. In this way it was easy for
her, after getting her sister out of the way, to obtain the money
herself.
After Obed Chute heard this he remained silent for a long time.
"My poor child," said he at last, in tones full of pity, "you could
not imagine once what motive this Hilda could have for betraying you.
Here you have motive enough. It is a very coarse one; but yet men
have been betraying one another for less than this since the world
began. There was once a certain Judas who carried out a plan of
betrayal for a far smaller figure. But tell me. Have you never
associated Gualtier and Hilda in your thoughts as partners in this
devilish plot?"
"I see now that they must have been," said Zillah. "I can believe
nothing else."
"You have said that Gualtier was in attendance on you for years?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever notice any thing like friendship between these two?"
"She always seemed to hold herself so far above him that I do not see
how they could have had any understanding."
"Did he seem to speak to her more than to you?"
"Not at all. I never noticed it. He accompanied her to London,
though, when she went about the money."
"That looks like confidence. And then she sent him to take you to
Naples to put you out of the way?"
Zillah sighed.
"Tell me. Do you think she could have loved Gualtier?"
"It seems absurd. Any thing like love between those two is
impossible."
"It's my full and firm conviction," said Obed Chute, after deep
thought, "that this Gualtier gained your friend's affections, and he
has been the prime mover in this. Both of them must be deep ones,
though. Yet I calculate she is only a tool in his hands. Women will
do any thing for love. She has sacrificed you to him. It isn't so bad
a case as it first looked."
"Not so bad!" said Zillah, in wonder. "What is worse than to betray a
friend?"
"When a woman betrays a friend for the sake of a lover she only does
what women have been engaged in doing ever since the world began.
This Gualtier has betrayed you both--first by winning your friend's
love, and then by using her against you. And that is the smart game
which he has played so well as to net the handsome figure of £30,000
sterling--one hundred and fifty thousand dollars--besides that
balance of £1200 and upward--six thousand dollars more."
Such was Obed Chute's idea, and Zillah accepted it as the only true
solution. Any other solution would force her to believe that Hilda
had been a hypocrite all her life--that her devotion was a sham, and
her love a mockery. Such a thing seemed incredible, and it seemed far
more natural to her that Hilda had acted from some mad impulse of
love in obedience to the strong temptation held out by a lover. Yes,
she thought, she had placed herself in his power, and did whatever he
told her, without thinking of the consequences. The plot, then, must
be all Gualtier's. Hilda herself never, never, never could have
formed such a plan against one who loved her. She could not have
known what she was doing. She could not have deliberately sold her
life and robbed her. So Zillah tried to think; but, amidst these
thoughts, there arose the memory of that letter from Naples--that
picture of the voyage, every word of which showed such devilish
ingenuity, and such remorseless pertinacity in deceiving. Love may do
much, and tempt to much, she thought; but, after all, could such a
letter have emanated from any one whose heart was not utterly and
wholly bad and corrupt? All this was terrible to Zillah.
"If I could but redress your wrongs," said Obed, one day--"if you
would only give me permission, I would start to-morrow for England,
and I would track this pair of villains till I compelled them to
disgorge their plunder, and one of them, at least, should make
acquaintance with the prison hulks or Botany Bay. But you will not
let me," he added, reproachfully.
Zillah looked at him imploringly.
"I have a secret," said she, "a secret which I dare not divulge. It
involves others. I have sacrificed every thing for this. I can not
mention it even to you. And now all is lost, and I have nothing.
There is no help for it, none." She seemed to be speaking to herself.
"For then," she continued, "if they were hunted down, names would
come out, and then all would be known. And rather than have all
known"--her voice grew higher and sterner as she spoke, expressing a
desperate resolve--"rather than have all known, I would die--yes, by
a death as terrible as that which stared me in the face when I was
drifting in the schooner!"
Obed Chute looked at her. Pity was on his face. He held out his hand
and took hers. "It shall not be known," said he. "Keep your secret.
The time will come some day when you will be righted. Trust in God,
my child."
The time passed on, but Zillah was now a prey to this new trouble.
How could she live? She was penniless. Could she consent to remain
thus a burden on kind friends like these? These thoughts agitated her
incessantly, preying upon her mind, and never leaving her by night or
by day. She was helpless. How could she live? By what means could she
hope to get a living? Her friends saw her melancholy, but attributed
it all to the greater sorrows through which she had passed. Obed
Chute thought that the best cure was perpetual distraction. So he
busied himself with arranging a never-ending series of expeditions to
all the charming environs of Naples. Pompeii and Herculaneum opened
before them the wonders of the ancient world. Vesuvius was scaled,
and its crater revealed its awful depths. Baiae, Misenum, and
Puzzuoli were explored. Paestum showed them its eternal temples. They
lingered on the beach at Salerno. They stood where never-ending
spring abides, and never-withering flowers, in the vale of
Sorrento--the fairest spot on earth; best representative of a lost
Paradise. They sailed over every part of that glorious bay, where
earth and air and sea all combine to bring into one spot all that
this world contains of beauty and sublimity, of joyousness and
loveliness, of radiance and of delight. Yet still, in spite of all
this, the dull weight of melancholy could not be removed, but never
ceased to weigh her down.
At length Zillah could control her feelings no longer. One day,
softened by the tender sympathy and watchful anxiety of these loving
friends, she yielded to the generous promptings of her heart and told
them her trouble. "I am penniless," she said, as she concluded her
confession. "You are too generous, and it is your very generosity
that makes it bitter for me to be a mere dependent. You are so
generous that I will ask you to get me something to do. I know you
will. There, I have told you all, and I feel happier already."
As she ended a smile passed over the face of Obed Chute and his
sister. The relief which they felt was infinite. And this was all!
"My child," said Obed Chute, tenderly, "there are twenty different
things that I can say, each of which would put you perfectly at ease.
I will content myself, however, with merely one or two brief remarks.
In the first place allow me to state that you are not penniless. Do
you think that you are going to lose all your property? No--by the
Eternal! no! I, Obed Chute, do declare that I will get it back some
day. So dismiss your fears, and dry your tears, as the hymn-book
says. Moreover, in the second place, you speak of being a dependent
and a burden. I can hardly trust myself to speak in reply to that. I
will leave that to sister. For my own part, I will merely say that
you are our sunshine--you make our family circle bright as gold. To
lose you, my child, would be--well, I won't say what, only when you
leave us you may leave an order at the nearest stone-cutter's for a
tombstone for Obed Chute."
He smiled as he spoke--his great rugged features all irradiated by a
glow of enthusiasm and of happiness.
"But I feel so dependent--such a burden," pleaded Zillah.
"If that is the case," said Obed Chute, "then your feelings shall be
consulted. I will employ you. You shall have an honorable position.
Among us the best ladies in the land become teachers. President
Fillmore's daughter taught a school in New England. It is my purpose
now to engage you as governess."
"As governess?"
"Yes, for my children."
"But I don't know any thing."
"I don't care--I'm going to engage you as governess all the same.
Sister teaches them the rudiments. What I want you to teach them is
music."
"Music? I'm such a wretched player."
"You play well enough for me--well enough to teach them; and the
beauty of it is, even if you don't play well now, you soon will.
Doesn't Franklin or somebody say that one learns by teaching?"
Zillah's face spoke unutterable gratitude.
"This," said Obed Chute, "is purely a business transaction. I'll only
give you the usual payment--say five hundred dollars a year, and
found."
"And--what?"
"Found--that is, board, you know, and clothing, of course, also. Is
it a bargain?"
"Oh, my best friend! how can I thank you? What can I say?"
"Say! why, call me again your 'best friend;' that is all the thanks I
want."
So the engagement was made, and Zillah became a music-teacher.