HILDA SEES A GULF BENEATH HER FEET.
The astonishing change in Gualtier was an overwhelming shock to
Hilda. She had committed the fatal mistake of underrating him, and of
putting herself completely in his power. She had counted on his being
always humble and docile, always subservient and blindly obedient.
She had put from her all thoughts of a possible day of reckoning. She
had fostered his devotion to her so as to be used for her own ends,
and now found that she had raised up a power which might sweep her
away. In the first assertion of that power she had been vanquished,
and compelled to make a promise which she had at first refused with
the haughtiest contempt. She could only take refuge in vague plans of
evading her promise, and in punishing Gualtier for what seemed to her
his unparalleled audacity.
Yet, after all, bitter as the humiliation had been, it did not lessen
her fervid passion for Lord Chetwynde, and the hate and the vengeance
that had arisen when that passion had been condemned. After the first
shock of the affair with Gualtier had passed, her madness and fury
against him passed also, and her wild spirit was once again filled
with the all-engrossing thought of Lord Chetwynde. Gualtier had gone
off, as he said, and she was to see him no more for some
time--perhaps never. He had his own plans and purposes, of the
details of which Hilda knew nothing, but could only conjecture. She
felt that failure on his part was not probable, and gradually, so
confident was she that he would succeed, Lord Chetwynde began to seem
to her not merely a doomed man, but a man who had already undergone
his doom. And now another change came over her--that change which
Death can make in the heart of the most implacable of men when his
enemy has left life forever. From the pangs of wounded love she had
sought refuge in vengeance--but the prospect of a gratified vengeance
was but a poor compensation for the loss of the hope of a requited
love. The tenderness of love still remained, and it struggled with
the ferocity of vengeance. That love pleaded powerfully for Lord
Chetwynde's life. Hope came also, to lend its assistance to the
arguments of love. Would it not be better to wait--even for
years--and then perhaps the fierceness of Lord Chetwynde's repugnance
might be allayed? Why destroy him, and her hope, and her love,
forever, and so hastily? After such thoughts as these, however, the
remembrance of Lord Chetwynde's contempt was sure to return and
intensify her vengeance.
Under such circumstances, when distracted by so many cares, it is not
surprising that she forgot all about Mrs. Hart. She had understood
the full meaning of Gualtier's warning about her prospective
recovery, but the danger passed from her mind. Gualtier had gone on
his errand, and she was sure he would not falter. Shut up in her own
chamber, she awaited in deep agitation the first tidings which he
might send. Day succeeded to day; no tidings came; and at last she
began to hope that he had failed--and the pleasantest sight which she
could have seen at that time would have been Gualtier returning
disappointed and baffled.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Hart, left to herself, steadily and rapidly
recovered. Ever since her first recognition of Lord Chetwynde her
improvement had been marked. New ideas seemed to have come to her;
new motives for life; and with these the desire of life; and at the
promptings of that desire health came back. This poor creature, even
in the best days of her life at Chetwynde Castle, had not known any
health beyond that of a moderate kind; and so a moderate recovery
would suffice to give her what strength she had lost. To be able to
wander about the house once more was all that she needed, and this
was not long denied her.
In a few days after Gualtier's departure she was able to go about.
She walked through the old familiar scenes, traversed the well-known
halls, and surveyed the well-remembered apartments. One journey was
enough for the first day. The next day she went about the grounds,
and visited the chapel, where she sat for hours on the Earl's tomb,
wrapped in an absorbing meditation. Two or three days passed on, and
she walked about as she used to. And now a strong desire seized her
to see that wife of Lord Chetwynde whom she so dearly loved and so
fondly remembered. She wondered that Lady Chetwynde had not come to
see her. She was informed that Lady Chetwynde was ill. A deep
sympathy then arose in her heart for the poor friendless lady--the
fair girl whom she remembered--and whom she now pictured to herself
as bereaved of her father, and scorned by her husband. For Mrs. Hart
rightly divined the meaning of Lord Chetwynde's words. She thought
long over this, and at last there arose within her a deep yearning
to go and see this poor friendless orphaned girl, whose life had been
so sad, and was still so mournful.
So one day, full of such tender feelings as these, and carrying in
her mind the image of that beautiful young girl who once had been so
dear to her, she went up herself to the room where Hilda staid, and
asked the maid for Lady Chetwynde.
"She is ill," said the maid.
Mrs. Hart waved her aside with serene dignity and entered. The maid
stood awe-struck. For Mrs. Hart had the air and the tone of a lady,
and now when her will was aroused she very well knew how to put down
an unruly servant. So she walked grandly past the maid, who looked in
awe upon her stately figure, her white face, with its refined
features, and her venerable hair, and passed through the half-opened
door into Hilda's room.
Hilda had been sitting on the sofa, which was near the window. She
was looking out abstractedly, thinking upon the great problem which
lay before her, upon the solution of which she could not decide, when
suddenly she became aware of some one in the room. She looked up. It
was Mrs. Hart!
At the sight her blood chilled within her. Her face was overspread
with an expression of utter horror. The shock was tremendous. She had
forgotten all about the woman. Mrs. Hart had been to her like the
dead, and now to see her thus suddenly was like the sight of the
dead. Had the dead Earl come into her room and stood before her in
the cerements of the grave she would not have been one whit more
horrified, more bewildered. But soon in that strong mind of hers
reason regained its place. She saw how it had been, and though she
still wondered how Mrs. Hart had come into her room, yet she prepared
as best she might to deal with this new and unexpected danger. She
arose, carefully closed the door, and then turning to Mrs.
Hart she took her hand, and said, simply,
"I'm so glad to see you about again."
"Where is Lady Chetwynde?"
This was all that Mrs. Hart said, as she withdrew her hand and looked
all about the room.
Like lightning Hilda's plan was decided upon. "Wait a moment," said
she; and, going into the ante-room, she sent her maid away upon some
errand that would detain her for some time. Then she came back and
motioned Mrs. Hart to a chair, while she took another.
"Did not Lord Chetwynde tell you about Lady Chetwynde?" she asked,
very cautiously. She was anxious, first of all, to see how much Mrs.
Hart knew.
"No," said Mrs. Hart, "he scarcely mentioned her name." She looked
suspiciously at Hilda while she spoke.
"That is strange," said Hilda. "Had you any conversations with him?"
"Yes, several."
"And he did not tell you?"
"He told me nothing about her," said Mrs. Hart, dryly.
Hilda drew a long breath of relief.
"It's a secret in this house," said she, "but you must know it. I
will tell you all about it. After the Earl's death Lady Chetwynde
happened to come across some letters written by his son, in which the
utmost abhorrence was expressed for the girl whom he had married. I
dare say the letters are among the papers yet, and you can see them.
One in particular was fearful in its denunciations of her. He reviled
her, called her by opprobrious epithets, and told his father that he
would never consent to see her. Lady Chetwynde saw all these. You
know how high-spirited she was. She at once took fire at these
insults, and declared that she would never consent to see Lord
Chetwynde. She wrote him to that effect, and then departed from
Chetwynde Castle forever."
Mrs. Hart listened with a stern, sad face, and said not a word.
"I went with her to a place where she is now living in seclusion. I
don't think that Lord Chetwynde would have come home if he had not
known that she had left. Hearing this, however, he at once came
here."
"And you?" said Mrs. Hart, "what are you doing here? Are you the Lady
Chetwynde of whom the servants speak?"
"I am, temporarily," said Hilda, with a sad smile. "It was Zillah's
wish. She wanted to avoid a scandal. She sent off all the old
servants, hired new ones, and persuaded me to stay here for a time as
Lady Chetwynde. She found a dear old creature to nurse you, and never
ceases to write about you and ask how you are."
"And you live here as Lady Chetwynde?" asked Mrs. Hart, sternly.
"Temporarily," said Hilda--"that was the arrangement between us.
Zillah did not want to have the name of Chetwynde dishonored by
stories that his wife had run away from him. She wrote Lord Chetwynde
to that effect. When Lord Chetwynde arrived I saw him in the library,
and he requested me to stay here for some months until he had
arranged his plans for the future. It was very considerate in Zillah,
but at the same time it is very embarrassing to me, and I am looking
eagerly forward to the time when this deceit can be over, and I can
rejoin my friend once more. I am so glad, my dear Mrs. Hart, that you
came in. It is such a relief to have some one to whom I can unburden
myself. I am very miserable, and I imagine all the time that the
servants suspect me. You will, of course, keep this a profound
secret, will you not, my dear Mrs. Hart? and help me to play this
wretched part, which my love for Zillah has led me to undertake?"
Hilda's tone was that of an innocent and simple girl who found
herself in a false position. Mrs. Hart listened earnestly without a
word, except occasionally. The severe rigidity of her features never
relaxed. What effect this story, so well told, produced upon her,
Hilda could not know. At length, however, she had finished, and Mrs.
Hart arose.
"You will keep Zillah's secret?" said Hilda, earnestly. "It is for
the sake of Lord Chetwynde."
"You will never find me capable of doing any thing that is against
his interests," said Mrs. Hart, solemnly; and without a bow, or an
adieu, she retired. She went back to her own room to ponder over this
astonishing story.
Meanwhile, Hilda, left alone to herself, was not altogether satisfied
with the impression which had been made on Mrs. Hart. She herself had
played her part admirably--her story, long prepared in case of some
sudden need like this, was coherent and natural. It was spoken
fluently and unhesitatingly; nothing could have been better in its
way, or more convincing; and yet she was not satisfied with Mrs.
Hart's demeanor. Her face was too stern, her manner too frigid; the
questions which she had asked spoke of suspicion. All these were
unpleasant, and calculated to awaken her fears. Her position had
always been one of extreme peril, and she had dreaded some visitor
who might remember her face. She had feared the doctor most, and had
carefully kept out of his way. She had not thought until lately of
the possibility of Mrs. Hart's recovery. This came upon her with a
suddenness that was bewildering, and the consequences she could not
foretell.
And now another fear suggested itself. Might not Lord Chetwynde
himself have some suspicions? Would not such suspicions account for
his coldness and severity? Perhaps he suspected the truth, and was
preparing some way in which she could be entrapped and punished.
Perhaps his mysterious business in London related to this alone. The
thought filled her with alarm, and now she rejoiced that Gualtier was
on his track. She began to believe that she could never be safe until
Lord Chetwynde was "removed." And if Lord Chetwynde, then others. Who
was this Mrs. Hart that she should have any power of troubling her?
Measures might easily be taken for silencing her forever, and for
"removing" such a feeble old obstacle as this. Hilda knew means by
which this could be effected. She knew the way by which the deed
could be done, and she had nerve enough to do it.
[Illustration: "She Stood For A Little While And Listened."]
The appearance of this new danger in Chetwynde Castle itself gave a
new direction to her troubles. It was as though a gulf had suddenly
yawned beneath her feet. All that night she lay deliberating as to
what was best to do under the circumstances. Mrs. Hart was safe
enough for a day or two, but what might she not do hereafter in the
way of mischief? She could not be got rid of, either, in an ordinary
way. She had been so long in Chetwynde Castle that it seemed morally
impossible to dislodge her. Certainly she was not one who could be
paid and packed off to some distant place like the other servants.
There was only one way to get rid of her, and to this one way Hilda's
thoughts turned gloomily.
Over this thought she brooded through all the following day. Evening
came, and twilight deepened into darkness. At about ten o'clock Hilda
left her room and quietly descended the great staircase, and went
over toward the chamber occupied by Mrs. Hart. Arriving at the door
she stood without for a little while and listened. There was no
noise. She gave a turn to the knob and found that the door was open.
The room was dark. She has gone to bed, she thought. She went back to
her own room again, and in about half an hour she returned. The door
of Mrs. Hart's room remained ajar as she had left it. She pushed it
farther open, and put her head in. All was still. There were no
sounds of breathing there. Slowly and cautiously she advanced into
the room. She drew nearer to the bed. There was no light whatever,
and in the intense darkness no outline revealed the form of the bed
to her. Nearer and nearer she drew to the bed, until at last she
touched it. Gently, yet swiftly, her hands passed over its surface,
along the quilts, up to the pillows. An involuntary cry burst from
her--
The bed was empty!