FROM LOVE TO VENGEANCE, AND FROM VENGEANCE TO LOVE.
On the night of this last event, before she retired to bed, Hilda
learned more. Leaving Mrs. Hart's room, she called at the
housekeeper's chambers to see if the missing woman might be there.
The housekeeper informed her that she had left at an early hour that
morning, without saying a word to any one, and that she herself had
taken it for granted that her ladyship knew all about it. Hilda heard
this without any comment; and then walked thoughtfully to her own
room.
She certainly had enough care on her mind to occupy all her thoughts.
The declaration of Gualtier was of itself an ill-omened event, and
she no longer had that trust in his fidelity which she once had, even
though he now might work in the hope of a reward. It seemed to her
that with the loss of her old ascendency over him she would lose
altogether his devotion; nor could the remembrance of his former
services banish that deep distrust of him which, along with her
bitter resentment of his rebellion, had arisen in her mind. The
affair of Mrs. Hart seemed worse yet. Her sudden appearance, her
sharp questionings, her cold incredulity, terminated at last by her
prompt flight, were all circumstances which filled her with the most
gloomy forebodings. Her troubles seemed now to increase every day,
each one coming with startling suddenness, and each one being of that
sort against which no precautions had been taken, or even thought of.
She passed an anxious day and a sleepless night. On the following
morning a letter was brought to her. It had a foreign post-mark, and
the address showed the handwriting of Gualtier. This at once brought
back the old feelings about Lord Chetwynde, and she tore it open with
feverish impatience, eager to know what the contents might be, yet
half fearful of their import. It was written in that tone of respect
which Gualtier had never lost but once, and which he had now resumed.
He informed her that on leaving Chetwynde he had gone at once up to
London, and found that Lord Chetwynde was stopping at the same hotel
where he had put up last. He formed a bold design, which he put in
execution, trusting to the fact that Lord Chetwynde had never seen
him more than twice at the Castle, and on both occasions had seemed
not even to have looked at him. He therefore got himself up very
carefully in a foreign fashion, and, as he spoke French perfectly, he
went to Lord Chetwynde and offered himself as a valet or courier. It
happened that Lord Chetwynde actually needed a man to serve him in
this capacity, a fact which Gualtier had found out in the hotel, and
so the advent of the valet was quite welcome. After a brief
conversation, and an inquiry into his knowledge of the languages and
the routes of travel on the Continent, Lord Chetwynde examined his
letters of recommendation, and, finding them very satisfactory, he
took him into his employ. They remained two days longer in London,
during which Gualtier made such good use of his time and
opportunities that he managed to gain access to Lord Chetwynde's
papers, but found among them nothing of any importance whatever, from
which he concluded that all his papers of any consequence must have
been deposited with his solicitors. At any rate it was impossible for
him to find out any thing from this source.
Leaving London they went to Paris, where they passed a few days, but
soon grew weary of the place; and Lord Chetwynde, feeling a kind of
languor, which seemed to him like a premonition of disease, he
decided to go to Germany. His first idea was to go to Baden, although
it was not the season; but on his arrival at Frankfort he was so
overcome by the fatigue of traveling that he determined to remain for
a time in that city. His increasing languor, however, had alarmed
him, and he had called in the most eminent physicians of the place,
who, at the time the letter was written, were prescribing for him.
The writer said that they did not seem to think that this illness had
any thing very serious in it, and simply recommended certain changes
of diet and various kinds of gentle exercise, but he added that in
his opinion there was something in it, and that this illness was more
serious than was supposed. As for the sick man himself, he was much
discouraged. He had grown tired of his physicians and of Frankfort,
and wished to go on to Baden, thinking that the change might do him
good. He seemed anxious for constant change, and spoke as though he
might leave Baden for some other German city, or perhaps go on to
Italy, to which place his thoughts, for some reason or other, seemed
always turning with eager impatience.
As Hilda read this letter, and took in the whole of its dark and
hidden meaning, all her former agitation returned. Once more the
question arose which had before so greatly harassed her. The
disappearance of Mrs. Hart, and the increasing dangers which had been
gathering around her head, had for a time taken up her thoughts, but
now her great, preoccupying care came back with fresh vehemence, and
resumed more than its former sway. Mrs. Hart was forgotten as
completely as though she had never existed. Gualtier's possible
infidelity to her suggested itself no more; it was Lord Chetwynde and
Lord Chetwynde only, his sickness, his peril, his doom, which came to
her mind. On one side stood Love, pleading for his life; on the
other Vengeance, demanding its sacrifice.
_Shall he live, or shall he die_?
This was the question which ever and ever rang in her soul. "Shall he
live, or die? Shall he go down to death, doomed by me, and thus end
all my hope, or shall he live to scorn me?" In his death there was
the satisfaction of vengeance, but there was also the death of hope.
In his death there was fresh security for herself; but in his death
her own life would lie dead. On each side there were motives most
powerful over a mind like hers, yet so evenly balanced that she knew
not which way to turn, or in which way to incline. Death or
life?--life or death? Thus the question came.
And the hours passed on; and every hour, she well knew, was freighted
with calamity; every hour was dragging Lord Chetwynde on to that
point at which the power to decide upon his fate would be hers no
longer.
Why hesitate?
This was the form which the question took at last, and under which it
forced itself more and more upon her. Why hesitate? To hesitate was
of itself to doom him to death. If he was to be saved, there was no
time for delay. He must be saved at once. If he was to be saved, she
must act herself, and that, too, promptly and energetically. Her part
could not be performed by merely writing a letter, for the letter
might be delayed, or it might be miscarried, or it might be neglected
and disobeyed. She could not trust the fulfillment of a command of
mercy to Gualtier. She herself could alone fulfill such a purpose.
She herself must act by herself.
As she thought of this her decision was taken. Yes, she would do it.
She herself would arrest his fate, for a time at least. Yes--he
should live, and she herself would fly to his aid, and stand by his
side, and be the one who would snatch him from his doom.
Now, no sooner was this decision made than there came over her a
strange thrill of joy and exultation. He should live! he should live!
this was the refrain which rang in her thoughts. He should live; and
she would be the life-giver. At last he would be forced to look upon
her with eyes of gratitude at least, if not of affection. It should
no longer be in his power to scorn her, or to turn away coldly and
cruelly from her proffered hand. He should yet learn to look upon her
as his best friend. He should learn to call her by tender names; and
speak to her words of fondness, of endearment, and of love. Now, as
deep as her despondency had been, so high rose her joy at this new
prospect; and her hope, which rose out of this resolution, was bright
to a degree which was commensurate with the darkness of her previous
despair. He shall live; and he shall be mine--these were the words
upon which her heart fed itself, which carried to that heart a wild
and feverish joy, and drove away those sharp pangs which she had
felt. And now the love which burned within her diffused through all
her being those softer qualities which are born of love; and the hate
and the vengeance upon which she had of late sustained her soul were
forgotten. Into her heart there came a tenderness all feminine, and a
thing unknown to her before that fateful day on which she had first
seen Lord Chetwynde; a tenderness which filled her with a yearning
desire to fly to the rescue of this man, whom she had but lately
handed over to the assassin. She hungered and thirsted to be near
him, to stand by his side, to see his face, to touch his hand, to
hear his voice, to give to him that which should save him from the
fate which she herself had dealt out to him by the hands of her own
agent. It was thus that her love at last triumphed over her
vengeance, and, sweeping onward, drove away all other thoughts and
feelings.
Hers was the love of the tigress; but even the love of the tigress is
yet love; and such love has its own profound depths of tenderness,
its capacity of intense desire, its power of complete self-abnegation
or of self-immolation--feelings which, in the tigress kind of love,
are as deep as in any other, and perhaps even deeper.
But from her in that dire emergency the one thing that was required
above all else was haste. That she well knew. There was no time for
delay. There was one at the side of Lord Chetwynde whose heart knew
neither pity nor remorse, whose hand never faltered in dealing its
blow, and who watched every failing moment of his life with unshaken
determination. To him her cruel and bloody behests had been committed
in her mad hour of vengeance; those behests he was now carrying out
as much for his own sake as for hers; accomplishing the fulfillment
of his own purposes under the cloak of obedience to her orders. He
was the destroying angel, and his mission was death. He could not
know of the change which had come over her; nor could he dream of the
possibility of a change. She alone could bring a reprieve from that
death, and stay his hand.
Haste, then--she murmured to herself--oh, haste, or if will soon be
too late! Fly! Leave every thing and fly! Every hour brings him
nearer to death until that hour comes when you may save him from
death. Haste, or it may be too late--and the mercy and the pity and
the tenderness of love may be all unavailing!
It was with the frantic haste which was born of this new-found pity
that Hilda prepared for her journey. Her preparations were not
extensive. A little luggage sufficed. She did not wish a maid. She
had all her life relied upon herself, and now set forth upon this
fateful journey alone and unattended, with her heart filled with one
feeling only, and only one hope. It needed but a short time to
complete her preparations, and to announce to the astonished
domestics her intention of going to the Continent. Without noticing
their amazement, or caring for it, she ordered the carriage for the
nearest station, and in a short time after her first decision she was
seated in the cars and hurrying onward to London.
Arriving there, she made a short stay. She had some things to procure
which were to her of infinite importance. Leaving the hotel, she went
down Oxford Street till she came to a druggist's shop, which she
entered, and, going up to the clerk, she handed him a paper, which
looked like a doctor's prescription. The clerk took it, and, after
looking at it, carried it to an inner office. After a time the
proprietor appeared. He scanned Hilda narrowly, while she returned
his glance with her usual haughtiness. The druggist appeared
satisfied with his inspection.
"Madame," said he, politely, "the ingredients of this prescription
are of such a nature that the law requires me to know the name and
address of the purchaser, so as to enter them on the purchase book."
"My address," said Hilda, quietly, "is Mrs. Henderson, 51 Euston
Square."
The druggist bowed, and entered the name carefully on his book, after
which he himself prepared the prescription and handed it to Hilda.
She asked the price, and, on hearing it, flung down a sovereign,
after which she was on the point of leaving without waiting for the
change, when the druggist called her back.
"Madame," said he, "you are leaving without your change."
Hilda started, and then turning back she took the change and thanked
him.
"I thought you said it was twenty shillings," she remarked, quietly,
seeing that the druggist was looking at her with a strange
expression.
"Oh no, madame; I said ten shillings."
"Ah! I misunderstood you," and with these words Hilda took her
departure, carrying with her the precious medicine.
That evening she left London, and took the steamer for Ostend. Before
leaving she had sent a telegraphic message to Gualtier at Frankfort,
announcing the fact that she was coming on, and asking him, if he
left Frankfort before her arrival, to leave a letter for her at the
hotel, letting her know where they might go. This she did for a
twofold motive: first, to let Gualtier know that she was coming, and
secondly, to secure a means of tracking them if they went to another
place. But the dispatch of this message filled her with fresh
anxiety. She feared first that the message might not reach its
destination in time; and then that Gualtier might utterly
misunderstand her motive--a thing which, under the circumstances, he
was certain to do--and, under this misapprehension, hurry up his
work, so as to have it completed by the time of her arrival. These
thoughts, with many others, agitated her so much that she gradually
worked herself into an agony of fear; and the swiftest speed of
steamboat or express train seemed slow to the desire of that stormy
spirit, which would have forced its way onward, far beyond the speed
which human contrivances may create, to the side of the man whom she
longed to see and to save. The fever of her fierce anxiety, the
vehemence of her desire, the intensity of her anguish, all worked
upon her delicate organization with direful effect. Her brain became
confused, and thoughts became dreams. For hours she lost all
consciousness of surrounding objects. Yet amidst all this confusion
of a diseased and overworked brain, and amidst this delirium of wild
thought, there was ever prominent her one idea--her one purpose. How
she passed that journey she could not afterward remember, but it was
at length passed, and, following the guidance of that strong purpose,
which kept its place in her mind when other things were lost, she at
last stood in the station-house at Frankfort.
"Drive to the Hôtel Rothschild," she cried to the cabman whom she had
engaged. "Quick! for your life!"
The cabman marked her agitation and frenzy.
He whipped up his horses, the cab dashed through the streets, and
reached the hotel. Hilda hurried out and went up the steps. Tottering
rather than walking, she advanced to a man who had come to meet her.
He seemed to be the proprietor.
"Lord Chetwynde!" she gasped. "Is he here?" She spoke in German.
The proprietor shook his head.
"He left the day before yesterday."
Hilda staggered back with a low moan. She did not really think that
he could be here yet, but she had hoped that he might be, and the
disappointment was great.
"Is there a letter here," she asked, in a faint voice, "for Lady
Chetwynde?"
"I think so. I'll see."
Hurrying away he soon returned with a letter in his hand.
"Are you the one to whom it is addressed?" he asked, with deep
respect.
"I am Lady Chetwynde," said Hilda, and at the same time eagerly
snatched the letter from his hand. On the outside she at once
recognized the writing of Gualtier. She saw the address, "Lady
Chetwynde." In an instant she tore it open, and read the contents.
The letter contained only the following words:
"FRANKFORT, HÔTEL ROTHSCHILD, October 30, 1859.
"We leave for Baden to-day. Our business is progressing very
favorably. We go to the Hôtel Français at Baden. If you come on you
must follow us there. If we go away before your arrival I will leave
a note for you."
The letter was as short as a telegram, and as unsatisfactory to a
mind in such a state as hers. It had no signature, but the
handwriting was Gualtier's.
Hilda's hand trembled so that she could scarcely hold it. She read it
over and over again. Then she turned to the landlord.
"What time does the next train leave for Baden?" she asked.
"To-morrow morning at 5 A.M., miladi."
"Is there no train before?"
"No, miladi."
"Is there no steamer?"
"No, miladi--not before to-morrow morning. The five o'clock train is
the first and the quickest way to go to Baden."
"I am in a great hurry," said Hilda, faintly. "I must be called in
time for the five o'clock train."
"You shall be, miladi."
"Send a maid--and let me have my room now--as soon as possible--for I
am worn out."
As she said this she tottered, and would have fallen, but the
landlord supported her, and called for the maids. They hurried
forward, and Hilda was carried up to her room and tenderly put to
bed. The landlord was an honest, tender-hearted German. Lord
Chetwynde had been a guest of sufficient distinction to be well
remembered by a landlord, and his ill health had made him more
conspicuous. The arrival of this devoted wife, who herself seemed as
ill as her husband, but who yet, in spite of weakness, was hastening
to him with such a consuming desire to get to him, affected most
profoundly this honest landlord, and all others in the hotel. That
evening, then, Hilda's faith and love and constancy formed the chief
theme of conversation; the visitors of the hotel heard the sad story
from the landlord, and deep was the pity, and profound the sympathy,
which were expressed by all. To the ordinary pathos of this affecting
example of conjugal love some additional power was lent by the
extreme beauty, the excessive prostration and grief, and, above all,
the illustrious rank of this devoted woman.
Hilda was put to bed, but there was no sleep for her. The fever of
her anxiety, the shock of her disappointment, the tumult of her hopes
and fears, all made themselves felt in her overworked brain. She did
not take the five o'clock train on the following day. The maid came
to call her, but found her in a high fever, eager to start, but quite
unable to move. Before noon she was delirious.
In that delirium her thoughts wandered over those scenes which for
the past few months had been uppermost in her mind. Now she was shut
up in her chamber at Chetwynde Castle reading the Indian papers; she
heard the roll of carriage wheels; she prepared to meet the new-comer
face to face. She followed him to the morning-room, and there
listened to his fierce maledictions. On the occasion itself she had
been dumb before him, but in her delirium she had words of
remonstrance. These words were expressed in every varying shade of
entreaty, deprecation, conciliation, and prayer. Again she watched a
stern, forbidding face over the dinner-table, and sought to appease
by kind words the just wrath of the man she loved. Again she held out
her hand, only to have her humble advances repelled in coldest scorn.
Again she saw him leave her forever without a word of
farewell--without even a notice of his departure, and she remained to
give herself up to vengeance.
That delirium carried her through many past events. Gualtier again
stood up before her in rebellion, proud, defiant, merciless,
asserting himself, and enforcing her submission to his will. Again
there came into her room, suddenly, and like a spectre, the awful
presence of Mrs. Hart, with her white face, her stern looks, her
sharp inquiries, and her ominous words. Again she pursued this woman
to her own room, in the dark, and ran her hands over the bed, and
found that bed empty.
But Lord Chetwynde was the central object of her delirious fancies.
It was to him that her thoughts reverted from brief wanderings over
reminiscences of Gualtier and Mrs. Hart. Whatever thoughts she might
have about these, those thoughts would always at last revert to him.
And with him it was not so much the past that suggested itself to her
diseased imagination as the future. That future was sufficiently dark
and terrible to be portrayed in fearful colors by her incoherent
ravings. There were whispered words--words of frightful meaning,
words which expressed those thoughts which in her sober senses she
would have died rather than reveal. Had any one been standing by her
bedside who knew English, he might have learned from her words a
story of fearful import--a tale which would have chilled his blood,
and which would have shown him how far different this sick woman was
from the fond, self-sacrificing wife, who had excited the sympathy of
all in the hotel. But there was none who could understand her. The
doctor knew no language beside his own, except a little French; the
maids knew nothing but German. And so it was that while Hilda
unconsciously revealed the whole of those frightful secrets which she
carried shut up within her breast, that revelation was not
intelligible to any of those who were in contact with her. Well was
it for her at that time that she had chosen to come away without her
maid; for had that maid been with her then she would have learned
enough of her mistress to send her flying back to England in horror,
and to publish abroad the awful intelligence.
Thus a week passed--a week of delirium, of ravings, of incoherent
speeches, unintelligible to all those by whom she was surrounded. At
length her strong constitution triumphed over the assaults of
disease. The fever was allayed, and sense returned; and with
returning sense there came the full consciousness of her position.
The one purpose of her life rose again within her mind, and even
while she was too weak to move she was eager to be up and away.
"How long will it be," she asked of the doctor, "before I can go on
my journey?"
"If every thing is favorable, miladi," answered the doctor, "as I
hope it will be, you may be able to go in about a week. It will be a
risk, but you are so excited that I would rather have you go than
stay."
"A week! A week!" exclaimed Hilda, despairingly. "I can not wait so
long as that. No. I will go before then--or else I will die."
"If you go before a week," said the doctor, warningly, and with
evident anxiety, "you will risk your life."
"Very well then, I will risk my life," said Hilda. "What is life
worth now?" she murmured, with a moan of anguish. "I must and will go
on, if I die for it--and in three days."
The doctor made no reply. He saw her desperation, and perceived that
any remonstrance would be worse than useless. To keep such a resolute
and determined spirit chained here in a sick-chamber would be
impossible. She would chafe at the confinement so fiercely that a
renewal of the fever would be inevitable. She would have to be
allowed her own way. Most deeply did he commiserate this devoted
wife, and much did he wonder how it had happened that her husband had
gone off from her thus, at a time when he himself was threatened with
illness. And now, as before, those kindly German hearts in the hotel,
on learning this new outburst of conjugal love, felt a sympathy which
was beyond all expression. To none of them had there ever before been
known any thing approaching to so piteous a case as this.
The days passed. Hilda was avaricious about every new sign of
increasing strength. Her strong determination, her intense desire,
and her powerful will, at last triumphed over bodily pain and
weakness. It was as she said, and on the third day she managed to
drag herself from her bed and prepare for a fresh journey. In
preparation for this, however, she was compelled to have a maid to
accompany her, and she selected one of those who had been her
attendants, an honest, simple-hearted, affectionate German
girl--Gretchen by name, one who was just suited to her in her present
situation.
She made the journey without any misfortune. On reaching Baden she
had to be lifted into the cab. Driving to the Hôtel Français, she
reached it in a state of extreme prostration, and had to be carried
to her rooms. She asked for a letter. There was one for her. Gualtier
had not been neglectful, but had left a message. It was very much
like the last.
BADEN, HÔTEL FRANÇAIS, November 2, 1859.
"We leave for Munich to-day, and will stop at the Hôtel des
Etrangers. Business progressing most favorably. If we go away from
Munich I will leave a note for you."
The letter was dated November 2, but it was now the 10th of that
month, and Hilda was far behind time. She had nerved herself up to
this effort, and the hope of finding the object of her search at
Baden had sustained her. But her newfound strength was now utterly
exhausted by the fatigue of travel, and the new disappointment which
she had experienced created discouragement and despondency. This told
still more upon her strength, and she was compelled to wait here for
two days, chafing and fretting against her weakness.
Nothing could exceed the faithful attention of Gretchen. She had
heard at Frankfort, from the gossip of the servants, the story of her
mistress, and all her German sentiment was roused in behalf of one so
sorrowful and so beautiful. Her natural kindness of heart also led to
the utmost devotion to Hilda, and, so far as careful and incessant
attention could accomplish any thing, all was done that was possible.
By the 13th of November Hilda was ready to start once more, and on
that morning she left for Munich.
This journey was more fatiguing than the last. In her weak state she
was almost overcome. Twice she fainted away in the cars, and all of
Gretchen's anxious care was required to bring her to her destination.
The German maid implored her with tears to get out at some of the
towns on the way. But Hilda resolutely refused. She hoped to find
rest at Munich, and to stop short of that place seemed to her to
endanger her prospect of success. Again, as before, the strong soul
triumphed over the infirmity of the body, and the place of her
destination was at last attained.
She reached it more dead than alive. Gretchen lifted her into a cab.
She was taken to the Hôtel des Etrangers. At the very first moment of
her entrance into the hall she had asked a breathless question of the
servant who appeared:
"Is Lord Chetwynde here?"
"Lord Chetwynde? No. He has gone."
"Gone!" said Hilda, in a voice which was like a groan of despair.
"Gone! When?"
"Nearly a week ago," said the servant.
At this Hilda's strength again left her utterly, and she fell back
almost senseless. She was carried to her room. Then she rallied by a
mighty effort, and sent Gretchen to see if there was a letter for
her. In a short time the maid reappeared, bringing another of those
welcome yet tantalizing notes, which always seemed ready to mock her,
and to lure her on to fresh disappointment. Yet her impatience to
read its contents had in no way diminished, and it was with the same
impetuous fever of curiosity as before that she tore open the
envelope and devoured the contents. This note was much like the
others, but somewhat more ominous.
It read as follows:
"MUNICH, HÔTEL DES ETRANGES, November 9, 1859.
"We leave for Lausanne to-day. We intend to stop at the Hôtel Gibbon.
It is not probable that any further journey will be made. Business
most favorable, and prospects are that every thing will soon be
brought to a successful issue."