THE ANGUISH OF THE HEART.
As Hilda read these ominous words a chill like that of death seemed
to strike to her inmost soul. Her disappointment on her arrival here
had already been bitter enough. She had looked upon Munich as the
place where she would surely find the end of her journey, and obtain
the reward of her labors. But now the object of her search was once
more removed, and a new journey more fatiguing than the others was
set before her. Could she bear it?--she who even now felt the old
weakness, and something even worse, coming back irresistibly upon
her. Could she, indeed, bear another journey? This question she put
to herself half hopelessly; but almost immediately her resolute soul
asserted itself, and proudly answered it. Bear such a journey? Ay,
this journey she could bear, and not only this, but many more. Even
though her old weakness was coming back over her frail form, still
she rose superior to that weakness, and persisted in her
determination to go on, and still on, without giving up her purpose,
till she reached Lord Chetwynde, even though it should only be at the
moment of her arrival to drop dead at his feet.
There was more now to stimulate her than the determination of a
resolute and invincible will. The words of that last note had a dark
and ominous meaning, which affected her more strongly by far than any
of the others. The messages which they bore had not been of so
fearful an import as this.
The first said that the "business" was progressing _very favorably_.
The second, that it was progressing _most favorably_.
This last one told her that the business _would soon be brought to a
successful issue_.
Well she knew the meaning of these words. In these different messages
she saw so many successive stages of the terrific work which was
going on, and to avert which she had endured so much, at the cost of
such suffering to herself. She saw the form of Lord Chetwynde failing
more and more every day, and still, while he struggled against the
approach of insidious disease, yielding, in spite of himself, to its
resistless progress. She saw him going from place to place, summoning
the physicians of each town where he stopped, and giving up both town
and physicians in despair. She saw, also, how all the time there
stood by his side one who was filled with one dark purpose, in the
accomplishment of which he was perseveringly cruel and untiringly
patient--one who watched the growing weakness of his victim with
cold-blooded interest, noting every decrease of strength, and every
sign which might give token of the end--one, too, who thought that
she was hastening after him to join in his work, and was only
delaying in order to join him when all was over, so as to give him
her congratulations, and bestow upon him the reward which he had made
her promise that she would grant.
Thoughts like these filled her with madness. Wretched and almost
hopeless, prostrated by her weakness, yet consumed by an ardent
desire to rush onward and save the dying man from the grasp of the
destroyer, her soul became a prey to a thousand contending emotions,
and endured the extreme of the anguish of suspense. Such a struggle
as this proved too much for her. One night was enough to prostrate
her once more to that stage of utter weakness which made all hope of
travel impossible. In that state of prostration her mind still
continued active, and the thoughts that never ceased to come were
those which prevented her from rallying readily. For the one idea
that was ever present was this, that while she was thus helpless,
_her work was still going on_--that work which she had ordered and
directed. That emissary whom she had sent out was now, as she well
knew, fulfilling her mandate but too zealously. The power was now all
in his own hands. And she herself--what could she do? He had already
defied her authority--would he now give up his purpose, even if she
wished? She might have telegraphed from London a command to him to
stop all further proceedings till she came; but, even if she had done
so, was it at all probable that he, after what had happened, would
have obeyed? She had not done so, because she did not feel in a
position to issue commands any longer in her old style. The servant
had assumed the air and manner of a master, and the message which she
had sent had been non-committal. She had relied upon the prospect of
her own speedy arrival upon the scene, and upon her own power of
confronting him, and reducing him to obedience in case of his refusal
to fall in with her wishes.
But now it had fallen out far differently from what she had expected,
and the collapse of her own strength had ruined all. Now every day
and every hour was taking hope away from her, and giving it to that
man who, from being her tool, had risen to the assertion of
mastership over her. Now every moment was dragging away from her the
man whom she sought so eagerly--dragging him away from her love to
the darkness of that place to which her love and her longing might
never penetrate.
Now, also, there arose within her the agonies of remorse. Never
before had she understood the fearful meaning of this word. Such a
feeling had never stirred her heart when she handed over to the
betrayer her life-long friend, her almost sister, the one who so
loved her, the trustful, the innocent, the affectionate Zillah; such
a feeling had not interfered with her purpose when Gualtier returned
to tell of his success, and to mingle with his story the recital of
Zillah's love and longing after her. But now it was different. Now
she had handed over to that same betrayer one who had become dearer
to her than life itself--one, too, who had grown dearer still ever
since that moment when she had first resolved to save him. If she had
never arrived at such a resolution--if she had borne with the
struggles of her heart, and the tortures of her suspense--if she had
fought out the battle in solitude and by herself, alone at Chetwynde,
her sufferings would have been great, it is true, but they would
never have arisen to the proportions which they now assumed. They
would never have reduced her to this anguish of soul which, in its
reaction upon the body, thus deprived her of all strength and hope.
That moment when she had decided against vengeance, and in favor of
pity, had borne for her a fearful fruit. It was the point at which
all her love was let loose suddenly from that repression which she
had striven to maintain over it, and rose up to gigantic proportions,
filling all her thoughts, and overshadowing all other feelings. That
love now pervaded all her being, occupied all her thoughts, and
absorbed all her spirit. Once it was love; now it had grown to
something more, it had become a frenzy; and the more she yielded to
its overmastering power, the more did that power enchain her.
Tormented and tortured by such feelings as these, her weary, overworn
frame sank once more, and the sufferings of Frankfort were renewed at
Munich. On the next day after her arrival she was unable to leave.
For day after day she lay prostrate, and all her impatient eagerness
to go onward, and all her resolution, profited nothing when the poor
frail flesh was so weak. Yet, in spite of all this, her soul was
strong; and that soul, by its indomitable purpose, roused up once
more the shattered forces of the body. A week passed away, but at the
end of that week she arose to stagger forward.
Her journey to Lausanne was made somehow--she knew not how--partly by
the help of Gretchen, who watched over her incessantly with
inexhaustible devotion--partly through the strength of her own
forceful will, which kept before her the great end which was to crown
so much endeavor. She was a shattered invalid on this journey. She
felt that another such a journey would be impossible. She hoped that
this one would end her severe trials. And so, amidst hope and fear,
her soul sustained her, and she went on. Such a journey as this to
one less exhausted would have been one memorable on account of its
physical and mental anguish, but to Hilda, in that extreme of
suffering, it was not memorable at all. It was less than a dream. It
was a blank. How it passed she knew not. Afterward she only could
remember that in some way it did pass.
On the twenty-second day of November she reached Lausanne. Gretchen
lifted her out of the coach, and supported her as she tottered into
the Hôtel Gibbon. A man was standing in the doorway. At first he did
not notice the two women, but something in Hilda's appearance struck
him, and he looked earnestly at her.
An exclamation burst from him.
"My God!" he groaned.
[Illustration: Hilda's Arrival At The Hotel Gibbon.]
For a moment he stood staring at them, and then advanced with a rapid
pace.
It was Gualtier.
Hilda recognized him, but said nothing. She could not speak a word.
She wished to ask for something, but dreaded to ask that question,
for she feared the reply. In that interval of fear and hesitation
Gualtier had leisure to see, in one brief glance, all the change that
had come over her who had once been so strong, so calm, so
self-reliant, so unmoved by the passions, the feelings, and the
weaknesses of ordinary humanity. He saw and shuddered.
Thin and pale and wan, she now stood before him, tottering feebly
with unsteady step, and staying herself on the arm of her maid. Her
cheeks, which, when he last saw them, were full and rounded with the
outlines of youth and health, were now hollow and sunken. Around her
eyes were those dark clouded marks which are the sure signs of
weakness and disease. Her hands, as they grasped the arms of the
maid, were thin and white and emaciated. Her lips were bloodless. It
was the face of Hilda, indeed, but Hilda in sorrow, in suffering, and
in grief--such a face as he had never imagined. But there were some
things in that face which belonged to the Hilda of old, and had not
changed. The eyes still flashed dark and piercing; they at least had
not failed; and still their penetrating gaze rested upon him with no
diminution in their power. Still the rich masses of ebon hair
wreathed themselves in voluminous folds, and from out the luxuriant
black masses of that hair the white face looked forth with its pallor
rendered more awful from the contrast. Yet now that white face was a
face of agony, and the eyes which, in their mute entreaty, were
turned toward him, were fixed and staring. As he came up to her she
grasped his arm; her lips moved; but for a time no audible sound
escaped. At length she spoke, but it was in a whisper:
"_Is he alive_?"
And that was all that she said. She stood there panting, and gasping
for breath, awaiting his reply with a certain awful suspense.
"Yes, my lady," said Gualtier, in a kind of bewilderment, as though
he had not yet got over the shock of such an apparition. "He is alive
yet."
"God be thanked!" moaned Hilda, in a low voice. "I have arrived in
time--at last. He must be saved--and he shall be saved. Come."
She spoke this last word to Gualtier. By her words, as well as by her
face and manner, he saw that some great change had come over her, but
why it was, he knew not yet. He plainly perceived, however, that she
had turned from her purpose, and now no longer desired the death of
the man whom she had commissioned him to destroy. In that moment of
hurried thought he wondered much, but, from his knowledge of the
recent past, he made a conjecture which was not far from the truth.
"Come," said Hilda. "I have something to say to you. I wish to see
you alone. Come."
And he followed her into the hotel.