BEYOND HIS REACH.
"Come!"
This was the word which Hilda had addressed to Gualtier in front of
the Hôtel Gibbon at Lausanne, and, saying this, she tottered toward
the door, supported by Gretchen. That stout German maid upheld her in
her strong arms, as a mother might hold up a child as it learns to
walk, ere yet its unsteady feet have found out the way to plant
themselves. Gualtier had not yet got over the shock of such a
surprise, but he saw her weakness, and was sufficiently himself to
offer his arm to assist his mistress. But Hilda did not seem to see
it. At any rate she did not accept the offer. Her only aim was to get
into the hotel, and the assistance of Gretchen was quite enough for
her.
Although Gretchen thus supported her, still even the slight exertion
which she made, even the motion of her limbs which was required of
her, though they scarcely felt her weight, was too much for her in
her weakness and prostration. She panted for breath in her utter
exhaustion, and at length, on reaching the hall, she stood for a few
moments at the foot of the stairway, as though struggling to regain
her breath, and then suddenly fainted away in the arms of Gretchen.
At this the stout maid took her in her arms, and carried her up
stairs, while Gualtier led the way to the suite of apartments
occupied by Lord Chetwynde. Here Hilda was placed on a sofa, and
after a time came to herself.
She then told Gretchen to retire. The maid obeyed, and Hilda and
Gualtier were left alone. The latter stood regarding her, with his
pale face full of deep anxiety and apprehension, dreading he knew not
what, and seeing in her something which seemed to take her beyond the
reach of that coercion which he had once successfully applied to her.
"Tell me," cried Hilda, the instant that Gretchen had closed the door
after her, looking around at the same time with something of her old
sharp vigilance--"tell me, it is not too late yet to save him?"
"To_ save_ him!" repeated Gualtier.
"Yes. That is what brought me here."
Gualtier looked at her with eager scrutiny, seeking to fathom her
full meaning. Suspecting the truth, he was yet unwilling to believe
it. His answer was given in slow, deliberate tones.
"No," said he, "it is--not--yet--too--late--to--save him--if that is
really what you wish."
"That is what I have come for," said Hilda; "I am going to take my
place at his bedside, to undo the past, and bring him back to life.
That is my purpose. Do you hear?" she said, while her white lips
quivered with excitement, and her shattered frame trembled with the
intensity of her emotion.
"I hear, my lady," said Gualtier, with his old respect, but with a
dull light in his gray eyes, and a cold and stern intonation which
told of the anger which was rising within him.
Once he had shaken off her authority, and had spoken to her with the
tone of a master. It was not probable that he would recede now from
the stand which he had then taken. But, on the other hand, Hilda did
not now seem like one over whom his old menaces would have any
effect. There was in her, besides her suffering, an air of reckless
self-sacrifice, which made it seem as if no threats of his could
again affect her.
"You hear?" said she, with feverish impatience. "Have you nothing
more to say?"
"No, nothing. It is for you to speak," said Gualtier, gruffly. "You
began."
"He must be saved," said Hilda; "and I must save him; and you must
help me."
Gualtier turned away his head, while a dark frown came over his face.
The gesture excited Hilda still more.
"What!" she hissed, springing to her feet, and grasping his arm, "do
you hesitate? Do you refuse to assist me?"
"Our relations are changed," said Gualtier, slowly, turning round as
he spoke. "This thing I will not do. I have begun my work."
As he turned he encountered the eyes of Hilda, which were fixed on
him--stern, wrathful, menacing.
"You have begun it!" she repeated. "It was my work--not yours. I
order you to desist, and you must obey. You can not do any thing
else. To go on is impossible, if I stand between you and him. Only
one thing is left for you, and that is to obey me, and assist me as
before."
"Obey you!" said Gualtier, with a cold and almost ferocious glance.
"The time for obedience I think is past. That much you ought to know.
And what is it that you ask? What? To thrust from me the dearest hope
of my life, and just as it was reaching fruition."
Hilda's eyes were fastened on Gualtier as he said these words. The
scorn with which he disowned any obedience, the confidence with which
he spoke of that renunciation of his former subordination, were but
ill in accordance with those words with which he expressed his
"dearest hope."
"Dearest hope!" said Hilda--"fruition! If you knew any thing, you
would know that the time for that is rapidly passing, and only your
prompt obedience and assistance will benefit you now."
"Pardon me," said Gualtier, hastily; "I forgot myself in my
excitement. But you ask impossible things. I can not help you here.
The obstacle between you and me was nearly removed--and you ask me to
replace it."
"Obstacle!" said Hilda, in scorn. "Is it thus that you mention
_him_?" In her weakness her wrath and indignation burst forth. "That
man whom you call an obstacle is one for whose sake I have dragged
myself over hundreds of miles; for whom I am now ready to lay down my
life. Do not wonder. Do not question me. Call it
passion--madness--any thing--but do not attempt to thwart me. Speak
now. Will you help me or not?"
"Help you!" cried Gualtier, bitterly, "help you! to what? to do that
which will destroy my last hope--and after I have extorted from you
your promise! Ask me any thing else."
"I want nothing else."
"You may yet want my aid."
"If you do not help me now, I shall never want you."
"You have needed me before, and will need me again."
"If _he_ dies, I shall never need you again."
"If _he_ dies, that is the very time when you will need me."
"No, I shall not--for if _he_ dies I will die myself!" cried Hilda,
in a burst of uncontrollable passion.
Gualtier started, and his heart sank within him. Long and earnestly
he looked at her, but he saw that this was more than a fitful
outburst of passion. Looking on her face with its stern and fixed
resolve, with its intense meaning, he knew that what she had said was
none other than her calm, set purpose. He saw it in every one of
those faded lineaments, upon which such a change had been wrought in
so short a time. He read it in the hollows round her eyes, in her
sunken cheeks, in her white, bloodless lips, in her thin, emaciated
hands, which were now clenched in desperate resolve. From this he saw
that there was no appeal. He learned how strong that passion must be
which had thus overmastered her, and was consuming all the energies
of her powerful nature. To this she was sacrificing the labor of
years, and all the prospects which now lay before her; to this she
gave up all her future life, with all its possibilities of wealth and
honor and station. A coronet, a castle, a princely revenue, rank,
wealth, and title, all lay before her within her grasp; yet now she
turned her back upon them, and came to the bedside of the man whose
death was necessary to her success, to save him from death. She
trampled her own interests in the dust; she threw to the winds the
hard-won results of treachery and crime, and only that she might be
near him who abhorred her, and whose first word on coming back to
consciousness might be an imprecation. Beside this man who hated her,
he who adored her was as nothing, and all his devotion and all his
adoration were in one moment forgotten.
All these thoughts flashed through the mind of Gualtier as at that
instant he comprehended the situation. And what was he to do? Could
he associate himself with her in this new purpose? He could not. He
might have refrained from the work of death at the outset, if she had
bid him refrain, but now that he had begun it, it was not easy to
give it up. She had set him to the task. It had been doubly sweet to
him. First, it was a delight to his own vindictive nature; and
secondly, he had flattered himself that this would be an offering
well pleasing to the woman whom he adored. She had set him to this
task, and when it was fully completed he might hope for an adequate
reward. From the death of this man he had accustomed himself to look
forward in anticipation of the highest happiness for himself. All his
future grew bright from the darkness of this deed.
Now in one instant his dream was dispelled. The very one who had
commanded him to do this now came in a kind of frenzy, with a face
like that of death, bidding him to stay his hand. Deep, dark, and
bitter was that disappointment, and all the more so from its utter
suddenness. And because he could read in her face and in her words
not only the change that had taken place, but also the cause of that
change, the revulsion of feeling within himself became the more
intolerable. His nature rose up in rebellion against this capricious
being. How could he yield to her wishes here? He could not sway with
every varying feeling of hers. He could not thus retire from his
unfinished work, and give up his vengeance.
Indignant as he was, there was yet something in Hilda's countenance
which stirred to its depths the deep passion of his soul. Her face
had the expression of one who had made up her mind to die. To such a
one what words could he say--what arguments could he use? For a time
pity overmastered anger, and his answer was mild.
"You ask impossibilities," said he. "In no case can I help you. I
will not even let you do what you propose."
Hilda looked at him with a cold glance of scorn. She seated herself
once more.
"You will not let me!" she repeated.
"Certainly not. I shall go on with the work which I have begun. But I
will see that you receive the best attention. You are excited now.
Shall I tell the maid to come to you? You had better put an end to
this interview; it is too much for you. You need rest."
Gualtier spoke quietly, and seemed really to feel some anxiety about
her excitement. But he miscalculated utterly the nature of Hilda, and
relied too much on the fact that he had once terrified her. These
cool words threw into Hilda a vivid excitement of feeling, which for
a time turned all her thoughts upon this man, who under such
circumstances dared to resume that tone of impudent superiority which
once before he had ventured to adopt. Her strength revived under such
a stimulus, and for a time her bitter contempt and indignation
stilled the deep sorrow and anxiety of her heart.
The voice with which she answered was no longer agitated or excited.
It was cool, firm, and penetrating--a tone which reminded him of her
old domineering manner.
"You are not asked to give up your work," said she. "It is done. You
are dismissed."
"Dismissed!" said Gualtier, with a sneer. "You ought to know that I
am not one who can be dismissed."
"I know that you can be, and that you are," said Hilda. "If you were
capable of understanding me you would know this. But you, base and
low-born hireling that you are, what can there be in common between
one like you and one like me?"
"One thing," said Gualtier. "_Crime_!"
Hilda changed not a feature.
"What care I for that? It is over. I have passed into another life.
Your coarse and vulgar threats avail nothing. This moment ends all
communication between us forever. You may do what you like. All your
threats are useless. Finally, you must go away at once."
"Go away?"
"Yes--at once--and forever. These rooms shall never see you again.
_I_ am here, and will stay here."
"You?"
"_I_."
"You have no right here."
"I have."
"What right?"
"The right of _love_," said Hilda. "I come to save him!"
"You tried to kill him."
"That is passed. I will save him now."
"You are mad. You know that this is idle. You know that I am a
determined and desperate man."
"Pooh! What is the determination or the desperation of one like you?
I know well what you think. Once you were able to move me by your
threats. That is passed. My resolve and my despair have placed me
beyond your reach forever. Go--go away. Begone! Take your threats
with you, and do your worst."
"You are mad--you are utterly mad," said Gualtier, confounded at the
desperation of one whom he felt was so utterly in his power; one,
too, who herself must have known this. "You have forgotten your past.
Will you force me to remind you of it?"
"I have forgotten nothing," said Hilda; "but I care nothing for it."
"You must care for it. You will be forced to. Your future happens to
depend on it."
"My future happens to be equally indifferent to me," said Hilda. "I
have given up all my plans and hopes. I am beyond your reach, at any
rate. You are powerless against me now."
Gualtier smiled.
"You speak lightly," said he, "of the past and the future. You are
excited. If you think calmly about your position, you will see that
you are now more in my power than ever; and you will see, also, that
I am willing to use that power. Do not drive me to extremes."
"These are your old threats," said Hilda, with bitter contempt. "They
are stale now."
"Stale!" repeated Gualtier. "There are things which can never be
stale, and in such things you and I have been partners. Must I remind
you of them?"
"It's not at all necessary. You had much better leave, and go back to
England, or any where else."
These words stung Gualtier.
"I will recall them," he cried, in a low, fierce voice. "You have a
convenient memory, and may succeed for a time in banishing your
thoughts, but you have that on your soul which no efforts of yours
can banish--things which must haunt you, cold-blooded as you are,
even as they have haunted me--my God!--and haunt me yet."
"The state of your mind is of no concern to me. You had better obey
my order, and go, so as not to add any more to your present apparent
troubles."
"Your taunts are foolish," said Gualtier, savagely. "You are in my
power. What if I use it?"
"Use it, then."
Gualtier made a gesture of despair.
"Do you know what it means?" he exclaimed.
"I suppose so."
"You do not--you can not. It means the downfall of all your hopes,
your desires, your plans."
"I tell you I no longer care for things like those."
"You do not mean it--you can not. What! can you come down from being
Lady Chetwynde to plain Hilda Krieff?"
"I have implied that, I believe," said Hilda, in the same tone. "Now
you understand me. Go and pull me down as fast as you like."
"But," said Gualtier, more excitedly, "you do not know what you are
saying. There is something more in store for you than mere
humiliation--something worse than a change in station--something more
terrible than ruin itself. You are a criminal. You know it. It is for
this that you must give your account. And, remember, such crimes as
yours are not common ones. Such victims as the Earl of Chetwynde and
Zillah are not those whom one can sacrifice with impunity. It is such
as these that will be traced back to you, and woe be to you when
their blood is required at your hands! Can you face this prospect? Is
this future so very indifferent to you? If you have nothing like
remorse, are you also utterly destitute of fear?"
"Yes," said Hilda.
"I don't believe it," said Gualtier, rudely.
"That is because you think I have no alternative," said Hilda; "it is
a mistake into which a base and cowardly nature might naturally
fall."
"You have no alternative," said Gualtier. "It's impossible."
"I have," said Hilda, calmly.
"What?"
She whispered one word. It struck upon Gualtier's ear with fearful
emphasis. It was the same word which she had once whispered to him in
the park at Chetwynde. He recoiled with horror. A shudder passed
through him. Hilda looked at him with calm and unchanged contempt.
"You dare not," he cried.
"Dare not?" she repeated. "What I dare administer to others I dare
administer to myself. Go and perform your threats! Go with your
information--go and let loose the authorities upon me! Go! Haste!
Go--and see--see how quickly and how completely I will elude your
grasp! As for you--your power is gone. You made one effort to exert
it, and succeeded for the moment. But that has passed away.
Never--never more can any threats of yours move me in the slightest.
You know that I am resolute. Whether you believe that I am resolute
about this matter or not makes no difference whatever to me. You are
to go from this place at once--away from this place, and this town.
That is my mandate. I am going to stay; and, since you have refused
your assistance, I will do without it henceforth."
At these words Gualtier's face grew pale with rage and despair. He
knew well Hilda's resolute character. That her last determination
would be carried out he could scarcely doubt. Yet still his rage and
his pride burst forth.
"Hilda Krieff," said he, for the first time discarding the pretense
of respect and the false title by which he had so long addressed her,
"do you not know who you are? What right have you to order me away,
and stay here yourself--you with the Earl of Chetwynde--you, an
unmarried girl? Answer me that, Hilda Krieff."
"What right?" said Hilda, as loftily as before, utterly unmoved by
this utterance of her true name. "What right? The right of one who
comes in love to save the object of her love. That is all. By that
right I dismiss you. I drive you away, and stand myself by his
bedside."
"You are very bold and very reckless," said he, with his white face
turned toward her, half in rage, half in despair. "You are flinging
yourself into a position which it will be impossible for you to hold,
and you are insulting and defying one who can at any moment have you
thrust from the place. I, if I chose, could now, at this instant,
have you arrested, and in this very room."
"You!" said Hilda, with a sneer.
"Yes, I," said Gualtier, emphatically. "I have but to lodge my
information with the authorities against you, and before ten minutes
you would be carried away from this place, and separated from that
man forever. Yes, Hilda Krieff, I can do that, and you know it; and
yet you dare to taunt me and insult me, and drive me on to do things
of which I might afterward repent. God knows I do not wish to do any
thing but what is in accordance with your will. At this moment I
would still obey any of your commands but this one; yet you try me
more than mortal nature can endure, and I warn you that I will not
bear it."
Hilda laughed.
Since this interview had commenced, instead of growing weaker, she
had seemed rather to grow stronger. It was as though the excitement
had been a stimulus, and had roused her to a new life. It had torn
her thoughts suddenly and violently away from the things over which
she had long brooded. Pride had been stirred up, and had repaired the
ravages of love. At this last threat of Gualtier's she laughed.
"Poor creature!" she said. "And do you really think you can do any
thing here? Your only place where you have any chance is in England,
and then only by long and careful preparation. What could you do here
in Lausanne?"
"I could have you flung in prison, and separated from him forever,"
said Gualtier, fiercely.
"You! you! And pray do you know who you are? Lord Chetwynde's valet!
And who would take your word against Lord Chetwynde's wife?"
"That you are not."
"I am," said Hilda, firmly.
"My God! what do you mean?"
"I mean that I will stand up for my rights, and crush you into dust
if you dare to enter into any frantic attempt against me here. You!
why, what are you? You are Lord Chetwynde's scoundrel valet, who
plotted against his master. Here in these rooms are the witnesses and
the proofs of your crimes. You would bring an accusation against me,
would you? You would inform the magistrates, perhaps, that I am not
Lady Chetwynde--that I am an impostor--that my true name is Hilda
Krieff--that I sent you on an errand to destroy your master? And pray
have you thought how you could prove so wild and so improbable a
fiction? Is there one thing that you could bring forward? Is there
one living being who would sustain the charge? You know that there is
nothing. Your vile slander would only recoil on your own head; and
even if I did nothing--even if I treated you and your charge with
silent contempt, you yourself would suffer, for the charge would
excite such suspicion against you that you would undoubtedly be
arrested.
"But, unfortunately for you, I would not be silent. I would come
forward and tell the magistrates the whole truth. And I think,
without self-conceit, there is enough in my appearance to win for me
belief against the wild and frenzied fancies of a vulgar valet like
you. Who would believe you when Lady Chetwynde came forward to tell
her story, and to testify against you?
"I will tell you what Lady Chetwynde would have to say. She would
tell how she once employed you in England; how you suffered some
slight from her; how you were dismissed from her service. That then
you went to London, and engaged yourself as valet to Lord Chetwynde,
by whom you were not known; that, out of vengeance, you determined to
ruin him. That Lady Chetwynde Was anxious about her husband, and,
hearing of his illness, followed him from place to place; that, owing
to her intense anxiety, she broke down and nearly died; that she
finally reached this place to find her villainous servant--the one
whom she had dismissed--acting as her husband's valet. That she
turned him off on the spot, whereupon he went to the authorities, and
lodged some malicious and insane charges against her. But Lady
Chetwynde would have more than this to say. She could show _certain
vials_, which are no doubt in these rooms, to a doctor; and he could
analyze their contents; and he could tell to the court what it was
that had caused this mysterious disease to one who had always before
been so healthy. And where do you think your charge would be in the
face of Lady Chetwynde's story; in the face of the evidence of the
vials and the doctor's analysis?"
Hilda paused and regarded Gualtier with cold contempt. Gualtier felt
the terrible truth of all that she had said. He saw that here in
Lausanne he had no chance. If he wished for vengeance he would have
to delay it. And yet he did not wish for any vengeance on her. She
had for the present eluded his grasp. In spite of his assertion of
power over her--in spite of the coercion by which he had once
extorted a promise from her--he was, after all, full of that same
all-absorbing love and idolizing affection for her which had made him
for so many years her willing slave and her blind tool. Now this
sudden reassertion of her old supremacy, while it roused all his
pride and stimulated his anger, excited also at the same time his
admiration.
He spoke at length, and his tone was one of sadness.
"There is one other thing which is against me," said he; "my own
heart. I can not do any thing against you."
"Your heart," said Hilda, "is very ready to hold you back when you
see danger ahead."
Gualtier's pale face flushed.
"That's false," said he, "and you know it. Did my heart quail on that
midnight sea when I was face to face with four ruffians and quelled
their mutiny? You have already told me that it was a bold act."
"Well, at least you were armed, and they were not," said Hilda, with
unchanged scorn.
"Enough," cried Gualtier, flushing a deeper and an angrier red. "I
will argue with you no more. I will yield to you this time. I will
leave the hotel and Lausanne. I will go to England. _He_ shall be
under your care, and you may do what you choose.
"But remember this," he continued, warningly. "I have your promise,
given to me solemnly, and that promise I will yet claim. This man may
recover; but, if he does, it will only be to despise you. His
abhorrence will be the only reward that you can expect for your
passion and your mad self-sacrifice. But even if it were possible for
him to love you--yes, to love you as you love him--even then you
could not have him. For I live; and while I live you could never be
his: No, never. I have your promise, and I will come between you and
him to sunder you forever and to cast you down. That much, at least,
I can do, and you know it.
"And now farewell for the present. In any event you will need me
again. I shall go to Chetwynde Castle, and wait there till I am
wanted. The time will yet come, and that soon, when you will again
wish my help. I will give you six months to try to carry out this
wild plan of yours. At the end of that time I shall have something to
do and to say; but I expect to be needed before then. If I am needed,
you may rely upon me as before. I will forget every injury and be as
devoted as ever."
With these ominous words Gualtier withdrew.
Hilda sank back in her chair exhausted, and sat for some time
pressing her hand on her heart.
At length she summoned her strength, and, rising to her feet, she
walked feebly through several rooms. Finally she reached one which
was darkened. A bed was there, on which lay a figure. The figure was
quite motionless; but her heart told her who this might be.