AN EXPLANATION.
Time passed away, and Lord Chetwynde steadily recovered. Hilda also
grew stronger, and something like her former vigor began to come
back. She was able, in spite of her own weakness, to keep up her
position as nurse; and when the doctor remonstrated she declared,
piteously, that Lord Chetwynde's bedside was the place where she
could gain the most benefit, and that to banish her from it would be
to doom her to death. Lord Chetwynde was perplexed by this devotion,
yet he would not have been human if he had not been affected by it.
As he recovered, the one question before his mind was, what should he
do? The business with reference to the payment of that money which
General Pomeroy had advanced was arranged before he left England. It
was this which had occupied so much of his thoughts. All was arranged
with his solicitors, and nothing remained for him to do. He had come
to the Continent without any well-defined plans, merely in search
after relaxation and distraction of mind. His eventful illness had
brought other things before him, the most prominent thing among which
was the extraordinary devotion of this woman, from whom he had been
planning an eternal separation. He could not now accuse her of
baseness. Whatever she might once have done she had surely atoned for
during those hours when she stood by his bedside till she herself
fell senseless, as he had seen her fall. It would have been but a
common generosity which would have attributed good motives to her;
and he could not help regarding her as full of devotion to himself.
Under these circumstances it became a very troublesome question to
know what he was to do. Where was he to go? Should he loiter about
the Continent as he once proposed? But then, he was under obligations
to this devoted woman, who had done so much for him. What was he to
do with regard to her? Could he send her home coldly, without a word
of gratitude, or without one sign expressive of that thankfulness
which any human being would feel under such circumstances? He could
not do that. He must do or say something expressive of his sense of
obligation. To do otherwise--to leave her abruptly--would be brutal.
What could he do? He could not go back and live with her at
Chetwynde. There was another, whose image filled all his heart, and
the memory of whose looks and words made all other things
unattractive. Had it not been for this, he must have yielded to pity,
if not to love. Had it not been for this, he would have spoken tender
words to that slender, white-faced woman who, with her imploring
eyes, hovered about him, finding her highest happiness in being his
slave, seeking her only recompense in some kindly look, or some
encouraging word.
All the circumstances of his present position perplexed him. He knew
not what to do; and, in this perplexity, his mind at length settled
upon India as the shortest way of solving all difficulties. He could
go back there again, and resume his old duties. Time might alleviate
his grief over his father, and perhaps it might even mitigate the
fervor of that fatal passion which had arisen in his heart for
another who could never be his. There, at any rate, he would have
sufficient occupation to take up his thoughts, and break up that
constant tendency which he now had toward memories of the one whom he
had lost. Amidst all his perplexity, therefore, the only thing left
for him seemed to be India.
The time was approaching when he would be able to travel once more.
Lausanne is the most beautiful place in the world, on the shore of
the most beautiful of lakes, with the stupendous forms of the Jura
Alps before it; but even so beautiful a place as this loses all its
charms to the one who has been an invalid there, and the eye which
has gazed upon the most sublime scenes in nature from a sick-bed
loses all power of admiring their sublimity. And so Lord Chetwynde
wearied of Lausanne, and the Luke of Geneva, and the Jura Alps, and,
in his restlessness, he longed for other scenes which might be
fresher, and not connected with such mournful associations. So he
began to talk in a general way of going to Italy. This he mentioned
to the doctor, who happened one day to ask him how he liked Lausanne.
The question gave him an opportunity of saying that he looked upon it
simply as a place where he had been ill, and that he was anxious to
get off to Italy as soon as possible.
"Italy?" said the doctor.
"Yes."
"What part are you going to?"
"Oh, I don't know. Florence, I suppose--at first--and then other
places. It don't much matter."
Hilda heard this in her vigilant watchfulness. It awakened fears
within her that all her devotion had been in vain, and that he was
planning to leave her. It seemed so. There was, therefore, no feeling
of gratitude in his heart for all she had done. What she had done she
now recalled in her bitterness--all the love, the devotion, the
idolatry which she had lavished upon him would be as nothing. He had
regained the control of his mind, and his first thought was to fly.
The discovery of this indifference of his was terrible. She had
trusted much to her devotion. She had thought that, in a nature like
his, which was at once so pure, so high-minded, and so chivalrous,
the spectacle of her noble self-sacrifice, combined with the
discovery of her profound and all-absorbing love, would have awakened
some response, if it were nothing stronger than mere gratitude. And
why should it not be so? she thought. If she were ugly, or old, it
would be different. But she was young; and, more than this, she was
beautiful. True, her cheeks were not so rounded as they once were,
her eyes were more hollow than they used to be, the pallor of her
complexion was more intense than usual, and her lips were not so red;
but what then? These were the signs and the marks which had been
left upon her face by that deathless devotion which she had shown
toward him. If there was any change in her, he alone was the cause,
and she had offered herself up to him. That pallor, that delicacy,
that weakness, and that emaciation of frame were all the visible
signs and tokens of her self-sacrificing love for him. These things,
instead of repelling him, ought to attract him. Moreover, in spite of
all these things, even with her wasted form, she could see that she
was yet beautiful. Her dark eyes beamed more darkly than before from
their hollow orbs, against the pallor of her face the ebon hair shone
more lustrously, as it hung in dark voluminous masses downward, and
the white face itself showed features that were faultlessly
beautiful. Why should he turn away from so beautiful a woman, who had
so fully proved her love and her devotion? She felt that after this
conspicuous example of her love he could never again bring forward
against her those old charges of deceit which he had once uttered.
These, at least, were dead forever. All the letters which she had
written from the very first, on to that last letter of which he had
spoken so bitterly--all were now amply atoned for by the devotion of
the last few weeks--a devotion that shrank not from suffering, nor
even from death itself. Why then did he not reciprocate? Why was it
that he held himself aloof in such a manner from her caresses? Why
was it that when her voice grew tremulous from the deep love of her
heart she found no response, but only saw a certain embarrassment in
his looks? There must be some cause for this. If he had been
heart-whole, she thought, he must have yielded. There is something in
the way. There is some other love. Yes, that is it, she concluded; it
is what I saw before. He loves another!
At length, one day, Lord Chetwynde began to speak to her more
directly about his plans. He had made up his mind to make them known
to her, and so he availed himself of the first opportunity.
"I must soon take my departure, Lady Chetwynde," said he, as he
plunged at once into the midst of affairs. "I have made up my mind to
go to Italy next week. As I intend to return to India I shall not go
back to England again. All my business affairs are in the hands of my
solicitors, and they will arrange all that I wish to be done."
By this Lord Chetwynde meant that his solicitors would arrange with
Hilda those money-matters of which he had once spoken. He had too
much consideration for her to make any direct allusion to them now,
but wished, nevertheless, that she should understand his words in
this way.
And in this way she did understand them. Her comprehension and
apprehension were full and complete. By his tone and his look more
than by his words she perceived that she had gained nothing by all
her devotion. He had not meant to inflict actual suffering on her by
these words. He had simply used them because he thought that it was
best to acquaint her with his resolve in the most direct way, and, as
he had tried for a long time to find some delicate way of doing this
without success, he had at length, in desperation, adopted that which
was most simple and plain. But to Hilda it was abrupt, and although
she was not altogether unprepared, yet it came like a thunder-clap,
and for a moment she sank down into the depths of despair.
Then she rallied. In spite of the consciousness of the truth of her
position--a truth which was unknown to Lord Chetwynde--she felt as
though she were the victim of ingratitude and injustice. What she had
done entitled her, she thought, to something more than a cold
dismissal. All her pride and her dignity arose in arms at this
slight. She regarded him calmly for a few moments as she listened to
his words. Then all the pent-up feelings of her heart burst forth
irrepressibly.
"Lord Chetwynde," said she, in a low and mournful voice, "I once
would not have said to you what I am now going to say. I had not the
right to say it, nor if I had would my pride have permitted me. But
now I feel that I have earned the right to say it; and as to my
pride, that has long since been buried in the dust. Besides, your
words render it necessary that I should speak, and no longer keep
silence. We had one interview, in which you did all the speaking and
I kept silence. We had another interview in which I made a vain
attempt at conciliation. I now wish to speak merely to explain things
as they have been, and as they are, so that hereafter you may feel
this, at least, that I have been frank and open at last.
"Lord Chetwynde, you remember that old bond that bound me to you.
What was I? A girl of ten--a child. Afterward I was held to that bond
under circumstances that have been impressed upon my memory
indelibly. My father in the last hour of his life, when delirium was
upon him, forced me to carry it out. You were older than I. You were
a grown man. I was a child of fourteen. Could you not have found some
way of saving me? I was a child. You were a man. Could you not have
obtained some one who was not a priest, so that such a mockery of a
marriage might have remained a mockery, and not have become a
reality? It would have been easy to do that. My father's last hours
would then have been lightened all the same, while you and I would
not have been joined in that irrevocable vow. I tell you, Lord
Chetwynde, that, in the years that followed, this thought was often
in my mind, and thus it was that I learned to lay upon you the chief
blame of the events that resulted.
"You have spoken to me, Lord Chetwynde, in very plain language about
the letters that I wrote. You found in them taunts and sneers which
you considered intolerable. Tell me, my lord, if you had been in my
position, would you have been more generous? Think how galling it is
to a proud and sensitive nature to, discover that it is tied up and
bound beyond the possibility of release. Now this is far worse for a
woman than it is for a man. A woman, unless she is an Asiatic and a
slave, does not wish to be given up unasked. I found myself the
property of one who was not only indifferent to me, but, as I plainly
saw, averse to me. It was but natural that I should meet scorn with
scorn. In your letters I could read between the lines, and in your
cold and constrained answers to your father's remarks about me I saw
how strong was your aversion. In your letters to me this was still
more evident. What then? I was proud and impetuous, and what you
merely hinted at I expressed openly and unmistakably. You found fault
with this. You may be right, but my conduct was after all natural.
"It is this, Lord Chetwynde, which will account for my last letter to
you. Crushed by the loss of my only friend, I reflected upon the
difference between you and him, and the thought brought a bitterness
which is indescribable. Therefore I wrote as I did. My sorrow,
instead of softening, imbittered me, and I poured forth all my
bitterness in that letter. It stung you. You were maddened by it and
outraged. You saw in it only the symptoms and the proofs of what you
chose to call a 'bad mind and heart.' If you reflect a little you
will see that your conclusions were not so strictly just as they
might have been. You yourself, you will see, were not the immaculate
being which you suppose yourself to be.
"I say to you now, Lord Chetwynde, that all this time, instead of
hating you, I felt very differently toward you. I had for you a
feeling of regard which, at least, may be called sisterly.
Associating with your father as I did, possessing his love, and
enjoying his confidence, it would have been strange if I had not
sympathized with him somewhat in his affections. Your name was always
on his lips. You were the one of whom he was always speaking. When I
wished to make him happy, and such a wish was always in my heart, I
found no way so sure and certain as when I spoke in praise of you.
During those years when I was writing those letters which you think
showed a 'bad mind and heart,' I was incessantly engaged in sounding
your praises to your father. What he thought of me you know. If I had
a 'bad mind and heart,' he, at least, who knew me best, never
discovered it. He gave me his confidence--more, he gave me his love.
"Lord Chetwynde, when you came home and crushed me with your cruel
words I said nothing, for I was overcome by your cruelty. Then I
thought that the best way for me to do was to show you by my life and
by my acts, rather than by any words, how unjust you had been. How
you treated my advances you well know. Without being guilty of any
discourtesy, you contrived to make me feel that I was abhorrent.
Still I did not despair of clearing my character in your sight. I
asked an interview. I tried to explain, but, as you well remember,
you coolly pushed all my explanations aside as so much hypocritical
pretense. My lord, you were educated by your father in the school of
honor and chivalry. I will not ask you now if your conduct was
chivalrous. I only ask you, was it even just?
"And all this time, my lord, what were my feelings toward you? Let me
tell you, and you yourself can judge. I will confess them, though
nothing less than despair would ever have wrung such a confession out
of me. Let me tell you then, my lord, what my feelings were. Not as
expressed in empty words or in prolix letters, but as manifested by
acts.
"Your valet wrote me that you were ill. I left immediately, filled
with anxiety. Anxiety and fatigue both overpowered me. When I reached
Frankfort I was struck down by fever. It was because I found that you
had left that my fever was so severe. Scarce had I recovered than I
hurried to Baden, finding out your address from the people of the
Frankfort Hotel. You had gone to Munich. I followed you to Munich, so
weak that I had to be carried into my cab at Baden, and out of it at
Munich. At Munich another attack of fever prostrated me. I had missed
you again, and my anxiety was intolerable. A thousand dreary fears
oppressed me. I thought that you were dying--"
Here Hilda's voice faltered, and she stopped for a time, struggling
with her emotion. "I thought that you were dying," she repeated. "In
my fever my situation was rendered infinitely worse by this tear. But
at length I recovered, and went on. I reached Lausanne. I found you
at the last point of life. I had time to give you your medicine and
leave directions with your nurse, and then I fell down senseless by
your side.
"My lord, while _you_ were ill _I_ was worse. My life was despaired
of. Would to God that I had died then and there in the crisis of that
fever! But I escaped it, and once more rose from my bed.
"I dragged myself back to your side, and staid there on my sofa,
keeping watch over you, till once more I was struck down. Then I
recovered once more, and gained health and strength again. Tell me,
my lord," and Hilda's eyes seemed to penetrate to the soul of Lord
Chetwynde as she spoke--"tell me, is this the sign of a 'bad mind and
heart?'"
As, Hilda had spoken she had evinced the strongest agitation. Her
hands clutched one another, her voice was tremulous with emotion, her
face was white, and a hectic flush on either cheek showed her
excitement. Lord Chetwynde would have been either more or less than
human if he had listened unmoved. As it was, he felt moved to the
depths of his soul. Yet he could not say one word.
"I am alone in the world," said Hilda, mournfully. "You promised once
to see about my happiness. That was a vow extorted from a boy, and it
is nothing in itself. You said, not long ago, that you intended to
keep your promise by separating yourself from me and giving me some
money. Lord Chetwynde, look at me, think of what I have done, and
answer. Is this the way to secure my happiness? What is money to me?
Money! Do I care for money? What is it that I care for? I? I only
wish to die! I have but a short time to live. I feel that I am
doomed. Your money, Lord Chetwynde, will soon go back to you. Spare
your solicitors the trouble to which you are putting them. If you can
give me death, it will be the best thing that you can bestow. I gave
you life. Can you not return the boon by giving me death, my lord?"
These last words Hilda wailed out in low tones of despair which
vibrated in Lord Chetwynde's breast.
"At least," said she, "do not be in haste about leaving me. I will
soon leave you forever. It is not much I ask. Let me only be near you
for a short time, my lord. It is a small wish. Bear with me. You will
see, before I die, that I have not altogether a 'bad mind and
heart.'"
Her voice sank down into low tones of supplication; her head drooped
forward; her intense feeling overcame her; tears burst from her eyes
and flowed unchecked.
"Lady Chetwynde," said Lord Chetwynde, in deep emotion, "do as you
wish. You have my gratitude for your noble devotion. I owe my life to
you. If you really care about accompanying me I will not thwart your
wishes. I can say no more. And let us never again speak of the past."
And this was all that Lord Chetwynde said.