HILDA'S DECISION.
Hilda fled, and continued long in that frantic flight through the
thick woods. As the branches of the underbrush crackled behind her,
it seemed to her that it was the noise of pursuit, and the horror of
that unexpected vision was before her, for to face it again seemed to
her worse than death. She was strong of soul naturally; her nerves
were not such as give way beneath the pressure of imagination; she
was not a woman who was in any degree liable to the ordinary
weaknesses of a woman's nature; but the last few months had opened
new feelings within her, and under the assault of those fierce,
resistless feelings the strength of her nature had given way. Even
had she possessed all her old strength, the sight of this
unparalleled apparition might have overwhelmed her, but as it was, it
seemed to make her insane. Already shaken to her inmost soul by long
suffering and wild alternations of feeling, she had that night
attained the depths of despair in those words which she had
overheard. Immediately upon that there came the direful phantom,
which she felt that she could not look upon and live. That face
seemed to burn itself into her mind. It was before her as she fled,
and a great horror thrilled through her, driving her onward blindly
and wildly, until at last nature itself gave way, and she fell
shrieking with terror.
Then sense left her.
How long she lay she knew not. There was no one near to bring back
the lost sense. She awaked shuddering. She had never fainted thus
before, and it seemed to her now as though she had died and risen
again to the sadness of life. Around her were the solemn forest
trees. The wind sighed through their branches. The sun was almost at
the meridian. It was not midnight when she fainted. It was mid-day
almost when she recovered. There was a sore pain at her heart; all
her limbs seemed full of bruises; but she dragged herself to a little
opening in the trees where the rays of the sun came down, and there
the sun's rays warmed her once more into life. There, as she sat, she
recalled the events of the night. The horror had passed, and she no
longer had that awful sense of a pursuing phantom; but there remained
the belief, fixed within her soul, that she had seen the form of the
dead. She was not superstitious, but in this instance the sight, and
the effects of that sight, had been so tremendous that she could not
reason them away.
She tried to dismiss these thoughts. What was she to do? She knew
not. And now as she thought there came back to her the remembrance of
Lord Chetwynde's words, and the utterance of his hate. This
recollection rose up above the remembrance of her terrors, and gave
her something else for thought. What should she do? Should she give
up her purpose and return to England? This seemed to her intolerable.
Chetwynde Castle had no attractions; and even if she were now assured
beyond all doubt that she should be for all the rest of her life the
acknowledged mistress of Chetwynde--even if the coronet were fixed on
her brow beyond the chance of removal--even if the court and the
aristocracy of England were eager to receive her into their
midst--yet even then she found in these things nothing which could
alleviate her grief, and nothing which could afford any attraction.
Her life was now penetrated with one idea, and that idea was all set
upon Lord Chetwynde. If he was lost to her, then there was only one
of two alternatives--death to herself, or vengeance. Could she die?
Not yet. From that she turned, not in fear, but rather from a feeling
that something yet remained to be done. And now, out of all her
thoughts and feelings, the idea of vengeance rose up fiercely and
irresistibly. It returned with something of that vehemence which had
marked its presence on the previous night, when she rushed forth to
satisfy it, but was so fearfully arrested. But how could she now act?
She felt as though the effort after vengeance would draw her once
more to confront the thing of horror which she had already met with.
Could she face it again?
Amidst all these thoughts there came to her the memory of Gualtier.
He was yet faithful, she believed, and ready to act for her in any
way, even if it required the sacrifice of his own life. To him she
could now turn. He could now do what she could not. If she had him
once more to act as her right hand, she might use him as a means for
observation and for vengeance. She felt now most keenly her own
weakness, and longed with a weary sense of desolation for some one
who might assist her, and do this work which lay before her.
At last she rose to go. The warmth of the sun had restored something
of her strength. The new resolutions which she had formed had given
energy to her soul. She wandered about through the wood, and at
length reached a stonewall. It looked like the boundary of the villa.
She followed this for some distance, expecting to reach the gate, and
at length came to a place where a rock arose by the side of the wall.
Going up to the top of this, she looked over the wall, and saw the
public road on the other side, with Florence in the distance. She saw
pretty nearly where she was, and knew that this was the nearest point
to her lodgings. To go back to the chief entrance would require a
long detour. It would also excite surprise. One in her peculiar
costume, on going out of the grounds, might be questioned; she
thought it better to avoid this. She looked up and down the road, and
seeing no one coming, she stepped to the top of the wall and let
herself down on the opposite side. In a few moments she was on the
road, on her way back to Florence. Reaching the city, she at once
went to the hotel, and arrived at her rooms without observation.
That same day she sent off an urgent letter to Gualtier, asking him
to come to Florence at once.
After this excitement she kept her bed for a few days. Lord Chetwynde
heard that she was ill without expressing any emotion. When at length
he saw her he spoke in his usual courteous manner, and expressed his
pleasure at seeing her again. But these empty words, which used to
excite so much hope within her, now fell indifferently on her ears.
She had made up her mind now. She knew that there was no hope. She
had called to her side the minister of her vengeance. Lord Chetwynde
saw her pale face and downcast eyes, but did not trouble himself to
search into the cause of this new change in her. She seemed to be
growing indifferent to him, he thought; but the change concerned him
little. There was another in his heart, and all his thoughts were
centered on that other.
After the masquerade Lord Chetwynde had hurried out to the villa, on
the following day, to make inquiries about her health. He found
Zillah still much shaken, and exhibiting sufficient weakness to
excite his anxiety. Which of the many causes that she had for
agitation and trouble might now be disturbing her he could not tell,
but he sought to alleviate her troubles as much as possible. His
departure for India had to be postponed, for how could he leave her
in such a state? Indeed, as long as Obed Chute remained in Florence
he did not see how he could leave for India at all.