FAITHFUL STILL.
When Hilda sent off her note to Gualtier she felt certain that he
would come to her aid. All that had passed between them had not
shaken the confidence which she felt in his willingness to assist her
in a thing like this. She understood his feelings so perfectly that
she saw in this purpose which she offered him something which would
be more agreeable to him than any other, and all that he had ever
expressed to her of his feelings strengthened this view. Even his
attempts to gain the mastery over her, his coercion by which he
forced from her that memorable promise, his rage and his menaces at
Lausanne, were so many proofs of his love for her and his malignant
hate to Lord Chetwynde. The love which she had once despised while
she made use of it she now called to her aid, so as to make use of it
again, not thinking of what the reward would be which he would claim,
not caring what his hope might be, indifferent to whatever the future
might now reveal, and intent only upon securing in the best and
quickest way the accomplishment of her own vengeful desires.
This confidence which she felt in Gualtier was not unfounded, nor was
her hope disappointed. In about a week after she had sent her letter
she received an answer. It was dated Florence. It showed that he had
arrived in the city, and informed her that he would call upon her as
soon as he could do so with safety. There was no signature, but his
handwriting was well known to her, and told her who the writer was.
About an hour after her receipt of the letter Gualtier himself was
standing in her presence. He had not changed in appearance since she
last saw him, but had the same aspect. Like all pale and cadaverous
men, or men of consumptive look, there could be scarcely any change
in him which would be for the worse. In Hilda, however, there was a
very marked change, which was at once manifest to the searching gaze
of his small, keen eyes as they rested upon her. She was not, indeed,
so wretched in her appearance as on that eventful day when she had
astonished him by her arrival at Lausanne. Her face was not
emaciated, nor were her eyes set in dark cavernous hollows as then,
nor was there on her brow the stamp of mortal weakness. What Gualtier
saw in her now had reference to other things. He had seen in her
nervousness and agitation before, but now he marked in her a loss of
all her old self-control, a certain feverish impatience, a wild and
unreasoning eagerness--all of which seemed to rise out of
recklessness and desperation. Her gestures were vehement, her words
careless and impassioned in tone. It was in all this that he marked
the greatness of the change in her. The feverish warmth with which
she greeted him was of itself totally different from her old manner,
and from its being so different it seemed to him unnatural. On the
whole, this change struck him painfully, and she seemed to him rather
like one in a kind of delirium than one in her sober senses.
"When I last bade you good-by," said she, alluding in this very
delicate way to their parting at the hotel in Lausanne, "you assured
me that I would one day want your services. You were right. I was
mad. I have overcome my madness. I do want you, my friend--more than
ever in my life before. You are the only one who can assist me in
this emergency. You gave me six months, you remember, but they are
not nearly up. You understood my position better than I did."
She spoke in a series of rapid phrases, holding his hand the while,
and looking at him with burning intensity of gaze--a gaze which
Gualtier felt in his inmost soul, and which made his whole being
thrill. Yet that clasp of his hand and that gaze and those words did
not inspire him with any pleasant hope. They hardly seemed like the
acts or words of Hilda, they were all so unlike herself. Far
different from this was the Hilda whom he had known and loved so
long. That one was ever present in his mind, and had been for
years--her image was never absent. Through the years he had feasted
his soul in meditations upon her grand calm, her sublime self-poise,
her statuesque beauty, her superiority to all human weakness, whether
of love or of remorse. Even in those collisions into which she had
come with him she had risen in his estimation. At Chetwynde she had
shown some weakness, but in her attitude to him he had discovered and
had adored her demoniac beauty. At Lausanne she had been even
grander, for then she had defied his worst menaces, and driven him
utterly discomfited from her presence. Such was the Hilda of his
thoughts. He found her now changed from this, her lofty calm
transformed to feverish impatience, her domineering manner changed to
one of obsequiousness and flattery. The qualities which had once
excited his admiration appeared now to have given way to others
altogether commonplace. He had parted with her thinking of her as a
powerful demon, he came back to her finding her a weak woman.
But nothing in his manner showed his thoughts. Beneath all these lay
his love, and the old devotion manifested itself in his reply.
"You know that always and under all circumstances, my lady, you can
command my services. Only one exceptional case has ever arisen, and
that you yourself can understand and excuse."
Hilda sat down, motioning him also to a seat, and for a moment
remained silent, leaning her head on her hand in deep thought.
Gualtier waited for her next words.
"You must not expose yourself to danger," said she at length.
"What danger?"
"_He_ will recognize you if he sees you here."
"I know that, and have guarded against it. He is not at home now, is
he?"
"No."
"I knew that very well, and waited for his departure before venturing
here. I know very well that if he were to catch even the faintest
glimpse of me he would recognize me, and it would be somewhat
difficult for me to escape. But to-day I happened to see him go out
of the Porta Livorna, and I know he is far off by this time. So, you
see, I am as cautious as ever. On the whole, and as a general thing.
I intend to be guided by circumstances. Perhaps a disguise may be
necessary, but that depends upon many different things. I will have,
first of all, to learn from you what it is that you want me to do,
and then I can arrange my plan of action. But before you begin I
think I ought to tell you a very remarkable incident which happened
in London not long ago--and one, too, which came very near bringing
my career, and yours also, my lady, to a very sudden and a very
unpleasant termination."
At this Hilda gave a start.
"What do you mean?" she asked, hurriedly.
"Oh, only this, that a very nice little trap was laid for me in
London, and if I had not been unusually cautious I would have fallen
into it. Had that been the case all would have been up with me;
though as to you, I don't see how your position would have been
affected. For," he added, with deep and uncontrollable emotion,
"whatever may happen to me, you must know enough of me by this time,
in spite of my occasional rebellions, to be as sure of my loyalty to
you as of your own existence, and to know that there could be no
possibility of my revealing any thing about you; no," he added, as
his clenched fist fell upon the table, and his face flushed up deeply
at his rising feeling--"no, not even if it were still the fashion to
employ torture; not even the rack could extort from me one syllable
that could implicate you. After all that I have said, I swear that by
all that is most holy!"
He did not look at Hilda as he said this, but his eyes were cast on
the floor, and he seemed rather like a man who was uttering a
resolution to himself than like one who was making a statement to
another. But Hilda showed no emotion that corresponded with his. Any
danger to Gualtier, even though she herself were implicated, had no
terrors for her, and could not make her heart throb faster by one
single pulsation. She had other things on her mind, which to her far
outweighed any considerations of personal danger. Personal danger,
indeed, instead of being dreaded, would now, in her present mood,
have been almost welcomed, so as to afford some distraction from the
torture of her thoughts. In the secret of her heart she more than
once wished and longed for some appalling calamity--something which
might have power to engage all her thoughts and all her mind. The
anguish of her heart, arising out of her love for Lord Chetwynde, had
grown so intolerable that any thing, even danger, even discovery,
even death itself, seemed welcome now.
It was this feeling which filled her as she went on to ask Gualtier
about the nature of the danger which he had escaped, wishing to know
what it might be, yet indifferent to it except so far as it might
prove to be a distraction to her cares.
When Gualtier last vanished from the scene he had sent the boy to his
lodging-house, with the agreement that he should meet him at eight
o'clock. The boy's visit and its results have already been narrated.
As for Gualtier, he was profoundly conscious all the while of the
possibility that a trap might be laid for him, and that, if this were
the case, the advent of his messenger would be seized upon by those
who might be in pursuit of him, so as to get on his track. The very
cautiousness which had caused him to seek out so carefully a proper
messenger, and instruct him in the part which he was to play, kept
him on the anxious look-out for the progress of events. From the time
that the boy left he stationed himself at the window of his room,
which commanded a view of the main entrance, and watched with the
closest scrutiny every one who came into the hotel. After a time he
thought that the supposed pursuers might come in by some other
entrance. With this fear he retreated into his bedroom, which also
looked out in front, and locked the door. He found another door here
which led into an adjoining room, which was occupied. The key of the
door between the bedroom and the sitting-room fitted this other
door, so that he was able to open it. The occupant was not in.
Through this door he designed to retreat in case of a surprise. But
he still thought it most likely that any pursuers would come in by
the main door of the hotel, relying upon his information to the boy
that he was to be absent. So with this view he stationed himself at
the bedroom window, as he had at first stationed himself at the
sitting-room window, and watched the main entrance. It was a task
which needed the utmost vigilance. A great crowd was thronging there
and sweeping by; and among the multitudes that filled the sidewalk it
was impossible to distinguish any particular forms or faces except
among those who passed up the steps into the hotel. Any one who had
less at stake would have wearied of such a task, self-imposed as it
was; but Gualtier had too much at stake to allow of weariness, and
therefore he kept all his senses wide awake, looking with his eyes at
the main entrance, and with his ears listening to the footsteps that
came along the hall, to discover any signs of danger to himself.
At last a cab drove up and stopped in front of the door. Gualtier,
who had been watching every thing, noticed this also. A man got out.
The sight of that man sent a shock to Gualtier's heart. He knew that
face and that figure in spite of the changed dress. It was Black
Bill.
A second look to confirm that first impression was enough. Like
lightning there came to his mind the thought that Black Bill had been
watching for him ever since with inexhaustible patience, had
encountered the boy, perhaps with the co-operation of the landlord,
and had now come to arrest him. One moment sufficed to bring to his
mind the thought, and the fear which was born of the thought. Without
waiting to take another glance, or to see who else might be in the
cab, he hastily unlocked the doors of the bedroom, glided into the
hall, passed down a back stairway, and left the hotel by a side
entrance far removed from the front-door. Then darting swiftly
forward he mingled with the crowd in the Strand, and was soon lost to
the pursuit of any followers.
Such was Gualtier's story. To all this strange account Hilda listened
attentively.
"It seems," said she at length, "as though Black Bill has been more
persevering than we supposed."
"Far more so than I supposed," said Gualtier. "I thought that he
would have given up his watch long ago; or that, whether he wished or
not, he had been forced to do so from want of resources. But, after
all, he certainly has managed to hold on in some way. I suppose he
has secured the co-operation of the landlord, and has got up some
business at no great distance from the place, so that on the
appearance of my messenger he was sent for at once."
"Did you see the others in the cab?"
"No; Black Bill was enough for me. I suppose the boy was there with
him."
"Don't you think it likely that Black Bill may have had some
communication with the police?"
"I have thought over that question, and it does not seem probable.
You see Black Bill is a man who has every reason to keep clear of the
police, and the very information which he would give against me would
be equally against himself. Such information would first of all lead
to his own arrest. He would know that, and would keep clear of them
altogether. Besides, he is an old offender, and beyond a doubt very
well known to them. His past career has, no doubt, been marked by
them; and this information which he would give would be to them
merely a confession of fresh crime. Finding themselves unable to
catch me, they would satisfy themselves by detaining him. Oh no;
Black Bill is altogether too cunning to have any thing to do with the
police."
"All that you have been saying," remarked Hilda, "is very well in its
way, but unfortunately it is based on the supposition that Black Bill
would tell the truth to the police. But, on the contrary, it is
highly probable that he would do nothing of the kind. He has
ingenuity enough, no doubt, to make up a story to suit his particular
case, and to give it such a coloring as to keep himself free from
every charge."
"I don't see how he could do that very well. After all, what would be
the essence of his story? Simply this: that a crime had been
committed, and that he, with some others, had participated in it. The
other offenders would be out of reach. What then? What? Why, Black
Bill, from the fact of his own acknowledgment, would be taken in
charge."
"I don't see that. As I see it, there are various ways by which a man
with any cunning could throw all the guilt on another. He might deny
that he knew any one was on board, but only suspected it. He might
swear that he and the rest were forced into the boat by you, he and
they being unarmed, and you well armed. There are other suppositions
also by which he would be able to present himself in the light of an
innocent seaman, who, forced to witness the commission of a crime,
had lost no time to communicate to the authorities the knowledge of
that crime."
"There is something in what you say. But in that case it would have
been necessary for him to inform the police months ago."
"Very well; and why may he not?"
"He may have; but it strikes me that he would be more inclined to
work the thing up himself; for in that case, if he succeeded, the
prize would be all his own."
Some further discussion followed, and then Hilda asked:
"I suppose, by the way you speak, that you saw nothing more of them?"
"No."
"You were not tracked?"
"No."
"Where did you go after leaving the hotel?"
"I left London that evening for Southampton, and then I went west to
Bristol; after that to Chetwynde. I staid at Chetwynde till I got
your note."
"Did you not see any thing in any of the papers which might lead to
the suspicion that you were sought after, or that any thing was being
done?"
"No, nothing whatever."
"If any thing is going on, then, it must be in secret."
"Yes; and then, you know, in a country like England it is impossible
for the police to work so comprehensively or so efficiently as they
do on the Continent--in France, for instance."
"I wonder if the French police are at work?"
"How could they be?"
"I hardly know, unless Black Bill has really informed the London
police, and they have communicated to the authorities in France. Of
course it all depends on him. The others can have done nothing. He
alone is the man from whom any danger could possibly arise. His
steady perseverance has a dangerous look, and it is difficult to tell
what may come of it yet."
After some further conversation Hilda proceeded to give Gualtier a
general idea of the circumstances which had taken place since they
parted at Lausanne. Her account was brief and meagre, since she did
not wish to say more than was absolutely necessary. From what she
said Gualtier gathered this, however--that Lord Chetwynde had
continued to be indifferent to Hilda, and he conjectured that his
indifference had grown into something like hostility. He learned,
moreover, most plainly that Hilda suspected him of an intrigue with
another woman, of whom she was bitterly jealous, and it was on this
rival whom she hated that she desired that vengeance for which she
had summoned him. This much he heard with nothing but gratification,
since he looked upon her jealousy as the beginning of hate; and the
vengeance which she once more desired could hardly be thwarted a
second time.
When she came to describe the affair of the masquerade, however, her
tone changed, and she became much more explicit. She went into all
the details of that adventure with the utmost minuteness, describing
all the particulars of every scene, the dresses which were worn both
by Lord Chetwynde and herself, and the general appearance of the
grounds. On these she lingered long, describing little incidents in
her search, as though unwilling to come to the denouement. When she
reached this point of her story she became deeply agitated, and as
she described the memorable events of that meeting with the fearful
figure of the dead the horror that filled her soul was manifest in
her looks and in her words, and communicated itself to Gualtier so
strongly that an involuntary shudder passed through him.
After she had ended he was silent for a long time.
"You do not say any thing?" said she.
"I hardly know what to say on the instant," was the reply.
"But are you not yourself overawed when you think of my attempt at
vengeance being foiled in so terrible a manner? What would you think
if yours were to be baffled in the same way? What would you say, what
would you do, if there should come to you this awful phantom? Oh, my
God!" she cried, with a groan of horror, "shall I ever forget the
agony of that moment when that shape stood before me, and all life
seemed on the instant to die out into nothingness!"
Gualtier was silent for a long time, and profoundly thoughtful.
"What are you thinking about?" asked Hilda at last, with some
impatience.
"I am thinking that this event may be accounted for on natural
grounds," said he.
"No," said Hilda, warmly; "nothing in nature can account for it. When
the dead come back to life, reason falters."
She shuddered as she spoke.
"Yes, my lady," said Gualtier, "but the dead do _not_ come back to
life. You have seen an apparition, I doubt not; but that is a very
different thing from the actual manifestation of the dead. What you
saw was but the emanation of your own brain. It was your own fancies
which thus became visible, and the image which became apparent to
your eye was precisely the same as those which come in delirium. A
glass of brandy or so may serve to bring up before the eyes a
thousand abhorrent spectres. You have been ill, you have been
excited, you have been taking drugs; add to this that on that
occasion you were in a state of almost frenzy, and you can at once
account for the whole thing on the grounds of a stimulated
imagination and weak or diseased optic nerves. I can bring forward
from various treatises on the optic nerves hundreds of cases as
singular as yours, and apparently as unaccountable. Indeed, if I find
that this matter continues to affect you so deeply," he continued,
with a faint smile, "my first duty will be to read up exclusively on
the subject, and have a number of books sent here to you, so as to
let you see and judge for yourself."