BEWILDERMENT.
Scarcely any thing was said on the drive out from Florence to the
villa. Tears fell frequently from the eyes of the poor wanderer as
she sat wrapped in deep thought. Obed sat in silence, looking out of
the window upon vacancy, seeing nothing; or, rather, seeing still
that face with its wan lips and ghastly outline, which had told so
thrilling a story of homelessness and starvation. His thoughts were
going back through the years--the long-vanished years. And as he
thought there came over his rugged face an infinite pity and
tenderness; from his eyes there beamed sadness and compassion
unutterable. He kept silence thus, all that drive, because he could
not trust himself to speak.
It was only when they reached the gateway of the villa that he opened
his lips. Then, as they drove through, he turned toward her, and
putting his hand on her arm, he said:
"Here is your home now--while you live."
"Oh, my friend!" murmured Mrs. Hart; and she could say no more.
On reaching the door Obed assisted Mrs. Hart out of the brougham, and
they entered the hall. There were sounds of voices in the
drawing-room, and on crossing the threshold of the villa a
gentleman's voice arose in a cheerful and sprightly tone:
"Checkmated again! Really, Miss Lorton, after this you'll have to
give me the odds of a pawn; you've beaten me seven games out of our
last ten."
"I don't believe it was fair," said a lady's voice. "I firmly
believe, and I've said it all along, that you let me beat you. Why,
you taught me chess yourself, and how is it possible that I could
catch up to my master in so short a time?"
"I don't pretend to account for it, Miss Lorton," said the
gentleman's voice. "There, before you, is something better than
theory. It is an indisputable fact. There is my king, with your queen
immediately in front of him, and your rook in the distance guarding
that strong-minded lady. And where is my queen? Why, gadding about
with knights and bishops, when she ought to have been standing by the
side of her unfortunate husband."
As these words came to her ears Mrs. Hart stood still, and one hand
grasped Obed Chute's arm convulsively, while the other was pressed to
her brow.
"What is this? Who are _these_? Are _they_ here?" she asked, in a
thrilling voice. "Am I dreaming? Is this some mockery, or are they
both here? Is it some surprise? Tell me, my friend. Did you arrange
all this?"
She looked at Obed in a bewildered manner. He thought that her mind
was wandering.
"Come," said he, kindly, "you must go to your room now and rest, and
then--"
But here a loud remark from the gentleman, followed by a merry answer
from the lady, interrupted Obed, and Mrs. Hart prevented him from
finishing his sentence; for suddenly she started away from him, and,
without a word, hurried into the room from which the voices came.
Obed stood for a moment quite confounded, and then, feeling assured
that the poor creature's brain was turned, followed her hurriedly.
Mrs. Hart burst into the room, with a white face and eager, inquiring
eyes. Roused by the noise of footsteps, Lord Chetwynde and Zillah
turned. To the amazement of both they saw Mrs. Hart.
Had the form of General Pomeroy, or of Earl Chetwynde, appeared at
that instant before them, they could not have been more confounded.
Lord Chetwynde, however, was cool and calm. There was nothing in his
secret which was very important, and there was therefore no fear of a
discovery to disturb the unfeigned joy that mingled with his wonder
at this sudden appearance of his old nurse, blended also with deep
and sharp grief at the weary, wan, and wretched face that he saw
before him. As to his assumed name and the revelation of his true
one, that did not trouble him at all, for he could give his
explanation very readily. But with Zillah it was different. Rightly
or wrongly, she considered her secret a thing which should be guarded
like her heart's blood; and now she saw suddenly before her the
certainty of a full and grand disclosure--a disclosure, too, not
merely in the presence of Obed Chute, but of Windham also. Yet even
this fear, terrible as it would have been at other times, was
successfully mastered, and her generous and loving nature turned away
from selfish fears, with longing and joy and pity, to this dear old
friend; and these feelings, mingling together at that sudden sight,
drove away all others.
But now to these succeeded a new surprise, which was overwhelming.
For just as she started, in obedience to her impulse, she saw Lord
Chetwynde hurry forward. She saw Mrs. Hart's eyes fixed on him in a
kind of ecstasy. She saw her totter forward, with all her face
overspread with a joy that is but seldom known---known only in rare
moments, when some lost one, loved and lost--some one more precious
than life itself--is suddenly found. She saw Lord Chetwynde hurry
forward. She saw Mrs. Hart run toward him, and with a low moan, a
longing, yearning cry, fling herself upon his breast and clasp him in
her arms.
She heard her words--words wonderful, thrilling, and beyond all
understanding:
"Oh, my boy! Oh, my own! Oh, Guy! Oh, my little boy! Oh, my darling!
My God! I thank Thee for this joy!"
Uttering such broken ejaculations Mrs. Hart burst into a passion of
tears, and only Lord Chetwynde's strong arms prevented her from
falling.
He upheld her. He kissed her. He murmured words of affection, deep
and tender and true. With gentle urgency lie drew her to a sofa, made
her sit down by his side, and placed her head against his breast, and
took her emaciated hands in his. He seemed to have forgotten the
presence of others in that sudden, that overwhelming feeling of
compassion for his aged, his heart-broken nurse. He was unconscious
even of Zillah. In that moment his whole soul and his whole heart
were turned to this wan face that leaned against his breast.
He said very little. How could he say much? A few attempts at
soothing her--a few loving words--these were all. And these were
enough; for better than these was the love that was expressed in his
strong embrace--the love that sustained her now, and changed despair
into rapture.
"My dearest," he said--"dearest old nurse--nurse! mamma! Don't grieve
now. Come, look up, and let me see your sweet old face."
His voice was broken with emotion. How he loved that one whom he
called his "dear old nurse!"
"Look up, old woman. Look up. Let me see your face. You don't know
how dear it is to me."
And Mrs. Hart raised her face, and in her face he read a love
infinite, all-consuming, imperishable--a love which now, however,
satiated and intoxicated itself in the look that she gave.
She said nothing more, but, clinging to him, she seemed to hold him
to her weary heart as though she feared that something might take him
away.
"Forgive me, my own; do not be angry, my dearest," she murmured,
"with your poor old nurse. I left home long, long ago. I rose from my
sick-bed to seek you. I came here, and have watched and watched for a
long time. Oh, how long! But you never came."
"You! watching for me! here in Florence!" exclaimed Lord Chetwynde,
in wonder. "My poor old dear! why?"
"I will tell you again--not now--I am too weak. Hold my hands fast,
my own. Let me see your dear face--oh, how dear!"
And with her hands in his, and her eyes feeding her soul upon his
face, she lay upon his breast.
Meanwhile Obed Chute had stood thunderstruck. To account for this
amazing scene was so utterly impossible that he did not even attempt
it. That was beyond the reach of human capacity. But he noted all
that holy tenderness, and that unfathomable love which beamed from
that wan, worn face, and he felt that this was not a scene for other
eyes. He went softly over to Zillah, who had stood motionless
hitherto, and taking her hand he led her solemnly out of the room.
They went into another apartment, and sat there in silence. Zillah
was so filled with amazement that it overwhelmed her.
She had seen Mrs. Hart's joy. She had heard her give to Windham the
name of "Guy." She had heard him call her those tender, well-known
names--the fond names with which the letters of Guy Molyneux used
always to be filled. What did all this mean?
God in heaven! Was this a dream, or a reality? Could there, indeed,
be truth in this scene? Could this be possibly what it seemed to be?
Was Windham Guy Molyneux?
The question was too bewildering. A thousand circumstances at once
suggested themselves as that question arose. All the past came back
before her, with the scenes and the words of that past. She
remembered now Windham's saying that he was married, and that he
hated his wife worse than death. What did this mean? Did this not
coincide with what she knew of Guy Molyneux? And what was to be the
end of all this? Her brain reeled at the thoughts that came to her as
she asked herself this question.
For this Windham was _hers_. Windham, with his devotion, his fervid
passion, his burning words, his despairing love, his incessant
self-watchfulness and strong self-control. Windham, who had snatched
her from a dreadful death, and given glory and bliss to that heaven
in life which she had known in Marseilles and in Florence; Windham,
who had found in her society his highest happiness, and had spoken to
her words of frenzied adoration; Windham, who had been the partner of
so many stolen interviews; Windham, who once had flung aside even his
honor and duty in his mad love, and urged her to fly with him to
India! And could this man be Guy Molyneux? There were amazing
coincidences which she could now recall. He had come home in mourning
from India. He had told her of those very scenes in India of which
she had read in Guy's letters. He had said that he was bound to a
fate which he abhorred, and she recalled what had been her own
conjectures as to what that fate might be.
At such thoughts as these she was filled with a mixture of deep joy
and deadly fear. What might the end be? what could the end be?--this
was the question now. Windham loved; Guy hated. Could these two men
be indeed one? If they were, then how could this love and hate be
reconciled? Would Windham cease to love, or Guy give up his hate? To
her, also, there was still terror in the thought of Guy; and for
Windham to be resolved into that man, from whom she had fled, seemed
to her as though he were about to become her enemy. Yet this did not
seem possible. Such confidence had she in Windham's love that the
thought of his losing it, or changing, appeared the wildest
improbability. No; that, at least, could not be. Still he was her
own. Not yet could she blend his image with that of Guy. In her
bewilderment she clung to this as her only comfort, and hoped that,
in some way, all this would be explained.
Meanwhile Obed had been sitting in a bewilderment equal to hers, and
keeping a silence that was hard to maintain. At length he could
restrain his feelings no longer.
"Can you tell," he asked at length--"can you imagine, Miss
Lorton--have you the remotest idea of what in thunder is the meaning
of all this?"
"I don't know," said Zillah; "I don't understand; I can't even
imagine."
"And I'm--well," interposed Obed, with a blank look of despair, "the
English language does not afford a word, not one single word, that
can express the idea; so I will resort to the American, and merely
remark that at this present moment I'm catawampously chawed up."
"Do you know Mrs. Hart?" said Zillah. "Of course you do."
"Mrs. Hart?" asked Obed, in momentary surprise.
"Yes--her."
"Mrs. Hart? Oh, I see. Yes, I knew her many years ago. This afternoon
I found her in Florence. I brought her out here. She told me that she
had come here in search of a friend; but, by the living thunder, the
very last person that I should have guessed at as that friend would
have been Windham. And yet he was the man--the identical individual.
But did you ever see such joy," he continued, after a pause, "as
there was in her face at her first sight of him? Well, when I met her
she was in as deep a despair. She was crouching on the steps of the
Baptistery, looking with eager eyes--hungry eyes--to find some one.
And all this time it was Windham. She came here to find him, and him
only. She has been here for weeks, perhaps for months, wandering
about, in suffering and weakness, looking every where for Windham.
She had spent all her money; she had been turned out of her lodgings;
she had neither food nor shelter. For two or three days she had not
eaten any thing. When I happened, by the merest accident, to find
her, do you know what she was doing? She was dying of starvation, but
still she was looking for Windham! And I solemnly believe that if I
had not found her she would be there at this moment. Yes, she would
be sitting there in misery, in want, and in starvation, still looking
after Windham. And if she had died there, on that spot, I feel
convinced that the last movement of her lips would have been a murmur
of his name, and the last look of her dying eyes would have been for
Windham. I saw all this in every look of hers, and in every word of
hers that she has thus far uttered to me about her fearful
experiences. I saw this; and now I beg leave to ask, in the quietest
way in the world, Who is this Windham, and what is he to her?"
Here Obed ceased. He had spoken in a way that showed the deep emotion
which he felt, and the sorrow and sympathy that filled his soul. As
he spoke of Mrs. Hart's miseries his voice trembled. Never in his
life had he met with sorrow like her sorrow. It was not this last
scene in her life which gave him this feeling, but it was his
knowledge of that awful past in which she had lived, and sinned, and
suffered--that past whose sufferings were perpetuated still, whose
lurid shadows were now projected into these later days of her life.
All this he felt, and he showed it, and he sought earnestly to solve
the problem which these things held out to his mind; but he could not
find a solution, nor could Zillah give one. For her part, it was with
unfeigned horror that she listened to Obed's recital of Mrs. Hart's
sufferings and despair; yet as she listened there came to her mind
the same question which had been asked by Obed, Who is this Windham?
and what is he to her? Could her old devotion as the nurse of Guy
account for this? Or was there some deeper cause? Had she come to
save him from something? Yet from what? From danger? Yet from what
danger?
And thus to each of these alike there came the same problem, yet to
each there came no hope of solution.