DESPAIR.
The time seemed long indeed to Obed and to Zillah, as they sat there
in silence, wondering, bewildered, yet utterly unable to fathom the
deep mystery that lay before them. Half an hour elapsed; and at last
some one crossed the hall and came to the door. It was Lord
Chetwynde. He looked troubled and excited.
"Miss Lorton," said he, "she wants _you_. I don't understand what she
says. It is very strange. She must be out of her senses. Come in, Mr.
Chute. See if you can help me out of my bewilderment."
He offered his arm to Zillah, but she did not take it. It seemed as
if she did not see it. Filled with vague fears and apprehensions, she
walked into the room where Mrs. Hart was, and Lord Chetwynde and Obed
Chute came after her.
Mrs. Hart was lying upon the sofa. As Zillah entered she fixed her
eyes upon her.
"I have been too selfish," said she. "In my joy at finding my boy so
unexpectedly and so wonderfully, I have not been able to speak one
word to my sweet girl. Oh, Zillah, my child, you, I know, will
forgive me. But are you not amazed to see me? Yet I am still more
amazed to see you. How did you come here? How is it that I find you
here--along with my noble friend--in his house? I am all overcome
with wonder. I can not understand this. I do not know what to say, or
where to begin to ask the questions that I wish to ask. Mr. Chute
seems a kind of Providence," she added, with peculiar emphasis in
the faint tones of her weak voice--"a kind of Providence, who comes
to people in their last extremities, and saves them from despair! Mr.
Chute," she continued, "is my savior!" She paused for a time, and
looked at Obed with a certain deep meaning in her eyes. Then she
turned to Zillah again. "My child," she said, "dear, sweet Zillah!
you will have to tell me all about this. Why was it that you fled
away from Chetwynde? And oh! how could you have the heart to give me
up to strangers?"
Amazed, speechless, overcome by wonder, Zillah could not say a word.
She went to Mrs. Hart, folded her in her arms, and kissed over and
over again the white lips of the woman who had once been dear to her
in Chetwynde Castle.
"I do not understand it," said Mrs. Hart, feebly, and with an
expression of deep amazement; "I do not comprehend all this at all.
Here you all are, all of you whom I love--the only ones on earth whom
I love. Here is my boy, my darling, whom I came to seek! Here is my
sweet Zillah, who brightened my mournful life at Chetwynde Castle
with her love and tenderness. And here I see my best friend, who came
to save me from death and despair, and brought me here to life and
joy and hope! What is the meaning of it all? My boy can not tell me.
Say, my sweet Zillah, can not you tell me? Do you not know? Do you
understand? Say, whose plan is it? Is it your plan? Who has brought
us all together?"
"It is God," said Zillah, solemnly. "I do not understand how you came
here. Let us thank God that you have found your friends."
She spoke at random; she knew not what to say. In her own dark
perplexity she was unable to say any thing else; and when she saw
that Mrs. Hart was equally perplexed, and turned to her for
information, she could only find an answer in those words which were
prompted by her heart. So she spoke, and she could say no more.
Nor could the others. All were silent. That white face looked
wistfully from one to the other, with eager eyes, as though seeking
from each some explanation; but none could give her that which she
sought. In the faces that surrounded her she saw nothing else but a
wonder which was fully equal to her own.
Obed Chute had now a fresh cause for bewilderment. For here was
Zillah claimed fondly as a dear and loved friend by Mrs. Hart. Who
was she? Was her mysterious story bound up in any way with the
tragical life of the other who thus claimed her? He had been
sufficiently astonished at the meeting between the woman whom he had
rescued and his friend Windham; but now he saw his protégé, Miss
Lorton, recognized by her as her dearest friend, and called by the
most loving names--with an affection, too, which was fully returned
by the one whom she thus addressed. What to think or to say he knew
not. Of all the mysteries of which he had ever heard none equaled
this, and it seemed to become more complicated every instant. He was
at once perplexed by this insoluble problem, and vexed because it was
insoluble. To his calm and straightforward mind nothing was so
aggravating as a puzzle which could not be explained. He abhorred all
mysteries. Yet here he found one full before him which baffled his
utmost powers of comprehension--one, too, in which he himself was
intermixed, and in which he saw Mrs. Hart and Windham and Miss Lorton
all equally involved, and what was worse, equally in the dark.
But if Obed's bewilderment was great, what can be said of that which
filled the mind of Lord Chetwynde? He saw his old nurse, whom
he so deeply and even so passionately loved, turning away from
himself to clasp in her arms, and to greet with the fondest
affection, that beautiful girl who was dearer to him than any thing
else in life. Mrs. Hart knew Miss Lorton! Above all, he was struck by
the name which she gave her. She called her "Zillah!" More than this,
she mentioned Chetwynde! She reproached this girl for running away
from Chetwynde Castle! And to all this Miss Lorton said nothing, but
accepted these fond reproaches in such a way that she made it seem as
though she herself must once in very deed have lived in Chetwynde
Castle, and fled from it. Mrs. Hart called her "Zillah!" To whom did
that strange name belong? To one, and to one alone. That one was the
daughter of General Pomeroy, whom he had married, and who was now his
wife. That one he hated with a hate which no feeling of duty and no
bond of gratitude could either lessen or overcome. Was he not
married? Had he not seen that wife of his a thousand times? Had he
not associated with her at Chetwynde Castle, at Lausanne, on the
road, and in Florence? What madness, what mockery was this? It would
seem as though Mrs. Hart had mistaken Miss Lorton for that detested
wife who stood between him and his love. But how could such a mistake
be made? True, the complexion of each was dark, and the hair of each
was black, and the forms and figures were not unlike; but the
features were widely different; the large, soft, loving eyes of Miss
Lorton were not like those gleaming, fiery orbs that he had seen in
the woman whom he thought his wife; and the expression of the face in
each was as unlike as possible. Could Mrs. Hart be in a delirium? She
must be mad! But then the worst of it was, that if she were mad Miss
Lorton must be mad also.
"Where am I?" said Mrs. Hart, rousing herself, and breaking in upon
Lord Chetwynde's thoughts. "It seems to me that I have suddenly
escaped from a hell, where I have been living, and have come into
heaven. Where am I? How is it that I find myself among those whom I
hold most dear? Oh, my old friend! my savior! my benefactor! tell me,
are you really a living being?"
"Nothing shorter," replied Obed, solemnly, "to the best of my
knowledge and belief, though at the present moment I feel inclined to
doubt it."
"My boy, give me your hand. Do I really hold it? Am I not dreaming?"
"No, my dear old nurse. I am really alive, and you are alive, and I
am really your boy--your Guy--though hang me if I understand all
this!"
"Zillah, my sweet child, give me your hand too. You have become
reconciled to him, then. I see how it is. Ah! how dear you are to one
another! My God! what blessedness is this! And yet I thought that you
had fled from him, and left him forever. But he found you. You are
reunited once more."
She placed Zillah's hand in Lord Chetwynde's, and Lord Chetwynde held
it closely, firmly, in a passionate grasp, not knowing what all this
meant, yet in his vehement love willing to take blindly all that
might be given to him, even though it came to him through the
delirium of his old nurse. He held it tightly, though Zillah in a
kind of terror tried to withdraw it. He held it, for something told
him in the midst of his bewilderment that it was his.
Tears flowed from Mrs. Hart's eyes. There was a deep silence around.
At last Obed Chute spoke.
"My Christian friends," said he, "it's been my lot and my privilege
to attend the theatre in my youthful days, and I've often seen what
they call _situations_; but of all the onparalleled situations that
were ever put upon the boards, from '76 down to '59, I'll be hanged
if this isn't the greatest, the grandest, and the most bewildering.
I'm floored. I give up. Henceforth Obed Chute exists no longer. He is
dead. Hic jacet. In memoriam. E pluribus unum. You may be Mr.
Windham, and you, my child, may be Miss Lorton, or you may not. You
may be somebody else. We may all be somebody else. I'm somebody else.
I'll be hanged if I'm myself. To my dying day I don't expect to
understand this. Don't try to explain it, I beg. If you do I shall go
mad. The only thing I do understand just now is this, that our friend
Mrs. Hart was very weak, and needs rest, and rest she shall
accordingly have. Come," he continued, turning to her; "you will have
time to-morrow to see them again. Take a little rest now. You have
called me your friend several times to-day. I claim a friend's
privilege. You must lie down by yourself, if it's only for half an
hour. Don't refuse me. I'd do as much for you."
Obed's manner showed that same tender compassion which he had already
evinced. Mrs. Hart complied with his request. She rose and took his
arm.
"Tell me one thing plainly," said Obed, as Mrs. Hart stood up. "Who
are these? Is not this Mr. Windham, and is not this Miss Lorton? If
not, who are they? That's fair, I think. I don't want to be in the
dark amidst such universal light."
"Is it possible that you don't know?" said Mrs. Hart, wonderingly.
"Why should they conceal it from you? These are my dearest
children--my friends--the ones dear to my heart. Oh, my friend, _you_
will understand me. This is Lord Chetwynde, _son of the Earl of
Chetwynde_, and this girl is Zillah, daughter of Neville
Pomeroy--Lady Chetwynde--his wife."
"God in heaven!" exclaimed Obed Chute. "Is this so, or are you mad,
and are they mad?"
"I do not know what you mean," said Mrs. Hart. "I have spoken the
truth. It is so."
Obed said not another word, but led her out of the room, with his
strong brain in a state of bewilderment greater than ever, and
surpassing any thing that he had known before.
Lord Chetwynde was left alone with Zillah, holding her hand, to which
he still clung--though Zillah in her deep embarrassment tried to
withdraw it--and looking at her with eagerness yet perplexity.
"Great Heaven!" he cried. "Do you understand this? Oh, my love! my
own! my darling! What is the meaning of it all?"
"I don't know," stammered Zillah, in confusion. "Don't you know?"
"It's a mockery. It's her delirium," cried Lord Chetwynde,
passionately. "Some tantalizing demon has put this into her wandering
mind. But oh! my dearest, something must be true; at least you knew
her before."
"Yes," said Zillah.
"Where?" cried Lord Chetwynde.
"At Chetwynde Castle," said Zillah, faintly.
"At Chetwynde Castle?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Heavens! Chetwynde Castle! What is this? Can it be a mockery?
What does it all mean? You! you! You of all others! my own! my
darling! _You_ can never deceive me," he cried, in piercing tones.
"Tell me, and tell me truly, what were you doing in Chetwynde
Castle?"
"Living there," said Zillah. "I lived there for years, till the Earl
died, and then I left, for certain reasons."
"Great God! What is it that you are saying?" He gasped for breath.
"Only the truth," said Zillah.
Lord Chetwynde held her hand still; his eyes seemed to devour her in
the intensity of their gaze. A thousand bewildering questions were in
his mind. What! Was not his wife even now in Florence? Was he not
familiar with her face? What did this mean? What utter mockery was
this! Yet every word of Zillah's went to corroborate the words of
Mrs. Hart.
As for Zillah, she saw his embarrassment, but interpreted it falsely.
"He is beginning to think," she thought, "that I am the one to whom
he was married. His old hate and abhorrence are returning. He is
afraid to make himself sure of it. He loves Miss Lorton, but hates
the daughter of General Pomeroy. When he finds out who I am he will
loathe _me_." Then while Lord Chetwynde stood silent in astonishment
and bewilderment, not understanding how it was possible for these
things to be, the thought flashed upon her mind about that last
letter. He had loved another. Inez Cameron was his true love. She
herself was nothing. Bitterly came this remembrance to her mind. She
saw herself now cast out from his heart, and the love that had
awakened would die out forever. And in that moment, as these thoughts
rushed through her mind, as she recalled the words of that last
letter, the scorn and insults that were heaped upon herself, and,
above all, the fervent love that was expressed for another--as she
brought these things back which had once been so bitter, one by
one--hope departed, and despair settled over her heart.
But Lord Chetwynde clung to her hand. The thoughts of his heart were
widely different from those of hers, and her despair was exceeded by
his own. Who she was and what she was he could not understand; but
the thought that he had a wife, and that his wife was General
Pomeroy's daughter, was immovable in his mind.
"My darling!" he cried, in imploring tones, in which there was at the
same time a world of love and tenderness; "my own darling! You know
well that for you I would give up all my life and all my hope, and
every thing that I have. For you, oh! my sweet love, I have trampled
upon honor and duty, and have turned my back upon the holy memories
of my father! For you I have stifled my conscience and denied my God!
Oh! my own, my only love, listen and answer. In the name of God, and
by all your hopes of heaven, I implore you to answer me truly this
one question. Who are you? What is your name? How is it that Mrs.
Hart has made this mistake?"
And as Lord Chetwynde gave utterance to this appeal there was in his
voice an anguish of entreaty, as though his very life hung upon her
answer. It thrilled to the inmost soul of Zillah, who herself was
wrought up to an excitement which was equal to his, if not superior.
"Mrs. Hart has made no mistake," replied Zillah, in low, solemn
tones; "she has spoken the truth. As you have asked, so must I
answer. In the name of God, then, I tell you. Lord Chetwynde, that I
am Zillah, daughter of General Pomeroy, and--_your wife_!"
"Oh, my God!" cried Lord Chetwynde, with a deep groan.
He dropped her hand. He staggered back, and looked at her with a face
in which there was nothing else than horror.
What was then in his mind Zillah could not possibly know. She
therefore interpreted that look of his from her own knowledge and
suspicions only. She read in it only his own unconquerable hate, his
invincible aversion to her, which now, at the mention of her true
name, had revived in all its original force, and destroyed utterly
the love which he had professed. All was lost! lost! lost! lost! and
doubly lost! Better far never to have seen him than, having seen him
and known him and loved him, to lose him thus. Such were her
thoughts. Already her emotion had been overwhelming; this was the
last, and it was too much. With a low moan of entreaty and of despair
she wailed out the name which she loved so much. It was that word
"Windham," which he had made so sweet to her.
Saying this, and with that moan of despair, she threw up her arms
wildly, and sank down senseless at his feet.