"THE WIFE OF LORD CHETWYNDE."
Hilda sat waiting.
Obed had gone in search of those who could face this woman and answer
her story. He went first to send word to Zillah, summoning her down.
Zillah had been feebly reclining on her couch, distracted by thoughts
at once perplexing and agonizing, filled with despair at the dark
calamity which had suddenly descended, with a black future arising
before her, when she and "Windham" were to be sundered forever. He
hated her. That was her chief thought; and Windham's love had gone
down in an instant before Guy's deadly abhorrence. A lighter distress
might have been borne by the assistance of pride; but this was too
overmastering, and pride stood powerless in the presence of a
breaking heart. In such a mood as this was she when the message was
brought to her which Obed had sent.
The wife of Lord Chetwynde was down stairs, and wished to see her!
_The wife of Lord Chetwynde!_
Those words stung her like serpents' fangs; a tumult of fierce rage
and jealousy at once arose within her; and at this new emotion her
sorrow left her, and the weakness arising from her crushed love. With
a start she rose to her feet, and hastily prepared to descend.
After summoning Zillah, Obed went in search of Lord Chetwynde. Some
time elapsed before he could find him. He had been wandering about
the grounds in a state bordering on distraction.
Meanwhile Hilda sat waiting.
Alone in the great room, where now the shadows were gathering, she
was left to her own dark reflections. The sufferings through which
she had passed had weakened her, and the last scene with Obed had not
been adapted to reassure her or console her. The state of suspense in
which she now was did not give her any fresh strength. Her nervous
system was disorganized, and her present position stimulated her
morbid fancy, turning it toward dark and sombre forebodings. And now
in this solitude and gloom which was about her, and in the deep
suspense in which she was waiting, there came to her mind a
thought--a thought which made her flesh creep, and her blood run
chill, while a strange, grisly horror descended awfully upon her. She
could not help remembering how it had been before. Twice she had made
an effort to anticipate fate and grasp at vengeance--once by herself
alone, and once in the person of Gualtier. Each attempt had been
baffled. It had been frustrated in the same way precisely. To each of
them there had come that fearful phantom figure, rising before them
awfully, menacingly, with an aspect of terrible import. Well she
remembered that shape as it had risen before her at the pavilion--a
shape with white face, and white clothing, and burning eyes--that
figure which seemed to emerge from the depths of the sea, with the
drip of the water in her dark, dank hair, and in her white, clinging
draperies. It was no fiction of the imagination, for Gualtier had
seen the same. It was no fiction, for she recalled her horror, and
the flight through the forest, while the shape pursued till it struck
her down into senselessness.
A shudder passed through her once more at the recollection of these
things. And there arose a question of awful import. Would it come
again? Now was the third attempt--the fateful third! Would she again
be baffled, and by _that_? She feared no human foe; but this horror
was something which she could never again encounter and live. And
there came the terror over her that she might once again see this.
She was alone amidst her terrors. It was growing late. In the great
room the dimness was deepening, and the furniture looked ghostly at
the farther end of the apartment. It was not long since Obed had
gone, but the time seemed to her interminable. It seemed to her as
though she were all alone in the great house. She struggled with her
fancies, and sat looking at the door fixedly, and with a certain
awful expectation in her eyes.
Then, as she looked, a thrill flashed through all her being. For
there, slowly and noiselessly, a figure entered--a figure which she
knew too well. Robed in white it was; the face was pale and white as
the dress; the hair was thick and ebon black, and hung down loosely;
the dress clung closely. Was it the drip of the sea-wave--was it the
wet clothing that thus clung to the figure which had once more come
from the dark ocean depths to avenge her own cause? There, in very
deed, stood the shape of horror--
"her garments
Clinging like cerements,
While the wave constantly
Dripped from her clothing."
It was _she_. It was the one who had been sent down to death beneath
the waters, but who now returned for the last time, no longer to warn
or to baffle, but to change from victim to avenger!
The anguish of that moment was greater fur than all the agonies which
Hilda had ever known. Her heart stopped beating; all life seemed to
ebb away from the terror of that presence. Wildly there arose a
thought of flight; but she was spellbound, her limbs were paralyzed,
and the dark, luminous eyes of the horror enchained her own gaze.
Suddenly she made a convulsive effort, mechanically, and sprung to
her feet, her hands clutching one another in a kind of spasm, and her
brain reeling beneath such thoughts as make men mad. In that deep
agony a groan burst from her, but she spoke not a word as she stood
there rooted to the spot.
As for Zillah herself, she, on entering, had seen Hilda, had
recognized her, and was stricken dumb with amazement. That amazement
made her stop and regard her, with wild, staring eyes, in utter
silence. There had been only one thought in her mind, and that was to
see who it could possibly be that dared to come here with the
pretense of being "Lord Chetwynde's wife." In her eagerness she had
come down in a rather negligé costume, and entering the room she
found herself thus face to face with Hilda. At that sight a thousand
thoughts flashed at once into her mind. In a moment she had divined
the whole extent of Hilda's perfidy. Now she could understand fully
the reason why Hilda had betrayed her; why she had formed so
carefully contrived and so elaborate a plot, which had been carried
out so patiently and so remorselessly. That sight of Hilda showed
her, too, what must have been the height and the depth and the full
extent of the plot against her young, undefended life--its cruelty,
and the baseness of its motive. It was to take her place that Hilda
had betrayed her. Out of such a motive had arisen such foul
ingratitude and such deadly crime. Yet in her generous heart, while
her mind understood this much, and her judgment condemned this vile
traitor, the old habit of tenderness awakened at the sight of the
familiar face, once so dear. Dearly had she loved her, fondly had she
trusted her; both love and faith had been outraged, and the friend
had doomed to death the unsuspecting friend; yet now even this last
wrong could not destroy the old love, and her thoughts were less of
vengeance than of sad reproach. Involuntarily a cry escaped her.
"Oh, Hilda! Hilda!" she exclaimed, in a voice of anguish, "how could
you betray your Zillah!"
To Hilda's excited and almost maddened fancy these words seemed like
reproaches flung out by the dead--the preliminaries to that awful
doom which the dead was about to pronounce or to inflict. She
trembled in dread anticipation, and in a hoarse, unnatural voice, and
in scarce audible words, gasped out,
"What do you want?"
For a few moments Zillah said not a word, though those few moments
seemed like hours to Hilda. Then, with a sudden impulse, she advanced
toward her. Her impulse was one of pity and kindliness. She could not
help seeing the anguish of Hilda. For a moment she forgot all but
this, and a vague desire to assure her of forgiveness arose within
her. But that movement of hers was terrible to Hilda. It was the
advance of the wrathful avenger of blood, the irresistible punisher
of wrong; the advent of a frightful thing, whose presence was horror,
whose approach was death. With a wild shriek of mortal fear she flung
up her arms, as if to shut out that awful sight, or to avert that
terrible fate, and then, as though the last vestige of strength had
left her utterly, she staggered back, and sank down, shuddering and
gasping for breath, into her chair, and sat there with her eyes fixed
on Zillah, and expressing an intensity of fear and apprehension which
could not be mistaken. Zillah saw it. She stopped in wonder, and thus
wondering, she stood regarding her in silence.
But at this moment footsteps were heard, and Obed Chute entered,
followed by Lord Chetwynde.
Obed had but one thought in his mind, and that was to unravel this
mystery as soon as possible; for the presence of such an inexplicable
mystery as this made him feel uncomfortable and humiliated. Until
this was explained in some way he knew that he would be able to find
rest neither by night nor by day. He was, therefore, resolved to
press things forward, in hopes of getting some clew at least to the
labyrinth in which his mind was wandering. He therefore took Lord
Chetwynde by the arm and drew him up toward Hilda, so that he stood
between her and Zillah.
"Now," he said, abruptly, turning to Hilda, "I have brought the man
you wish to see. Here he is before you, face to face. Look at him and
answer me. Is this man your husband?"
These words stung Zillah to the soul. In an instant all pity and all
tenderness toward Hilda vanished utterly. All her baseness arose
before her, unredeemed by any further thought of former love or of
her present misery. She sprang forward, her eyes flashing, her hands
clenched, her whole frame trembling, and all her soul on fire, as it
kindled with the fury of her passionate indignation.
"_Her_ husband!" she exclaimed, with infinite passion and unutterable
contempt--"_her_ husband! Say, Mr. Chute, do you know who it is that
you see before you? I will tell you. Behold, Sir, the woman who
betrayed me; the false friend who sought my life, and, in return for
the love and confidence of years, tried to cast me, her friend, to
death. This, Sir, is the woman whom you have been so long seeking,
herself--the paramour of that wretch, Gualtier--my betrayer and my
assassin--_Hilda Krieff_."
These words were flung forth like lava-fire, scorching and blighting
in their hot and intense hate. Her whole face and manner and tone had
changed. From that gentle girl who, as Miss Lorton, had been never
else than sweet and soft and tender and mournful, she was now
transformed to a wrathful and pitiless avenger, a baleful fury,
beautiful, yet terrific; one inspired by love stronger than death,
and jealousy as cruel as the grave; one who was now pitiless and
remorseless; one whose soul was animated by the one feeling only of
instant and implacable vengeance. The fierceness of that inexorable
wrath glowed in her burning eyes, and in the rigid outstretched arm
with which she pointed toward Hilda. In this moment of her fervid
passion her Indian nature was all revealed in its hot, tempestuous,
unreasoning fury; and the Zillah of this scene was that same Zillah
who, years before, had turned away from the bedside of her dying
father to utter those maledictions, those taunts, and those bitter
insults, which Lord Chetwynde so well remembered.
Yet to Hilda at that instant these words, with all their fury and
inexorable hate, came like balm and sweetness--like the gentle
utterances of peace and calm. They roused her up at last from that
great and unendurable horror into which she had fallen; they brought
back her vanished strength; they restored her to herself. For they
showed her this one thing plainly, and this above all things, that it
was not the dead who stood thus before her, but the living! Had her
former suspense been delayed a few moments more she would have died
in her agony; but now the horror had vanished; the one before her
bore no longer the terrors of the unseen, but became an ordinary
living being. It was Zillah herself, not in death as an apparition,
but in life as a woman. She cared nothing for the hate and the
vengeance, nothing for the insult and the scorn. She cared nothing
for the mystery that enshrouded Zillah, nor was it of any consequence
to her then how she had been saved. Enough was it that Zillah was
really alive. At this she revived. Her weakness left her. She drew a
long breath, and all the vigor of her strong soul returned.
But on the others the effect of Zillah's words was overwhelming. Obed
Chute started back in amazement at this revelation, and looked
wonderingly upon this woman, who had but lately been winning his
sympathy as an injured wife; and he marveled greatly how this
delicate, this beautiful and high-bred lady, could, by any
possibility, be identified with that atrocious monster whose image
had always existed in his mind as the natural form of Zillah's
traitorous friend.
On Lord Chetwynde the effect of all this, though equally great, was
different. One look at Hilda in her first consternation and horror,
and another at Zillah in her burning passion, had been enough. As
Zillah finished, he caught her outstretched hand as it was pointing
toward Hilda, and there rushed through all his being a rapture beyond
words, as a dim perception of the truth came to his mind.
"Oh, my darling!" he cried, "say it again. Can this be possible? Is
_she_, then, an impostor? Have I, indeed, been blinded and deceived
all this time by her?"
Zillah tore her hand away from his grasp. In that moment of fury
there came to her a thousand jealous fears to distract her. The
thought that he had been so far deceived as to actually believe this
woman his wife was intolerable. There was a wrathful cloud upon her
brow as she turned her eyes to look at him, and in those eyes there
was a glance, hard, stern, and cold, such as might befit an outraged
and injured wife. But as she thus turned to look at him the glance
that met hers was one before which her fury subsided. It was a glance
upon which she could not look and cherish hate, or even coldness; for
she saw in his face a wild rapture, and in his eyes a gleam of
exultant joy, while the flushed cheeks and the ecstatic smile showed
how deeply and how truly he loved her. On that face there was no
cloud of shame, no trace of embarrassment, no sign of any
consciousness of acts that might awaken her displeasure. There was
nothing there but that old tenderness which she had once or twice
seen on the face of Windham--a tenderness which was all for her. And
she knew by that sign that Guy was Windham; and being Windham, he was
hers, and hers alone. At this all her hardness, and all her anger,
and all the fury of her passion were dispelled as quickly as they had
arisen, and a great calm, full and deep, came over all her being. He
loved her! That was enough. The fears which had tormented her since
Mrs. Hart's revelation, the fury which had arisen but a few moments
ago at the dark promptings of jealousy, were now all dispelled, and
she saw in Lord Chetwynde her own Windham.
Quickly and swiftly had these thoughts and feelings come and gone;
but in that moment, when Zillah's attention was diverted to Lord
Chetwynde, Hilda gained more of her self-command. All was lost; but
still, even in her despair, she found a fresh strength. Here all were
her enemies; she was in their power and at their mercy; her very life
was now at their disposal; they could wreak on her, if they chose, a
full and ample vengeance; yet the thought of all this only
strengthened her the more, for that which deepened her despair only
intensified her hate. And so it was that at this last moment, when
all was lost, with her enemies thus before her, the occasion only
served to stimulate her. Her strength had returned; she summoned up
all her energies, and stood grandly at bay. She rose to her feet and
confronted them all--defiant, haughty, and vindictive--and brought
against them all the unconquerable pride of her strong and stubborn
nature.
"Tell me again," said Obed Chute, "what name was it that you gave
this woman?"
"I am Zillah, daughter of General Pomeroy, and this woman is Hilda
Krieff," was the reply.
"Hilda--Hilda--Hilda Krieff! Hilda Krieff!" said Obed Chute. "My good
Lord!"
But Hilda did not notice this, nor any thing else.
"Well," she said, in a cold and bitter tone, "it seems that I've lost
the game. Amen. Perhaps it's just as well. And so you're alive, after
all, are you, Zillah, and not in the sea? Gualtier, then, deceived
me. That also is, after all, just as well."
"Wretched woman," said Lord Chetwynde, solemnly, "Gualtier did not
deceive you. He did his work. It was I who saved her from death. In
any case, you have the stain of murder on your soul."
"Perhaps I have, my lord," said Hilda, coolly, "and other stains
also, all of which make it highly inappropriate for me to be your
wife. You will, however, have no objection to my congratulating you
on the charming being you have gained, and to whom you have addressed
such very passionate vows."
"This woman," said Lord Chetwynde, "hardly deserves to be treated
with ordinary civility. At any rate, she is not fit for _you_," he
added, in a low voice, to Zillah; "and you are too agitated for
further excitement. Shall I lead you away?"
"Not yet," said Zillah, "till I have asked one question. Hilda
Krieff," she continued, "answer me one thing, and answer me truly.
What was it that made you seek my death? Will you answer?"
"With pleasure," said Hilda, mockingly. "Because I hated you."
"Hated me!"
"Yes, hated you always, intensely, bitterly, passionately."
"And why? What had I ever done?"
"Nothing. The reason of my hate was in other things. I will tell you.
Because I was your father's daughter, and you supplanted me."
"You! Impossible!"
"I will tell you. In my childhood he was fond of me. I was taken to
India at an early age. After you were born he forgot all about me.
Once I was playing, and he talked to me with his old affection. I had
a locket around my neck with this name on it--'_Hilda Pomeroy_.' He
happened to look at it, and read the name. 'Ah,' said he, 'that is a
better name than Hilda Krieff. My child, I wish you could wear that
name.' I wanted him to tell me what he meant, but he wouldn't. At
another time he spoke of you as being my 'little sister.' He
frequently called me daughter. At last I found some old papers of my
mother's, when I saw that her name was Hilda Pomeroy, and then I
understood it all. She was his first wife, though I believe now that
they were not married. He, of course, deceived her, and though she
thought she was his wife, yet her child could not take his name. I
asked him this, but he refused to explain, and warned me never to
mention the subject. This only showed me still more plainly the
miserable truth.
"Years passed. I found myself driven out from my father's affections.
You were the world to him. I, his eldest daughter, was nothing. You
were his heiress. Good God! woman, do you think I could help hating
one who calmly appropriated every thing that ought to be mine?"
"Now you know about as much as you need know. I began years ago to
plan against you, and kept it up with never-failing patience. It was
the only pleasure I had in life. I won't go into particulars. I'll
only say that nearly all your troubles came through my management.
From time to time hereafter you will gradually remember various
things, and think with tender regret upon your loving Hilda.
"At last things were all ripe, and I slipped away. I got you out of
the way also, and I frankly avow that I never expected to have the
pleasure of seeing you again. I also hoped that Lord Chetwynde would
not come back from India. But he came, and there is where I broke
down. That is all I have to say."
Hilda stopped, and looked defiantly at them.
"Young woman," said Obed Chute, in calm, measured tones, "you are
very aggravating. It is well that you have generous people to deal
with. I don't know but that I ought to take you now and hand you over
to the police, to be lodged in the same cell with your friend
Gualtier; but--"
"Gualtier!" groaned Hilda. "What?"
"Yes, Gualtier. I caught him yesterday, and handed him over to the
police."
Hilda looked around wildly, and with a deeper despair in her heart.
"You," continued Obed, "are much worse than he. In this business he
was only your tool. But you're a woman, and are, therefore, sacred.
You are safe. It would be better, however, and much more becoming in
you, to refrain from that aggravating way of speaking which you have
just used. But there is one question which I wish to ask, and then
our interview will terminate:
"You say you believe yourself to be the elder daughter of General
Pomeroy?"
"Yes."
"Do you know your mother's maiden name?"
"Yes. Hilda Krieff."
"Did she ever tell you about her marriage?"
"I was too young when she died."
"Did you ever see any record of her marriage?"
"No."
"You know nothing definite about it, then?"
"No."
"Well, then, allow me to inform you that you are as much astray here
as you were in that other thing. This Hilda Krieff was the wife of
Pemberton Pomeroy--married after his elopement business. He took her
name. You were their daughter. I saw you once or twice when visiting
him. You were then a baby. Neville Pomeroy took charge of your mother
and you after your father's death. These are the facts of the case."
"What is all this?" cried Zillah, eagerly, as she heard these names.
"Do _you_ know about papa?"
"This lady came here with some questions about a cipher writing which
she had misunderstood, and I explained it all. She thought the
General was guilty, but I explained that he was the best fellow that
ever lived. It's too long to tell now. I'll explain it all to you
to-morrow."
"Oh, thank God!" murmured Zillah.
"What! _you_ couldn't have believed it?" cried Obed Chute.
"Never! never!" said Zillah; "though _she_ tried hard to make me."
Hilda had no more to say. The news about Gualtier, and the truth as
to her parentage, were fresh shocks, and already her strength began
to give way. Her spirit could not long be kept up to that height of
audacity to which she had raised it. Beneath all was the blackness of
her despair, in which was not one ray of hope.
She rose in silence. Obed accompanied her to her carriage, which was
yet waiting there. Soon the wheels rattled over the gravel, and Hilda
drove toward Florence.
Obed walked out and sauntered through the grounds. There was a
twinkle in his eye. He walked on and on, till he reached a place in
the depths of the woods far away from the villa.
Then he gave utterance to his feelings.
How?
Did he clench his fists, curse Heaven, weep, and rave?
Not he; not Obed.
He burst forth into peals of stentorian laughter.
"Oh, dear!" he screamed. "Oh, creation! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh,
Lord! making love on the sly! getting spooney! taking romantic walks!
reading poetry! and all to his own wife! Oh, ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha, ha!
And he stole off with her at the masquerade, and made a 'passionate
declaration'--to his--good thunder!--_his wife_! _his own wife_! Oh,
Lord! oh, Lord! I'll never get over this!"
He certainly did not get over it for at least two hours.
He had at last fully comprehended the whole thing. Now the true state
of mind between the quondam Windham and Miss Lorton became evident.
Now he began to suspect how desperately they had been in love. A
thousand little incidents occurred to his memory, and each one
brought on a fresh explosion. Even his own proposal to Zillah was
remembered. He wondered whether Windham had proposed also, and been
rejected. This only was needed to his mind to complete the joke.
For two hours the servants at the villa heard singular noises in the
woods, and passers-by heard with awe the same mysterious sounds. It
was Obed enjoying the "joke." It was not until quite late that he had
fully exhausted it.