MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING.
Meanwhile Lord Chetwynde and Zillah were left together. A few hours
before they had been sitting in this same room, alone, when Mrs. Hart
entered. Since then what wonders had taken place! What an overturn to
life! What an opening into unlooked-for happiness! For a few moments
they stood looking at one another, not yet able to realize the full
weight of the happiness that had come so suddenly. And as they
looked, each could read in the face of the other all the soul of
each, which was made manifest, and the full, unrestrained expression
of the longing which each had felt.
Lord Chetwynde folded her in his arms.
"What is all this?" he said, in a low voice. "What can it mean? I can
not yet believe it; can you? What, my darling, are we not to have our
stolen interviews any more? Have we no longer our great secret to
keep? Are you really mine? I don't understand, but I'm content to
hold you in my arms. Oh, my wife!"
Zillah murmured some inaudible protest, but her own bewilderment had
not yet passed away. In that moment the first thought was that her
own Windham was at last all her own in very truth.
"And are you sure," she said at last, "that you have got over your
abhorrence of me?"
Lord Chetwynde did not understand this question, but considering it a
joke, he responded in the customary manner.
"But what possible means could have induced you to leave Chetwynde
Castle at all?" he asked; for, as he had not yet heard her story, he
was all in the dark.
"Because you wrote that hideous, that horrible letter," said Zillah;
and as the memory of that letter came to her she made an effort to
draw away from his embrace. But the effort was fruitless.
"Hideous letter! What letter?"
"The last one."
"My darling, I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you remember how you reviled me?"
"I didn't; I don't understand."
"You called me a Hindu, and an imp."
"Good Heavens! what do you mean?"
"But you do not hate me now, do you? Tell me, and tell me truly, are
you sure that your abhorrence has all passed away?"
"Abhorrence!"
"Ah! you need not fear to confess it now. You did abhor me, you
know."
"On my honor, I do not know what you are talking about, my own
darling. I never wrote about you except with respect; and that, too,
in spite of those awful, cutting, sneering letters which you wrote
for years, and that last one, written after my father's death."
"Heavens! what do you mean?" cried Zillah, aghast. "I sent letters to
you regularly, but I never wrote any thing but affectionate words."
"Affectionate words! I never received a letter that was not a sneer
or an insult. I came home under an assumed name, thinking that I
would visit Chetwynde unknown, to see what sort of a person this was
who had treated me so. I changed my intention, however, and went
there in my own name. I found that woman there--an impostor. How was
I to know that? But I hated her from the outset."
"Ah," said Zillah, "you were then full of memories of Inez Cameron."
This thought had suddenly stung her, and, forgetting the Windham of
Marseilles, she flung it out.
"Of what? Inez? What is that?" asked Lord Chetwynde, in a puzzle.
"Inez Cameron."
"Inez Cameron! Who is Inez Cameron?"
"Inez Cameron," said Zillah, wondering--"that fair companion of so
many evenings, about whom you wrote in such impassioned
language--whose image you said was ever in your heart."
"In the name of Heaven," cried Lord Chetwynde, "what is it that you
mean? Who is she?"
"Captain Cameron's sister," said Zillah.
"Captain Cameron's sister?"
"Yes."
"Captain Cameron has no sister. I never saw any one named Inez
Cameron. I never mentioned such a name in any letter, and I never had
any image in my heart except yours, my darling."
"Why, what does it all mean?"
"It means this," said Lord Chetwynde, "that we have for years been
the victims of some dark plot, whose depths we have not yet even
imagined, and whose subtle workings we have not yet begun to trace.
Here we are, my darling, asking questions of one another whose
meaning we can not imagine, and making charges which neither of us
understand. You speak of some letter which I wrote containing
statements that I never thought of. You mention some Inez Cameron, a
lady whom I never heard of before. You say also that you never wrote
those letters which imbittered my life so much."
"Never, never. I never wrote any thing but kindness."
"Then who wrote them?"
"Oh!" cried Zillah, suddenly, as a light burst on her; "I see it all!
But is it possible? Yes, that must be it. And if you did not write
that last letter, then _she_ wrote it."
"_She_! Who?"
"Hilda."
Hereupon ensued a long explanation, the end of which was that each
began to understand better the state of the case. And Lord Chetwynde
exulted at finding that all the baseness which he had imagined
against his wife was the work of another; and Zillah felt ecstasy in
the thought that Lord Chetwynde had never loathed her, and had never
carried in his despairing heart the image of that dreaded and hated
phantom, Inez Cameron.
"The fact is, I couldn't have written that letter for another reason,
little girl. I always made allowances even for those letters which
you did not write, and until that last one came I always laid great
stress on my father's love for you, and hoped some day to gain your
love."
"And that you would have done in the ordinary way if we had met in
Chetwynde Castle."
"Would I, indeed?"
"Yes," sighed Zillah; "for I think I learned to love you from your
letters to your father."
"Oh no! no, no," laughed Lord Chetwynde; "for did you not at once
fall in love with that Windham?"
So the time passed. But amidst these murmurs of affection, and these
explanations of vanished mysteries, Lord Chetwynde caught himself
looking to the past few months at Florence.
"Oh, those interviews!" he murmured, "those sweet, stolen
interviews!"
"Why, Sir," said Zillah, "you speak as though you feel sorry for all
this!"
"No, my darling. My fond recollection of these can not interfere with
my joy at the present; for the great meaning of this present is that
while we live we shall never part again."
***
Lord Chetwynde did not go back to Florence that night. There were a
thousand things to talk over. On the following day Obed explained all
about the cipher, and told many stories about his early association
with Neville Pomeroy. These things took up all the next day. Lord
Chetwynde was in no hurry now. His Indian appointment was quietly
given up. He had no immediate desire to go to his lodgings, and Obed
insisted that Lord and Lady Chetwynde should be his guests during
their stay in Florence.
To this, Lord and Lady Chetwynde agreed, and enforced a promise from
Obed Chute that he would be their guest in Chetwynde Castle.
Sometimes their thoughts turned on Hilda. They had no desire to
pursue her. To Zillah she was an old friend; and her treason was not
a thing which could be punished in a court of justice. To Lord
Chetwynde she was, after all, the woman who had saved his life with
what still seemed to him like matchless devotion. He knew well, what
Zillah never knew, how passionately Hilda loved him. To Obed Chute,
finally, she was a _woman_, and now undeniably a woman in distress.
That was enough. "Let the poor thing go; I half wish that I could
save her from going to the devil." Such were his sentiments.
On the second day Lord Chetwynde drove in to his rooms. He returned
looking very pale and grave. Zillah, who had gone out smilingly to
greet him, wondered at this.
"We talked about sparing her," said he, softly. "My darling wife, she
is beyond our reach now."
Zillah looked at him with fearful inquiry.
"She has gone--she is dead!"
"Dead!" cried Zillah, in a voice of horror.
"Yes, and by her own hand."
Lord Chetwynde then told her that on reaching his rooms he was waited
on by the _concierge_, who informed him that on the previous day the
lady whom the _concierge_ supposed to be his wife was found dead in
her bed by her maid. No one knew the cause. The absence of her
husband was much wondered at. Lord Chetwynde was so much shocked that
his deportment would have befitted one who was really a bereaved
husband. On questioning the maid he found that she had her
suspicions. She had found a vial on the table by the bed, about which
she had said nothing. She knew her duty to a noble family, and held
her tongue. She gave the vial to Lord Chetwynde, who recognized the
presence of strychnine. The unhappy one had no doubt committed
suicide. There was a letter addressed to him, which he took away. It
was a long manuscript, and contained a full account of all that she
had done, together with the most passionate declarations of her love.
He thought it best, on the whole, not to show this to Zillah.
He knew that she had committed suicide, but he did not know, nor did
any living being, the anguish that must have filled the wretched one
as she nerved her heart for the act. All this he could conjecture
from her letter, which told him how often she had meditated this. At
last it had come. Leaving the villa in her despair, she had gone to
her lodgings, passed the night in writing this manuscript, and then
flung her guilty soul into the presence of her Maker.
As Lord Chetwynde had not gone into Florentine society at all,
Hilda's death created but little sensation. There was no scandal
connected with his name; there was no bewildering explanation of
things that might have seemed incredible. All was quieted, and even
hate itself was buried in the grave of the dead.
The death of Hilda gave a shock to those who had known her, even
though they had suffered by her; but there was another thing which
gave sadness in the midst of new-found happiness. When Mrs. Hart had
left the room, after that eventful evening when she had found Lord
Chetwynde and Zillah, she was taken to her bed. From that bed she was
destined never to rise again. During the last few months she had
suffered more than she could bear. Had she lived in quiet at
Chetwynde, life might possibly have been prolonged for a few years.
But the illness which she had at Chetwynde had worn her down; and she
had scarce risen from her bed, and begun to totter about the house,
than she fled on a wild and desperate errand. She had gone, half
dying, to Florence, to search after Lord Chetwynde, so as to warn him
of what she suspected. Her anxiety for him had given her a fitful and
spasmodic strength, which had sustained her. The little jewelry which
she possessed furnished the means for prolonging a life which she
only cherished till she might find Lord Chetwynde. For weeks she had
kept up her search, growing feebler every day, and every day spending
more and more of her little store, struggling vehemently against that
mortal weakness which she felt in all her frame, and bearing up
constantly even amidst despair. At last Obed Chute had found her. She
had seen "her boy"--she had found him with Zillah. The danger which
she had feared seemed to her to have been averted, she knew not how;
and her cup was full.
A mighty revulsion of feeling took place from the depths of despair
to the heights of happiness. Her purpose was realized. There was
nothing more to live for.
But now, since that purpose was gained, the false strength which had
sustained her so long gave way utterly. Her weary frame was at last
extended upon a bed from which she would no longer be compelled to
rise for the watch and the march and the vigil. Her labor was over.
Now came the reaction. Rapidly she yielded. It seemed as though joy
had killed her. Not so. A great purpose had given her a fictitious
strength; and now, when the purpose was accomplished, the strength
departed, and a weakness set in commensurate with the strength--the
weakness of approaching dissolution.
She herself knew that all was over. She would not have it otherwise.
She was glad that it was so. It was with her now a time to chant a
_nunc dimittis_--welcome death! Life had nothing more to offer.
Once again Zillah stood at her bedside, constant and loved and
loving. But there was one whose presence inspired a deeper joy, for
whom her dying eyes watched--dying eyes wistful in their watch for
him. How she had watched during the past months! How those eyes had
strained themselves through the throngs of passers-by at Florence,
while, day by day, the light of hope grew dimmer! Now they waited for
his coming, and his approach never failed to bring to them the
kindling light of perfect joy.
Lord Chetwynde himself was true to that fond affection which he had
always expressed for her and shown. He showed himself eager to give
up all pleasures and all recreations for the sake of being by her
bedside.
[Illustration: "My Boy, Have You Ever Heard About Your Mother?"]
On this Obed Chute used to look with eyes that sometimes glistened
with manly tears.
Days passed on, and Mrs. Hart grew weaker. It was possible to count
the hours that remained for mortal life. A strange desolation arose
in Lord Chetwynde's heart as the prospect of her end lowered before
him.
One day Mrs. Hart was alone with him. Obed Chute had called away
Zillah for some purpose or other. Before doing so he had whispered
something to the dying woman. As they left she held out her hand to
Lord Chetwynde.
"Come here and sit nearer," she wailed forth--"nearer; take my hand,
and listen."
Lord Chetwynde did so. He sat in a chair by the bedside, and held her
hand. Mrs. Hart lay for a moment looking at him with an earnest and
inexplicable gaze.
"Oh!" she moaned, "my boy--my little Guy! can you bear what I am
going to say? Bear it! Be merciful! I am dying now. I must tell it
before I go. You will be merciful, will you not, my boy?"
"Do not talk so," faltered Lord Chetwynde, in deep emotion.
"Oh, my boy!" said Mrs. Hart, "do you know--have you ever heard any
thing about--your--your mother?"
"My mother?"
"Yes."
"No; nothing except that she died when I was an infant."
"Oh, my boy! she did not die, though death would have been a
blessing."
A thrill passed through Lord Chetwynde.
"Nurse! nurse!" he cried--"my dear old nurse, what is it that you
mean? My mother? She did not die? Is she alive? In the name of God,
tell me all!"
"My boy!" said Mrs. Hart, grasping the hand that held hers
convulsively--"my boy! can you bear it?"
"Where is my mother?" asked Lord Chetwynde.
Mrs. Hart struggled up. For a moment she leaned on her elbow. In her
eyes there gleamed the light of undying love--love deep, yearning,
unfathomable--love stronger than life. It was but a faint whisper
that escaped her wan, white lips, but that whisper pierced to the
soul of the listener, and rang through all his being with echoes that
floated down through the years.
And that whisper uttered these words:
"_Oh, my son_! _I--I--am your mother_!"
A low moan burst from Lord Chetwynde. He caught her dying form in his
arms, and a thousand words of love burst from him, as though by that
embrace and by those words of love he would drag her back from her
immortality. And then, at last, in that embrace and in the hearing of
those words of love, there were some few moments of happiness for one
who had sinned and suffered so much; and as she lay back her face was
overspread with an expression of unutterable peace.
When Zillah returned she saw Lord Chetwynde bowed down, with his arms
clasping the form of Mrs. Hart. The smile was still on her face, but
it was only the form of that one who had suffered and loved so much
which now lay there; for she herself had departed from earth forever,
and found a place "where the weary are at rest."
***
Long afterward Zillah learned more about the past history of that
woman whom she had known and loved as Mrs. Hart. It was Obed Chute
who told her this, on one of his frequent visits to Chetwynde Castle.
He himself had heard it from the former Lady Chetwynde, at the time
when she was in New York, and before she joined the Sisters of
Charity.
Neville Pomeroy had known her well as a boy, and they had carried on
an unmeaning flirtation, which might have developed into something
more serious had it not been prevented by her mother, who was on the
look-out for something higher. Lord Chetwynde met her ambitious
views, and though he was poor, yet his title and brilliant prospects
dazzled the ambitious mother. The daughter married him without loving
him, in the expectation of a lofty position. When this was lost by
Lord Chetwynde's resignation of his position she could not forgive
him. She indulged in folly which ended in sin, until she was weak and
wicked enough to desert the man whom she had sworn to love. When it
was too late she had repented. Neville Pomeroy and Obed Chute had
saved her from ruin. The remainder of her life was evident. She had
left the Sisters of Charity, from some yearning after her child, and
had succeeded in gaining employment in Chetwynde Castle. Such changes
had been wrought in her by her sufferings that the Earl never
recognized her; and so she had lived, solacing herself with her
child.
The knowledge of her history, which was afterward communicated to her
son, did not interfere with his filial affection. Her remains now lie
in the vaults of Chetwynde Castle beside those of the Earl.
THE END.