"Well?" said Hilda.
"I need not remind you of the past," said Gualtier, "or of my blind obedience to all your mandates. Two events at least stand out conspicuously. I have assisted you to the best of my power. Why I did so must be evident to you. You know very well that it was no sordid motive on my part, no hate toward others, no desire for vengeance, but something far different--something which has animated me for years, so that it was enough that you gave a command for me to obey. For years I have been thus at your call like a slave, and now, after all these years--now, that I depart on my last and most perilous mission, and am speaking to you words which may possibly be the last that you will ever hear from me--I wish to implore you, to beseech you, to promise me that reward which you must know I have always looked forward to, and which can be the only possible recompense to one like me for services like mine."
He stopped and looked imploringly at her.
"And what is that?" asked Hilda, mechanically, as though she did not fully understand him.
"_Yourself_," said Gualtier, in a low, earnest voice, with all his soul in the glance which he threw upon her.
The moment that he said the word Hilda started back with a gesture of impatience and contempt, and regarded him with an expression of anger and indignation, and with a frown so black that it seemed as if she would have blasted him with her look had she been able. Gualtier, however, did not shrink from her fierce glance. His eyes were no longer lowered before hers. He regarded her fixedly, calmly, yet respectfully, with his head erect, and no trace of his old unreasoning submission in his face and manner. Surprised as Hilda had evidently been at his words, she seemed no less surprised at his changed demeanor. It was the first time in her life that she had seen in him any revelation of manhood; and that view opened up to her very unpleasant possibilities.
"This is not a time," she said at length, in a sharp voice, "for such nonsense as this."
"I beg your pardon, Lady Chetwynde," said Gualtier, firmly, "I think that this and no other is the time. Whether it be 'nonsense' or not need not be debated. It is any thing but nonsense to me. All my past life seems to sweep up to this moment, and now is the crisis of my fate. All my future depends upon it, whether for weal or woe. Lady Chetwynde, do not call it nonsense--do not underrate its importance. Do not, I implore you, underrate me. Thus far you have tacitly assumed that I am a feeble and almost imbecile character. It is true that my abject devotion to you has forced me to give a blind obedience to all your wishes. But mark this well, Lady Chetwynde, such obedience itself involved some of the highest qualities of manhood. Something like courage and fortitude and daring was necessary to carry out those plans of yours which I so willingly undertook. I do not wish to speak of myself, however. I only wish to show you that I am in earnest, and that though you may treat this occasion with levity, I can not. All my life, Lady Chetwynde, hangs on your answer to my question."
Gualtier's manner was most vehement, and indicative of the strongest emotion, but the tones of his voice were low and only audible to Hilda. Low as the voice was, however, it still none the less exhibited the intensity of the passion that was in his soul.
Hilda, on the contrary, evinced a stronger rage at every word which he uttered. The baleful light of her dark eyes grew more fiery in its concentrated anger and scorn.
"It seems to me," said she, in her most contemptuous tone, "that you engage to do my will only on certain conditions; and that you are taking advantage of my necessities in order to drive a bargain."
"You are right, Lady Chetwynde," said Gualtier, calmly. "I am trying to drive a bargain; but remember it is not for money--it is for _yourself_."
"And I," said Hilda, with unchanged scorn, "will never submit to such coercion. When you dare to dictate to me, you mistake my character utterly. What I have to give I will give freely. My gifts shall never be extorted from me, even though my life should depend upon my compliance or refusal. The tone which you have chosen to adopt toward me is scarcely one that will make me swerve from my purpose, or alter any decision which I may have made. You have deceived yourself. You seem to suppose that you are indispensable to me, and that this is the time when you can force upon me any conditions you choose. As far as that is concerned, let me tell you plainly that you may do what you choose, and either go on this errand or stay. In any case, by no possibility, will I make any promise whatever."
This Hilda said quickly, and in her usual scorn. She thought that such indifference might bring Gualtier to terms, and make him decide to obey her without extorting this promise. For a moment she thought that she had succeeded. At her words a change came over Gualtier's face. He looked humbled and sad. As she ceased, he turned his eyes imploringly to her, and said:
"Lady Chetwynde, do not say that. I entreat you to give me this promise."
"I will not!" said Hilda, sharply.
"Once more I entreat you," said Gualtier, more earnestly.
"Once more I refuse," said Hilda. "Go and do this thing first, and then come and ask me."
"Will you _then_ promise me?"
"I will tell you nothing now."
"Lady Chetwynde, for the last time I _implore_ you to give me some ground for hope at least. Tell me--if this thing be accomplished, will you give me what I want?"
"I will make no engagement whatever," said Hilda, coldly.
Gualtier at this seemed to raise himself at once above his dejection, his humility, and his prayerful attitude, to a new and stronger assertion of himself.
"Very well," said he, gravely and sternly. "Now listen to me, Lady Chetwynde. I will no longer entreat--I insist that you give me this promise."
"Insist!"
Nothing can describe the scorn and contempt of Hilda's tone as she uttered this word.
"I repeat it," said Gualtier, calmly, and with deeper emphasis. "_I_ insist that you give me your promise."
"My friend," said Hilda, contemptuously, "you do not seem to understand our positions. This seems to me like impertinence, and, unless you make an apology, I shall be under the very unpleasant necessity of obtaining a new steward."
As Hilda said this she turned paler than ever with suppressed rage.
Gualtier smiled scornfully.
"It seems to me," said he, "that you are the one who does not, or will not, understand our respective positions. You will _not_ dismiss _me_ from the stewardship, Lady Chetwynde, for you will be too sensible for that. You will retain me in that dignified office, for you know that I am indispensable to you, though you seemed to deny it a moment since. You have not forgotten the relations which we bear to one another. There are certain memories which rise between us two which will never escape the recollection of either of us till the latest moment of our lives; some of these are associated with the General, some with the Earl, and some--with _Zillah_!"
He stopped, as though the mention of that last name had overpowered him. As for Hilda, the pallor of her face grew deeper, and she trembled with mingled agitation and rage.
"Go!" said she. "Go! and let me never see your face again!"
"No," said Gualtier, "I will not go till I choose. As to seeing my face again, the wish is easier said than gained. No, Lady Chetwynde. _You are in my power_! You know it. I tell it to you here, and nothing can save you from me if I turn against you. You have never understood me, for you have never taken the trouble to do so. You have shown but little mercy toward me. When I have come home from serving you--_you know how_--hungering and thirsting for some slight act of appreciation, some token of thankfulness, you have always repelled me, and denied what I dared not request. Had you but given me the kind attention which a master gives to a dog, I would have followed you like a dog to the world's end, and died for you--like a dog, too," he added, in an under-tone. "But you have used me as a stepping-stone; thinking that, like such, I could be spurned aside when you were done with me. You have not thought that I am not a stone or a block, but a man, with a man's heart within me. And it is now as a man that I speak to you, because you force me to it. I tell you this, that you are in my power, and you must be mine!"
"Are you a madman?" cried Hilda, overwhelmed with amazement at this outburst. "Have you lost your senses? Fool! If you mean what you say, I defy you! Go, and use your power! _I_ in the power of such as you?--Never!"
Her brows contracted as she spoke, and from beneath her black eyes seemed to shoot baleful fires of hate and rage unutterable. The full intensity of her nature was aroused, and the expression of her face was terrible in its fury and malignancy. But Gualtier did not recoil. On the contrary, he feasted his eyes on her, and a smile came to his features.
"You are beautiful!" said he. "You have a demon beauty that is overpowering. Oh, beautiful fiend! You can not resist. You must be mine--and you shall! I never saw you so lovely. I love you best in your fits of rage."
"Fool!" cried Hilda. "This is enough. You are mad, or else drunk; in either case you shall not stay another day in Chetwynde Castle. Go! or I will order the servants to put you out."
"There will be no occasion for that," said Gualtier, coolly. "I am going to leave you this very night to join Lord Chetwynde."
"It is too late now; your valuable services are no longer needed," said Hilda, with a sneer. "You may spare yourself the trouble of such a journey. Let me know what is due you, and I will pay it."
"You will pay me only one thing, and that is _yourself_," said Gualtier. "If you do not choose to pay _that_ price you must take the consequences. I am going to join Lord Chetwynde, whether you wish me to or not. But, remember this!"--and Gualtier's voice grew menacing in its intonations--"remember this; it depends upon you in what capacity I am to join him. You are the one who must say whether I shall go to him as his enemy or his friend. If I go as his enemy, you know what will happen; if I go as his friend, it is you who must fall. Now, Lady Chetwynde, do you understand me?"
As Gualtier said this there was a deep meaning in his words which Hilda could not fail to understand, and there was at the same time such firmness and solemn decision that she felt that he would certainly do as he said. She saw at once the peril that lay before her. An alternative was offered: the one was, to come to terms with him; the other, to accept utter and hopeless ruin. That ruin, too, which he menaced was no common one. It was one which placed her under the grasp of the law, and from which no foreign land could shelter her. All her prospects, her plans, her hopes, were in that instant dashed away from before her; and she realized now, to the fullest extent, the frightful truth that she was indeed completely in the power of this man. The discovery of this acted on her like a shock, which sobered her and drove away her passion.
She said nothing in reply, but sat down in silence, and remained a long time without speaking. Gualtier, on his part, saw the effect of his last words, but he made no effort to interrupt her thoughts. He could not yet tell what she in her desperation might decide; he could only wait for her answer. He stood waiting patiently.
At last Hilda spoke:
"You've told me bitter truths--but they are truths. Unfortunately, I am in your power. If you choose to coerce me I must yield, for I am not yet ready to accept ruin."
"You promise then?"
"Since I must--I do."
"Thank you," said Gualtier; "and now you will not see me again till all is over either with _him_ or with _me_."
He bowed respectfully and departed. After he had left, Hilda sat looking at the door with a face of rage and malignant fury. At length, starting to her feet, she hurried up to her room.
CHAPTER XLVII.
HILDA SEES A GULF BENEATH HER FEET.
The astonishing change in Gualtier was an overwhelming shock to Hilda. She had committed the fatal mistake of underrating him, and of putting herself completely in his power. She had counted on his being always humble and docile, always subservient and blindly obedient. She had put from her all thoughts of a possible day of reckoning. She had fostered his devotion to her so as to be used for her own ends, and now found that she had raised up a power which might sweep her away. In the first assertion of that power she had been vanquished, and compelled to make a promise which she had at first refused with the haughtiest contempt. She could only take refuge in vague plans of evading her promise, and in punishing Gualtier for what seemed to her his unparalleled audacity.
Yet, after all, bitter as the humiliation had been, it did not lessen her fervid passion for Lord Chetwynde, and the hate and the vengeance that had arisen when that passion had been condemned. After the first shock of the affair with Gualtier had passed, her madness and fury against him passed also, and her wild spirit was once again filled with the all-engrossing thought of Lord Chetwynde. Gualtier had gone off, as he said, and she was to see him no more for some time--perhaps never. He had his own plans and purposes, of the details of which Hilda knew nothing, but could only conjecture. She felt that failure on his part was not probable, and gradually, so confident was she that he would succeed, Lord Chetwynde began to seem to her not merely a doomed man, but a man who had already undergone his doom. And now another change came over her--that change which Death can make in the heart of the most implacable of men when his enemy has left life forever. From the pangs of wounded love she had sought refuge in vengeance--but the prospect of a gratified vengeance was but a poor compensation for the loss of the hope of a requited love. The tenderness of love still remained, and it struggled with the ferocity of vengeance. That love pleaded powerfully for Lord Chetwynde's life. Hope came also, to lend its assistance to the arguments of love. Would it not be better to wait--even for years--and then perhaps the fierceness of Lord Chetwynde's repugnance might be allayed? Why destroy him, and her hope, and her love, forever, and so hastily? After such thoughts as these, however, the remembrance of Lord Chetwynde's contempt was sure to return and intensify her vengeance.
Under such circumstances, when distracted by so many cares, it is not surprising that she forgot all about Mrs. Hart. She had understood the full meaning of Gualtier's warning about her prospective recovery, but the danger passed from her mind. Gualtier had gone on his errand, and she was sure he would not falter. Shut up in her own chamber, she awaited in deep agitation the first tidings which he might send. Day succeeded to day; no tidings came; and at last she began to hope that he had failed--and the pleasantest sight which she could have seen at that time would have been Gualtier returning disappointed and baffled.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Hart, left to herself, steadily and rapidly recovered. Ever since her first recognition of Lord Chetwynde her improvement had been marked. New ideas seemed to have come to her; new motives for life; and with these the desire of life; and at the promptings of that desire health came back. This poor creature, even in the best days of her life at Chetwynde Castle, had not known any health beyond that of a moderate kind; and so a moderate recovery would suffice to give her what strength she had lost. To be able to wander about the house once more was all that she needed, and this was not long denied her.
In a few days after Gualtier's departure she was able to go about. She walked through the old familiar scenes, traversed the well-known halls, and surveyed the well-remembered apartments. One journey was enough for the first day. The next day she went about the grounds, and visited the chapel, where she sat for hours on the Earl's tomb, wrapped in an absorbing meditation. Two or three days passed on, and she walked about as she used to. And now a strong desire seized her to see that wife of Lord Chetwynde whom she so dearly loved and so fondly remembered. She wondered that Lady Chetwynde had not come to see her. She was informed that Lady Chetwynde was ill. A deep sympathy then arose in her heart for the poor friendless lady--the fair girl whom she remembered--and whom she now pictured to herself as bereaved of her father, and scorned by her husband. For Mrs. Hart rightly divined the meaning of Lord Chetwynde's words. She thought long over this, and at last there arose within her a deep yearning to go and see this poor friendless orphaned girl, whose life had been so sad, and was still so mournful.
So one day, full of such tender feelings as these, and carrying in her mind the image of that beautiful young girl who once had been so dear to her, she went up herself to the room where Hilda staid, and asked the maid for Lady Chetwynde.
"She is ill," said the maid.
Mrs. Hart waved her aside with serene dignity and entered. The maid stood awe-struck. For Mrs. Hart had the air and the tone of a lady, and now when her will was aroused she very well knew how to put down an unruly servant. So she walked grandly past the maid, who looked in awe upon her stately figure, her white face, with its refined features, and her venerable hair, and passed through the half-opened door into Hilda's room.
Hilda had been sitting on the sofa, which was near the window. She was looking out abstractedly, thinking upon the great problem which lay before her, upon the solution of which she could not decide, when suddenly she became aware of some one in the room. She looked up. It was Mrs. Hart!
At the sight her blood chilled within her. Her face was overspread with an expression of utter horror. The shock was tremendous. She had forgotten all about the woman. Mrs. Hart had been to her like the dead, and now to see her thus suddenly was like the sight of the dead. Had the dead Earl come into her room and stood before her in the cerements of the grave she would not have been one whit more horrified, more bewildered. But soon in that strong mind of hers reason regained its place. She saw how it had been, and though she still wondered how Mrs. Hart had come into her room, yet she prepared as best she might to deal with this new and unexpected danger. She arose, carefully closed the door, and then turning to Mrs. Hart she took her hand, and said, simply,
"I'm so glad to see you about again."
"Where is Lady Chetwynde?"
This was all that Mrs. Hart said, as she withdrew her hand and looked all about the room.
Like lightning Hilda's plan was decided upon. "Wait a moment," said she; and, going into the ante-room, she sent her maid away upon some errand that would detain her for some time. Then she came back and motioned Mrs. Hart to a chair, while she took another.
"Did not Lord Chetwynde tell you about Lady Chetwynde?" she asked, very cautiously. She was anxious, first of all, to see how much Mrs. Hart knew.
"No," said Mrs. Hart, "he scarcely mentioned her name." She looked suspiciously at Hilda while she spoke.
"That is strange," said Hilda. "Had you any conversations with him?"
"Yes, several."
"And he did not tell you?"
"He told me nothing about her," said Mrs. Hart, dryly.
Hilda drew a long breath of relief.
"It's a secret in this house," said she, "but you must know it. I will tell you all about it. After the Earl's death Lady Chetwynde happened to come across some letters written by his son, in which the utmost abhorrence was expressed for the girl whom he had married. I dare say the letters are among the papers yet, and you can see them. One in particular was fearful in its denunciations of her. He reviled her, called her by opprobrious epithets, and told his father that he would never consent to see her. Lady Chetwynde saw all these. You know how high-spirited she was. She at once took fire at these insults, and declared that she would never consent to see Lord Chetwynde. She wrote him to that effect, and then departed from Chetwynde Castle forever."
Mrs. Hart listened with a stern, sad face, and said not a word.
"I went with her to a place where she is now living in seclusion. I don't think that Lord Chetwynde would have come home if he had not known that she had left. Hearing this, however, he at once came here."
"And you?" said Mrs. Hart, "what are you doing here? Are you the Lady Chetwynde of whom the servants speak?"
"I am, temporarily," said Hilda, with a sad smile. "It was Zillah's wish. She wanted to avoid a scandal. She sent off all the old servants, hired new ones, and persuaded me to stay here for a time as Lady Chetwynde. She found a dear old creature to nurse you, and never ceases to write about you and ask how you are."
"And you live here as Lady Chetwynde?" asked Mrs. Hart, sternly.
"Temporarily," said Hilda--"that was the arrangement between us. Zillah did not want to have the name of Chetwynde dishonored by stories that his wife had run away from him. She wrote Lord Chetwynde to that effect. When Lord Chetwynde arrived I saw him in the library, and he requested me to stay here for some months until he had arranged his plans for the future. It was very considerate in Zillah, but at the same time it is very embarrassing to me, and I am looking eagerly forward to the time when this deceit can be over, and I can rejoin my friend once more. I am so glad, my dear Mrs. Hart, that you came in. It is such a relief to have some one to whom I can unburden myself. I am very miserable, and I imagine all the time that the servants suspect me. You will, of course, keep this a profound secret, will you not, my dear Mrs. Hart? and help me to play this wretched part, which my love for Zillah has led me to undertake?"
Hilda's tone was that of an innocent and simple girl who found herself in a false position. Mrs. Hart listened earnestly without a word, except occasionally. The severe rigidity of her features never relaxed. What effect this story, so well told, produced upon her, Hilda could not know. At length, however, she had finished, and Mrs. Hart arose.
"You will keep Zillah's secret?" said Hilda, earnestly. "It is for the sake of Lord Chetwynde."
"You will never find me capable of doing any thing that is against his interests," said Mrs. Hart, solemnly; and without a bow, or an adieu, she retired. She went back to her own room to ponder over this astonishing story.
Meanwhile, Hilda, left alone to herself, was not altogether satisfied with the impression which had been made on Mrs. Hart. She herself had played her part admirably--her story, long prepared in case of some sudden need like this, was coherent and natural. It was spoken fluently and unhesitatingly; nothing could have been better in its way, or more convincing; and yet she was not satisfied with Mrs. Hart's demeanor. Her face was too stern, her manner too frigid; the questions which she had asked spoke of suspicion. All these were unpleasant, and calculated to awaken her fears. Her position had always been one of extreme peril, and she had dreaded some visitor who might remember her face. She had feared the doctor most, and had carefully kept out of his way. She had not thought until lately of the possibility of Mrs. Hart's recovery. This came upon her with a suddenness that was bewildering, and the consequences she could not foretell.
And now another fear suggested itself. Might not Lord Chetwynde himself have some suspicions? Would not such suspicions account for his coldness and severity? Perhaps he suspected the truth, and was preparing some way in which she could be entrapped and punished. Perhaps his mysterious business in London related to this alone. The thought filled her with alarm, and now she rejoiced that Gualtier was on his track. She began to believe that she could never be safe until Lord Chetwynde was "removed." And if Lord Chetwynde, then others. Who was this Mrs. Hart that she should have any power of troubling her? Measures might easily be taken for silencing her forever, and for "removing" such a feeble old obstacle as this. Hilda knew means by which this could be effected. She knew the way by which the deed could be done, and she had nerve enough to do it.
She Stood For A While And Listened.
[Illustration: "She Stood For A Little While And Listened."]
The appearance of this new danger in Chetwynde Castle itself gave a new direction to her troubles. It was as though a gulf had suddenly yawned beneath her feet. All that night she lay deliberating as to what was best to do under the circumstances. Mrs. Hart was safe enough for a day or two, but what might she not do hereafter in the way of mischief? She could not be got rid of, either, in an ordinary way. She had been so long in Chetwynde Castle that it seemed morally impossible to dislodge her. Certainly she was not one who could be paid and packed off to some distant place like the other servants. There was only one way to get rid of her, and to this one way Hilda's thoughts turned gloomily.
Over this thought she brooded through all the following day. Evening came, and twilight deepened into darkness. At about ten o'clock Hilda left her room and quietly descended the great staircase, and went over toward the chamber occupied by Mrs. Hart. Arriving at the door she stood without for a little while and listened. There was no noise. She gave a turn to the knob and found that the door was open. The room was dark. She has gone to bed, she thought. She went back to her own room again, and in about half an hour she returned. The door of Mrs. Hart's room remained ajar as she had left it. She pushed it farther open, and put her head in. All was still. There were no sounds of breathing there. Slowly and cautiously she advanced into the room. She drew nearer to the bed. There was no light whatever, and in the intense darkness no outline revealed the form of the bed to her. Nearer and nearer she drew to the bed, until at last she touched it. Gently, yet swiftly, her hands passed over its surface, along the quilts, up to the pillows. An involuntary cry burst from her--
The bed was empty!
CHAPTER XLVIII.
FROM LOVE TO VENGEANCE, AND FROM VENGEANCE TO LOVE.
On the night of this last event, before she retired to bed, Hilda learned more. Leaving Mrs. Hart's room, she called at the housekeeper's chambers to see if the missing woman might be there. The housekeeper informed her that she had left at an early hour that morning, without saying a word to any one, and that she herself had taken it for granted that her ladyship knew all about it. Hilda heard this without any comment; and then walked thoughtfully to her own room.
She certainly had enough care on her mind to occupy all her thoughts. The declaration of Gualtier was of itself an ill-omened event, and she no longer had that trust in his fidelity which she once had, even though he now might work in the hope of a reward. It seemed to her that with the loss of her old ascendency over him she would lose altogether his devotion; nor could the remembrance of his former services banish that deep distrust of him which, along with her bitter resentment of his rebellion, had arisen in her mind. The affair of Mrs. Hart seemed worse yet. Her sudden appearance, her sharp questionings, her cold incredulity, terminated at last by her prompt flight, were all circumstances which filled her with the most gloomy forebodings. Her troubles seemed now to increase every day, each one coming with startling suddenness, and each one being of that sort against which no precautions had been taken, or even thought of.
She passed an anxious day and a sleepless night. On the following morning a letter was brought to her. It had a foreign post-mark, and the address showed the handwriting of Gualtier. This at once brought back the old feelings about Lord Chetwynde, and she tore it open with feverish impatience, eager to know what the contents might be, yet half fearful of their import. It was written in that tone of respect which Gualtier had never lost but once, and which he had now resumed. He informed her that on leaving Chetwynde he had gone at once up to London, and found that Lord Chetwynde was stopping at the same hotel where he had put up last. He formed a bold design, which he put in execution, trusting to the fact that Lord Chetwynde had never seen him more than twice at the Castle, and on both occasions had seemed not even to have looked at him. He therefore got himself up very carefully in a foreign fashion, and, as he spoke French perfectly, he went to Lord Chetwynde and offered himself as a valet or courier. It happened that Lord Chetwynde actually needed a man to serve him in this capacity, a fact which Gualtier had found out in the hotel, and so the advent of the valet was quite welcome. After a brief conversation, and an inquiry into his knowledge of the languages and the routes of travel on the Continent, Lord Chetwynde examined his letters of recommendation, and, finding them very satisfactory, he took him into his employ. They remained two days longer in London, during which Gualtier made such good use of his time and opportunities that he managed to gain access to Lord Chetwynde's papers, but found among them nothing of any importance whatever, from which he concluded that all his papers of any consequence must have been deposited with his solicitors. At any rate it was impossible for him to find out any thing from this source.