Obed Chute paused. He did not look at her as he said this. He did not see the crimson flush that shot like lightning over that white and beautiful face. He looked away over the sea.
But a deep groan from Zillah aroused him.
He started and turned.
Her face was upturned to his with an expression of agony. She clasped his arms with a convulsive grasp, and seemed to gasp for breath.
"Oh God!" she cried. "Is this so? I must tell you this much, then--I will divulge my secret. Oh, my friend--I am married!"
CHAPTER LII.
A BETTER UNDERSTANDING.
For a long time not a word was spoken. Obed was thunder-struck by this intelligence. He looked at her in wonder, as her fair girlish face was turned toward him, not knowing how to receive this unparalleled communication.
"Oh, my friend," said Zillah, "have I ever in any way shown that I could have expected this? Yes, I am married--and it is about my marriage that the secret of my life has grown. Forgive me if I can not tell you more."
"Forgive you? What are you saying, my child?" said Obed Chute, tenderly. "I am the one who must be forgiven. I have disturbed and troubled you, when I was only seeking to secure your happiness."
By this time Obed had recovered from his surprise, and began to contemplate the present state of affairs in their new aspect. It certainly was strange that this young girl should be a married woman, but so it was; and what then? "What then?" was the question which suggested itself to Zillah also. Would it make any difference--or rather would it not make all the difference in the world? Hitherto she had felt unembarrassed in his society, but hereafter all would be different. Never again could she feel the same degree of ease as before in his presence. Would he not hereafter seem to her and to himself as a rejected lover?
But these thoughts soon were diverted into another channel by Obed Chute himself.
"So you are married?" said he, solemnly.
"Yes," faltered Zillah.
"Well, my child," said Obed, with that same tenderness in his voice, which was now so familiar to her, "whether it is for good or evil I do not seek to know. I only say this, that if there is any thing which I could do to secure your happiness, you could not find any one who would do more for you than Obed Chute."
"Oh, my friend!"
"Just now," said Obed Chute, "I asked you to be my wife. Do not avoid the subject, my child. I am not ashamed of having made that proposal. It was for your happiness, as I thought, as well as for my own. I loved you; and I thought that, perhaps, if you were my wife, I could make you happier than you now are. But since it is not to be, what then? Why, I love you none the less; and if you can not be my wife, you shall be my daughter. Do not look upon me as a passionate youth. My love is deep and tender and self-sacrificing. I think, perhaps, it is much more the love of a father than that of a husband, and that it is just as well that there are obstacles in the way of my proposal. Do not look so sad, my little child," continued Obed Chute, with increased tenderness. "Why should you? I am your friend, and you must love me as much as you can--like a daughter. Will you be a daughter to me? Will you trust me, my child, and brighten my life as you have been doing?"
He held out his hand.
Zillah took it, and burst into tears. A thousand contending emotions were in her heart and agitating her.
"Oh, my friend and benefactor!" said she; "how can I help giving you my love and my gratitude? You have been to me a father and a friend--"
"Say no more," said Obed, interrupting her. "It is enough. We will forget that this conversation has taken place. And as for myself, I will cherish your secret, my child. It is as safe with me as it would be with yourself only."
Now as he spoke, with his frank, generous face turned toward her, and the glow of affection in his eyes, Zillah felt as though it would be better to give him her full confidence and tell him all. In telling him that she was married she had made a beginning. Why should she not tell every thing, and make known the secret of her life? It would be safe with him. It would be a fair return for his generous affection. Above all, it would be frank and honest. He would then know all about her, and there would be nothing more to conceal.
Thus she thought; but still she shrank from such a confession and such a confidence. It would involve a disclosure of all the most solemn and sacred memories of her life. It would do violence to her most delicate instincts. Could she do this? It was impossible. Not unless Obed Chute insisted on knowing every thing could she venture to lay bare her past life, and make known the secrets of her heart. And she well knew that such a thing would never be required of her, at least by this generous friend. Indeed, she knew well that he would be most likely to refuse her confidence, even if she were to offer it on such an occasion as this.
"I feel," said Zillah at length, as these thoughts oppressed her, "that I am in a false position. You have been so generous to me that you have a right to know all about me. I ought to let you know my true name, and make you acquainted with the story of my life."
"You ought to do nothing of the sort," said Obed Chute. "There are some things which can not be breathed to any human being. Do you form so low an estimate of me, my dear child, as to think that I would wish to have your confidence unless it was absolutely necessary, and for your own good? No. You do not understand me. The affection which I have for you, which you call generosity, gives me no such claim, and it gives me no desire to tear open those wounds which your poor heart must feel so keenly. Nothing can prevent my loving you. I tell you you are my daughter. I accept you as you are. I wish to know nothing. I know enough of you from my knowledge of your character. I only know this, that you have suffered; and I should like very much to be able to console you or make you happier."
"You have done very much for me," said Zillah, looking at him with deep emotion.
"Nothing, as far as I am concerned; but it is pleasant to me to know that any thing which I have done is grateful to you," said Obed, calmly and benignantly. "Keep your secret to yourself, my dear child. You came to me from the sea; and I only hope that you will continue with me as long as you can to brighten my life, and let me hear your voice and see your face. And that is a simple wish. Is it not, my child?"
"You are overwhelming me with your goodness," said Zillah, with another grateful glance.
She was most grateful for the way in which Obed had given up his idea of matrimony. Had he shown the excitement of a disappointed lover, then there would have been a dark future before her. She would have had to leave his family, among whom she had found a home. But Obed showed nothing of this kind. He himself said that, if he could not have her as a wife, he would be satisfied to have her as a daughter. And when he learned that she was married, he at once took up the paternal attitude, and the affection which he expressed was that tender yet calm feeling which might become a father. At the expression of such a feeling as this Zillah's generous and loving heart responded, and all her nature warmed beneath its genial influence. Yes, she would be to him as a daughter; she would show him all the gratitude and devotion of which she was capable. Under such circumstances as these her life could go on as it had before, and the interview of to-day would not cast the slightest shadow over the sunshine of the future. So she felt, and so she said.
Obed took pains to assure her over and over again how entirely he had sunk all considerations of himself in his regard for her, and that the idea of making her his wife was not more precious than that of making her his daughter.
"It was to have you near me," said he, "to make you happy, to give you a home which should be all yours; but this can be done in another and a better way, my child: so I am content, if you are."
Before they left the place Zillah gave him, in general terms, an outline of her secret, without mentioning names and places. She said that she was married when very young, that her father had died, that the man to whom she had been married disliked her, and she had not seen him for years; that once she had seen a letter which he had written to a friend, in which he alluded to her in such insulting language, and with such expressions of abhorrence, that she had gone into seclusion, and had determined to preserve that seclusion till she died. Hilda, she said, had accompanied her, and she had believed her to be faithful until the recent discovery of her treachery.
This much Zillah felt herself bound to tell Obed Chute. From this he could at once understand her situation, while at the same time it would be impossible for him to know who she was or who her friends were. That she would not tell to any human being.
All the sympathies of Obed Chute's nature were aroused as he listened to what Zillah told him. He was indignant that she should have been led through any motive into such a marriage. In his heart he blamed her friends, whoever they were, and especially her father. But most of all he blamed this unknown husband of hers, who, after consenting to a marriage, had chosen to insult and revile her. What he thought he did not choose to say, but to himself he registered a vow that, if he could ever find out this villain, he would avenge all Zillah's wrongs in his heart's blood, which vow brought to his heart a great peace and calm.
This day was an eventful one for Zillah, but the result was not what might at one time have been feared. After such an interchange of confidence there was an understanding between her and her friend, which deepened the true and sincere friendship that existed between them. Zillah's manner toward him became more confiding, more trustful--in short, more filial. He, too, insensibly took up the part of a parent or guardian; yet he was as solicitous about her welfare and happiness as in the days when he had thought of making her his wife.
CHAPTER LIII.
BEYOND HIS REACH.
"Come!"
This was the word which Hilda had addressed to Gualtier in front of the Hôtel Gibbon at Lausanne, and, saying this, she tottered toward the door, supported by Gretchen. That stout German maid upheld her in her strong arms, as a mother might hold up a child as it learns to walk, ere yet its unsteady feet have found out the way to plant themselves. Gualtier had not yet got over the shock of such a surprise, but he saw her weakness, and was sufficiently himself to offer his arm to assist his mistress. But Hilda did not seem to see it. At any rate she did not accept the offer. Her only aim was to get into the hotel, and the assistance of Gretchen was quite enough for her.
Although Gretchen thus supported her, still even the slight exertion which she made, even the motion of her limbs which was required of her, though they scarcely felt her weight, was too much for her in her weakness and prostration. She panted for breath in her utter exhaustion, and at length, on reaching the hall, she stood for a few moments at the foot of the stairway, as though struggling to regain her breath, and then suddenly fainted away in the arms of Gretchen.
At this the stout maid took her in her arms, and carried her up stairs, while Gualtier led the way to the suite of apartments occupied by Lord Chetwynde. Here Hilda was placed on a sofa, and after a time came to herself.
She then told Gretchen to retire. The maid obeyed, and Hilda and Gualtier were left alone. The latter stood regarding her, with his pale face full of deep anxiety and apprehension, dreading he knew not what, and seeing in her something which seemed to take her beyond the reach of that coercion which he had once successfully applied to her.
"Tell me," cried Hilda, the instant that Gretchen had closed the door after her, looking around at the same time with something of her old sharp vigilance--"tell me, it is not too late yet to save him?"
"To_ save_ him!" repeated Gualtier.
"Yes. That is what brought me here."
Gualtier looked at her with eager scrutiny, seeking to fathom her full meaning. Suspecting the truth, he was yet unwilling to believe it. His answer was given in slow, deliberate tones.
"No," said he, "it is--not--yet--too--late--to--save him--if that is really what you wish."
"That is what I have come for," said Hilda; "I am going to take my place at his bedside, to undo the past, and bring him back to life. That is my purpose. Do you hear?" she said, while her white lips quivered with excitement, and her shattered frame trembled with the intensity of her emotion.
"I hear, my lady," said Gualtier, with his old respect, but with a dull light in his gray eyes, and a cold and stern intonation which told of the anger which was rising within him.
Once he had shaken off her authority, and had spoken to her with the tone of a master. It was not probable that he would recede now from the stand which he had then taken. But, on the other hand, Hilda did not now seem like one over whom his old menaces would have any effect. There was in her, besides her suffering, an air of reckless self-sacrifice, which made it seem as if no threats of his could again affect her.
"You hear?" said she, with feverish impatience. "Have you nothing more to say?"
"No, nothing. It is for you to speak," said Gualtier, gruffly. "You began."
"He must be saved," said Hilda; "and I must save him; and you must help me."
Gualtier turned away his head, while a dark frown came over his face. The gesture excited Hilda still more.
"What!" she hissed, springing to her feet, and grasping his arm, "do you hesitate? Do you refuse to assist me?"
"Our relations are changed," said Gualtier, slowly, turning round as he spoke. "This thing I will not do. I have begun my work."
As he turned he encountered the eyes of Hilda, which were fixed on him--stern, wrathful, menacing.
"You have begun it!" she repeated. "It was my work--not yours. I order you to desist, and you must obey. You can not do any thing else. To go on is impossible, if I stand between you and him. Only one thing is left for you, and that is to obey me, and assist me as before."
"Obey you!" said Gualtier, with a cold and almost ferocious glance. "The time for obedience I think is past. That much you ought to know. And what is it that you ask? What? To thrust from me the dearest hope of my life, and just as it was reaching fruition."
Hilda's eyes were fastened on Gualtier as he said these words. The scorn with which he disowned any obedience, the confidence with which he spoke of that renunciation of his former subordination, were but ill in accordance with those words with which he expressed his "dearest hope."
"Dearest hope!" said Hilda--"fruition! If you knew any thing, you would know that the time for that is rapidly passing, and only your prompt obedience and assistance will benefit you now."
"Pardon me," said Gualtier, hastily; "I forgot myself in my excitement. But you ask impossible things. I can not help you here. The obstacle between you and me was nearly removed--and you ask me to replace it."
"Obstacle!" said Hilda, in scorn. "Is it thus that you mention _him_?" In her weakness her wrath and indignation burst forth. "That man whom you call an obstacle is one for whose sake I have dragged myself over hundreds of miles; for whom I am now ready to lay down my life. Do not wonder. Do not question me. Call it passion--madness--any thing--but do not attempt to thwart me. Speak now. Will you help me or not?"
"Help you!" cried Gualtier, bitterly, "help you! to what? to do that which will destroy my last hope--and after I have extorted from you your promise! Ask me any thing else."
"I want nothing else."
"You may yet want my aid."
"If you do not help me now, I shall never want you."
"You have needed me before, and will need me again."
"If _he_ dies, I shall never need you again."
"If _he_ dies, that is the very time when you will need me."
"No, I shall not--for if _he_ dies I will die myself!" cried Hilda, in a burst of uncontrollable passion.
Gualtier started, and his heart sank within him. Long and earnestly he looked at her, but he saw that this was more than a fitful outburst of passion. Looking on her face with its stern and fixed resolve, with its intense meaning, he knew that what she had said was none other than her calm, set purpose. He saw it in every one of those faded lineaments, upon which such a change had been wrought in so short a time. He read it in the hollows round her eyes, in her sunken cheeks, in her white, bloodless lips, in her thin, emaciated hands, which were now clenched in desperate resolve. From this he saw that there was no appeal. He learned how strong that passion must be which had thus overmastered her, and was consuming all the energies of her powerful nature. To this she was sacrificing the labor of years, and all the prospects which now lay before her; to this she gave up all her future life, with all its possibilities of wealth and honor and station. A coronet, a castle, a princely revenue, rank, wealth, and title, all lay before her within her grasp; yet now she turned her back upon them, and came to the bedside of the man whose death was necessary to her success, to save him from death. She trampled her own interests in the dust; she threw to the winds the hard-won results of treachery and crime, and only that she might be near him who abhorred her, and whose first word on coming back to consciousness might be an imprecation. Beside this man who hated her, he who adored her was as nothing, and all his devotion and all his adoration were in one moment forgotten.
All these thoughts flashed through the mind of Gualtier as at that instant he comprehended the situation. And what was he to do? Could he associate himself with her in this new purpose? He could not. He might have refrained from the work of death at the outset, if she had bid him refrain, but now that he had begun it, it was not easy to give it up. She had set him to the task. It had been doubly sweet to him. First, it was a delight to his own vindictive nature; and secondly, he had flattered himself that this would be an offering well pleasing to the woman whom he adored. She had set him to this task, and when it was fully completed he might hope for an adequate reward. From the death of this man he had accustomed himself to look forward in anticipation of the highest happiness for himself. All his future grew bright from the darkness of this deed.
Now in one instant his dream was dispelled. The very one who had commanded him to do this now came in a kind of frenzy, with a face like that of death, bidding him to stay his hand. Deep, dark, and bitter was that disappointment, and all the more so from its utter suddenness. And because he could read in her face and in her words not only the change that had taken place, but also the cause of that change, the revulsion of feeling within himself became the more intolerable. His nature rose up in rebellion against this capricious being. How could he yield to her wishes here? He could not sway with every varying feeling of hers. He could not thus retire from his unfinished work, and give up his vengeance.
Indignant as he was, there was yet something in Hilda's countenance which stirred to its depths the deep passion of his soul. Her face had the expression of one who had made up her mind to die. To such a one what words could he say--what arguments could he use? For a time pity overmastered anger, and his answer was mild.
"You ask impossibilities," said he. "In no case can I help you. I will not even let you do what you propose."
Hilda looked at him with a cold glance of scorn. She seated herself once more.
"You will not let me!" she repeated.
"Certainly not. I shall go on with the work which I have begun. But I will see that you receive the best attention. You are excited now. Shall I tell the maid to come to you? You had better put an end to this interview; it is too much for you. You need rest."
Gualtier spoke quietly, and seemed really to feel some anxiety about her excitement. But he miscalculated utterly the nature of Hilda, and relied too much on the fact that he had once terrified her. These cool words threw into Hilda a vivid excitement of feeling, which for a time turned all her thoughts upon this man, who under such circumstances dared to resume that tone of impudent superiority which once before he had ventured to adopt. Her strength revived under such a stimulus, and for a time her bitter contempt and indignation stilled the deep sorrow and anxiety of her heart.
The voice with which she answered was no longer agitated or excited. It was cool, firm, and penetrating--a tone which reminded him of her old domineering manner.
"You are not asked to give up your work," said she. "It is done. You are dismissed."
"Dismissed!" said Gualtier, with a sneer. "You ought to know that I am not one who can be dismissed."
"I know that you can be, and that you are," said Hilda. "If you were capable of understanding me you would know this. But you, base and low-born hireling that you are, what can there be in common between one like you and one like me?"
"One thing," said Gualtier. "_Crime_!"
Hilda changed not a feature.
"What care I for that? It is over. I have passed into another life. Your coarse and vulgar threats avail nothing. This moment ends all communication between us forever. You may do what you like. All your threats are useless. Finally, you must go away at once."
"Go away?"
"Yes--at once--and forever. These rooms shall never see you again. _I_ am here, and will stay here."
"You?"
"_I_."
"You have no right here."
"I have."
"What right?"
"The right of _love_," said Hilda. "I come to save him!"
"You tried to kill him."
"That is passed. I will save him now."
"You are mad. You know that this is idle. You know that I am a determined and desperate man."
"Pooh! What is the determination or the desperation of one like you? I know well what you think. Once you were able to move me by your threats. That is passed. My resolve and my despair have placed me beyond your reach forever. Go--go away. Begone! Take your threats with you, and do your worst."
"You are mad--you are utterly mad," said Gualtier, confounded at the desperation of one whom he felt was so utterly in his power; one, too, who herself must have known this. "You have forgotten your past. Will you force me to remind you of it?"
"I have forgotten nothing," said Hilda; "but I care nothing for it."
"You must care for it. You will be forced to. Your future happens to depend on it."
"My future happens to be equally indifferent to me," said Hilda. "I have given up all my plans and hopes. I am beyond your reach, at any rate. You are powerless against me now."
Gualtier smiled.
"You speak lightly," said he, "of the past and the future. You are excited. If you think calmly about your position, you will see that you are now more in my power than ever; and you will see, also, that I am willing to use that power. Do not drive me to extremes."
"These are your old threats," said Hilda, with bitter contempt. "They are stale now."
"Stale!" repeated Gualtier. "There are things which can never be stale, and in such things you and I have been partners. Must I remind you of them?"
"It's not at all necessary. You had much better leave, and go back to England, or any where else."
These words stung Gualtier.
"I will recall them," he cried, in a low, fierce voice. "You have a convenient memory, and may succeed for a time in banishing your thoughts, but you have that on your soul which no efforts of yours can banish--things which must haunt you, cold-blooded as you are, even as they have haunted me--my God!--and haunt me yet."
"The state of your mind is of no concern to me. You had better obey my order, and go, so as not to add any more to your present apparent troubles."
"Your taunts are foolish," said Gualtier, savagely. "You are in my power. What if I use it?"
"Use it, then."
Gualtier made a gesture of despair.
"Do you know what it means?" he exclaimed.
"I suppose so."