"You do not--you can not. It means the downfall of all your hopes, your desires, your plans."
"I tell you I no longer care for things like those."
"You do not mean it--you can not. What! can you come down from being Lady Chetwynde to plain Hilda Krieff?"
"I have implied that, I believe," said Hilda, in the same tone. "Now you understand me. Go and pull me down as fast as you like."
"But," said Gualtier, more excitedly, "you do not know what you are saying. There is something more in store for you than mere humiliation--something worse than a change in station--something more terrible than ruin itself. You are a criminal. You know it. It is for this that you must give your account. And, remember, such crimes as yours are not common ones. Such victims as the Earl of Chetwynde and Zillah are not those whom one can sacrifice with impunity. It is such as these that will be traced back to you, and woe be to you when their blood is required at your hands! Can you face this prospect? Is this future so very indifferent to you? If you have nothing like remorse, are you also utterly destitute of fear?"
"Yes," said Hilda.
"I don't believe it," said Gualtier, rudely.
"That is because you think I have no alternative," said Hilda; "it is a mistake into which a base and cowardly nature might naturally fall."
"You have no alternative," said Gualtier. "It's impossible."
"I have," said Hilda, calmly.
"What?"
She whispered one word. It struck upon Gualtier's ear with fearful emphasis. It was the same word which she had once whispered to him in the park at Chetwynde. He recoiled with horror. A shudder passed through him. Hilda looked at him with calm and unchanged contempt.
"You dare not," he cried.
"Dare not?" she repeated. "What I dare administer to others I dare administer to myself. Go and perform your threats! Go with your information--go and let loose the authorities upon me! Go! Haste! Go--and see--see how quickly and how completely I will elude your grasp! As for you--your power is gone. You made one effort to exert it, and succeeded for the moment. But that has passed away. Never--never more can any threats of yours move me in the slightest. You know that I am resolute. Whether you believe that I am resolute about this matter or not makes no difference whatever to me. You are to go from this place at once--away from this place, and this town. That is my mandate. I am going to stay; and, since you have refused your assistance, I will do without it henceforth."
At these words Gualtier's face grew pale with rage and despair. He knew well Hilda's resolute character. That her last determination would be carried out he could scarcely doubt. Yet still his rage and his pride burst forth.
"Hilda Krieff," said he, for the first time discarding the pretense of respect and the false title by which he had so long addressed her, "do you not know who you are? What right have you to order me away, and stay here yourself--you with the Earl of Chetwynde--you, an unmarried girl? Answer me that, Hilda Krieff."
"What right?" said Hilda, as loftily as before, utterly unmoved by this utterance of her true name. "What right? The right of one who comes in love to save the object of her love. That is all. By that right I dismiss you. I drive you away, and stand myself by his bedside."
"You are very bold and very reckless," said he, with his white face turned toward her, half in rage, half in despair. "You are flinging yourself into a position which it will be impossible for you to hold, and you are insulting and defying one who can at any moment have you thrust from the place. I, if I chose, could now, at this instant, have you arrested, and in this very room."
"You!" said Hilda, with a sneer.
"Yes, I," said Gualtier, emphatically. "I have but to lodge my information with the authorities against you, and before ten minutes you would be carried away from this place, and separated from that man forever. Yes, Hilda Krieff, I can do that, and you know it; and yet you dare to taunt me and insult me, and drive me on to do things of which I might afterward repent. God knows I do not wish to do any thing but what is in accordance with your will. At this moment I would still obey any of your commands but this one; yet you try me more than mortal nature can endure, and I warn you that I will not bear it."
Hilda laughed.
Since this interview had commenced, instead of growing weaker, she had seemed rather to grow stronger. It was as though the excitement had been a stimulus, and had roused her to a new life. It had torn her thoughts suddenly and violently away from the things over which she had long brooded. Pride had been stirred up, and had repaired the ravages of love. At this last threat of Gualtier's she laughed.
"Poor creature!" she said. "And do you really think you can do any thing here? Your only place where you have any chance is in England, and then only by long and careful preparation. What could you do here in Lausanne?"
"I could have you flung in prison, and separated from him forever," said Gualtier, fiercely.
"You! you! And pray do you know who you are? Lord Chetwynde's valet! And who would take your word against Lord Chetwynde's wife?"
"That you are not."
"I am," said Hilda, firmly.
"My God! what do you mean?"
"I mean that I will stand up for my rights, and crush you into dust if you dare to enter into any frantic attempt against me here. You! why, what are you? You are Lord Chetwynde's scoundrel valet, who plotted against his master. Here in these rooms are the witnesses and the proofs of your crimes. You would bring an accusation against me, would you? You would inform the magistrates, perhaps, that I am not Lady Chetwynde--that I am an impostor--that my true name is Hilda Krieff--that I sent you on an errand to destroy your master? And pray have you thought how you could prove so wild and so improbable a fiction? Is there one thing that you could bring forward? Is there one living being who would sustain the charge? You know that there is nothing. Your vile slander would only recoil on your own head; and even if I did nothing--even if I treated you and your charge with silent contempt, you yourself would suffer, for the charge would excite such suspicion against you that you would undoubtedly be arrested.
"But, unfortunately for you, I would not be silent. I would come forward and tell the magistrates the whole truth. And I think, without self-conceit, there is enough in my appearance to win for me belief against the wild and frenzied fancies of a vulgar valet like you. Who would believe you when Lady Chetwynde came forward to tell her story, and to testify against you?
"I will tell you what Lady Chetwynde would have to say. She would tell how she once employed you in England; how you suffered some slight from her; how you were dismissed from her service. That then you went to London, and engaged yourself as valet to Lord Chetwynde, by whom you were not known; that, out of vengeance, you determined to ruin him. That Lady Chetwynde Was anxious about her husband, and, hearing of his illness, followed him from place to place; that, owing to her intense anxiety, she broke down and nearly died; that she finally reached this place to find her villainous servant--the one whom she had dismissed--acting as her husband's valet. That she turned him off on the spot, whereupon he went to the authorities, and lodged some malicious and insane charges against her. But Lady Chetwynde would have more than this to say. She could show _certain vials_, which are no doubt in these rooms, to a doctor; and he could analyze their contents; and he could tell to the court what it was that had caused this mysterious disease to one who had always before been so healthy. And where do you think your charge would be in the face of Lady Chetwynde's story; in the face of the evidence of the vials and the doctor's analysis?"
Hilda paused and regarded Gualtier with cold contempt. Gualtier felt the terrible truth of all that she had said. He saw that here in Lausanne he had no chance. If he wished for vengeance he would have to delay it. And yet he did not wish for any vengeance on her. She had for the present eluded his grasp. In spite of his assertion of power over her--in spite of the coercion by which he had once extorted a promise from her--he was, after all, full of that same all-absorbing love and idolizing affection for her which had made him for so many years her willing slave and her blind tool. Now this sudden reassertion of her old supremacy, while it roused all his pride and stimulated his anger, excited also at the same time his admiration.
He spoke at length, and his tone was one of sadness.
"There is one other thing which is against me," said he; "my own heart. I can not do any thing against you."
"Your heart," said Hilda, "is very ready to hold you back when you see danger ahead."
Gualtier's pale face flushed.
"That's false," said he, "and you know it. Did my heart quail on that midnight sea when I was face to face with four ruffians and quelled their mutiny? You have already told me that it was a bold act."
"Well, at least you were armed, and they were not," said Hilda, with unchanged scorn.
"Enough," cried Gualtier, flushing a deeper and an angrier red. "I will argue with you no more. I will yield to you this time. I will leave the hotel and Lausanne. I will go to England. _He_ shall be under your care, and you may do what you choose.
"But remember this," he continued, warningly. "I have your promise, given to me solemnly, and that promise I will yet claim. This man may recover; but, if he does, it will only be to despise you. His abhorrence will be the only reward that you can expect for your passion and your mad self-sacrifice. But even if it were possible for him to love you--yes, to love you as you love him--even then you could not have him. For I live; and while I live you could never be his: No, never. I have your promise, and I will come between you and him to sunder you forever and to cast you down. That much, at least, I can do, and you know it.
"And now farewell for the present. In any event you will need me again. I shall go to Chetwynde Castle, and wait there till I am wanted. The time will yet come, and that soon, when you will again wish my help. I will give you six months to try to carry out this wild plan of yours. At the end of that time I shall have something to do and to say; but I expect to be needed before then. If I am needed, you may rely upon me as before. I will forget every injury and be as devoted as ever."
With these ominous words Gualtier withdrew.
Hilda sank back in her chair exhausted, and sat for some time pressing her hand on her heart.
At length she summoned her strength, and, rising to her feet, she walked feebly through several rooms. Finally she reached one which was darkened. A bed was there, on which lay a figure. The figure was quite motionless; but her heart told her who this might be.
CHAPTER LIV.
NURSING THE SICK.
The figure that lay upon the bed as Hilda entered the room sent a shock to her heart at the first glance. Very different was this one from that tall, strong man who but lately, in all the pride of manly beauty and matured strength, overawed her by his presence. What was he now? Where now was all that virile force, and strong, resistless nature, whose overmastering power she had experienced? Alas! but little of it could be seen in this wasted and emaciated figure that now lay before her, seemingly at the last verge of life. His features had grown thin and attenuated, his lips were drawn tight over his teeth, his face had the stamp of something like death upon it. He was sleeping fitfully, but his eyes were only half closed. His thin, bony hands moved restlessly about, and his lips muttered inarticulate words from time to time. Hilda placed her hand on his forehead. It was cold and damp. The cold sent a chill through every nerve. She bent down low over him. She devoured him with her eyes. That face, worn away by the progress of disease, that now lay unconscious, and without a ray of intelligence beneath her, was yet to her the best thing in all the world, and the one for which she would willingly give up the world. She stooped low down. She pressed her lips to his cold forehead. An instant she hesitated, and then she pressed her lips this time to the white lips that were before her. The long, passionate kiss did not wake the slumberer. He knew not that over him was bending one who had once sent him to death, but who now would give her own life to bring him back from that death to which she had sent him.
Such is the change which can be worked in the basest nature by the power of almighty love. Here it was made manifest. These lips had once given the kiss of Judas. On this face of hers the Earl of Chetwynde had gazed in horror; and these hands of hers, that now touched tremblingly the brow of the sick man, had once wrought out on him that which would never be made known. But the lips which once gave the kiss of Judas now gave that kiss which was the outpouring of the devotion of all her soul, and these hands were ready to deal death to herself to rescue him from evil. She twined her arms around his neck, and gazed at him as though her longing eyes would devour every lineament of his features. Again and again she pressed her lips to his, as though she would thus force upon him life and health and strength. But the sick man lay unconscious in her arms, all unheeding that full tide of passionate love which was surging and swelling within her bosom.
At last footsteps aroused her. A woman entered. She walked to the bedside and looked with tender sympathy at Hilda. She had heard from Gretchen that this was Lady Chetwynde, who had come to nurse her husband.
"Are you the nurse?" asked Hilda, who divined at one glance the character of the newcomer.
"Yes, my lady."
"Well, I am to be the nurse after this, but I should like you to remain. You can wait in one of the ante-rooms."
"Forgive me, my lady, if I say that you yourself are in need of a nurse. You will not be able to endure this fatigue. You look overworn now. Will you not take some rest?"
"No," said Hilda, sharply and decisively.
"My lady," said the nurse, "I will watch while you are resting."
"I shall not leave the room."
"Then, my lady, I will spread a mattress on the sofa, and you may lie down."
"No, I am best here by his side. Here I can get the only rest and the only strength that I want. I must be near enough to touch his hand and to see his face. Here I will stay."
"But, my lady, you will break down utterly."
"No, I shall not break down. I shall be strong enough to watch him until he is either better or worse. If he gets better, he will bring me back to health; if he gets worse, I will accompany him to the tomb."
Hilda spoke desperately. Her old self-control, her reticence, and calm had departed. The nurse looked at her with a face full of sympathy, and said not a word. The sight of this young and beautiful wife, herself so weak, so wan, and yet so devoted, so young and beautiful, yet so wasted and emaciated, whose only desire was to live or die by the side of her husband, roused all the feelings of her heart. To some Hilda's conduct would have been unintelligible; but this honest Swiss nurse was kind-hearted and sentimental, and the fervid devotion and utter self-abnegation of Hilda brought tears to her eyes.
"Ah, my lady," said she, "I see I shall soon have two to nurse."
"Well, if you have, it will not be for long," said Hilda.
The nurse sighed and was silent.
"May I remain, my lady, or shall I go?" she asked.
"You may go just now. See how my maid is doing, and if she wants any directions."
The nurse retired, and Hilda was again alone with the sick man. She sat on the bedside leaning over him, and twined her arms about him. There, as he lay, in his weakness and senselessness, she saw her own work. It was she, and no other, who had doomed him to this. Too well had her agent earned out the fatal commission which she had given. As his valet he had had constant access to the person of Lord Chetwynde, and had used his opportunities well. She understood perfectly how it was that such a thing as this had been brought about. She knew every part of the dread process, and had read enough to know the inevitable results.
And now--would he live or die? Life was low. Would it ever rally again? Had she come in time to save him, or was it all too late? The reproaches which she hurled against herself were now overwhelming her, and these reproaches alternated with feelings of intense tenderness. She was weak from her own recent illness, from the unwonted fatigue which she had endured, and from the excitement of that recent interview with Gualtier. Thus torn and tossed and distracted by a thousand contending emotions, Hilda sat there until at length weakness and fatigue overpowered her. It seemed to her that a change was coming over the face of the sick man. Suddenly he moved, and in such a way that his face was turned full toward her as he lay on his side. At that moment it seemed to her that the worst had come--that at last death himself had placed his stamp there, and that there was now no more hope. The horror of this fancy altogether overcame her. She fell forward and sank down.
No; I Am Best Here By His Side.
[Illustration: "No; I Am Best Here By His Side."]
When at length the nurse returned she found Hilda senseless, lying on the bed, with her arm still under the head of Lord Chetwynde. She called Gretchen, and the two made a bed on the sofa, where they lifted Hilda with tenderest care. She lay long unconscious, but at last she recovered. Her first thoughts were full of bewilderment, but finally she comprehended the whole situation.
Now at length she found that she had been wasting precious moments upon useless reflections and idle self-reproaches. If she had come to save, that safety ought not to be delayed. She hurriedly drew from her pocket a vial and opened it. It was the same which she had obtained from the London druggist. She smelled it, and then tasted it. After this she rose up, in spite of the solicitations of the nurse and Gretchen, and tottered toward the bed with unsteady steps, supported by her attendants. Then she seated herself on the bedside, and, asking for a spoon, she tried with a trembling hand to pour out some of the mixture from the vial. Her hands shook so that she could not. In despair she allowed the nurse to administer it, while Gretchen supported her, seating herself behind her in such a way that Hilda could lean against her, and still see the face of the sick man. In this position she watched while the nurse put the liquid into Lord Chetwynde's mouth, and saw him swallow it.
"My lady, you must lie down, or you will never get over this," said the nurse, earnestly, and passing her arms around Hilda, she gently drew her back to the sofa, assisted by Gretchen. Hilda allowed herself to be moved back without a word. For the remainder of that day she watched, lying on her sofa, and gave directions about the regular administration of the medicine. At her request they drew the sofa close up to the bedside of Lord Chetwynde, and propped her up high with pillows. There she lay weakly, with her face turned toward him, and her hand clasping his.
Night came, and Hilda still watched. Fatigue and weakness were fast overpowering her. Against these she struggled bravely, and lay with her eyes fixed on Lord Chetwynde. In that sharp exercise of her senses, which were all aroused in his behalf, she became at last aware of the fact that they were getting beyond her control. Before her eyes, as she gazed upon this man, there came other and different visions. She saw another sick-bed, in a different room from this, with another form stretched upon it--a form like this, yet unlike, for it was older--a form with venerable gray hairs, with white, emaciated face, and with eyes full of fear and entreaty. At that sight horror came over her. She tried to rouse herself from the fearful state into which she was drifting. She summoned up all that remained of her physical and mental energy. The struggle was severe. All things round her seemed to change incessantly into the semblances of other things; the phantoms of a dead past--a dead but not a forgotten past--crowded around her, and all the force of her will was unavailing to repel them. She shuddered as she discovered the full extent of her own weakness, and saw where she was drifting. For she was drifting helplessly into the realm of shadowy memories; into the place where the past holds its empire; surrounded by all those forms which time and circumstance have rendered dreadful; forms from which memory shrinks, at whose aspect the soul loses all its strength. Here they were before her; kept back so long, they now crowded upon her; they asserted themselves, they forced themselves before her in her weakness. Her brain reeled; the strong, active intellect, which in health had been so powerful, now, in her hour of weakness, failed her. She struggled against these horrors, but the struggle was unavailing, and at last she yielded--she failed--she sank down headlong and helplessly into the abyss of forgotten things, into the thick throng of forms and images from which for so long a time she had kept herself apart.
Now they came before her.
The room changed to the old room at Chetwynde Castle. There was the window looking out upon the park. There was the door opening into the hall. Zillah stood there, pale and fearful, bidding her good-night. There was the bed upon which lay the form of a venerable man, whose face was ever turned toward her with its expression of fear, and of piteous entreaty. "Don't leave me," he murmured to the phantom form of Zillah. "Don't leave me with her," and his thin finger pointed to herself. But Zillah, ignorant of all danger, promised to send Mrs. Hart. And Zillah walked out, standing at the door for a time to give her last look--the look which the phantom of this vision now had. Then, with a momentary glance, the phantom figure of Zillah faded away, and only the prostrate figure of the Earl appeared before her, with the white face, and the venerable hair, and the imploring eyes.
Then she walked to the window and looked out; then she walked to the door and looked down the hall. Silence was every where. All were asleep. No eye beheld her. Then she returned. She saw the white face of the sick man, and the imploring eyes encountered hers. Again she walked to the window; then she went to his bedside. She stooped down. His white face was beneath her, with the imploring eyes. She kissed him.
"Judas!"
That was the sound that she heard--the last sound--for soon in that abhorrent vision the form of the dead lay before her, and around it the household gathered; and Zillah sat there, with a face of agony, looking up to her and saying:
"I am the next victim!"
Then all things were forgotten, and innumerable forms and phantoms came confusedly together.
She was in delirium.
CHAPTER LV.
SETTING A TRAP.
Gualtier was true to his word. On the evening of the day when he had that interview with Hilda he left the hotel, and Lausanne also, and set out for England. On the way he had much to think of, and his thoughts were not at all pleasant. This frenzy of Hilda's had taken him by complete surprise, and her utter recklessness of life, or all the things most desirable in life, were things on which he had never counted. Her dark resolve also which she had announced to him, the coolness with which she listened to his menaces, and the stern way in which she turned on him with menaces of her own, showed him plainly that, for the present at least, she was beyond his reach, and nothing which he might do could in any way affect her. Only one thing gave him hope, and that was the utter madness and impossibility of her design. He did not know what might have passed between her and Lord Chetwynde before, but he conjectured that she had been treated with insult great enough to inspire her with a thirst for vengeance. He now hoped that Lord Chetwynde, if he did recover, would regard her as before. He was not a man to change; his mind had been deeply imbittered against the woman whom he believed his wife, and recovery of sense would not lessen that bitterness. So Gualtier thought, and tried to believe, yet in his thoughts he also considered the possibility of a reconciliation. And, if such a thing could take place, then his mind was fully made up what to do. He would trample out all feelings of tenderness, and sacrifice love to full and complete vengeance. That reconciliation should be made short-lived, and should end in utter ruin to Hilda, even if he himself descended into the same abyss with her.
Thoughts like these occupied his mind until he reached London. Then he drove to the Strand Hotel, and took two front-rooms on the second story looking out upon the street, commanding a view of the dense crowd that always went thronging by.
Here, on the evening of his arrival, his thoughts turned to his old lodging-house, and to those numerous articles of value which he had left there. He had once made up his mind to let them go, and never seek to regain possession of them. He was conscious that to do so would be to endanger his safety, and perhaps to put a watchful pursuer once more on his track. Yet there was something in the thought which was attractive. Those articles were of great intrinsic value, and some of them were precious souvenirs, of little worth to any one else, yet to him beyond Would it not be worth while to make an effort at least to regain possession of them? If it could be done, it would represent so much money at the least, and that was a thing which it was needful for him to consider. And, in any case, those mementoes of the past were sufficiently valuable to call for some effort and some risk. The more he thought of this, the more resistless became the temptation to make this effort and run this risk.
And what danger was there? What was the risk, and what was there to fear? Only one person was in existence from whom any danger could possibly be apprehended. That one was Black Bill, who had tracked him to London, and afterward watched at his lodgings, and whom he had feared so much that for his sake, and for his alone, he had given up every thing. And now the question that arose was this, did Black Bill really require so much precaution, and so great a sacrifice? It was not likely that Black Bill could have given any information to the police; that would have been too dangerous to himself. Besides, if the police had heard of such a story, they would have given some sign. In England every thing is known, and the police are forced to work openly. Their detective system is a clumsy one compared with the vast system of secrecy carried on on the Continent. Had they found out any thing whatever about so important a case as this, some kind of notice or other would have appeared in the papers. Gualtier had never ceased to watch for some such notice, but had never found one. So, with such opinions about the English police, he naturally concluded that they knew nothing about him.
It was therefore Black Bill, and Black Bill only, against whom he had to guard. As for him it was indeed possible, he thought, that he was still watching, but hardly probable. He was not in a position to spend so many months in idle watching, nor was he able to employ a confederate. Still less was it possible for such a man to win the landlord over to his side, and thus get his assistance. The more he thought of these things the more useless did it seem to entertain any further fear, and the more irresistible did his desire become to regain possession of those articles, which to him were of so much value. Under such circumstances, he finally resolved to make an effort.
Yet, so cautious was he by nature, so wary and vigilant, and so accustomed to be on his guard, that in this case he determined to run no risk by any exposure of his person to observation. He therefore deliberated carefully about various modes by which he could apply to the landlord. At first he thought of a disguise; but finally rejected this idea, thinking that, if Black Bill were really watching, he would expect some kind of a disguise. At last he decided that it would be safest to find some kind of a messenger, and send him, after instructing him what to ask for and what to say.
With this resolve he took a walk out on the Strand on the following morning, looking carefully at the faces of the great multitude which thronged the street, and trying to find some one who might be suited to his purpose. In that crowd there were many who would have gladly undertaken his business if he had asked them, but Gualtier had made up his mind as to the kind of messenger which would be best suited to him, and was unwilling to take any other.
Among the multitude which London holds almost any type of man can be found, if one looks long enough. The one which Gualtier wished is a common kind there, and he did not have a long search. A street boy, sharp, quick-witted, nimble, cunning--hat was what he wanted, and that was what he found, after regarding many different specimens of that tribe and rejecting them. The boy whom he selected was somewhat less ragged than his companions, with a demure face, which, however, to his scrutinizing eyes, did not conceal the precocious maturity of mind and fertility of resource which lay beneath. A few words sufficed to explain his wish, and the boy eagerly accepted the task. Gualtier then took him to a cheap clothing store, and had him dressed in clothes which gave him the appearance of being the son of some small tradesman. After this he took him to his room in the hotel, and carefully instructed him in the part that he was to perform. The boy's wits were quickened by London life; the promise of a handsome reward quickened them still more, and at length, after a final questioning, in which he did his part to satisfaction, Gualtier gave him the address of the lodging-house.