"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.
My Boy, Have You Ever Heard About Your Mother?
[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.