"Be quiet!" she cried, in a voice which was scarce audible from passion. "Can you not let me forget my shame and disgrace for one moment? Why must you thrust it in my face?"
Hilda's little suggestion thus brought full before Zillah's mind one galling yet undeniable truth, which showed her an insurmountable obstacle in the way of her plan. To one utterly unaccustomed to control of any kind, the thought added fresh rage, and she now sought refuge in thinking how she could best encounter her new enemy, Lord Chetwynde, and what she might say to show how she scorned him and his son. She succeeded in arranging a very promising plan of action, and made up many very bitter and insulting speeches, out of which she selected one which seemed to be the most cutting, galling, and insulting which she could think of. It was very nearly the same language which she had used to Guy, and the same taunts were repeated in a somewhat more pointed manner.
At length Lord Chetwynde arrived, and Zillah, after refusing to see him for two days, went down. She entered the drawing-room, her heart on fire, and her brain seething with bitter words, and looked up to see her enemy. That enemy, however, was an old man whose sight was too dim to see the malignant glance of her dark eyes, and the fierce passion of her face. Knowing that she was coming, he was awaiting her, and Zillah on looking up saw him. That first sight at once quelled her fury. She saw a noble and refined face, whereon there was an expression of tenderest sympathy. Before she could recover from the shock which the sight of such a face had given to her passion he had advanced rapidly toward her, took her in his arms, and kissed her tenderly.
"My poor child," he said, in a voice of indescribable sweetness--"my poor orphan child, I can not tell how I feel for you; but you belong to me now. I will try to be another father."
The tones of his voice were so full of affection that Zillah, who was always sensitive to the power of love and kindness, was instantly softened and subdued. Before the touch of that kiss of love and those words of tenderness every emotion of anger fled away; her passion subsided; she forgot all her vengeance, and, taking his hand in both of hers, she burst into tears.
The Earl gently led her to a seat. In a low voice full of the same tender affection he began to talk of her father, of their old friendship in the long-vanished youth, of her father's noble nature, and self-sacrificing character; till his fond eulogies of his dead friend awakened in Zillah, even amidst her grief for the dead, a thousand reminiscences of his character when alive, and she began to feel that one who so knew and loved her father must himself have been most worthy to be her father's friend.
It was thus that her first interview with the Earl dispelled her vindictive passion. At once she began to look upon him as the one who was best adapted to fill her father's place, if that place could ever be filled. The more she saw of him, the more her new-born affection for him strengthened, and during the week which he spent at Pomeroy Court she had become so greatly changed that she looked back to her old feelings of hate with mournful wonder.
In due time the General's will was read. It was very simple: Thirty thousand pounds were left to Zillah. To Hilda three thousand pounds were left as a tribute of affection to one who had been to him, as he said, "like a daughter."
Hilda he recommended most earnestly to the care and affection of Lord Chetwynde, and desired that she and Zillah should never be separated unless they themselves desired it. To that last request of his dying friend Lord Chetwynde proved faithful. He addressed Hilda with kindness and affection, expressed sympathy with her in the loss of her benefactor, and promised to do all in his power to make good the loss which she had suffered in his death. She and Zillah, he told her, might live as sisters in Chetwynde Castle. Perhaps the time might come when their grief would be alleviated, and then they would both learn to look upon him with something of that affection which they had felt for General Pomeroy.
When Hilda and Zillah went with the Earl to Chetwynde Castle there was one other who was invited there, and who afterward followed. This was Gualtier. Hilda had recommended him; and as the Earl was very anxious that Zillah should not grow up to womanhood without further education, he caught at the idea which Hilda had thrown out. So before leaving he sought out Gualtier, and proposed that he should continue his instructions at Chetwynde.
"You can live very well in the village," said the Earl. "There are families there with whom you can lodge comfortably. Mrs. Molyneux is acquainted with you and your style of teaching, and therefore I would prefer you to any other."
Gualtier bowed so low that the flush of pleasure which came over his sallow face, and his smile of ill-concealed triumph, could not be seen.
"You are too kind, my lord," he said, obsequiously. "I have always done my best in my instructions, and will humbly endeavor to do so in the future."
So Gualtier followed them, and arrived at Chetwynde a short time after them, bearing with him his power, or perhaps his fate, to influence Zillah's fortunes and future.
Chetwynde Castle had experienced some changes during these years. The old butler had been gathered to his fathers, but Mrs. Hart still remained. The Castle itself and the grounds had changed wonderfully for the better. It had lost that air of neglect, decay, and ruin which had formerly been its chief characteristic. It was no longer poverty-stricken. It arose, with its antique towers and venerable ivy-grown walls, exhibiting in its outline all that age possesses of dignity, without any of the meanness of neglect. It seemed like one of the noblest remains which England possessed of the monuments of feudal times. The first sight of it elicited a cry of admiration from Zillah; and she found not the least of its attractions in the figure of the old Earl--himself a monument of the past--whose figure, as he stood on the steps to welcome them, formed a fore-ground which an artist would have loved to portray.
Around the Castle all had changed. What had once been little better than a wilderness was now a wide and well-kept park. The rose pleasaunce had been restored to its pristine glory. The lawns were smooth-shaven and glowing in their rich emerald-green. The lakes and ponds were no longer overgrown with dank rushes; but had been reclaimed from being little better than marshes into bright expanses of clear water, where fish swam and swans loved to sport. Long avenues and cool, shadowy walks wound far away through the groves; and the stately oaks and elms around the Castle had lost that ghostly and gloomy air which had once been spread about them.
Within the Castle every thing had undergone a corresponding change. There was no attempt at modern splendor, no effort to rival the luxuries of the wealthier lords of England. The Earl had been content with arresting the progress of decay, and adding to the restoration of the interior some general air of modern comfort. Within, the scene corresponded finely to that which lay without; and the medieval character of the interior made it attractive to Zillah's peculiar taste.
The white-faced, mysterious-looking housekeeper, as she looked sadly and wistfully at the new-comers, and asked in a tremulous voice which was Guy's wife, formed for Zillah a striking incident in the arrival. To her Zillah at once took a strong liking, and Mrs. Hart seemed to form one equally strong for her. From the very first her affection for Zillah was very manifest, and as the days passed it increased. She seemed to cling to the young girl as though her loving nature needed something on which to expend its love; as though there was a maternal instinct which craved to be satisfied, and sought such satisfaction in her. Zillah returned her tender affection with a fondness which would have satisfied the most exigeant nature. She herself had never known the sweetness of a mother's care, and it seemed as though she had suddenly found out all this. The discovery was delightful to so affectionate a nature as hers; and her enthusiastic disposition made her devotion to Mrs. Hart more marked. She often wondered to herself why Mrs. Hart had "taken such a fancy" to her. And so did the other members of the household. Perhaps it was because she was the wife of Guy, who was so dear to the heart of his affectionate old nurse. Perhaps it was something in Zillah herself which attracted Mrs. Hart, and made her seek in her one who might fill Guy's place.
Time passed away, and Gualtier arrived, in accordance with the Earl's request. Zillah had supposed that she was now free forever from all teachers and lessons, and it was with some dismay that she heard of Gualtier's arrival. She said nothing, however, but prepared to go through the form of taking lessons in music and drawing as before. She had begun already to have a certain instinct of obedience toward the Earl, and felt desirous to gratify his wishes. But whatever changes of feeling she had experienced toward her new guardian, she showed no change of manner toward Gualtier. To her, application to any thing was a thing as irksome as ever. Perhaps her fitful efforts to advance were more frequent; but after each effort she used invariably to relapse into idleness and tedium.
Her manner troubled Gualtier as little as ever. He let her have her own way quite in the old style. Hilda, as before, was always present at these instructions; and after the hour devoted to Zillah had expired she had lessons of her own. But Gualtier remarked that, for some reason or other, a great change had come over her. Her attitude toward him had relapsed into one of reticence and reserve. The approaches to confidence and familiarity which she had formerly made seemed now to be completely forgotten by her. The stealthy conversations in which they used to indulge were not renewed. Her manner was such that he did not venture to enter upon his former footing. True, Zillah was always in the room now, and did not leave so often as she used to do, but still there were times when they were alone; yet on these occasions Hilda showed no desire to return to that intimacy which they had once known in their private interviews.
The White-Faced, Mysterious-Looking Housekeeper Asked In A Tremulous Voice Which was Guy's Wife.
[Illustration: "The White-Faced, Mysterious-Looking Housekeeper Asked In A Tremulous Voice Which was Guy's Wife."]
This new state of things Gualtier bore meekly and patiently. He was either too respectful or too cunning to make any advances himself. Perhaps he had a deep conviction that Hilda's changed manner was but temporary, and that the purpose which she had once revealed might still be cherished in her heart. True, the General's death had changed the aspect of affairs; but he had his reasons for believing that it could not altogether destroy her plans. He had a deep conviction that the time would come one day when he would know what was on her mind. He was patient. He could wait. So the time went on.
As the time passed the life at Chetwynde Castle became more and more grateful to Zillah. Naturally affectionate, her heart had softened under its new trials and experiences, and there was full chance for the growth of those kindly and generous emotions which, after all, were most natural and congenial to her. In addition to her own affection for the Earl and for Mrs. Hart, she found a constraint on her here which she had not known while living the life of a spoiled and indulged child in her own former home. The sorrow through which she had passed had made her less childish. The Earl began in reality to seem to her like a second father, one whom she could both revere and love.
Very soon after her first acquaintance with him she found out that by no possibility could he be a party to any thing dishonorable. Finding thus that her first suspicions were utterly unfounded, she began to think it possible that her marriage, though odious in itself, had been planned with a good intent. To think Lord Chetwynde mercenary was impossible. His character was so high-toned, and even so punctilious in its regard to nice points of honor, that he was not even worldly wise. With the mode in which her marriage had been finally carried out he had clearly nothing whatever to do. Of all her suspicions, her anger against an innocent and noble-minded man, and her treatment of him on his first visit to Pomeroy Court, she now felt thoroughly ashamed. She longed to tell him all about it--to explain why it was that she had felt so and done so--and waited for some favorable opportunity for making her confession.
At length an opportunity occurred. One day the Earl was speaking of her father, and he told Zillah about his return to England, and his visit to Chetwynde Castle; and finally told how the whole arrangement had been made between them by which she had become Guy's wife. He spoke with such deep affection about General Pomeroy, and so feelingly of his intense love for his daughter, that at last Zillah began to understand perfectly the motives of the actors in this matter. She saw that in the whole affair, from first to last, there was nothing but the fondest thought of herself, and that the very money itself, which she used to think had "purchased her," was in some sort an investment for her own benefit in the future. As the whole truth flashed suddenly into Zillah's mind she saw now most clearly not only how deeply she had wronged Lord Chetwynde, but also--and now for the first time--how foully she had insulted Guy by her malignant accusations. To a generous nature like hers the shock of this discovery was intensely painful. Tears started to her eyes, she twined her arms around Lord Chetwynde's neck, and told him the whole story, not excepting a single word of all that she had said to Guy.
"And I told him," she concluded, "all this--I said that he was a mean fortune-hunter; and that you had cheated papa out of his money; and that I hated him--and oh! will you ever forgive me?"
This was altogether a new and unexpected disclosure to the Earl, and he listened to Zillah in unfeigned astonishment. Guy had told him nothing beyond the fact communicated in a letter--that "whatever his future wife might be remarkable for, he did not think that amiability was her forte." But all this revelation, unexpected though it was, excited no feeling of resentment in his mind.
"My child," said he, tenderly, though somewhat sadly, "you certainly behaved very ill. Of course you could not know us; but surely you might have trusted your father's love and wisdom. But, after all, there were a good many excuses for you, my poor little girl--so I pity you very much indeed--it was a terrible ordeal for one so young. I can understand more than you have cared to tell me."
"Ah, how kind, how good you are!" said Zillah, who had anticipated some reproaches. "But I'll never forgive myself for doing you such injustice."
"Oh, as to that," said Lord Chetwynde; "if you feel that you have done any injustice, there is one way that I can tell you of by which you can make full reparation. Will you try to make it, my little girl?"
"What do you want me to do?" asked Zillah, hesitatingly, not wishing to compromise herself. The first thought which she had was that he was going to ask her to apologize to Guy--a thing which she would by no means care about doing, even in her most penitent mood. Lord Chetwynde was one thing; but Guy was quite another. The former she loved dearly; but toward the latter she still felt resentment--a feeling which was perhaps strengthened and sustained by the fact that every one at Chetwynde looked upon her as a being who had been placed upon the summit of human happiness by the mere fact of being Guy's wife. To her it was intolerable to be valued merely for his sake. Human nature is apt to resent in any case having its blessings perpetually thrust in its face; but in this case what they called a blessing, to her seemed the blackest horror of her life; and Zillah's resentment was all the stronger; while all this resentment she naturally vented on the head of the one who had become her husband. She could manage to tolerate his praises when sounded by the Earl, but hardly so with the others. Mrs. Hart was most trying to her patience in this respect; and it needed all Zillah's love for her to sustain her while listening to the old nurse as she grew eloquent on her favorite theme. Zillah felt like the Athenian who was bored to death by the perpetual praise of Aristides. If she had no other complaint against him, this might of itself have been enough.
The fear, however, which was in her mind as to the reparation which was expected of her was dispelled by Lord Chetwynde's answer:
"I want you, my child," said he, "to try and improve yourself--to get on as fast as you can with your masters, so that when the time comes for you to take your proper place in society you may be equal to ladies of your own rank in education and accomplishments. I want to be proud of my daughter when I show her to the world."
"And so you shall," said Zillah, twining her arms again about his neck and kissing him fondly. "I promise you that from this time forward I will try to study."
He kissed her lovingly. "I am sure," said he, "that you will keep your word, my child; and now," he added, "one thing more: How much longer do you intend to keep up this 'Lord Chetwynde?' I must be called by another name by you--not the name by which you called your own dear father--that is too sacred to be given to any other. But have I not some claim to be called 'Father,' dear? Or does not my little Zillah care enough for me for that?"
At this the warm-hearted girl flung her arms around him once more and kissed him, and burst into tears.
"Dear father!" she murmured.
And from that moment perfect confidence and love existed between these two.
Illustration (Untitled)
[Illustration.]
CHAPTER XII.
CORRESPONDENCE.
Time sped rapidly and uneventfully by. Guy's letters from India formed almost the only break in the monotony of the household. Zillah soon found herself, against her will, sharing in the general eagerness respecting these letters. It would have been a very strong mind indeed, or a very obdurate heart, which could have remained unmoved at Lord Chetwynde's delight when he received his boy's letters. Their advent was also the Hegira from which every thing in the family dated. Apart, however, from the halo which surrounded these letters, they were interesting in themselves. Guy wrote easily and well. His letters to his father were half familiar, half filial; a mixture of love and good-fellowship, showing a sort of union, so to speak, of the son with the younger brother. They were full of humor also, and made up of descriptions of life in the East, with all its varied wonders. Besides this, Guy happened to be stationed at the very place where General Pomeroy had been Resident for so many years; and he himself had command of one of the hill stations where Zillah herself had once been sent to pass the summer. These places of which Guy's letters treated possessed for her a peculiar interest, surrounded as they were by some of the pleasantest associations of her life; and thus, from very many causes, it happened that she gradually came to take an interest in these letters which increased rather than diminished. In one of these there had once come a note inclosed to Zillah, condoling with her on her father's death. It was manly and sympathetic, and not at all stiff. Zillah had received it when her bitter feelings were in the ascendant, and did not think of answering it until Hilda urged on her the necessity of doing so. It is just possible that if Hilda had made use of different arguments she might have persuaded Zillah to send some sort of an answer, if only to please the Earl. The arguments, however, which she did use happened to be singularly ill chosen. The "husband" loomed largely in them, and there were very many direct allusions to marital authority. As these were Zillah's sorest points, such references only served to excite fresh repugnance, and strengthen Zillah's determination not to write. Hilda, however, persisted in her efforts; and the result was that finally, at the end of one long and rather stormy discussion, Zillah passionately threw the letter at her, saying:
"If you are so anxious to have it answered, do it yourself. It is a world of pities he is not your husband instead of mine, you seem so wonderfully anxious about him."
"It is unkind of you to say that," replied Hilda, in a meek voice, "when you know so well that my sympathy and anxiety are all for you, and you alone. You argue with me as though I had some interest in it; but what possible interest can it be to me?"
"Oh, well, dearest Hilda," said Zillah, instantly appeased; "I'm always pettish; but you won't mind, will you? You never mind my ways."
"I've a great mind to take you at your word," said Hilda, after a thoughtful pause, "and write it for you. It ought to be answered, and you won't; so why should I not do the part of a friend, and answer it for you?"
Zillah started, and seemed just a little nettled.
"Oh, I don't care," she said, with assumed indifference. "If you choose to take the trouble, why I am sure I ought to be under obligations to you. At any rate, I shall be glad to get rid of it so long as I have nothing to do with it. I suppose it must be done."
Hilda made some protestations of her devotion to Zillah, and some further conversation followed, all of which resulted in this--that _Hilda wrote the letter in Zillah's name_, and signed that name _in her own hand_, and under Zillah's own eye, and with Zillah's half-reluctant, half-pettish concurrence.
Out of this beginning there flowed results of an important character, which were soon perceived even by Zillah, though she was forced to keep her feelings to herself. Occasional notes came afterward from time to time for Zillah, and were answered in the same way by Hilda. All this Zillah endured quietly, but with real repugnance, which increased until the change took place in her feelings which has been mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, when she at length determined to put an end to such an anomalous state of things and assert herself. It was difficult to do so. She loved Hilda dearly, and placed perfect confidence in her. She was too guileless to dream of any sinister motive in her friend; and the only difficulty of which she was conscious was the fear that Hilda might suspect the change in her feelings toward Guy. The very idea of Hilda's finding this out alarmed her sensitive pride, and made her defer for a long time her intent. At length, however, she felt unable to do so any longer, and determined to run the risk of disclosing the state of her feelings.
So one day, after the receipt of a note to herself, a slight degree more friendly than usual, she hinted to Hilda rather shyly that she would like to answer it herself.
"Oh, I am so glad, darling!" cried Hilda, enthusiastically. "It will be so much nicer for you to do it yourself. It will relieve me from embarrassment, for, after all, my position was embarrassing--writing for you always--and then, you know, you will write far better letters than I can."
"It will be a Heaven-born gift, then," returned Zillah, laughing, "as I never wrote a letter in my life."
"That is nothing," said Hilda. "I write for another; but you will be writing for yourself, and that makes all the difference in the world, you know."
"Well, perhaps so. You see, Hilda, I have taken a fancy to try my hand at it," said Zillah, laughingly, full of delight at the ease with which she had gained her desire. "You see," she went on, with unusual sprightliness of manner, "I got hold of a 'Complete Letter-Writer' this morning; and the beauty, elegance, and even eloquence of those amazing compositions have so excited me that I want to emulate them. Now it happens that Guy is the only correspondent that I have, and so he must be my first victim."
So saying, Zillah laughingly opened her desk, while Hilda's dark eyes regarded her with sharp and eager watchfulness. "You must not make it too eloquent, dear," said she. "Remember the very commonplace epistles that you have been giving forth in your name."
"Don't be alarmed," said Zillah. "If it is not exactly like a child's first composition we shall all have great cause for thankfulness."
So saying, she took out a sheet of paper.
"Here," said she, "is an opportunity of using some of this elaborately monogrammed paper which poor darling papa got for me, because I wanted to see how they could work my unpromising 'Z' into a respectable cipher. They have made it utterly illegible, and I believe that is the great point to be attained."
Thus rattling on, she dated her letter, and began to write. She wrote as far as
"MY DEAR GUY"--Then she stopped, and read it aloud.--"This is really getting most exciting," she said, in high good-humor. "Now what comes next? To find a beginning--there's the rub. I must turn to my 'Complete Letter-Writer.' Let me see. '_Letter from a Son at School_'--that won't do. '_From a Lady to a Lover returning a Miniature_--nor that. '_From a Suitor requesting to be allowed to pay his attentions to a Lady_'--worse and worse. '_From a Father declining the application of a Suitor for his Daughter's hand_'--absurd! Oh, here we are--'_From a Wife to a Husband who is absent on urgent business_.' Oh, listen, Hilda!" and Zillah read:
"'_BELOVED AND HONORED HUSBAND,--The grief which wrung my heart at your departure has been mitigated by the delight which I experienced at the receipt of your most welcome letters_.' Isn't that delightful? Unluckily his departure didn't wring my heart at all, and, worse still, I have no grief at his absence to be mitigated by his letters. Alas! I'm afraid mine must be an exceptional case, for even my 'Complete Letter-Writer,' my vade-mecum, which goes into such charming details, can not help me. After all I suppose I must use my own poor brains."
After all this nonsense Zillah suddenly grew serious. Hilda seemed to understand the cause of her extravagant volatility, and watched her closely. Zillah began to write, and went on rapidly, without a moment's hesitation; without any signs whatever of that childish inexperience at which she had hinted. Her pen flew over the paper with a speed which seemed to show that she had plenty to say, and knew perfectly well how to say it. So she went on until she had filled two pages, and was proceeding to the third. Then an exclamation from Hilda caused her to look up.
"My dear Zillah," cried Hilda, who was sitting in a chair a little behind her, "what in the world are you thinking of? From this distance I can distinguish your somewhat peculiar caligraphy--with its bold down strokes and decided 'character,' that people talk about. Now, as you know that I write a little, cramped, German hand, you will have to imitate my humble handwriting, or else I'm afraid Captain Molyneux will be thoroughly puzzled--unless, indeed, you tell him that you have been employing an amanuensis. That will require a good deal of explanation, but--" she added, after a thoughtful pause, "I dare say it will be the best in the end."
At these words Zillah started, dropped her pen, and sat looking at Hilda perfectly aghast. "I never thought of that," she murmured, and sat with an expression of the deepest dejection. At length a long sigh escaped her. "You are right, Hilda," she said. "Of course it will need explanation; but how is it possible to do that in a letter? It can't be done. At least I can't do it. What shall I do?"
She was silent, and sat for a long time, looking deeply vexed and disappointed.
"Of course," she said at last, "he will have to know all when he comes back; but that is nothing. How utterly stupid it was in me not to think of the difference in our writing! And now I suppose I must give up my idea of writing a letter. It is really hard--I have not a single correspondent."
Her deep disappointment, her vexation, and her feeble attempt to conceal her emotions, were not lost upon the watchful Hilda. But the latter showed no signs that she had noticed any thing.
"Oh, don't give it up!" she answered, with apparent eagerness. "I dare say you can copy my hand accurately enough to avoid detection. Here is a note I wrote yesterday. See if you can't imitate that, and make your writing as like mine as possible."
So saying she drew a note from her pocket and handed it to Zillah. The other took it eagerly, and began to try to imitate it, but a few strokes showed her the utter impossibility of such an undertaking. She threw down the pen, and leaning her head upon her hand, sat looking upon the floor in deeper dejection than ever.
"I can't copy such horrid cramped letters," she said, pettishly; "why should you write such a hand? Besides, I feel as if I were really forging, or doing something dreadful. I suppose," she added, with unconcealed bitterness of tone, "we shall have to go on as we began, and you must be _Zillah Molyneux_ for some time longer."
Hilda laughed.
"Talk of forging!" she said. "What is forging if that is not? But really, Zillah, darling, you seem to me to show more feeling about this than I ever supposed you could possibly be capable of. Are you aware that your tone is somewhat bitter, and that if I were sensitive I might feel hurt? Do you mean by what you said to lay any blame to me?"
She spoke so sadly and reproachfully that Zillah's heart smote her. At once her disappointment and vexation vanished at the thought that she had spoken unkindly to her friend.
"Hilda!" she cried, "you can not think that I am capable of such ingratitude. You have most generously given me your services all this time. You have been right, from the very first, and I have been wrong. You have taken a world of trouble to obviate the difficulties which my own obstinacy and temper have caused. If any trouble could possibly arise, I only could be to blame. But, after all, none can arise. I'm sure Captain Molyneux will very readily believe that I disliked him too much when he first went away to dream of writing to him. He certainly had every reason for thinking so."
"Shall you tell him that?" said Hilda, mildly, without referring to Zillah's apologies.
"Certainly I shall," said Zillah, "if the opportunity ever arises. The simple truth is always the easiest and the best. I think he is already as well aware as he can be of that fact; and, after all, why should I, or how could I, have liked him under the circumstances? I knew nothing of him whatever; and every thing--yes, every thing, was against him."
"You know no more of him now," said Hilda; "and yet, though you are very reticent on the subject, I have a shrewd suspicion, my darling, that you do not dislike him."
As she spoke she looked earnestly at Zillah as if to read her inmost soul.
Zillah was conscious of that sharp, close scrutiny, and blushed crimson, as this question which thus concerned her most sacred feelings was brought home to her so suddenly. But she answered, as lightly as she could:
"How can you say that, or even hint at it? How absurd you are, Hilda! I know no more of him now than I knew before. Of course I hear very much about him at Chetwynde, but what of that? He certainly pervades the whole atmosphere of the house. The one idea of Lord Chetwynde is Guy; and as for Mrs. Hart, I think if he wished to use her for a target she would be delighted. Death at such hands would be bliss to her. She treasures up every word he has ever spoken, from his earliest infancy to the present day."