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The Cryptogram: A Novel

by James De Mille · English · Gutenberg #28435 · 1,386,390 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Cryptogram: A Novel

Author: James De Mille


        
Release date: March 29, 2009 [eBook #28435]
                Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRYPTOGRAM: A NOVEL ***




Produced by Marlo Dianne




[Illustration: "These Are My Dearest Children."]




THE
CRYPTOGRAM.


A Novel.


By James De Mille,

Author of
"The Dodge Club," "Cord and Creese," "The American Baron," etc.


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS




New York:
Harper & Brothers, Publishers,
Franklin Square.
1872




CHAPTER I.


TWO OLD FRIENDS.


Chetwynde Castle was a large baronial mansion, belonging to the
Plantagenet period, and situated in Monmouthshire. It was a grand old
place, with dark towers, and turrets, and gloomy walls surmounted
with battlements, half of which had long since tumbled down, while
the other half seemed tottering to ruin. That menacing ruin was on
one side of the structure concealed beneath a growth of ivy, which
contrasted the dark green of its leaves with the sombre hue of the
ancient stones. Time with its defacing fingers had only lent
additional grandeur to this venerable pile. As it rose there--"standing
with half its battlements alone, and with five hundred years
of ivy grown"--its picturesque magnificence and its air of hoar
antiquity made it one of the noblest monuments of the past which
England could show.

All its surroundings were in keeping with the central object. Here
were no neat paths, no well-kept avenues, no trim lawns. On the
contrary, every thing bore the unmistakable marks of neglect and
decay; the walks were overgrown, the terraces dilapidated, and the
rose pleasaunce had degenerated into a tangled mass of bushes and
briers. It seemed as though the whole domain were about to revert
into its original state of nature; and every thing spoke either of
the absence of a master, or else of something more important
still--the absence of money.

The castle stood on slightly elevated ground; and from its gray stone
ivy-covered portal so magnificent was the view that the most careless
observer would be attracted by it, and stand wonder-struck at the
beauty of the scene, till he forgot in the glories of nature the
deficiencies of art. Below, and not far away, flowed the silvery Wye,
most charming of English streams, winding tortuously through fertile
meadows and wooded copses; farther off lay fruitful vales and rolling
hills; while in the distance the prospect was bounded by the giant
forms of the Welsh mountains.

At the moment when this story opens these beauties were but faintly
visible through the fast-fading twilight of a summer evening; the
shadows were rapidly deepening; and the only signs of life about the
place appeared where from some of the windows at the eastern end
faint rays of light stole out into the gloom.

The interior of the castle corresponded with the exterior in
magnificence and in ruin--in its picturesque commingling of splendor
and decay. The hall was hung with arms and armor of past generations,
and ornamented with stags' heads, antlers, and other trophies of the
chase; but rust, and mould, and dust covered them all. Throughout the
house a large number of rooms were empty, and the whole western end
was unfurnished. In the furnished rooms at the eastern end every
thing belonged to a past generation, and all the massive and
antiquated furniture bore painful marks of poverty and neglect. Time
was every where asserting his power, and nowhere was any resistance
made to his ravages. Some comfort, however, was still to be found in
the old place. There were rooms which were as yet free from the
general touch of desolation. Among these was the dining-room, where
at this time the heavy curtains were drawn, the lamps shone out
cheerily, and, early June though it was, a bright wood-fire blazed on
the ample hearth, lighting up with a ruddy glow the heavy panelings
and the time-worn tapestries. Dinner was just over, the dessert was
on the table, and two gentlemen were sitting over their wine--though
this is to be taken rather in a figurative sense, for their
conversation was so engrossing as to make them oblivious of even the
charms of the old ancestral port of rare vintage which Lord Chetwynde
had produced to do honor to his guest. Nor is this to be wondered at.
Friends of boyhood and early manhood, sharers long ago in each
other's hopes and aspirations, they had parted last when youth and
ambition were both at their height. Now, after the lapse of years,
wayworn and weary from the strife, they had met again to recount how
those hopes had been fulfilled.

The two men were of distinguished appearance. Lord Chetwynde was of
about the medium size, with slight figure, and pale, aristocratic
face. His hair was silver-white, his features were delicately
chiseled, but wore habitually a sad and anxious expression. His whole
physique betokened a nature of extreme refinement and sensibility,
rather than force or strength of character. His companion, General
Pomeroy, was a man of different stamp. He was tall, with a high
receding brow, hair longer than is common with soldiers; thin lips,
which spoke of resolution, around which, however, there always dwelt
as he spoke a smile of inexpressible sweetness. He had a long nose,
and large eyes that lighted up with every varying feeling. There was
in his face both resolution and kindliness, each in extreme, as
though he could remorselessly take vengeance on an enemy or lay down
his life for a friend.

As long as the servants were present the conversation, animated
though it was, referred to topics of a general character; but as soon
as they had left the room the two friends began to refer more
confidentially to the past.

"You have lived so very secluded a life," said General Pomeroy, "that
it is only at rare intervals that I have heard any thing of you, and
that was hardly more than the fact that you were alive. You were
always rather reserved and secluded, you know; you hated, like
Horace, the _profanum vulgus_, and held yourself aloof from them, and
so I suppose you would not go into political life. Well, I don't know
but that, after all, you were right."

"My dear Pomeroy," said Lord Chetwynde, leaning back in his chair,
"my circumstances have been such that entrance into political life
has scarcely ever depended on my own choice. My position has been so
peculiar that it has hardly ever been possible for me to obtain
advancement in the common ways, even if I had desired it. I dare say,
If I had been inordinately ambitious, I might have done something;
but, as it was, I have done nothing. You see me just about where I
was when we parted, I don't know how many years ago."

"Well, at any rate," said the General, "you have been spared the
trouble of a career of ambition. You have lived here quietly on your
own place, and I dare say you have had far more real happiness than
you would otherwise have had."

"Happiness!" repeated Lord Chetwynde, in a mournful tone. He leaned
his head on his hand for a few moments, and said nothing. At last he
looked up and said, with a bitter smile:

"The story of my life is soon told. Two words will embody it
all--disappointment and failure."

General Pomeroy regarded his friend earnestly for a few moments, and
then looked away without speaking.

"My troubles began from the very first," continued Lord Chetwynde, in
a musing tone, which seemed more like a soliloquy than any thing
else. "There was the estate, saddled with debt handed down from my
grandfather to my father. It would have required years of economy and
good management to free it from encumbrance. But my father's motto
was always _Dum vivimus vivamus_ and his only idea was to get what
money he could for himself, and let his heirs look out for
themselves. In consequence, heavier mortgages were added. He lived in
Paris, enjoying himself, and left Chetwynde in charge of a factor,
whose chief idea was to feather his own nest. So he let every thing
go to decay, and oppressed the tenants in order to collect money for
my father, and prevent his coming home to see the ruin that was going
on. You may not have known this before. I did not until after our
separation, when it all came upon me at once. My father wanted me to
join him in breaking the entail. Overwhelmed by such a calamity, and
indignant with him, I refused to comply with his wishes. We
quarreled. He went back to Paris, and I never saw him again.

"After his death my only idea was to clear away the debt, improve the
condition of the tenants, and restore Chetwynde to its former
condition. How that hope has been realized you have only to look
around you and see. But at that time my hope was strong. I went up to
London, where my name and the influence of my friends enabled me to
enter into public life. You were somewhere in England then, and I
often used to wonder why I never saw you. You must have been in
London. I once saw your name in an army list among the officers of a
regiment stationed there. At any rate I worked hard, and at first all
my prospects were bright, and I felt confident in my future.

"Well, about that time I got married, trusting to my prospects. She
was of as good a family as mine, but had no money."

Lord Chetwynde's tone as he spoke about his marriage had suddenly
changed. It seemed as though he spoke with an effort. He stopped for
a time, and slowly drank a glass of wine. "She married me," he
continued, in an icy tone, "for my prospects. Sometimes you know it
is very safe to marry on prospects. A rising young statesman is often
a far better match than a dissipated man of fortune. Some mothers
know this; my wife's mother thought me a good match, and my wife
thought so too. I loved her very dearly, or I would not have
married--though I don't know, either: people often marry in a whim."

General Pomeroy had thus far been gazing fixedly at the opposite
wall, but now he looked earnestly at his friend, whose eyes were
downcast while he spoke, and showed a deeper attention.

"My office," said Lord Chetwynde, "was a lucrative one, so that I was
able to surround my bride with every comfort; and the bright
prospects which lay before me made me certain about my future. After
a time, however, difficulties arose. You are aware that the chief
point in my religion is Honor. It is my nature, and was taught me by
my mother. Our family motto is, _Noblesse oblige_, and the full
meaning of this great maxim my mother had instilled into every fibre
of my being. But on going into the world I found it ridiculed among
my own class as obsolete and exploded. Every where it seemed to have
given way to the mean doctrine of expediency. My sentiments were
gayly ridiculed, and I soon began to fear that I was not suited for
political life.

"At length a crisis arrived. I had either to sacrifice my conscience
or resign my position. I chose the latter alternative, and in doing
so I gave up my political life forever. I need not tell the
bitterness of my disappointment. But the loss of worldly prospects
and of hope was as nothing compared with other things. The worst of
all was the reception which I met at home. My young, and as I
supposed loving wife, to whom I went at once with my story, and from
whom I expected the warmest sympathy, greeted me with nothing but
tears and reproaches. She could only look upon my act with the
world's eyes. She called it ridiculous Quixotism. She charged me with
want of affection; denounced me for beguiling her to marry a pauper;
and after a painful interview we parted in coldness."

Lord Chetwynde, whose agitation was now evident, here paused and
drank another glass of wine. After some time he went on:

"After all, it was not so bad. I soon found employment. I had made
many powerful friends, who, though they laughed at my scruples, still
seemed to respect my consistency, and had confidence in my ability.
Through them I obtained a new appointment where I could be more
independent, though the prospects were poor. Here I might have been
happy, had it not been for the continued alienation between my wife
and me. She had been ambitions. She had relied on my future. She was
now angry because I had thrown that future away. It was a death-blow
to her hopes, and she could not forgive me. We lived in the same
house, but I knew nothing of her occupations and amusements. She went
much into society, where she was greatly admired, and seemed to be
neglectful of her home and of her child. I bore my misery as best I
could in silence, and never so much as dreamed of the tremendous
catastrophe in which it was about to terminate."

Lord Chetwynde paused, and seemed overcome by his recollections.

"You have heard of it, I suppose?" he asked at length, in a scarce
audible voice.

The General looked at him, and for a moment their eyes met; then he
looked away. Then he shaded his eyes with his hand and sat as though
awaiting further revelations.

Lord Chetwynde did not seem to notice him at all. Intent upon his own
thoughts, he went on in that strange soliloquizing tone with which he
had begun.

"She fled--" he said, in a voice which was little more than a
whisper.

"Heavens!" said General Pomeroy.

There was a long silence.

"It was about three years after our marriage," continued Lord
Chetwynde, with an effort. "She fled. She left no word of farewell.
She fled. She forsook me. She forsook her child. My God! Why?"

He was silent again.

"Who was the man?" asked the General, in a strange voice, and with an
effort.

"He was known as Redfield Lyttoun. He had been devoted for a long
time to my wretched wife. Their flight was so secret and so
skillfully managed that I could gain no clew whatever to it--and,
indeed, it was better so--perhaps--yes--better so." Lord Chetwynde
drew a long breath. "Yes, better so," he continued--"for if I had
been able to track the scoundrel and take his life, my vengeance
would have been gained, but my dishonor would have been proclaimed.
To me that dishonor would have brought no additional pang. I had
suffered all that I could. More were impossible; but as it was my
shame was not made public--and so, above all--above all--my boy was
saved. The frightful scandal did not arise to crush my darling boy."

The agitation of Lord Chetwynde overpowered him. His face grew more
pallid, his eyes were fixed, and his clenched hands testified to the
struggle that raged within him. A long silence followed, during which
neither spoke a word.

At length Lord Chetwynde went on. "I left London forever," said he,
with a deep sigh.

"After that my one desire was to hide myself from the world. I wished
that if it were possible my very name might be forgotten. And so I
came back to Chetwynde, where I have lived ever since, in the utmost
seclusion, devoting myself entirely to the education and training of
my boy.

"Ah, my old friend, that boy has proved the one solace of my life.
Well has he repaid me for my care. Never was there a nobler or
a more devoted nature than his. Forgive a father's emotion, my
friend. If you but knew my noble, my brave, my chivalrous boy, you
would excuse me. That boy would lay down his life for me. In all his
life his one thought has been to spare me all trouble and to brighten
my dark life. Poor Guy! He knows nothing of the horror of shame that
hangs over him--he has found out nothing as yet. To him his mother is
a holy thought--the thought of one who died long ago, whose memory he
thinks so sacred to me that I dare not speak of her. Poor Guy! Poor
Guy!"

Lord Chetwynde again paused, overcome by deep emotion. "God only
knows," he resumed, "how I feel for him and for his future. It's a
dark future for him, my friend. For in addition to this grief which I
have told you of there is another which weighs me down. Chetwynde is
not yet redeemed. I lost my life and my chance to save the estate.
Chetwynde is overwhelmed with debt. The time is daily drawing near
when I will have to give up the inheritance which has come down
through so long a line of ancestors. All is lost. Hope itself has
departed. How can I bear to see the place pass into alien hands?"

"Pass into alien hands?" interrupted the General, in surprise. "Give
up Chetwynde? Impossible! It can not be thought of."

"Sad as it is," replied Lord Chetwynde, mournfully, "it must be so.
Sixty thousand pounds are due within two years. Unless I can raise
that amount all must go. When Guy comes of age he must break the
entail and sell the estate. It is just beginning to pay again, too,"
he added, regretfully. "When I came into it it was utterly
impoverished, and every available stick of timber had been cut down;
but my expenses have been very small, and if I have fulfilled no
other hope of my life, I have at least done something for my
ground-down tenantry; for every which I have saved, after paying
the interest, I have spent on improving their homes and farms, so
that the place is now in very good condition, though I have been
obliged to leave the pleasure-grounds utterly neglected."

"What are you going to do with your son?" asked the General.

"I have just got him a commission in the army," said Lord Chetwynde.
"Some old friends, who had actually remembered me all these years,
offered to do something for me in the diplomacy line; but if he
entered that life I should feel that all the world was pointing the
finger of scorn at him for his mother's sake; besides, my boy is too
honest for a diplomat. No--he must go and make his own fortune. A
viscount with neither money, land, nor position--the only place for
him is the army."

A long silence followed. Lord Chetwynde seemed to lose himself among
those painful recollections which he had raised, while the General,
falling into a profound abstraction, sat with his head on one hand,
while the other drummed mechanically on the table. As much as half an
hour passed away in this manner. The General was first to rouse
himself.

"I arrived in England only a few months ago," he began, in a quiet,
thoughtful tone. "My life has been one of strange vicissitudes. My
own country is almost like a foreign land to me. As soon as I could
get Pomeroy Court in order I determined to visit you. This visit was
partly for the sake of seeing you, and partly for the sake of asking
a great favor. What you have just been saying has suggested a new
idea, which I think may be carried out for the benefit of both of us.
You must know, in the first place, I have brought my little daughter
home with me. In fact, it was for her sake that I came home--"

"You were married, then?"

"Yes, in India. You lost sight of me early in life, and so perhaps
you do not know that I exchanged from the Queen's service to that of
the East India Company. This step I never regretted. My promotion was
rapid, and after a year or two I obtained a civil appointment. From
this I rose to a higher office; and after ten or twelve years the
Company recommended me as Governor in one of the provinces of the
Bengal Presidency. It was here that I found my sweet wife.

"It is a strange story," said the General, with a long sigh. "She
came suddenly upon me, and changed all my life. Thus far I had so
devoted myself to business that no idea of love or sentiment ever
entered my head, except when I was a boy. I had reached the age of
forty-five without having hardly ever met with any woman who had
touched my heart, or even my head, for that matter.

"My first sight of her was most sudden and most strange," continued
the General, in the tone of one who loved to linger upon even the
smallest details of the story which he was telling--"strange and
sudden. I had been busy all day in the audience chamber, and when at
length the cases were all disposed of, I retired thoroughly
exhausted, and gave orders that no one should be admitted on any
pretext whatever. On passing through the halls to my private
apartment I heard an altercation at the door. My orderly was speaking
in a very decided tone to some one.

"'It is impossible,' I heard him say. 'His Excellency has given
positive orders to admit no one to-day.'

"I walked on, paying but little heed to this. Applications were
common after hours, and my rules on this point were stringent. But
suddenly my attention was arrested by the sound of a woman's voice.
It affected me strangely, Chetwynde. The tones were sweet and low,
and there was an agony of supplication in them which lent additional
earnestness to her words.

"'Oh, do not refuse me!' the voice said. 'They say the Resident is
just and merciful. Let me see him, I entreat, if only for one
moment.'

"At these words I turned, and at once hastened to the door. A young
girl stood there, with her hands clasped, and in an attitude of
earnest entreaty. She had evidently come closely veiled, but in her
excitement her veil had been thrown back, and her upturned face lent
an unspeakable earnestness to her pleading. At the sight of her I was
filled with the deepest sympathy.

"'I am the Resident,' said I. 'What can I do for you?'

"She looked at me earnestly, and for a time said nothing. A change
came over her face. Her troubles seemed to have overwhelmed her. She
tottered, and would have fallen, had I not supported her. I led her
into the house, and sent for some wine. This restored her.

"She was the most beautiful creature that I ever beheld," continued
the General, in a pensive tone, after some silence. "She was tall and
slight, with all that litheness and grace of movement which is
peculiar to Indian women, and yet she seemed more European than
Indian. Her face was small and oval, her hair hung round it in rich
masses, and her eyes were large, deep, and liquid, and, in addition
to their natural beauty, they bore that sad expression which, it is
said, is the sure precursor of an early death. Thank God!" continued
the General, in a musing tone, "I at least did something to brighten
that short life of hers.

"As soon as she was sufficiently recovered she told her story. It was
a strange one. She was the daughter of an English officer, who having
fallen in love with an Indian Begum gave up home, country, and
friends, and married her. Their daughter Arauna had been brought up
in the European manner, and to the warm, passionate, Indian nature
she added the refined intelligence of the English lady. When she was
fourteen her father died. Her mother followed in a few years. Of her
father's friends she knew nothing, and her mother's brother, who was
the Rajah of a distant province, was the only one on whom she could
rely. Her mother while dying charged her always to remember that she
was the daughter of a British officer, and that if she were ever in
need of protection she should demand it of the English authorities.
After her mother's death the Rajah took her away, and assumed the
control of all her inheritance. At the age of eighteen she was to
come into possession, and as the time drew near the Rajah informed
her that he wished her to marry his son. But this son was detestable
to her, and to her English ideas the proposal was abhorrent. She
refused to marry him. The Rajah swore that she should. At this she
threatened that she would claim the protection of the British
government. Fearful of this, and enraged at her firmness, he confined
her in her rooms for several months, and at length threatened that if
she did not consent he would use force. This threat reduced her to
despair. She determined to escape and appeal to the British
authorities. She bribed her attendants, escaped, and by good fortune
reached my Residency.

"On hearing her story I promised that full justice should be done
her, and succeeded in quieting her fears. I obtained a suitable home
for her, and found the widow of an English officer who consented to
live with her.

"Ah, Chetwynde, how I loved her! A year passed away, and she became
my wife. Never before had I known such happiness as I enjoyed with
her. Never since have I known any happiness whatever. She loved me
with such devotion that she would have laid down her life for me. She
looked on me as her savior as well as her husband. My happiness was
too great to last.

"I felt it--I knew it," he continued, in a broken voice. "Two years
my darling lived with me, and then--she was taken away.

"I was ill for a long time," continued the General, in a gentle
voice. "I prayed for death, but God spared me for my child's sake. I
recovered sufficiently to attend to the duties of my office, but it
was with difficulty that I did so. I never regained my former
strength. My child grew older, and at length I determined to return
to England. I have come here to find all my relatives dead, and you,
the old friend of my boyhood, are the only survivor. One thing there
is, however, that imbitters my situation now. My health is still very
precarious, and I may at any moment leave my child unprotected. She
is the one concern of my life. I said that I had come here to ask a
favor of you. It was this, that you would allow me to nominate you as
her guardian in case of my death, and assist me also in finding any
other guardian to succeed you in case you should pass away before she
reached maturity. This was my purpose. But after what you have told
me other things have occurred to my mind. I have been thinking of a
plan which seems to me to be the best thing for both of us.

"Listen now to my proposal," he said, with greater earnestness. "That
you should give up Chetwynde is not to be thought of for one moment.
In addition to my own patrimony and my wife's inheritance I have
amassed a fortune during my residence in India, and I can think of no
better use for it than in helping my old friend in his time of need."

Lord Chetwynde raised his hand deprecatingly.

"Wait--no remonstrance. Hear me out," said the General. "I do not ask
you to take this as a loan, or any thing of the kind. I only ask you
to be a protector to my child. I could not rest in my grave if I
thought that I had left her unprotected."

"What!" cried Lord Chetwynde, hastily interrupting him, "can you
imagine that it is necessary to buy my good offices?"

"You don't understand me yet, Chetwynde; I want more than that. I
want to secure a protector for her all her life. Since you have told
me about your affairs I have formed a strong desire to see her
betrothed to your son. True, I have never seen him, but I know very
well the stock he comes from. I know his father," he went on, laying
his hand on his friend's arm; "and I trust the son is like the
father. In this way you see there will be no gift, no loan, no
obligation. The Chetwynde debts will be all paid off, but it is for
my daughter; and where could I get a better dowry?"

"But she must be very young," said Lord Chetwynde, "if you were not
married until forty-five."

"She is only a child yet," said the General. "She is ten years old.
That need not signify, however. The engagement can be made just as
well. I free the estate from all its encumbrances; and as she will
eventually be a Chetwynde, it will be for her sake as well as your
son's. There is no obligation."

Lord Chetwynde wrung his friend's hand.

"I do not know what to say," said he. "It would add years to my life
to know that my son is not to lose the inheritance of his ancestors.
But of course I can make no definite arrangements until I have seen
him. He is the one chiefly interested; and besides," he added,
smilingly, "I can not expect you to take a father's estimate of an
only son. You must judge him for yourself, and see whether my account
has been too partial."

"Of course, of course. I must see him at once," broke in the General.
"Where is he?"

"In Ireland. I will telegraph to him tonight, and he will be here in
a couple of days."

"He could not come sooner, I suppose?" said the General, anxiously.

Lord Chetwynde laughed. "I hardly think so--from Ulster. But why such
haste? It positively alarms me, for I'm an idle man, and have had my
time on my hands for half a lifetime."

"The old story, Chetwynde," said the General, with a smile;
"petticoat government. I promised my little girl that I would be back
tomorrow. She will be sadly disappointed at a day's delay. I shall be
almost afraid to meet her. I fear she has been a little spoiled, poor
child; but you can scarcely wonder, under the circumstances. After
all, she is a good child though; she has the strongest possible
affection for me, and I can guide her as I please through her
affections."

After some further conversation Lord Chetwynde sent off a telegram to
his son to come home without delay.




CHAPTER II.


THE WEIRD WOMAN.


The morning-room at Chetwynde Castle was about the pleasantest one
there, and the air of poverty which prevailed elsewhere was here lost
in the general appearance of comfort. It was a large apartment,
commensurate with the size of the castle, and the deep bay-windows
commanded an extensive view.

On the morning following the conversation already mentioned General
Pomeroy arose early, and it was toward this room that he turned his
steps. Throughout the castle there was that air of neglect already
alluded to, so that the morning-room afforded a pleasant contrast.
Here all the comfort that remained at Chetwynde seemed to have
centred. It was with a feeling of intense satisfaction that the
General seated himself in an arm-chair which stood within the deep
recess of the bay-window, and surveyed the apartment.

The room was about forty feet long and thirty feet wide. The ceiling
was covered with quaint figures in fresco, the walls were paneled
with oak, and high-backed, stolid-looking chairs stood around. On one
side was the fire-place, so vast and so high that it seemed itself
another room. It was the fine old fire-place of the Tudor or
Plantagenet period--the unequaled, the unsurpassed--whose day has
long since been done, and which in departing from the world has left
nothing to compensate for it. Still, the fireplace lingers in a few
old mansions; and here at Chetwynde Castle was one without a peer.
It was lofty, it was broad, it was deep, it was well-paved, it was
ornamented not carelessly, but lovingly, as though the hearth was the
holy place, the altar of the castle and of the family. There was room
in its wide expanse for the gathering of a household about the fire;
its embrace was the embrace of love; and it was the type and model of
those venerable and hallowed places which have given to the English
language a word holier even than "Home," since that word is "Hearth."

It was with some such thoughts as these that General Pomeroy sat
looking at the fire-place, where a few fagots sent up a ruddy blaze,
when suddenly his attention was arrested by a figure which entered
the room. So quiet and noiseless was the entrance that he did not
notice it until the figure stood between him and the fire. It was a
woman; and certainly, of all the women whom he had ever seen, no one
had possessed so weird and mystical an aspect. She was a little over
the middle height, but exceedingly thin and emaciated. She wore a cap
and a gown of black serge, and looked more like a Sister of Charity
than any thing else. Her features were thin and shrunken, her cheeks
hollow, her chin peaked, and her hair was as white as snow. Yet the
hair was very thick, and the cap could not conceal its heavy white
masses. Her side-face was turned toward him, and he could not see
her fully at first, until at length she turned toward a picture which
hung over the fire-place, and stood regarding it fixedly.

It was the portrait of a young man in the dress of a British officer.
The General knew that it was the only son of Lord Chetwynde, for whom
he had written, and whom he was expecting; and now, as he sat there
with his eyes riveted on this singular figure, he was amazed at the
expression of her face.

Her eyes were large and dark and mysterious. Her face bore
unmistakable traces of sorrow. Deep lines were graven on her pale
forehead, and on her wan, thin cheeks. Her hair was white as snow,
and her complexion was of an unearthly grayish hue. It was a
memorable face--a face which, once seen, might haunt one long
afterward. In the eyes there was tenderness and softness, yet the
fashion of the mouth and chin seemed to speak of resolution and
force, in spite of the ravages which age or sorrow had made. She
stood quite unconscious of the General's presence, looking at the
portrait with a fixed and rapt expression. As she gazed her face
changed in its aspect. In the eyes there arose unutterable longing
and tenderness; love so deep that the sight of it thus unconsciously
expressed might have softened the hardest and sternest nature; while
over all her features the same yearning expression was spread.
Gradually, as she stood, she raised her thin white hands and clasped
them together, and so stood, intent upon the portrait, as though she
found some spell there whose power was overmastering.

At the sight of so weird and ghostly a figure the General was
strangely moved. There was something startling in such an apparition.
At first there came involuntarily half-superstitious thoughts. He
recalled all those mysterious beings of whom he had ever heard whose
occupation was to haunt the seats of old families. He thought of the
White Lady of Avenel, the Black Lady of Scarborough, the Goblin Woman
of Hurst, and the Bleeding Nun. A second glance served to show him,
however, that she could by no possibility fill the important post of
Family Ghost, but was real flesh and blood. Yet even thus she was
scarcely less impressive. Most of all was he moved by the sorrow of
her face. She might serve for Niobe with her children dead; she might
serve for Hecuba over the bodies of Polyxena and Polydore. The
sorrows of woman have ever been greater than those of man. The widow
suffers more than the widower; the bereaved mother than the bereaved
father. The ideals of grief are found in the faces of women, and
reach their intensity in the woe that meets our eyes in the Mater
Dolorosa. This woman was one of the great community of sufferers, and
anguish both past and present still left its traces on her face.

Besides all this there was something more; and while the General was
awed by the majesty of sorrow, he was at the same time perplexed by
an inexplicable familiarity which he felt with that face of woe.
Where, in the years, had he seen it before? Or had he seen it before
at all; or had he only known it in dreams? In vain he tried to
recollect. Nothing from out his past life recurred to his mind which
bore any resemblance to this face before him. The endeavor to recall
this past grew painful, and at length he returned to himself. Then he
dismissed the idea as fanciful, and began to feel uncomfortable, as
though he were witnessing something which he had no business to see.
She was evidently unconscious of his presence, and to be a witness of
her emotion under such circumstances seemed to him as bad as
eaves-dropping. The moment, therefore, that he had overcome his
surprise he turned his head away, looked out of the window, and
coughed several times. Then he rose from his chair, and after
standing for a moment he turned once more.

As he turned he found himself face to face with the woman. She had
heard him, and turned with a start, and turning thus their eyes met.


[Illustration: "She Turned Toward A Picture Which Hung Over The
Fire-Place, And Stood Regarding It Fixedly."]


If the General had been surprised before, he was now still more so at
the emotion which she evinced at the sight of himself. She started
back as though recoiling from him; her eyes were fixed and staring,
her lips moved, her hands clutched one another convulsively. Then, by
a sudden effort, she seemed to recover herself, and the wild stare of
astonishment gave place to a swift glance of keen, sharp, and eager
scrutiny. All this was the work of an instant. Then her eyes dropped,
and with a low courtesy she turned away, and after arranging some
chairs she left the room.

The General drew a long breath, and stood looking at the doorway in
utter bewilderment. The whole incident had been most perplexing.
There was first her stealthy entry, and the suddenness with which she
had appeared before him; then those mystic surroundings of her
strange, weird figure which had excited his superstitious fancies;
then the idea which had arisen, that somehow he had known her before;
and, finally, the woman's own strong and unconcealed emotion at the
sight of himself. What did it all mean? Had he ever seen her? Not
that he knew. Had she ever known him? If so, when and where? If so,
why such emotion? Who could this be that thus recoiled from him at
encountering his glance? And he found all these questions utterly
unanswerable.

In the General's eventful life there were many things which he could
recall. He had wandered over many lands in all parts of the world,
and had known his share of sorrow and of joy. Seating himself once
more in his chair he tried to summon up before his memory the figures
of the past, one by one, and compare them with this woman whom he had
seen. Out of the gloom of that past the ghostly figures came, and
passed on, and vanished, till at last from among them all two or
three stood forth distinctly and vividly; the forms of those who had
been associated with him in one event of his life; that life's first
great tragedy; forms well remembered--never to be forgotten. He saw
the form of one who had been betrayed and forsaken, bowed and crushed
by grief, and staring with white face and haggard eyes; he saw the
form of the false friend and foul traitor slinking away with averted
face; he saw the form of the true friend, true as steel, standing
up solidly in his loyalty between those whom he loved and the Ruin
that was before them; and, lastly, he saw the central figure of
all--a fair young woman with a face of dazzling beauty; high-born,
haughty, with an air of high-bred grace and inborn delicacy; but the
beauty was fading, and the charm of all that grace and delicacy
was veiled under a cloud of shame and sin. The face bore all that
agony of woe which looks at us now from the eyes of Guido's Beatrice
Cenci--eyes which disclose a grief deeper than tears; eyes whose
glance is never forgotten.

Suddenly there came to the General a Thought like lightning, which
seemed to pierce to the inmost depths of his being. He started back
as he sat, and for a moment looked like one transformed to stone. At
the horror of that Thought his face changed to a deathly pallor, his
features grew rigid, his hands clenched, his eyes fixed and staring
with an awful look. For a few moments he sat thus, and then with a
deep groan he sprang to his feet and paced the apartment.

The exercise seemed to bring relief.

"I'm a cursed fool!" he muttered. "The thing's impossible--yes,
absolutely impossible."

Again and again he paced the apartment, and gradually he recovered
himself.

"Pooh!" he said at length, as he resumed his seat, "she's insane, or,
more probably, _I_ am insane for having had such wild thoughts as I
have had this morning."

Then with a heavy sigh he looked out of the window abstractedly.

An hour passed and Lord Chetwynde came down, and the two took their
seats at the breakfast-table.

"By-the-way," said the General at length, after some conversation,
and with an effort at indifference, "who is that very
singular-looking woman whom you have here? She seems to be about
sixty, dresses in black, has very white hair, and looks like a Sister
of Charity."

"That?" said Lord Chetwynde, carelessly. "Oh, that must be the
housekeeper, Mrs. Hart."

"Mrs. Hart--the housekeeper?" repeated the General, thoughtfully.

"Yes; she is an invaluable woman to one in my position."

"I suppose she is some old family servant."

"No. She came here about ten years ago. I wanted a housekeeper, she
heard of it, and applied. She brought excellent recommendations, and
I took her. She has done very well."

"Have you ever noticed how very singular her appearance is?"

"Well, no. Is it? I suppose it strikes you so as a stranger. I never
noticed her particularly."

"She seems to have had some great sorrow," said the General, slowly.

"Yes, I think she must have had some troubles. She has a melancholy
way, I think. I feel sorry for the poor creature, and do what I can
for her. As I said, she is invaluable to me, and I owe her positive
gratitude."

"Is she fond of Guy?" asked the General, thinking of her face as he
saw it upturned toward the portrait.

"Exceedingly," said Lord Chetwynde. "Guy was about eight years old
when she came. From the very first she showed the greatest fondness
for him, and attached herself to him with a devotion which surprised
me. I accounted for it on the ground that she had lost a son of her
own, and perhaps Guy reminded her in some way of him. At any rate she
has always been exceedingly fond of him. Yes," pursued Lord
Chetwynde, in a musing tone, "I owe every thing to her, for she once
saved Guy's life."

"Saved his life? How?"

"Once, when I was away, the place caught fire in the wing where Guy
was sleeping. Mrs. Hart rushed through the flames and saved him. She
nearly killed herself too--poor old thing! In addition to this she
has nursed him through three different attacks of disease that seemed
fatal. Why, she seems to love Guy as fondly as I do."

"And does Guy love her?"

"Exceedingly. The boy is most affectionate by nature, and of course
she is prominent in his affections. Next to me he loves her."

The General now turned away the conversation to other subjects; but
from his abstracted manner it was evident that Mrs. Hart was still
foremost in his thoughts.




CHAPTER III.


THE BARTER OF A LIFE.


Two evenings afterward a carriage drove up to the door of Chetwynde
Castle, and a young man alighted. The door was opened by the old
butler, who, with a cry of delight, exclaimed:

"Master Guy! Master Guy! It's welcome ye are. They've been lookin'
for you these two hours back."

"Any thing wrong?" was Guy's first exclamation, uttered with some
haste and anxiety.

"Lord love ye, there's naught amiss; but ye're welcome home, right
welcome, Master Guy," said the butler, who still looked upon his
young master as the little boy who used to ride upon his back, and
whose tricks were at once the torment and delight of his life.

The old butler himself was one of the heirlooms of the family, and
partook to the full of the air of antiquity which pervaded the place.
He looked like the relic of a by-gone generation. His queue,
carefully powdered and plaited, stood out stiff from the back of his
head, as if in perpetual protest against any new-fangled notions of
hair-dressing; his livery, scrupulously neat and well brushed, was
threadbare and of an antediluvian cut, and his whole appearance was
that of highly respectable antediluvianism. As he stood there with
his antique and venerable figure his whole face fairly beamed with
delight at seeing his young master.

"I was afraid my father might be ill," said Guy, "from his sending
for me in such a hurry."

"Ill?" said the other, radiant. "My lord be better and cheerfuler
like than ever I have seen him since he came back from Lunnon--the
time as you was a small chap, Master Guy. There be a gentleman
stopping here. He and my lord have been sittin' up half the night
a-talkin'. I think there be summut up, Master Guy, and that he be
connected with it; for when my lord told me to send you the telegram
he said as it were on business he wanted you, but," he added, looking
perplexed, "it's the first time as ever I heard of business makin' a
man look cheerful."

Guy made a jocular observation and hurried past him into the hall. As
he entered he saw a figure standing at the foot of the great
staircase. It was Mrs. Hart. She was trembling from head
to foot and clinging to the railing for support. Her face was pale as
usual; on each cheek there was a hectic flush, and her eyes were
fastened on him.

"My darling nurse!" cried Guy with the warm enthusiastic tone of a
boy, and hurrying toward her he embraced her and kissed her.

The poor old creature trembled and did not say a single word.

"Now you didn't know I was coming, did you, you dear old thing?" said
Guy. "But what is the matter? Why do you tremble so? Of course you're
glad to see your boy. Are you not?"

Mrs. Hart looked up to him with an expression of mute affection,
deep, fervent, unspeakable; and then seizing his warm young hand in
her own wan and tremulous ones, she pressed it to her thin white lips
and covered it with kisses.

"Oh, come now," said Guy, "you always break down this way when I come
home; but you must not--you really must not. If you do I won't come
home at all any more. I really won't. Come, cheer up. I don't want to
make you cry when I come home."

"But I'm crying for joy," said Mrs. Hart, in a faint voice. "Don't be
angry."

"You dear old thing! Angry?" exclaimed Guy, affectionately. "Angry
with my darling old nurse? Have you lost your senses, old woman? But
where is my father? Why has he sent for me? There's no bad news, I
hear, so that I suppose all is right."

"Yes, all is well," said Mrs. Hart, in a low voice. "I don't know why
you were sent for, but there is nothing bad. I think your father sent
for you to see an old friend of his."

"An old friend?"

"Yes. General Pomeroy," replied Mrs. Hart, in a constrained voice.
"He has been here two or three days."

"General Pomeroy! Is it possible?" said Guy. "Has he come to England?
I didn't know that he had left India. I must hurry up. Good-by, old
woman," he added, affectionately, and kissing her again he hurried up
stairs to his father's room.

Lord Chetwynde was there, and General Pomeroy also. The greeting
between father and son was affectionate and tender, and after a few
loving words Guy was introduced to the General. He shook him heartily
by the hand.

"I'm sure," said he, "the sight of you has done my father a world of
good. He looks ten years younger than he did when I last saw him. You
really ought to take up your abode here, or live somewhere near him.
He mopes dreadfully, and needs nothing so much as the society of an
old friend. You could rouse him from his blue fits and ennui, and
give him new life."

Guy then went on in a rattling way to narrate some events which had
befallen him on the road. As he spoke in his animated and
enthusiastic way General Pomeroy scanned him earnestly and narrowly.
To the most casual observer Guy Molyneux must have been singularly
prepossessing. Tall and slight, with a remarkably well-shaped head
covered with dark curling hair, hazel eyes, and regular features, his
whole appearance was eminently patrician, and bore the marks of
high-breeding and refinement; but there was something more than this.
Those eyes looked forth frankly and fearlessly; there was a joyous
light in them which awakened sympathy; while the open expression of
his face, and the clear and ringing accent of his fresh young voice,
all tended to inspire confidence and trust. General Pomeroy noted all
this with delight, for in his anxiety for his daughter's future he
saw that Guy was one to whom he might safely intrust the dearest idol
of his heart.

"Come, Guy," said Lord Chetwynde at last, after his son had rattled
on for half an hour or more, "if you are above all considerations of
dinner, we are not. I have already had it put off two hours for you,
and we should like to see some signs of preparation on your part."

"All right, Sir. I shall be on hand by the time it is announced,"
said Guy, cheerily; "you don't generally have to complain of me in
that particular, I think."

So saying, Guy nodded gayly to them and left the room, and they
presently heard him whistling through the passages gems from the last
new opera.

"A splendid fellow," said the General, as the door closed, in a tone
of hearty admiration. "I see his father over again in him. I only
hope he will come into our views."

"I can answer for his being only too ready to do so," said Lord
Chetwynde, confidently.

"He exceeds the utmost hopes that I had formed of him," said the
General. "I did not expect to see so frank and open a face, and such
freshness of innocence and purity."

Lord Chetwynde's face showed all the delight which a fond father
feels at hearing the praises of an only son.

Dinner came and passed. The General retired, and Lord Chetwynde then
explained to his son the whole plan which had been made about him. It
was a plan which was to affect his whole life most profoundly in its
most tender part; but Guy was a thoughtless boy, and received the
proposal like such. He showed nothing but delight. He never dreamed
of objecting to any thing. He declared that it seemed to him too good
to be true. His thoughts did not appear to dwell at all upon his own
share in this transaction, though surely to him that share was of
infinite importance, but only on the fact that Chetwynde was saved.

"And is Chetwynde really to be ours, after all?" he cried, at the end
of a burst of delight, repeating the words, boy-like, over and over
again, as though he could never tire of hearing the words repeated.
After all, one can not wonder at his thoughtlessness and enthusiasm.
Around Chetwynde all the associations of his life were twined. Until
he had joined the regiment he had known no other home; and beyond
this, to this high-spirited youth, in whom pride of birth and name
rose very high, there had been from his earliest childhood a bitter
humiliation in the thought that the inheritance of his ancestors,
which had never known any other than a Chetwynde for its master, must
pass from him forever into alien hands. Hitherto his love for his
father had compelled him to refrain from all expression of his
feelings about this, for he well knew that, bitter as it would be for
him to give up Chetwynde, to his father it would be still worse--it
would be like rending his very heartstrings. Often had he feared that
this sacrifice to honor on his father's part would be more than could
be endured. He had, for his father's sake, put a restraint upon
himself; but this concealment of his feelings had only increased the
intensity of those feelings; the shadow had been gradually deepening
over his whole life, throwing gloom over the sunlight of his joyous
youth; and now, for the first time in many years, that shadow seemed
to be dispelled. Surely there is no wonder that a mere boy should be
reckless of the future in the sunshine of such a golden present.

When General Pomeroy appeared again, Guy seized his hand in a burst
of generous emotion, with his eyes glistening with tears of joy.

"How can I ever thank you," he cried, impetuously, "for what you have
done for us! As you have done by us, so will I do by your
daughter--to my life's end--so help me God!"

And all this time did it never suggest itself to the young man that
there might be a reverse to the brilliant picture which his fancy was
so busily sketching--that there was required from him something more
than money or estate; something, indeed, in comparison with which
even Chetwynde itself was as nothing? No. In his inexperience and
thoughtlessness he would have looked with amazement upon any one who
would have suggested that there might be a drawback to the happiness
which he was portraying before his mind. Yet surely this thing came
most severely upon him. He gave up the most, for he gave himself. To
save Chetwynde, he was unconsciously selling his own soul. He was
bartering his life. All his future depended upon this hasty act of a
moment. The happiness of the mature man was risked by the thoughtless
act of a boy. If in after-life this truth came home to him, it was
only that he might see that the act was irrevocable, and that he must
bear the consequences. But so it is in life.

That evening, after the General had retired, Guy and his father sat
up far into the night, discussing the future which lay before them.
To each of them the future marriage seemed but a secondary event, an
accident, an episode. The first thing, and almost the only thing, was
the salvation of Chetwynde. Those day-dreams which they had cherished
for so many years seemed now about to be realized, and Chetwynde
would be restored to all its former glory. Now, for the first time,
each let the other see, to the full, how grievous the loss would have
been to him.

It was not until after all the future of Chetwynde had been
discussed, that the thoughts of Guy's engagement occurred to his
father.

"But, Guy," said he, "you are forgetting one thing. You must not in
your joy lose sight of the important pledge which has been demanded
of you. You have entered upon a very solemn obligation, which we both
are inclined to treat rather lightly."

"Of course I remember it, Sir; and I only wish it were something
twenty times as hard that I could do for the dear old General,"
answered Guy, enthusiastically.

"But, my boy, this may prove a severe sacrifice in the future,"
said Lord Chetwynde, thoughtfully.

"What? To marry, father? Of course I shall marry some time; and as to
the question of whom, why, so long as she is a lady (and General
Pomeroy's daughter must be this), and is not a fright (I own I hate
ugly women), I don't care who she is. But the daughter of such a man
as that ought to be a little angel, and as beautiful as I could
desire. I am all impatience to see her. By-the-way, how old is she?"

"Ten years old."

"Ten years!" echoed Guy, laughing boisterously. "I need not distress
myself, then, about her personnel for a good many years at any rate.
But, I say, father, isn't the General a little premature in getting
his daughter settled? Talk of match-making mothers after this!"

The young man's flippant tone jarred upon his father. "He had good
reasons for the haste to which you object, Guy," said Lord Chetwynde.
"One was the friendlessness of his daughter in the event of any thing
happening to him; and the other, and a stronger motive (for under any
circumstances I should have been her guardian), was to assist your
father upon the only terms upon which he could have accepted
assistance with honor. By this arrangement his daughter reaps the
full benefit of his money, and he has his own mind at ease. And,
remember, Guy," continued Lord Chetwynde, solemnly, "from this time
you must consider yourself as a married man; for, although no altar
vow or priestly benediction binds you, yet by every law of that Honor
by which you profess to be guided, you are bound _irrevocably_."

"I know that," answered Guy, lightly. "I think you will never find me
unmindful of that tie."

"I trust you, my boy," said Lord Chetwynde, "as I would trust
myself."




CHAPTER IV.


A STARTLING VISITOR.


After dinner the General had retired to his room, supposing that Guy
and the Earl would wish to be together. He had much to think of.
First of all there was his daughter Zillah, in whom all his being was
bound up. Her miniature was on the mantle-piece of the room, and to
this he went first, and taking it up in his hands he sat down in an
arm-chair by the window, and feasted his eyes upon it. His face bore
an expression of the same delight which a lover shows when looking at
the likeness of his mistress. At times a smile lighted it up, and so
wrapt up was he in this that more than an hour passed before he put
the picture away. Then he resumed his seat by the window and looked
out. It was dusk; but the moon was shining brightly, and threw a
silvery gleam over the dark trees of Chetwynde, over the grassy
slopes, and over the distant hills. That scene turned his attention
in a new direction. The shadows of the trees seemed to suggest the
shadows of the past. Back over that past his mind went wandering,
encountering the scenes, the forms, and the faces of long ago--the
lost, the never-to-be-forgotten. It was not that more recent past of
which he had spoken to the Earl, but one more distant--one which
intermingled with the Earl's past, and which the Earl's story had
suggested.

It brought back old loves and old hates; it suggested memories which
had lain dormant for years, but now rose before him clothed in fresh
power, as vivid as the events from which they flowed. There was
trouble in these memories, and the General's mind was agitated, and
in his agitation he left the chair and paced the room. He rang for
lights, and after they came he seated himself at the table, took
paper and pens, and began to lose himself in calculations.

Some time passed, when at length ten o'clock came, and the General
heard a faint tap at the door. It was so faint that he could barely
hear it, and at first supposed it to be either his fancy or else one
of the death-watches making a somewhat louder noise than usual. He
took no further notice of it, but went on with his occupation, when
he was again interrupted by a louder knock. This time there was no
mistake. He rose and opened the door, thinking that it was the Earl
who had brought him some information as to his son's views.

Opening the door, he saw a slight, frail figure, dressed in a
nun-like garb, and recognized the housekeeper. If possible she seemed
paler than usual, and her eyes were fixed upon him with a strange
wistful earnestness. Her appearance was so unexpected, and her
expression so peculiar, that the General involuntarily started back.
For a moment he stood looking at her, and then, recovering with an
effort his self-possession, he asked:

"Did you wish to see me about any thing, Mrs. Hart?"

"If I could speak a few words to you I should be grateful," was the
answer, in a low, supplicating tone.

"Won't you walk in, then?" said the General, in a kindly voice,
feeling a strange commiseration for the poor creature, whose face,
manner, and voice exhibited so much wretchedness.

The General held the door open, and waited for her to enter. Then
closing the door he offered her a chair, and resumed his former seat.
But the housekeeper declined sitting. She stood looking strangely
confused and troubled, and for some time did not speak a word. The
General waited patiently, and regarded her earnestly. In spite of
himself he found that feeling arising within him which had occurred
in the morning-room--a feeling as if he had somewhere known this
woman before. Who was she? What did it mean? Was he a precious old
fool, or was there really some important mystery connected with Mrs.
Hart? Such were his thoughts.

Perhaps if he had seen nothing more of Mrs. Hart the Earl's account
of her would have been accepted by him, and no thoughts of her would
have perplexed his brain. But her arrival now, her entrance into his
room, and her whole manner, brought back the thoughts which he had
before with tenfold force, in such a way that it was useless to
struggle against them. He felt that there was a mystery, and that the
Earl himself not only knew nothing about it, but could not even
suspect it. But _what_ was the mystery? That he could not, or perhaps
dared not, conjecture. The vague thought which darted across his mind
was one which was madness to entertain. He dismissed it and waited.

At last Mrs. Hart spoke.

"Pardon me, Sir," she said, in a faint, low voice, "for troubling
you. I wished to apologize for intruding upon you in the
morning-room. I did not know you were there."

She spoke abstractedly and wearily. The General felt that it was not
for this that she had thus visited him, but that something more lay
behind. Still he answered her remark as if he took it in good faith.
He hastened to reassure her. It was no intrusion. Was she not the
housekeeper, and was it not her duty to go there? What could she
mean?

At this she looked at him, with a kind of solemn yet eager scrutiny.
"I was afraid," she said, after some hesitation, speaking still in a
dull monotone, whose strangely sorrowful accents were marked and
impressive, and in a voice whose tone was constrained and stiff, but
yet had something in it which deepened the General's perplexity--"I
was afraid that perhaps you might have witnessed some marks of
agitation in me. Pardon me for supposing that you could have troubled
yourself so far as to notice one like me; but--but--I--that is, I am
a little--eccentric; and when I suppose that I am alone that
eccentricity is marked. I did not know that you were in the room, and
so I was thrown off my guard."

Every word of this singular being thrilled through the General. He
looked at her steadily without speaking for some time. He tried to
force his memory to reveal what it was that this woman suggested to
him, or who it was that she had been associated with in that dim and
shadowy past which but lately he had been calling up. Her voice,
too--what was it that it suggested? That voice, in spite of its
constraint, was woeful and sad beyond all description. It was the
voice of suffering and sorrow too deep for tears--that changeless
monotone which makes one think that the words which are spoken are
uttered by some machine.

Her manner also by this time evinced a greater and a deeper
agitation. Her hands mechanically clasped each other in a tight,
convulsive grasp, and her slight frame trembled with irrepressible
emotion. There was something in her appearance, her attitude, her
manner, and her voice, which enchained the General's attention, and
was nothing less than fascination. There was something yet to come,
to tell which had led her there, and these were only preliminaries.
This the General felt. Every word that she spoke seemed to be a mere
formality, the precursor of the real words which she wished to utter.
What was it? Was it her affection for Guy? Had she come to ask about
the betrothal? Had she come to look at Zillah's portrait? Had she
come to remonstrate with him for arranging a marriage between those
who were as yet little more than children? But what reason had she
for interfering in such an affair? It was utterly out of place in one
like her. No; there was something else, he could not conjecture what.

All these thoughts swept with lightning speed through his mind, and
still the poor stricken creature stood before him with her eyes
lowered and her hands clasped, waiting for his answer. He roused
himself, and sought once more to reassure her. He told her that he
had noticed nothing, that he had been looking out of the window, and
that in any case, if he had, he should have thought nothing about it.
This he said in as careless a tone as possible, willfully misstating
facts, from a generous desire to spare her uneasiness and set her
mind at rest.

"Will you pardon me, Sir, if I intrude upon your kindness so far as
to ask one more question?" said the housekeeper, after listening
dreamily to the General's words. "You are going away, and I shall not
have another opportunity."

"Certainly," said the General, looking at her with unfeigned
sympathy. "If there is any thing that I can tell you I shall be happy
to do so. Ask me, by all means, any thing you wish."

"You had a private interview with the Earl," said she, with more
animation than she had yet shown.

"Yes."

"Pardon me, but will you consider it impertinence if I ask you
whether it was about your past life? I know it is impertinent; but
oh, Sir, I have my reasons." Her voice changed suddenly to the
humblest and most apologetic accent.

The General's interest was, if possible, increased; and, if there
were impertinence in such a question from a housekeeper, he was too
excited to be conscious of it. To him this woman seemed more than
this.

"We were talking about the past," said he, kindly. "We are very old
friends. We were telling each other the events of our lives. We
parted early in life, and have not seen one another for many years.
We also were arranging some business matters."

Mrs. Hart listened eagerly, and then remained silent for a long time.

"His old friend," she murmured at last; "his old friend! Did you find
him much altered?"

"Not more than I expected," replied the General, wonderingly. "His
secluded life here has kept him from the wear and tear of the world.
It has not made him at all misanthropical or even cynical. His heart
is as warm as ever. He spoke very kindly of you."

Mrs. Hart started, and her hands involuntarily clutched each other
more convulsively. Her head fell forward and her eyes dropped.

"What did he say of me?" she asked, in a scarce audible voice, and
trembling visibly as she spoke.

The General noticed her agitation, but it caused no surprise, for
already his whole power of wondering was exhausted. He had a vague
idea that the poor old thing was troubled for fear she might from
some cause lose her place, and wished to know whether the Earl had
made any remarks which might affect her position. So with this
feeling he answered in as cheering a tone as possible:

"Oh, I assure you, he spoke of you in the highest terms. He told me
that you were exceedingly kind to Guy, and that you were quite
indispensable to himself."

"'Kind to Guy'--'indispensable to him,'" she repeated in low tones,
while tears started to her eyes. She kept murmuring the words
abstractedly to herself, and for a few moments seemed quite
unconscious of the General's presence. He still watched her, on his
part, and gradually the thought arose within him that the easiest
solution for all this was possible insanity. Insanity, he saw, would
account for every thing, and would also give some reason for his own
strange feelings at the sight of her. It was, he thought, because he
had seen this dread sign of insanity in her face--that sign only less
terrible than that dread mark which is made by the hand of the King
of Terrors. And was she not herself conscious to some extent of this?
he thought. She had herself alluded to her eccentricity. Was she not
disturbed by a fear that he had noticed this, and, dreading a
disclosure, had come to him to explain? To her a stranger would be an
object of suspicion, against whom she would feel it necessary to be
on her guard. The people of the house were doubtless accustomed to
her ways, and would think nothing of any freak, however whimsical;
but a stranger would look with different eyes. Few, indeed, were the
strangers or visitors who ever came to Chetwynde Castle; but when one
did come he would naturally be an object of suspicion to this poor
soul, conscious of her infirmity, and struggling desperately against
it. Such thoughts as these succeeded to the others which had been
passing through the General's mind, and he was just beginning to
think of some plan by which he could soothe this poor creature, when
he was aware of a movement on her part which made him look up
hastily. Her eyes were fastened on his. They were large, luminous,
and earnest in their gaze, though dimmed by the grief of years. Tears
were in them, and the look which they threw toward him was full of
agony and earnest supplication. That emaciated face, that snow-white
hair, that brow marked by the lines of suffering, that slight figure
with its sombre vestments, all formed a sight which would have
impressed any man. The General was so astonished that he sat
motionless, wondering what it was now that the diseased fancy of one
whom he still believed to be insane would suggest. It was to him that
she was looking; it was to him that her shriveled hands were
outstretched. What could she want with him?


[Illustration: "But The Woman, With A Low Moan, Flung Herself On The
Floor Before Him."]


She drew nearer to him while he sat thus wondering. She stooped
forward and downward, with her eyes still fixed on his. He did not
move, but watched her in amazement. Again that thought which the
sight of her had at first suggested came to him. Again he thrust it
away. But the woman, with a low moan, suddenly flung herself on the
floor before him, and reaching out her hands clasped his feet, and he
felt her feeble frame all shaken by sobs and shudders. He sat
spell-bound. He looked at her for a moment aghast. Then he reached
forth his hands, and without speaking a word took hers, and tried to
lift her up. She let herself be raised till she was on her knees, and
then raised her head once more. She gave him an indescribable look,
and in a low voice, which was little above a whisper, but which
penetrated to the very depths of his soul, pronounced one single
solitary word,---.

The General heard it. His face grew as pale and as rigid as the face
of a corpse; the blood seemed to leave his heart; his lips grew
white; he dropped her hands, and sat regarding her with eyes in which
there was nothing less than horror. The woman saw it, and once more
fell with a low moan to the floor.

"My God!" groaned the General at last, and said not another word, but
sat rigid and mute while the woman lay on the floor at his feet. The
horror which that word had caused for some time overmastered him, and
he sat staring vacantly. But the horror was not against the woman who
had called it up, and who lay prostrate before him. She could not
have been personally abhorrent, for in a few minutes, with a start,
he noticed her once more, and his face was overspread by an anguish
of pity and sympathy. He raised her up, he led her to a couch, and
made her sit down, and then sat in silence before her with his face
buried in his hands. She reclined on the couch with her countenance
turned toward him, trembling still, and panting for breath, with her
right hand under her face, and her left pressed tightly against her
heart. At times she looked at the General with mournful inquiry, and
seemed to be patiently waiting for him to speak. An hour passed in
silence. The General seemed to be struggling with recollections that
overwhelmed him. At last he raised his head, and regarded her in
solemn silence, and still his face and his eyes bore that expression
of unutterable pity and sympathy which dwelt there when he raised her
from the floor.

After a time he addressed her in a low voice, the tones of which were
tender and full of sadness. She replied, and a conversation followed
which lasted for hours. It involved things of fearful moment--crime,
sin, shame, the perfidy of traitors, the devotion of faithful ones,
the sharp pang of injured love, the long anguish of despair, the
deathless fidelity of devoted affection. But the report of this
conversation and the recital of these things do not belong to this
place. It is enough to say that when at last Mrs. Hart arose it was
with a serener face and a steadier step than had been seen in her for
years.

That night the General did not close his eyes. His friend, his
business, even his daughter, all were forgotten, as though his soul
were overwhelmed and crushed by the weight of some tremendous
revelation.




[Illustration.]


CHAPTER V.


THE FUTURE BRIDE.


It had been arranged that Guy should accompany General Pomeroy up to
London, partly for the sake of arranging about the matters relating
to the Chetwynde estates, and partly for the purpose of seeing the
one who was some day to be his wife. Lord Chetwynde was unable to
undergo the fatigue of traveling, and had to leave every thing to his
lawyers and Guy.

At the close of a wearisome day in the train they reached London, and
drove at once to the General's lodgings in Great James Street. The
door was opened by a tall, swarthy woman, whose Indian nationality
was made manifest by the gay-colored turban which surmounted her
head, as well as by her face and figure. At the sight of the General
she burst out into exclamations of joy.

"Welcome home, sahib; welcome home!" she cried. "Little missy, her
fret much after you."

"I am sorry for that, nurse," said the General, kindly. As he was
speaking they were startled by a piercing scream from an adjoining
apartment, followed by a shrill voice uttering some words which ended
in a shriek. The General entered the house, and hastened to the room
from which the sounds proceeded, and Guy followed him. The uproar was
speedily accounted for by the tableau which presented itself on
opening the door. It was a tableau extremely vivant, and represented
a small girl, with violent gesticulations, in the act of rejecting a
dainty little meal which a maid, who stood by her with a tray, was
vainly endeavoring to induce her to accept. The young lady's
arguments were too forcible to admit of gainsaying, for the servant
did not dare to venture within reach of either the hands or feet of
her small but vigorous opponent. The presence of the tray prevented
her from defending herself in any way, and she was about retiring,
worsted, from the encounter, when the entrance of the gentlemen gave
a new turn to the position of affairs. The child saw them at once;
her screams of rage changed into a cry of joy, and the face which had
been distorted with passion suddenly became radiant with delight.

"Papa! papa!" she cried, and, springing forward, she darted to his
embrace, and twined her arms about his neck with a sob which her joy
had wrung from her.

"Darling papa!" she cried; "I thought you were never coming back. How
could you leave me so long alone?" and, saying this, she burst into a
passion of tears, while her father in vain tried to soothe her.

At this strange revelation of the General's daughter Guy stood
perplexed and wondering. Certainly he had not been prepared for this.
His _fiancée_ was undoubtedly of a somewhat stormy nature, and in the
midst of his bewilderment he was conscious of feeling deeply
reconciled to her ten years.

At length her father succeeded in quieting her, and, taking her arms
from his neck, he placed her on his knee, and said:

"My darling, here is a gentleman waiting all this time to speak to
you. Come, go over to him and shake hands with him."

At this the child turned her large black eyes on Guy, and scanned him
superciliously from head to foot. The result seemed to satisfy her,
for she advanced a few steps to take the hand which he had smilingly
held out; but a thought seemed suddenly to strike her which arrested
her progress half-way.

"Did _he_ keep you, papa?" she said, abruptly, while a jerk of her
head in Guy's direction signified the proper noun to which the
pronoun referred.

"He had something to do with it," answered her father, with a smile.

"Then I sha'n't shake hands with him," she said, resolutely; and,
putting the aforesaid appendages behind her back to prevent any
forcible appropriation of them, she hurried away, and clambered up on
her father's knee. The General, knowing probably by painful
experience the futility of trying to combat any determination of this
very decided young lady, did not attempt to make any remonstrance,
but allowed her to establish herself in her accustomed position.
During this process Guy had leisure to inspect her. This he did
without _any_ feeling of the immense importance of this child's
character to his own future life, without thinking that this little
creature might be destined to raise him up to heaven or thrust him
down to hell, but only with the idle, critical view of an
uninterested spectator. Guy was, in fact, too young to estimate the
future, and things which were connected with that future, at their
right value. He was little more than a boy, and so he looked with a
boy's eyes upon this singular child.

She struck him as the oddest little mortal that he had ever come
across. She was very tiny, not taller than many children of eight,
and so slight and fragile that she looked as if a breath might blow
her away. But if in figure she looked eight, in face she looked
fifty. In that face there was no childishness whatever. It was a
thin, peaked, sallow face, with a discontented expression; her
features were small and pinched, her hair, which was of inky
blackness, fell on her shoulders in long, straight locks, without a
ripple or a wave in them. She looked like an elf, but still this
elfish little creature was redeemed from the hideousness which else
might have been her doom by eyes of the most wonderful brilliancy.
Large, luminous, potent eyes--intensely black, and deep as the depths
of ocean, they seemed to fill her whole face; and in moments of
excitement they could light up with volcanic fires, revealing the
intensity of that nature which lay beneath. In repose they were
unfathomable, and defied all conjecture as to what their possessor
might develop into.

All this Guy noticed, as far as was possible to one so young and
inexperienced; and the general result of this survey was a state of
bewilderment and perplexity. He could not make her out. She was a
puzzle to him, and certainly not a very attractive one. When she had
finally adjusted herself on her father's knee, the General, after the
fashion of parents from time immemorial, asked:

"Has my darling been a good child since papa has been away?"

The question may have been a stereotyped one. Not so the answer,
which came out full and decided, in a tone free alike from penitence
or bravado, but giving only a simple statement of facts.

"No," she said, "I have not been a good girl. I've been very naughty
indeed. I haven't minded any thing that was said to me. I scratched
the ayah, and kicked Sarah. I bit Sarah too. Besides, I spilt my rice
and milk, and broke the plates, and I was just going to starve myself
to death."

At this recital of childish enormities, with its tragical ending, Guy
burst into a loud laugh. The child raised herself from her father's
shoulder, and, fixing her large eyes upon him, said slowly, and with
set teeth:

"I hate you!"

She looked so uncanny as she said this, and the expression of her
eyes was so intense in its malignity, that Guy absolutely started.

"Hush," exclaimed her father, more peremptorily than usual; "you must
not be so rude."

As he spoke she again looked at Guy, with a vindictive expression,
but did not deign to speak. The face seemed to him to be utterly
diabolical and detestable. She looked at him for a moment, and then
her head sank down upon her father's shoulder.

The General now made an effort to turn the conversation to where it
had left off, and reverting to Zillah's confession he said:

"I thought my little girl never broke her word, and that when she
promised to be good while I was away, I could depend upon her being
so."

This reproach seemed to touch her. She sprang up instantly and
exclaimed, in vehement tones:

"It was you who broke your promise to me. You said you would come
back in two days, and you staid four. I did keep my word. I was good
the first two days. Ask the ayah. When I found that you had deceived
me, then I did not care."

"But you should have trusted me, my child," said the General, in a
tone of mild rebuke. "You should have known that I must have had
some good reason for disappointing you. I had very important business
to attend to--business, darling, which very nearly affects your
happiness. Some day you shall hear about it."

"But I don't want to hear about any thing that will keep you away
from me," said Zillah, peevishly. "Promise never to leave me again."

"Not if I can help it, my child," said the General, kissing her
fondly.

"No; but promise that you won't at all," persisted Zillah. "Promise
never to leave me at all. Promise, promise, papa; promise--promise."

"Well," said the General, "I'll promise to take you with me the next
time. That will do, won't it?"

"But I don't want to go away," said this sweet child; "and I won't go
away."

The General gave a despairing glance at Guy, who he knew was a
spectator of this scene. He felt a vague desire to get Guy alone so
as to explain to him that this was only occasional and accidental,
and that Zillah was really one of the sweetest and most angelic
children that ever were born. Nor would this good General have
consciously violated the truth in saying so; for in his heart of
hearts he believed all this of his loved but sadly spoiled child. The
opportunity for such explanations did not occur, however, and the
General had the painful consciousness that Guy was seeing his future
bride under somewhat disadvantageous circumstances. Still he trusted
that the affectionate nature of Zillah would reveal itself to Guy,
and make a deep impression upon him.

While such thoughts as these were passing through his mind, and
others of a very varied nature were occurring to Guy, the maid Sarah
arrived to take her young charge to bed. The attempt to do so roused
Zillah to the most active resistance. She had made up her mind not
to yield. "I won't," she cried--"I won't go to bed. I will never go
away from papa a single instant until that horrid man is gone. I know
he will take you away again, and I hate him. Why don't you make him
go, papa?"

At this remark, which was so flattering to Guy, the General made a
fresh effort to appease his daughter, but with no better success than
before. Children and fools, says the proverb, speak the truth; and
the truth which was spoken in this instance was not very agreeable to
the visitor at whom it was flung. But Guy looked on with a smile, and
nothing in his face gave any sign of the feelings that he might have.
He certainly had not been prepared for any approach to any thing of
this sort. On the journey the General had alluded so often to that
daughter, who was always uppermost in his mind, that Guy had expected
an outburst of rapturous affection from her. Had he been passed by
unnoticed, he would have thought nothing of it; but the malignancy of
her look, and the venom of her words, startled him, yet he was too
good-hearted and considerate to exhibit any feeling whatever.

Sarah's effort to take Zillah away had resulted in such a complete
failure that she retired discomfited, and there was rather an awkward
period, in which the General made a faint effort to induce his
daughter to say something civil to Guy. This, however, was another
failure, and in a sort of mild despair he resigned himself to her
wayward humor.

At last dinner was announced. Zillah still refused to leave her
father, so that he was obliged, greatly to his own discomfort, to
keep her on his knee during the meal. When the soup and fish were
going on she was comparatively quiet; but at the first symptoms of
entrées she became restive, and popping up her quaint little head to
a level with the table, she eyed the edibles with the air of an
habitué at the Lord Mayor's banquet. Kaviole was handed round. This
brought matters to a crisis.

"A plate and a fork for me, Thomas," she ordered, imperiously.

"But, my darling," remonstrated her father, "this is much too rich
for you so late at night."

"I like kaviole," was her simple reply, given with the air of one who
is presenting an unanswerable argument, and so indeed it proved to
be.

This latter scene was re-enacted, with but small variations,
whenever any thing appeared which met with her ladyship's approval;
and Guy found that in spite of her youth she was a decided
connoisseur in the delicacies of the table. Now, to tell the truth,
he was not at all fond of children; but this one excited in him a
positive horror. There seemed to be something in her weird and
uncanny; and he found himself constantly speculating as to how he
could ever become reconciled to her; or what changes future years
could make in her; and whether the lapse of time could by any
possibility develop this impish being into any sort of a presentable
woman. From the moment that he saw her he felt that the question of
beauty must be abandoned forever; it would be enough if she could
prove to be one with whom a man might live with any degree of
domestic comfort. But the prospect of taking her at some period in
the future to preside over Chetwynde Castle filled him with complete
dismay. He now began to realize what his father had faintly
suggested--namely, that his part of the agreement might hereafter
prove a sacrifice. The prospect certainly looked dark, and for a
short time he felt somewhat downcast; but he was young and hopeful,
and in the end he put all these thoughts from him as in some sort
treacherous to his kind old friend, and made a resolute
determination, in spite of fate, to keep his vow with him.

After anticipating the dessert, and preventing her father from taking
cheese, on the ground that she did not like it, nature at last took
pity on that much enduring and long suffering man, and threw over the
daughter the mantle of sweet unconsciousness. Miss Pomeroy fell
asleep. In that helpless condition she was quietly conveyed from her
father's arms to bed, to the unspeakable relief of Guy, who felt, as
the door closed, as if a fearful incubus had been removed.

On the following morning he started by an early train for Dublin, so
that on this occasion he had no further opportunity of improving his
acquaintance with his lovely bride. Need it be said that the loss was
not regretted by the future husband?




[Illustration.]


CHAPTER VI.


TWO IMPORTANT CHARACTERS.


About five years passed away since the events narrated in the last
chapter. The General's household had left their London lodgings not
long after Guy's visit, and had removed to the family seat at Pomeroy
Court, where they had remained ever since. During these years Guy had
been living the life common with young officers, moving about from
place to place, going sometimes on a visit to his father, and, on the
whole, extracting an uncommonly large amount of enjoyment out of
life. The memory of his betrothal never troubled him; he fortunately
escaped any affair of the heart more serious than an idle flirtation
in a garrison town; the odd scene of his visit to General Pomeroy's
lodgings soon faded into the remote past; and the projected marriage
was banished in his mind to the dim shades of a remote future. As for
the two old men, they only met once or twice in all these years.
General Pomeroy could not manage very well to leave his daughter, and
Lord Chetwynde's health did not allow him to visit Pomeroy. He often
urged the General to bring Zillah with him to Chetwynde Castle, but
this the young lady positively refused to consent to. Nor did the
General himself care particularly about taking her there.

Pomeroy Court was a fine old mansion, with no pretensions to
grandeur, but full of that solid comfort which characterizes so many
country houses of England. It was irregular in shape, and belonged to
different periods; the main building being Elizabethan, from which
there projected an addition in that stiff Dutch style which William
and Mary introduced. A wide, well-timbered park surrounded it, beyond
which lay the village of Pomeroy.

One morning in June, 1856, a man came up the avenue and entered the
hall. He was of medium size, with short light hair, low brow, light
eyes, and thin face, and he carried a scroll of music in his hand. He
entered the hall with the air of an habitué, and proceeded to the
south parlor. Here his attention was at once arrested by a figure
standing by one of the windows. It was a young girl, slender and
graceful in form, dressed in black, with masses of heavy black hair
coiled up behind her head. Her back was turned toward him, and he
stood in silence for some time looking toward her. At last he spoke:

"Miss Krieff--"

The one called Miss Krieff turned and said, in an indifferent
monotone: "Good-morning, Mr. Gualtier."

Turning thus she showed a face which had in it nothing whatever of
the English type--a dark olive complexion, almost swarthy, in fact;
thick, luxuriant black hair, eyes intensely black and piercingly
lustrous, retreating chin, and retreating narrow forehead. In that
face, with its intense eyes, there was the possibility of rare charm
and fascination, and beauty of a very unusual kind; but at the
present moment, as she looked carelessly and almost sullenly at her
visitor, there was something repellent.

"Where is Miss Pomeroy?" asked Gualtier.

"About, somewhere," answered Miss Krieff, shortly.

"Will she not play to-day?"

"I think not."

"Why?"

"The usual cause."

"What?"

"Tantrums," said Miss Krieff.

"It is a pity," said Gualtier, dryly, "that she is so irregular in
her lessons. She will never advance."

"The idea of her ever pretending to take lessons of any body in any
thing is absurd," said Miss Krieff. "Besides, it is as much as a
teacher's life is worth. You will certainly leave the house some day
with a broken head."

Gualtier smiled, showing a set of large yellow teeth, and his small
light eyes twinkled.

"It is nothing for me, but I sometimes think it must be hard for you,
Miss Krieff," said he, insinuatingly.

"Hard!" she repeated, and her eyes flashed as she glanced at
Gualtier; but in an instant it passed, and she answered in a soft,
stealthy voice: "Oh yes, it is hard sometimes; but then dependents
have no right to complain of the whims of their superiors and
benefactors, you know."

Gualtier said nothing, but seemed to wait further disclosures. After
a time Miss Krieff looked up, and surveyed him with her penetrating
gaze.

"You must have a great deal to bear, I think," said he at last.

"Have you observed it?" she asked.

"Am I not Miss Pomeroy's tutor? How can I help observing it?" was the
reply.

"Have I ever acted as though I was dissatisfied or discontented, or
did you ever see any thing in me which would lead you to suppose that
I was otherwise than contented?"

"You are generally regarded as a model of good-nature," said
Gualtier, in a cautious, noncommittal tone. "Why should I think
otherwise? They say that no one but you could live with Miss
Pomeroy."

Miss Krieff looked away, and a stealthy smile crept over her
features.

"Good-nature!" she murmured. A laugh that sounded almost like a sob
escaped her. Silence followed, and Gualtier sat looking abstractedly
at his sheet of music.

"How do you like the General?" he asked, abruptly.

"How could I help loving Miss Pomeroy's father?" replied Miss Krieff,
with the old stealthy smile reappearing.

"Is he not just and honorable?"

"Both--more too--he is generous and tender. He is above all a fond
father; so fond," she added, with something like a sneer, "that all
his justice, his tenderness, and his generosity are exerted for the
exclusive benefit of that darling child on whom he dotes. I assure
you, you can have no idea how touching it is to see them together."

"Do you often feel this tenderness toward them?" asked Gualtier,
turning his thin sallow face toward her.

"Always," said Miss Krieff, slowly. She rose from her chair, where
she had taken her seat, and looked fixedly at him for some time
without one word.

"You appear to be interested in this family," said she at length.
Gualtier looked at her for a moment--then his eyes fell.

"How can I be otherwise than interested in one like you?" he
murmured.

"The General befriended you. He found you in London, and offered you
a large salary to teach his daughter."

"The General was very kind, and is so still."

Miss Krieff paused, and looked at him with keen and vigilant
scrutiny.

"Would you be shocked," she asked at length, "if you were to hear
that the General had an enemy?"

"That would altogether depend upon who the enemy might be."

"An enemy," continued Miss Krieff, with intense bitterness of
tone--"in his own family?"

"That would be strange," said Gualtier; "but I can imagine an enemy
with whom I would not be offended."

"What would you think," asked Miss Krieff, after another pause,
during which her keen scrutinizing gaze was fixed on Gualtier, "if
that enemy had for years been on the watch, and under a thin veil of
good-nature had concealed the most vengeful feelings? What would you
say if that enemy had grown so malignant that only one desire
remained, and that was--to do some injury in some way to General
Pomeroy?"

"You must tell me more," said Gualtier, "before I answer. I am fully
capable of understanding all that hate may desire or accomplish. But
has this enemy of whom you speak _done_ any thing? Has she found out
any thing? Has she ever discovered any way in which her hate may be
gratified?"

"You seem to take it for granted that his enemy is a woman!"

"Of course."

"Well, then, I will answer you. She _has_ found out something--or,
rather, she is in the way toward finding out something--which may yet
enable her to gratify her desires."

"Have you any objections to tell what that may be?" asked Gualtier.

Miss Krieff said nothing for some time, during which each looked
earnestly at the other.

"No," said she at last.

"What is it?"

"It is something that I have found among the General's papers," said
she, in a low voice.

"You have examined the General's papers, then?"

"What I said implied that much, I believe," said Miss Krieff, coolly.

"And what is it?"

"A certain mysterious document."

"Mysterious document?" repeated Gualtier.

"Yes."

"What?"

"It is a writing in cipher."

"And you have made it out?"

"No, I have not."

"Of what use is it, then?"

"I think it may be of some importance, or it would not have been kept
where it was, and it would not have been written in cipher."

"What can you do with it?" asked Gualtier, after some silence.

"I do not yet see what I can do with it, but others may."

"What others?"

"I hope to find some friend who may have more skill in cryptography
than I have, and may be able to decipher it."

"Can you not decipher it at all?"

"Only in part."

"And what is it that you have found out?"

"I will tell you some other time, perhaps."

"You object to tell me now?"

"Yes."

"When will you tell me?"

"When we are better acquainted."

"Are we not pretty well acquainted now?"

"Not so well as I hope we shall be hereafter."

"I shall wait most patiently, then," said Gualtier, earnestly, "till
our increased intimacy shall give me some more of your confidence.
But might you not give me some general idea of that which you think
you have discovered?"

Miss Krieff hesitated.

"Do not let me force myself into your confidence," said Gualtier.

"No," said Miss Krieff, in that cold, repellent manner which she
could so easily assume. "There is no danger of that. But I have no
objection to tell you what seems to me to be the general meaning of
that which I have deciphered."

"What is it?"

"As far as I can see," said Miss Krieff, "it charges General Pomeroy
with atrocious crimes, and implicates him in one in particular, the
knowledge of which, if it be really so, can be used against him with
terrible--yes, fatal effect. I now can understand very easily why he
was so strangely and frantically eager to betroth his child to the
son of Lord Chetwynde--why he trampled on all decency, and bound his
own daughter, little more than a baby, to a stranger--why he
purchased Guy Molyneux, body and soul, for money. All is plain from
this. But, after all, it is a puzzle. He makes so high a profession
of honor that if his profession were real he would have thought of a
betrothal any where except _there_. Oh, if Lord Chetwynde only had
the faintest conception of this!"

"But what is it?" cried Gualtier, with eager curiosity, which was
stimulated to the utmost by Miss Krieff's words and tones.

"I will tell you some other time," said Miss Krieff, resuming her
repellent tone--"not now. If I find you worthy of my confidence, I
will give it to you."

"I will try to show myself worthy of it," said Gualtier, and, after a
time, took his departure, leaving Miss Krieff to her thoughts.

Now, who was this Miss Krieff? She was an important member of the
numerous household which the General had brought with him from India.
She had been under his guardianship since her infancy; who she was no
one knew but the General himself. Her position was an honorable one,
and the General always treated her with a respect and affection that
were almost paternal. Thus her life had been passed, first as
playmate to Zillah, whom she exceeded in age by about four years, and
afterward as companion, friend, almost sister, to the spoiled child
and wayward heiress.

Hilda Krieff was a person of no common character. Even in India her
nature had exhibited remarkable traits. Child as she then was, her
astuteness and self-control were such as might have excited the
admiration of Macchiavelli himself. By persistent flattery, by the
indulgence of every whim, and, above all, by the most exaggerated
protestations of devotion, she had obtained a powerful influence over
Zillah's uncontrolled but loving nature; and thus she had gradually
made herself so indispensable to her that Zillah could never bear to
be separated from one who so humored all her whims, and bore her most
ungovernable fits of passion with such unvarying sweetness. Hilda had
evidently taken her lesson from the General himself; and thus Zillah
was treated with equal servility by her father and her friend.

Personally, there was some general resemblance between the two girls;
though in Hilda the sallow hue of ill health was replaced by a clear
olive complexion; and her eyes, which she seldom raised, had a
somewhat furtive manner at times, which was altogether absent from
Zillah's clear frank gaze. Hilda's voice was low and melodious, never
even in the abandon of childish play, or in any excitement, had she
been known to raise its tones; her step was soft and noiseless, and
one had no idea that she was in the room till she was found standing
by one's side.

Zillah's maid Sarah described in her own way the characteristics of
Hilda Krieff.

"That Injun girl," she said, "always giv her a turn. For her part she
preferred Missy, who, though she did kick uncommon, and were awful
cantankerous to manage, was always ready to make it up, and say as
she had been naughty. For my part," concluded Sarah, "I am free to
confess I have often giv Missy a sly shake when she was in one of
them tantrums, and I got the chance, and however that girl can be
always meek spoken even when she has books a-shied at her head is
more than I can tell, and I don't like it neither. I see a look in
them eyes of hers sometimes as I don't like."

Thus we see that Hilda's Christian-like forgiveness of injuries met
with but little appreciation in some quarters. But this mattered
little, since with the General and Zillah she was always in the
highest favor.

What had these years that had passed done for Zillah? In personal
appearance not very much. The plain sickly child had developed into a
tall ungainly girl, whose legs and arms appeared incessantly to
present to their owner the insoluble problem--What is to be done with
us? Her face was still thin and sallow, although it was redeemed by
its magnificent eyes and wealth of lustrous, jet-black hair. As to
her hair, to tell the truth, she managed its luxuriant folds in a
manner as little ornamental as possible. She would never consent to
allow it to be dressed, affirming that it would drive her mad to sit
still so long, and it was accordingly tricked up with more regard to
expedition than to neatness; and long untidy locks might generally be
seen straggling over her shoulders. Nevertheless a mind possessed of
lively imagination and great faith might have traced in this girl the
possibility of better things.

In mental acquirements she was lamentably deficient. Her mind was a
garden gone to waste; the weeds flourished, but the good seed refused
to take root. It had been found almost impossible to give her even
the rudiments of a good education. Governess after governess had come
to Pomeroy Court; governess after governess after a short trial had
left, each one telling the same story: Miss Pomeroy's abilities were
good, even above the average, but her disinclination to learning was
so great--such was the delicately expressed formula in which they
made known to the General Zillah's utter idleness and
selfishness--that she (the governess) felt that she was unable to do
her justice; that possibly the fault lay in her own method of
imparting instruction, and that she therefore begged to resign the
position of Miss Pomeroy's instructress. Now, as each new teacher had
begun a system of her own which she had not had time to develop, it
may be easily seen that the little knowledge which Zillah possessed
was of the most desultory character. Yet after all she had something
in her favor. She had a taste for reading, and this led her to a
familiarity with the best authors. More than this, her father had
instilled into her mind a chivalrous sense of honor; and from natural
instinct, as well as from his teachings, she loved all that was noble
and pure. Medieval romance was most congenial to her taste; and of
all the heroes who figure there she loved best the pure, the
high-souled, the heavenly Sir Galahad. All the heroes of the
Arthurian or of the Carlovingian epopee were adored by this wayward
but generous girl. She would sit for hours curled up on a window-sill
of the library, reading tales of Arthur and the knights of the Round
Table, or of Charlemagne and his Paladins. Fairy lore, and whatever
else our medieval ancestors have loved, thus became most familiar to
her, and all her soul became imbued with these bright and radiant
fancies. And through it all she learned the one great lesson which
these romances teach--that the grandest and most heroic of all
virtues is self-abnegation at the call of honor and loyalty.

The only trouble was, Zillah took too grand a view of this virtue to
make it practically useful in daily life. If she had thus taken it to
her heart, it might have made her practice it by giving up her will
to those around her, and by showing from day to day the beauty of
gentleness and courtesy. This, however, she never thought of; or, if
it came to her mind, she considered it quite beneath her notice. Hers
was simply a grand theory, to carry out which she never dreamed of
any sacrifice but one of the grandest character.

The General certainly did all in his power to induce her to learn;
and if she did not, it was scarcely his fault. But, while Zillah thus
grew up in ignorance, there was one who did profit by the
instructions which she had despised, and, in spite of the constant
change of teachers which Zillah's impracticable character had
rendered necessary, was now, at the age of nineteen, a refined,
well-educated, and highly-accomplished young lady. This was Hilda
Krieff. General Pomeroy was anxious that she should have every
possible advantage, and Zillah was glad enough to have a companion in
her studies. The result is easily stated. Zillah was idle, Hilda was
studious, and all that the teachers could impart was diligently
mastered by her.




CHAPTER VII.


THE SECRET CIPHER.


Some time passed away, and Gualtier made his usual visits. Zillah's
moods were variable and capricious. Sometimes she would languidly
declare that she could not take her lesson; at other times she would
take it for about ten minutes; and then, rising hastily from the
piano, she would insist that she was tired, and refuse to study any
more for that day. Once or twice, by an extreme effort, she managed
to devote a whole half hour, and then, as though such exertion
was superhuman, she would retire, and for several weeks afterward
plead that half hour as an excuse for her negligence. All this
Gualtier bore with perfect equanimity. Hilda said nothing; and
generally, after Zillah's retirement, she would go to the piano
herself and take a lesson.

These lessons were diversified by general conversation. Often they
spoke about Zillah, but very seldom was it that they went beyond
this. Miss Krieff showed no desire to speak of the subject which they
once had touched upon, and Gualtier was too cunning to be obtrusive.
So the weeks passed by without any renewal of that confidential
conversation in which they had once indulged.

While Zillah was present, Hilda never in any instance showed any sign
whatever of anger or impatience. She seemed not to notice her
behavior, or if she did notice it she seemed to think it a very
ordinary matter. On Zillah's retiring she generally took her place at
the piano without a word, and Gualtier began his instructions. It was
during these instructions that their conversation generally took
place.

One day Gualtier came and found Hilda alone. She was somewhat
_distrait_, but showed pleasure at seeing him, at which he felt both
gratified and flattered. "Where is Miss Pomeroy?" he asked, after the
usual greetings had been exchanged.

"You will not have the pleasure of seeing her to-day," answered
Hilda, dryly.

"Is she ill?"

"Ill? She is never ill. No. She has gone out."

"Ah?"

"The General was going to take a drive to visit a friend, and she
took it into her head to accompany him. Of course he had to take her.
It was very inconvenient--and very ridiculous--but the moment she
proposed it he assented, with only a very faint effort at dissuasion.
So they have gone, and will not be back for some hours."

"I hope you will allow me to say," remarked Gualtier, in a low voice,
"that I consider her absence rather an advantage than otherwise."

"You could hardly feel otherwise," said Hilda. "You have not yet got
a broken head, it is true; but it is coming. Some day you will not
walk out of the house. You will be carried out."

"You speak bitterly."

"I feel bitterly."

"Has any thing new happened?" he asked, following up the advantage
which her confession gave him.

"No; it is the old story. Interminable troubles, which have to be
borne with interminable patience."

There was a long silence. "You spoke once," said Gualtier at last, in
a low tone, "of something which you promised one day to tell me--some
papers. You said that you would show them some day when we were
better acquainted. Are we not better acquainted? You have seen me now
for many weeks since that time, and ought to know whether I am worthy
to be trusted or not."

"Mr. Gualtier," said Hilda, frankly, and without hesitation, "from my
point of view I have concluded that you are worthy to be trusted. I
have decided to show you the paper."

Gualtier began to murmur his thanks, Hilda waved her hand. "There is
no need of that," said she. "It may not amount to any thing, and then
your thanks will be thrown away. If it does amount to something you
will share the benefit of it with me--though you can not share the
revenge," she muttered, in a lower tone.

"But, after all," she continued, "I do not know that any thing can be
gained by it. The conjectures which I have formed may all be
unfounded."

"At any rate, I shall be able to see what the foundation is," said
Gualtier.

"True," returned Hilda, rising; "and so I will go at once and get the
paper."

"Have you kept it ever since?" he asked.

"What! the paper? Oh, you must not imagine that I have kept the
original! No, no. I kept it long enough to make a copy, and returned
the original to its place."

"Where did you find it?"

"In the General's private desk."

"Did it seem to be a paper of any importance?"

"Yes; it was kept by itself in a secret drawer. That showed its
importance."

Hilda then left the room, and in a short time returned with a
paper in her hand.

"Here it is," she said, and she gave it to Gualtier. Gualtier took
it, and unfolding it, he saw this:

Gualtier took this singular paper, and examined it long and
earnestly. Hilda had copied out the characters with painful
minuteness and beautiful accuracy; but nothing in it suggested to
him any revelation of its dark meaning, and he put it down with a
strange, bewildered air.

"What is it all?" he asked. "It seems to contain some mystery,
beyond a doubt. I can gather nothing from the characters. They are
all astronomical signs; and, so far as I can see, are the signs of
the zodiac and of the planets. Here, said he, pointing to the
character [Sun image], is the sign of the Sun; and here, pointing to
[Libra image], is Libra; and here is Aries, pointing to the sign
[Aries image].

"Yes," said Hilda; "and that occurs most frequently."

"What is it all?"

"I take it to be a secret cipher."

"How?"

"Why, this--that these signs are only used to represent letters of
the alphabet. If such a simple mode of concealment has been used the
solution is an easy one."

"Can you solve cipher alphabets?"

"Yes, where there is nothing more than a concealment of the letters.
Where there is any approach to hieroglyphic writing, or syllabic
ciphers, I am baffled."

"And have you solved this?"

"No."

"I thought you said that you had, and that it contained charges
against General Pomeroy."

"That is my difficulty. I have tried the usual tests, and have made
out several lines; but there is something about it which puzzles me;
and though I have worked at it for nearly a year, I have not been
able to get to the bottom of it."

"Are you sure that your deciphering is correct?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it ought to apply to all, and it does not. It only applies
to a quarter of it."

"Perhaps it is all hieroglyphic, or syllabic writing."

"Perhaps so."

"In that case can you solve it?"

[Illustration.]

"No; and that is one reason why I have thought of you. Have you ever
tried any thing of the kind?"


[Illustration: "'What Is It All?' He Asked."]


"No; never. And I don't see how you have learned any thing about it,
or how you have been able to arrive at any principle of action."

"Oh, as to that," returned Hilda, "the principle upon which I work is
very simple; but I wish you to try the solution with your own unaided
ingenuity. So, simple as my plan is, I will not tell you any thing
about it just now."

Gualtier looked again at the paper with an expression of deep
perplexity.

"How am I even to begin?" said he. "What am I to do? You might as
well ask me to translate late the Peschito version of the Syriac
gospels, or the Rig-Veda."

"I think," said Hilda, coolly, "that you have sufficient ingenuity."

"I have," said Gualtier; "but, unfortunately, my ingenuity does not
lie at all in this direction. This is something different from any
thing that has ever come in my way before. See," he said, pointing to
the paper, "this solid mass of letters. It is a perfect block, an
exact rectangle. How do you know where to begin? Nothing on the
letters shows this. How do you know whether you are to read from left
to right, or from right to left, like Hebrew and Arabic; or both
ways, like the old Greek Boustrephedon; or vertically, like the
Chinese; or, for that matter, diagonally? Why, one doesn't know even
how to begin!"

"That must all be carefully considered," said Hilda. "I have weighed
it all, and know every letter by heart; its shape, its position, and
all about it."

"Well," said Gualtier, "you must not be at all surprised if I fail
utterly."

"At least you will try?"

"Try? I shall be only too happy. I shall devote to this all the time
that I have. I will give up all my mind and all my soul to it. I will
not only examine it while I am by myself, but I will carry this paper
with me wherever I go, and occupy every spare moment in studying it.
I'll learn every character by heart, and think over them all day, and
dream about them all night. Do not be afraid that I shall neglect it.
It is enough for me that _you_ have given this for me to attempt its
solution."

Gualtier spoke with earnestness and impetuosity, but Hilda did not
seem to notice it at all.

"Recollect," she said, in her usual cool manner, "it is as much for
your interest as for mine. If my conjecture is right, it may be of
the utmost value. If I am wrong, then I do not know what to do."

"You think that this implicates General Pomeroy in some crime?"

"That is my impression, from my own attempt at solving it. But, as I
said, my solution is only a partial one. I can not fathom the rest of
it, and do not know how to begin to do so. That is the reason why I
want your help."




CHAPTER VIII.


DECIPHERING.


Many weeks passed away before Gualtier had another opportunity of
having a confidential conversation with Miss Krieff. Zillah seemed to
be perverse. She was as capricious as ever as to her music: some days
attending to it for five minutes, other days half an hour; but now
she did not choose to leave the room. She would quit the piano, and,
flinging herself into a chair, declare that she wanted to see how
Hilda stood it. As Hilda seated herself and wrought out elaborate
combinations from the instrument, she would listen attentively, and
when it was over she would give expression to some despairing words
as to her own stupidity.

Yet Gualtier had opportunities, and he was not slow to avail himself
of them. Confidential intercourse had arisen between himself and Miss
Krieff, and he was determined to avail himself of the great advantage
which this gave him. They had a secret in common--she had admitted
him to her intimacy. There was an understanding between them. Each
felt an interest in the other. Gualtier knew that he was more than an
ordinary music-teacher to her.

During those days when Zillah persistently staid in the room he made
opportunities for himself. Standing behind her at the piano he had
chances of speaking words which Zillah could not hear.

Thus: "Your fingering there is not correct, Miss Krieff," he would
say in a low tone. "You must put the second finger on G. I have not
yet deciphered it."

"But the book indicates the third finger on G. Have you tried?"

"It is a blunder of the printer. Yes, every day--almost every hour of
every day."

"Yet it seems to me to be natural to put the third finger there. Are
you discouraged?"

"Try the second finger once or twice, this way;" and he played a few
notes. "Discouraged? no; I am willing to keep at it for an indefinite
period."

"Yes, I see that it is better. You must succeed. I was three months
at it before I discovered any thing."

"That passage is _allegro_, and you played it _andante_. I wish you
would give me a faint hint as to the way in which you deciphered it."

"I did not notice the directions," responded Miss Krieff, playing the
passage over again.

"Will that do? No, I will give no hint. You would only imitate me
then, and I wish you to find out for yourself on your own principle."

"Yes, that is much better. But I have no principle to start on, and
have not yet found out even how to begin."

"I must pay more attention to 'expression,' I see. You say my 'time'
is correct enough. If you are not discouraged, you will find it out
yet."

"Your 'time' is perfect. If it is possible, I will find it out. I am
not discouraged."

"Well, I will hope for something better the next time, and now don't
speak about it any more. The 'brat' is listening."

"_Allegro_, _allegro_; remember, Miss Krieff. You always confound
_andante_ with _allegro_."

"So I do. They have the same initials."

Such was the nature of Gualtier's musical instructions. These
communications, however, were brief and hurried, and only served to
deepen the intimacy between them. They had now mutually recognized
themselves as two conspirators, and had thus become already
indispensable to one another.

They waited patiently, however, and at length their patient waiting
was rewarded. One day Gualtier came and found that Zillah was unwell,
and confined to her room. It was the slightest thing in the world,
but the General was anxious and fidgety, and was staying in the room
with her trying to amuse her. This Miss Krieff told him with her
usual bitterness.

"And now," said she, "we will have an hour. I want to know what you
have done."

"Done! Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"No, nothing. My genius does not lie in that direction. You might as
well have expected me to decipher a Ninevite inscription. I can do
nothing."

"Have you tried?"

"Tried! I assure you that for the last month the only thing that I
have thought of has been this. Many reasons have urged me to decipher
it, but the chief motive was the hope of bringing to you a complete
explanation."

"Have you not made out at least a part of it?"

"Not a part--not a single word--if there are words in it--which I
very much doubt."

"Why should you doubt it?"

"It seems to me that it must consist of hieroglyphics. You yourself
say that you have only made out a part of it, and that you doubt
whether it is a valid interpretation. After all, then, your
interpretation is only partial--only a conjecture. Now I have not
begun to make even a conjecture. For see--what is this?" and Gualtier
drew the well-thumbed paper from his pocket. "I have counted up all
the different characters here, and find that they are forty in
number. They are composed chiefly of astronomical signs; but sixteen
of them are the ordinary punctuation marks, such as one sees every
day. If it were merely a secret alphabet, there would be twenty-six
signs only, not forty. What can one do with forty signs?

"I have examined different grammars of foreign languages to see if
any of them had forty letters, but among the few books at my command
I can find none; and even if it were so, what then? What would be the
use of trying to decipher an inscription in Arabic? I thought at one
time that perhaps the writer might have adopted the short-hand
alphabet, but changed the signs. Yet even when I go from this
principle I can do nothing."

"Then you give it up altogether?"

"Yes, altogether and utterly, so far as I am concerned; but I still
am anxious to know what you have deciphered, and how you have
deciphered it. I have a hope that I may gain some light from your
discovery, and thus be able to do something myself."

"Well," said Miss Krieff, "I will tell you, since you have failed so
completely. My principle is a simple one; and my deciphering, though
only partial, seems to me to be so true, as far as it goes, that I
can not imagine how any other result can be found.

"I am aware," she continued, "that there are forty different
characters in the inscription. I counted them all out, and wrote them
out most carefully. I went on the simple principle that the writer
had written in English, and that the number of the letters might be
disregarded on a first examination.

"Then I examined the number of times in which each letter occurred. I
found that the sign [Aries image] occurred most frequently. Next was
[Gemini image]; next [Taurus image]; and then [Cancer image], and
[Leo image], and [Libra image], and [Sagittarius image], and [Mars
image]." Miss Krieff marked these signs down as she spoke.

Gualtier nodded.

"There was this peculiarity about these signs," said Miss Krieff,
"that they occurred all through the writing, while the others
occurred some in the first half and some in the second. For this
inscription is very peculiar in this respect. It is only in the
second half that the signs of punctuation occur. The signs of the
first half are all astronomical.

"You must remember," continued Miss Krieff, "that I did not think of
any other language than the English. The idea of its being any
dialect of the Hindustani never entered my head. So I went on this
foundation, and naturally the first thought that came to me was, what
letters are there in English which occur most frequently? It seemed
to me if I could find this out I might obtain some key, partially, at
any rate, to the letters which occurred so frequently in this
writing.

"I had plenty of time and unlimited patience. I took a large number
of different books, written by standard authors, and counted the
letters on several pages of each as they occurred. I think I counted
more than two hundred pages in this way. I began with the vowels, and
counted up the number of times each one occurred. Then I counted the
consonants."

"That never occurred to me," said Gualtier. "Why did you not tell
me?"

"Because I wanted you to decipher it yourself on your own principle.
Of what use would it be if you only followed over my track? You would
then have come only to my result. But I must tell you the result of
my examination. After counting up the recurrence of all the letters
on more than two hundred pages of standard authors, I made out an
average of the times of their recurrence, and I have the paper here
on which I wrote the average down."

And Miss Krieff drew from her pocket a paper which she unfolded and
showed to Gualtier. On it was the following:


AVERAGE OF LETTERS.

E.....222 times per page.  N.....90 times per page.
T.....162 times per page.  L.....62 times per page.
A.....120 times per page.  D.....46 times per page.
H.....110 times per page.  C.....42 times per page.
I..J..109 times per page.  U..V..36 times per page.
S.....104 times per page.  B.....36 times per page.
O.....100 times per page.  W.....30 times per page.
R.....100 times per page.  G.....30 times per page.


"The rest," said Miss Krieff, "occur on the average less than thirty
times on a page, and so I did not mark them. 'F,' 'P,' and 'K' may be
supposed to occur more frequently than some others; but they do not.

"'E,' then," she continued, "is the letter of first importance in the
English language. 'A,' and 'T,' and 'H,' are the next ones. Now there
are some little words which include these letters, such as 'the.'
'And' is another word which may be discovered and deciphered, it is
of such frequent occurrence. If these words only can be found, it is
a sign at least that one is on the right track. There are also
terminations which seem to me peculiar to the English language; such
as 'ng,' 'ing,' 'ed,' 'ly,' and so on. At any rate, from my studies
of the Italian, French, and German, and from my knowledge of
Hindustani, I know that there are no such terminations in any of the
words of those languages. So you see," concluded Miss Krieff, with a
quiet smile, "the simple principle on which I acted."

"Your genius is marvelously acute!" exclaimed Gualtier, in
undisguised admiration. "You speak of your principle as a _simple_
one, but it is more than I have been able to arrive at."

"Men," said Miss Krieff, "reason too much. You have been imagining
all sorts of languages in which this may have been written. Now,
women go by intuitions. I acted in that way."

"Intuitions!" exclaimed Gualtier. "You have reasoned out this thing
in a way which might have done honor to Bacon. You have laid down a
great principle as a foundation, and have gone earnestly to work
building up your theory. Champollion himself did not surpass you."

Gualtier's tone expressed profound admiration. It was not idle
compliment. It was sincere. He looked upon her at that moment as a
superior genius. His intellect bowed before hers. Miss Krieff saw the
ascendency which she had gained over him; and his expressions of
admiration were not unwelcome. Admiration! Rare, indeed, was it that
she had heard any expressions of that kind, and when they came they
were as welcome as is the water to the parched and thirsty ground.
Her whole manner softened toward him, and her eyes, which were
usually so bright and hard, now grew softer, though none the less
bright.

"You overestimate what I have done," said she, "and you forget that
it is only partially effected."

"Whether partially or not," replied Gualtier, "I have the most
intense curiosity to see what you have done. Have you any objections
to show it to me? Now that I have failed by myself, the only hope
that I have is to be able to succeed through your assistance. You can
show your superiority to me here; perhaps, in other things, I may be
of service to you."

"I have no objections," said Miss Krieff. "Indeed I would rather show
you my results than not, so as to hear what you have to say about
them. I am not at all satisfied, for it is only partial. I know what
you will say. You will see several reasons, all of which are very
good, for doubting my interpretation of this writing."

"I can assure you that I shall doubt nothing. After my own
disgraceful failure any interpretation will seem to me to be a work
of genius. Believe me any interpretation of yours will only fill me
with a sense of my own weakness."

"Well," said Miss Krieff, after a pause, "I will show you what I have
done. My papers are in my room. Go and play on the piano till I come
back."

Saying this she departed, and was absent for about a quarter of an
hour or twenty minutes, and then returned.

"How is Miss Pomeroy?" asked Gualtier, turning round on the
piano-stool and rising.

"About the same," said Miss Krieff. "The General is reading Puss in
Boots to her, I believe. Perhaps it is Jack and the Bean Stalk, or
Beauty and the Beast. It is one of them, however. I am not certain
which."

She walked up to a centre-table and opened a paper which she held in
her hand. Gualtier followed her, and took a seat by her side.

"You must remember," said Miss Krieff, "that this interpretation of
mine is only a partial one, and may be altogether wrong. Yet the
revelations which it seemed to convey were so startling that they
have produced a very deep impression on my mind. I hoped that you
would have done something. If you had arrived at a solution similar
to mine, even if it had been a partial one, I should have been
satisfied that I had arrived at a part of the truth at least. As you
have not done so, nothing remains but to show you what I have done."

Saying this, she opened the paper which she held and displayed it to
Gualtier:


[Illustration.]


"In that writing," said she, "there are twenty lines. I have been
able to do any thing with ten of them only, and that partially. The
rest is beyond my conjecture."

The paper was written so as to show under each character the
corresponding letter, or what Miss Krieff supposed to be the
corresponding letter, to each sign.

"This," said Miss Krieff, "is about half of the signs. You see if my
key is applied it makes intelligible English out of most of the signs
in this first half. There seems to me to be a block of letters set
into a mass of characters. Those triangular portions of signs at each
end, and all the lower part, seem to me to be merely a mass of
characters that mean nothing, but added to conceal and distract."

"It is possible," said Gualtier, carefully examining the paper.

"It must mean something," said Miss Krieff, "and it can mean nothing
else than what I have written. That is what it was intended to
express. Those letters could not have tumbled into that position by
accident, so as to make up these words. See," she continued, "here
are these sentences written out separately, and you can read them
more conveniently."

She handed Gualtier a piece of paper, on which was the following:


_Oh may God have mercy on my wretched soul Amen
O Pomeroy forged a hundred thousand dollars
O N Pomeroy eloped with poor Lady Chetwynde
She acted out of a mad impulse in flying
She listened to me and ran off with me
She was piqued at her husband's act
Fell in with Lady Mary Chetwynd
Expelled the army for gaming
N Pomeroy of Pomeroy Berks
O I am a miserable villain_


Gualtier read it long and thoughtfully. "What are the initials 'O.
N.?'"

"Otto Neville. It is the General's name."

Silence followed. "Here he is called O Pomeroy, O N Pomeroy, and N
Pomeroy."

"Yes; the name by which he is called is Neville."

"Your idea is that it is a confession of guilt, written by this O. N.
Pomeroy himself?"

"It reads so."

"I don't want to inquire into the probability of the General's
writing out this and leaving it in his drawer, even in cipher, but I
look only at the paper itself."

"What do you think of it?"

"In the first place your interpretation is very ingenious."

"But--?"

"But it seems partial."

"So it does to me. That is the reason why I want your help. You see
that there are several things about it which give it an incomplete
character. First, the mixture of initials; then, the interchange of
the first and third persons. At one moment the writer speaking of
Pomeroy as a third person, running off with Lady Chetwynde, and again
saying he himself fell in with her. Then there are incomplete
sentences, such as, 'Fell in with Lady Mary Chetwynde--'"

"I know all that, but I have two ways of accounting for it."

"What?"

"First, that the writer became confused in writing the cipher
characters and made mistakes."

"That is probable," said Gualtier. "What is another way?"

"That he wrote it this way on purpose to baffle."

"I think the first idea is the best: if he had wished to baffle he
never would have written it at all."

"No; but somebody else might have written it in his name thus
secretly and guardedly. Some one who wished for vengeance, and tried
this way."

Gualtier said nothing in reply, but looked earnestly at Miss Krieff.




[Illustration.]


CHAPTER IX.


A SERIOUS ACCIDENT.


About this time an event took place which caused a total change in
the lives of all at Pomeroy Court. One day, when out hunting, General
Pomeroy met with an accident of a very serious nature. While leaping
over a hedge the horse slipped and threw his rider, falling heavily
on him at the same time. He was picked up bleeding and senseless, and
in that condition carried home. On seeing her father thus brought
back, Zillah gave way to a perfect frenzy of grief. She threw herself
upon his unconscious form, uttering wild ejaculations, and it was
with extreme difficulty that she could be taken away long enough to
allow the General to be undressed and laid on his bed. She then took
her place by her father's bedside, where she remained without food or
sleep for two or three days, refusing all entreaties to leave him. A
doctor had been sent for with all speed, and on his arrival did what
he could for the senseless sufferer. It was a very serious case, and
it was not till the third day that the General opened his eyes. The
first sight that he saw was the pale and haggard face of his
daughter.

"What is this?" he murmured, confusedly, and in a faint voice. "What
are you doing here, my darling?"

At the sight of this recognition, and the sound of his voice, Zillah
uttered a loud cry of joy, and twined her arms about him in an eager
hunger of affection.

"Oh, papa! papa!" she moaned, "you are getting better! You will not
leave me--you will not--you will not!"

All that day the doctor had been in the house, and at this moment had
been waiting in an adjoining apartment. The cry of Zillah startled
him, and he hurried into the room. He saw her prostrate on the bed,
with her arms around her father, uttering low, half-hysterical words
of fondness, intermingled with laughter and weeping.

"Miss Pomeroy," he said, with some sternness, "are you mad? Did I not
warn you above all things to restrain your feelings?"

Instantly Zillah started up. The reproof of the doctor had so stung
her that for a moment she forgot her father, and regarded her
reprover with a face full of astonishment and anger.

"How dare you speak so to me?" she cried, savagely.

The doctor looked fixedly at her for a few moments, and then
answered, quietly:

"This is no place for discussion. I will explain afterward." He then
went to the General's bedside, and surveyed his patient in thoughtful
silence. Already the feeble beginnings of returning consciousness had
faded away, and the sick man's eyes were closed wearily. The doctor
administered some medicine, and after waiting for nearly an hour in
silence, he saw the General sink off into a peaceful sleep.

"Now," said he, in a low voice, "Miss Pomeroy, I wish to say
something to you. Come with me." He led the way to the room where he
had been waiting, while Zillah, for the first time in her life,
obeyed an order. She followed in silence. "Miss Pomeroy," said the
doctor, very gravely, "your father's case is very serious indeed,
and I want to have a perfect understanding with you. If you have not
thorough confidence in me, you have only to say so, and I will give
you a list of physicians of good standing, into whose hands you may
safely confide the General. But if, on the contrary, you wish me to
continue my charge. I will only do so on the condition that I am to
be the sole master in that room, and that my injunctions are to be
implicitly attended to. Now, choose for yourself."

This grave, stern address, and the idea that he might leave her,
frightened Zillah altogether out of her passion. She looked piteously
at him, and grasped his hand as if in fear that he would instantly
carry out his threat.

"Oh, doctor!" she cried, "pray forgive me; do not leave me when dear
papa is so ill! It shall be all as you say, only you will not send me
away from him, will you? Oh, say that you will not!"

The doctor retained her hand, and answered very kindly: "My dear
child, I should be most sorry to do so. Now that your father has come
back to consciousness, you may be the greatest possible comfort to
him if you will. But, to do this, you really must try to control
yourself. The excitement which you have just caused him has overcome
him, and if I had not been here I do not know what might have
happened. Remember, my child, that love is shown not by words but by
deeds; and it would be but a poor return for all your father's
affection to give way selfishly to your own grief."

"Oh, what have I done?" cried Zillah, in terror.

"I do not suppose that you have done him very serious injury," said
the doctor, reassuringly; "but you ought to take warning by this. You
will promise now, won't you, that there shall be no repetition of
this conduct?"

"Oh, I will! I will!"

"I will trust you, then," said the doctor, looking with pity upon her
sad face. "You are his best nurse, if you only keep your promise. So
now, my dear, go back to your place by his side." And Zillah, with a
faint murmur of thanks, went back again.

On the following day General Pomeroy seemed to have regained his full
consciousness. Zillah exercised a strong control over herself, and
was true to her promise. When the doctor called he seemed pleased at
the favorable change. But there was evidently something on the
General's mind. Finally, he made the doctor understand that he wished
to see him alone. The doctor whispered a few words to Zillah, who
instantly left the room.

"Doctor," said the General, in a feeble voice, as soon as they were
alone, "I must know the whole truth. Will you tell it to me frankly?"

"I never deceive my patients," was the answer.

"Am I dangerously ill?"

"You are."

"How long have I to live?"

"My dear Sir, God alone can answer that question. You have a chance
for life yet. Your sickness may take a favorable turn, and we may be
able to bring you round again."

"But the chances are against me, you think?"

"We must be prepared for the worst," said the doctor, solemnly. "At
the same time, there is a chance."

"Well, suppose that the turn should be unfavorable, how long would it
be, do you think, before the end? I have much to attend to, and it is
of the greatest important that I should know this."

"Probably a month--possibly less," answered the doctor, gravely,
after a moment's thought; "that is, if the worst should take place.
But it is impossible to speak with certainty until, your symptoms are
more fully developed."

"Thank you, doctor, for your frankness; and now, will you kindly send
my daughter to me?"

"Remember," said the doctor, doubtfully, "that it is of the greatest
possible moment that you be kept free from all excitement. Any
agitation of your mind will surely destroy your last chance."

"But I must see her!" answered the General, excitedly. "I have to
attend to something which concerns her. It is her future. I could not
die easily, or rest in my grave, if this were neglected."

Thus far the General had been calm, but the thought of Zillah had
roused him into dangerous agitation. The doctor saw that discussion
would only aggravate this, and that his only chance was to humor his
fancies. So he went out, and found Zillah pacing the passage in a
state of uncontrollable agitation. He reminded her of her promise,
impressed on her the necessity of caution, and sent her to him. She
crept softly to the bedside, and, taking her accustomed seat, covered
his hand with kisses.

"Sit a little lower, my darling," said the General, "where I may see
your face." She obeyed, still holding his hand, which returned with
warmth her caressing pressure.

The agitation which the General had felt at the doctor's information
had now grown visibly stronger. There was a kind of feverish
excitement in his manner which seemed to indicate that his brain was
affected. One idea only filled that half-delirious brain, and this,
without the slightest warning, he abruptly began to communicate to
his daughter.

"You know, Zillah," said he, in a rapid, eager tone which alarmed
her, "the dearest wish of my heart is to see you the wife of Guy
Molyneux, the son of my old friend. I betrothed you to him five years
ago. You remember all about it, of course. He visited us at London.
The time for the accomplishment of my desire has now arrived. I
received a letter from Lord Chetwynde on the day of my accident,
telling me that his son's regiment was shortly to sail for India. I
intended writing to ask him to pay us a visit before he left; but
now," he added, in a dreamy voice, "of course he must come, and--he
must marry you before he goes."

Any thing more horrible, more abhorrent, to Zillah than such
language, at such a time, could not be conceived. She thought he was
raving.

A wild exclamation of fear and remonstrance started to her lips; but
she remembered the doctor's warning, and by a mighty effort repressed
it. It then seemed to her that this raving delirium, if resisted,
might turn to madness and endanger his last chance. In her despair
she found only one answer, and that was something which might soothe
him.

"Yes, dear papa," she said, quietly; "yes, we will ask him to come
and see us."

"No, no," cried the General, with feverish impatience. "That will not
do. You must marry him at once--to-day--to-morrow--do you hear? There
is no time to lose."

"But I must stay with you, dearest papa, you know," said Zillah,
still striving to soothe him. "What would you do without your little
girl? I am sure you can not want me to leave you."

"Ah, my child!" said the General, mournfully, "I am going to leave
_you_. The doctor tells me that I have but a short time to live; and
I feel that what he says is true. If I must leave you, my darling, I
can not leave you without a protector."

At this Zillah's unaccustomed self-control gave way utterly. Overcome
by the horror of that revelation and the anguish of that discovery,
she flung her arms around him and clung to him passionately.

"You shall not go!" she moaned. "You shall not go; or if you do you
must take me with you. I can not live without you. You know that I
can not. Oh, papa! papa!"

The tones of her voice, which were wailed out in a wild, despairing
cry, reached the ears of the doctor, who at once hurried in.

"What is this?" he said, sharply and sternly, to Zillah. "Is this
keeping your promise?"

"Oh, doctor!" said Zillah, imploringly, "I did not mean to--I could
not help it--but tell me--it is not true, is it? Tell me that my
father is not going to leave me!"

"I will tell you this," said he, gravely. "You are destroying every
chance of his recovery by your vehemence."

Zillah looked up at him with an expression of agony on her face such
as, accustomed as he was to scenes of suffering, he had but seldom
encountered.

"I've killed him, then!" she faltered.

The doctor put his hand kindly on her shoulder. "I trust not, my poor
child," said he; "but it is my duty to warn you of the consequences
of giving way to excessive grief."

"Oh, doctor! you are quite right, and I will try very hard not to
give way again."

During this conversation, which was low and hurried, General Pomeroy
lay without hearing any thing of what they were saying. His lips
moved, and his hands picked at the bed-clothes convulsively. Only one
idea was in his mind--the accomplishment of his wishes. His
daughter's grief seemed to have no effect on him whatever. Indeed, he
did not appear to notice it.

"Speak to her, doctor," said he, feebly, as he heard their voices.
"Tell her I can not die happy unless she is married--I can not leave
her alone in the world."

The doctor looked surprised. "What does he mean?" he said, taking
Zillah aside. "What is this fancy? Is there any thing in it?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Zillah. "It is certainly on his mind,
and he can't be argued or humored out of it. It is an arrangement
made some years ago between him and Lord Chetwynde that when I grew
up I should marry his son, and he has just been telling me that he
wishes it carried out now. Oh! what--what _shall_ I do?" she added,
despairingly. "Can't you do something, doctor?"

"I will speak to him," said the latter; and, approaching the bed, he
bent over the General, and said, in a low voice:

"General Pomeroy, you know that the family physician is often a kind
of father-confessor as well. Now I do not wish to intrude upon your
private affairs; but from what you have said I perceive that there is
something on your mind, and if I can be of any assistance to you I
shall be only too happy. Have you any objection to tell me what it is
that is troubling you?"

While the doctor spoke the General's eyes were fixed upon Zillah with
feverish anxiety. "Tell her," he murmured, "that she must consent at
once--at once," he repeated, in a more excited tone.

"Consent to what?"

"To this marriage that I have planned for her. She knows. It is with
the son of my old friend, Lord Chetwynde. He is a fine lad, and comes
of a good stock. I knew his father before him. I have watched him
closely for the last five years. He will take care of her. He will
make her a good husband. And I--shall be able to die--in peace. But
it must be done--immediately--for he is going--to India."

The General spoke in a very feeble tone, and with frequent pauses.

"And do you wish your daughter to go with him? She is too young to be
exposed to the dangers of Indian life."

This idea seemed to strike the General very forcibly. For some
minutes he did not answer, and it was with difficulty that he could
collect his thoughts. At last he answered, slowly:

"That is true--but she need not accompany him. Let her stay with
me--till all is over--then she can go--to Chetwynde. It will be her
natural home. She will find in my old friend a second father. She can
remain with him--till her husband returns."

A long pause followed. "Besides," he resumed, in a fainter voice,
"there are other things. I can not explain--they are private--they
concern the affairs of others. But if Zillah were to refuse to marry
him--she would lose one-half of her fortune. So you can understand my
anxiety. She has not a relative in the world--to whom I could leave
her."

Here the General stopped, utterly exhausted by the fatigue of
speaking so much. As for the doctor, he sat for a time involved in
deep thought. Zillah stood there pale and agitated, looking now
at her father and now at the doctor, while a new and deeper anguish
came over her heart. After a while he rose and quietly motioned to
Zillah to follow him to the adjoining room.

"My dear child," said he, kindly, when they had arrived there, "your
father is excited, but yet is quite sane. His plan seems to be one
which he has been cherishing for years; and he has so thoroughly set
his heart upon it that it now is evidently his sole idea. I do not
see what else can be done than to comply with his wishes."

"What!" cried Zillah, aghast.

"To refuse," said the doctor, "might be fatal. It would throw him
into a paroxysm."

"Oh, doctor!" moaned Zillah. "What do you mean? You can not be in
earnest. What--to do such a thing when darling papa is--is dying!"

Sobs choked her utterance. She buried her face in her hands and sank
into a chair.

"He is not yet so bad," said the doctor, earnestly, "but he is
certainly in a critical state; and unless it is absolutely
impossible--unless it is too abhorrent to think of--unless any
calamity is better than this--I would advise you to try and think if
you can not bring yourself to--to indulge his wish, wild as it may
seem to you. There, my dear, I am deeply sorry for you; but I am
honest, and say what I think."

For a long time Zillah sat in silence, struggling with her emotions.
The doctor's words impressed her deeply; but the thing which he
advised was horrible to her--abhorrent beyond words. But then there
was her father lying so near to death--whom, perhaps, her
self-sacrifice might save, and whom certainly her selfishness would
destroy. She could not hesitate. It was a bitter decision, but she
made it. She rose to her feet paler than ever, but quite calm.

"Doctor," said she, "I have decided. It is horrible beyond words;
but I will do it, or any thing, for his sake. I would die to save
him; and this is something worse than death."

She was calm and cold; her voice seemed unnatural; her eyes were
tearless.

"It seems very hard," she murmured, after a pause; "I never saw
Captain Molyneux but once, and I was only ten years old."

"How old are you now?" asked the doctor, who knew not what to say to
this poor stricken heart.

"Fifteen."

"Poor child!" said he, compassionately; "the trials of life are
coming upon you early; but," he added, with a desperate effort at
condolence, "do not be so despairing; whatever may be the result, you
are, after all, in the path of duty; and that is the safest and the
best for us all in the end, however hard it may seem to be in the
present."

Just then the General's voice interrupted his little homily, sounding
querulously and impatiently: "Zillah! Zillah!"

She sprang to his bedside: "Here I am, dear papa."

"Will you do as I wish?" he asked, abruptly.

"Yes," said Zillah, with an effort at firmness which cost her dear.
Saying this, she kissed him; and the beam of pleasure which at this
word lighted up the wan face of the sick man touched Zillah to the
heart. She felt that, come what might, she had received her reward.

"My sweetest, dutiful child," said the General, tenderly; "you have
made me happy, my darling. Now get your desk and write for him at
once. You must not lose time, my child."

This unremitting pressure upon her gave Zillah a new struggle, but
the General exhibited such feverish impatience that she dared not
resist. So she went to a Davenport which stood in the corner of the
room, and saying, quietly, "I will write here, papa," she seated
herself, with her back toward him.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes, papa."

The General then began to dictate to her what she was to write. It
was as follows:

"MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,--I think it will cause you some grief to hear
that our long friendship is about to be broken up. My days, I fear,
are numbered."

Zillah stifled the sobs that choked her, and wrote bravely on:

"You know the sorrow which has blighted my life; and I feel that I
could go joyfully to my beloved, my deeply mourned wife, if I could
feel that I was leaving my child--her child and mine--happily
provided for. For this purpose I should like Guy, before he leaves
for India, to fulfill his promise, and, by marrying my daughter, give
me the comfort of knowing that I leave her in the hands of a husband
upon whom I can confidently rely."

But at this point Zillah's self-control gave way. She broke down
utterly, and, bowing her head in her hands on the desk, burst forth
into a passion of sobs.

The poor child could surely not be blamed. Her nature was impassioned
and undisciplined; from her birth every whim had been humored, and
her wildest fancies indulged to the utmost; and now suddenly upon
this petted idol, who had been always guarded so carefully from the
slightest disappointment, there descended the storm-cloud of sorrow,
and that too not gradually, but almost in one moment. Her love for
her father was a passion; and he was to be taken from her, and she
was to be given into the hands of entire strangers. The apparent
calmness, almost indifference, with which her father made these
arrangements, cut her to the quick. She was too young to know how
much of this eagerness was attributable entirely to disease. He
appeared to her as thinking of only his own wishes, and showing no
consideration whatever for her own crushing grief, and no
appreciation of the strength of her affection for him. The
self-sacrificing father had changed into the most selfish of men, who
had not one thought for her feelings.

"Oh, Zillah!" cried her father, reproachfully, in answer to her last
outburst of grief. She rose and went to his bedside, struggling
violently with her emotion.

"I can not write this, dearest papa," she said, in a tremulous voice;
"I have promised to do just as you wish, and I will keep my word; but
indeed, indeed, I can not write this letter. Will it not do as well
if Hilda writes it?"

"To be sure, to be sure," said the General, who took no notice of her
distress. "Hilda will do it, and then my little girl can come and sit
beside her father."

Hilda was accordingly sent for. She glided noiselessly in and took
her place at the Davenport; while Zillah, sitting by her father,
buried her head in the bed-clothes, his feeble hands the while
playing nervously with the long, straggling locks of her hair which
scattered themselves over the bed. The letter was soon finished, for
it contained little more than what has already been given, except the
reiterated injunction that Guy should make all haste to reach Pomeroy
Court. It was then sent off to the post, to the great delight of the
General, whose mind became more wandering, now that the strain which
had been placed upon it was removed.

"Now," said he, in a flighty way, and with an eager impetuosity which
showed that his delirium had increased, "we must think of the
wedding--my darling must have a grand wedding," he murmured to
himself in a low whisper.

A shudder ran through Zillah as she sat by his side, but not a sound
escaped her. She looked up in terror. Had every ray of reason left
her father? Was she to sacrifice herself on so hideous an altar
without even the satisfaction of knowing that she had given him
pleasure? Then she thought that perhaps her father was living again
in the past, and confounding this fearful thing which he was planning
for her with his own joyous wedding. Tears flowed afresh, but
silently, at the thought of the contrast. Often had her ayah
delighted her childish imagination by her glowing descriptions of the
magnificence of that wedding, where the festivities had lasted for a
week, and the arrangements were all made on a scale of Oriental
splendor. She loved to descant upon the beauty of the bride, the
richness of her attire, the magnificence of her jewels, the grandeur
of the guests, the splendor of the whole display--until Zillah had
insensibly learned to think all this the necessary adjuncts of a
wedding, and had built many a day-dream about the pomp which should
surround hers, when the glorious knight whom the fairy tales had led
her to expect should come to claim her hand. But at this time it was
not the sacrifice of all this that was wringing her heart. She gave
it not even a sigh. It was rather the thought that this marriage,
which now seemed inevitable, was to take place here, while her heart
was wrung with anxiety on his account--here in this room--by that
bedside, which her fears told her might be a bed of death. There lay
her father, her only friend--the one for whom she would lay down her
life, and to soothe whose delirium she had consented to this
abhorrent sacrifice of herself. The marriage thus planned was to take
place thus; it was to be a hideous, a ghastly mockery--a frightful
violence to the solemnity of sorrow. She was not to be married--she
was to be sold. The circumstances of that old betrothal had never
been explained to her; but she knew that money was in some way
connected with it, and that she was virtually bought and sold like a
slave, without any will of her own. Such bitter thoughts as these
filled her mind as she sat there by her father's side.

Presently her father spoke again. "Have you any dresses, Zillah?"

"Plenty, papa."

"Oh, but I mean a wedding-dress--a fine new dress; white satin my
darling wore; how beautiful she looked! and a veil you must have, and
plenty of jewels--pearls and diamonds. My pet will be a lovely
bride."

Every one of these words was a stab, and Zillah was dumb; but her
father noticed nothing, of this. It was madness, but, like many cases
of madness, it was very coherent.

"Send for your ayah, dear," he continued; "I must talk to her--about
your wedding-dress."

Zillah rang the bell. As soon as the woman appeared the General
turned to her with his usual feverish manner.

"Nurse," said he, "Miss Pomeroy is to be married at once. You must
see--that she has every thing prepared--suitably--and of the very
best."

The ayah stood speechless with amazement. This feeling was increased
when Zillah said, in a cold monotone:

"Don't look surprised, nurse. It's quite true. I am to be married
within a day or two."

Her master's absurdities the ayah could account for on the ground of
delirium; but was "Little Missy" mad too? Perhaps sorrow had turned
her brain, she thought. At any rate, it would be best to humor them.

"Missy had a white silk down from London last week, Sir."

"Not satin? A wedding-dress should be of satin," said the General.

"It does not matter, so that it is all white," said the nurse, with
decision.

"Doesn't it? Very well," said the General. "But she must have a veil,
nurse, and plenty of jewels. She must look like my darling. You
remember, nurse, how she looked."

"Indeed I do, sahib, and you may leave all to me. I will see that
Missy is as fine and grand as any of them."

The ayah began already to feel excited, and to fall in with this wild
proposal. The very mention of dress had excited her Indian love of
finery.

"That is right," said the General; "attend to it all. Spare no
expense. Don't you go, my child," he continued, as Zillah rose and
walked shudderingly to the window. "I think I can sleep, now that my
mind is at ease. Stay by me, my darling child."

"Oh, papa, do you think I would leave you?" said Zillah, and she came
back to the bed.

The doctor, who had been waiting until the General should become a
little calmer, now administered an anodyne, and he fell asleep, his
hand clasped in Zillah's, while she, fearful of making the slightest
movement, sat motionless and despairing far into the night.




CHAPTER X.


A WEDDING IN EXTREMIS.


Two days passed; on the second Guy Molyneux arrived. Lord Chetwynde
was ill, and could not travel. He sent a letter, however, full of
earnest and hopeful sympathy. He would not believe that things were
as bad as his old friend feared; the instant that he could leave he
would come up to Pomeroy Court; or if by God's providence the worst
should take place, he would instantly fetch Zillah to Chetwynde
Castle; and the General might rely upon it that, so far as love and
tenderness could supply a father's place, she should not feel her
loss.

On Guy's arrival he was shown into the library. Luncheon was laid
there, and the housekeeper apologized for Miss Pomeroy's absence.
Guy took a chair and waited for a while, meditating on the time when
he had last seen the girl who in a short time was to be tied to him
for life. The event was excessively repugnant to him, even though he
did not at all realize its full importance; and he would have given
any thing to get out of it; but his father's command was sacred, and
for years he had been bound by his father's word. Escape was utterly
impossible. The entrance of the clergyman, who seemed more intent on
the luncheon than any thing else, did not lessen Guy's feelings of
repugnance. He said but little, and sank into a fit of abstraction,
from which he was roused by a message that the General would like to
see him. He hurried up stairs.

The General smiled faintly, and greeted him with as much warmth as
his weak and prostrated condition would allow.

"Guy, my boy," said he, feebly, "I am very glad to see you."

To Guy the General seemed like a doomed man, and the discovery gave
him a great shock, for he had scarcely anticipated any thing so bad
as this. In spite of this, however, he expressed a hope that the
General might yet recover, and be spared many years to them.

"No," said the General, sadly and wearily; "no; my days are numbered.
I must die, my boy; but I shall die in peace, if I feel that I do not
leave my child uncared for."

Guy, in spite of his dislike and repugnance, felt deeply moved.

"You need have no fear of that, Sir," he went on to say, in solemn,
measured tones. "I solemnly promise you that no unhappiness shall
ever reach her if I can help it. To the end of my life I will try to
requite to her the kindness that you have shown to us. My father
feels as I do, and he begged me to assure you, if he is not able to
see you again, as he hopes to do, that the instant your daughter
needs his care he will himself take her to Chetwynde Castle, and will
watch over her with the same care and affection that you yourself
would bestow; and she shall leave his home only for mine."

The General pressed his hand feebly. "God bless you!" he said, in a
faint voice.

Suddenly a low sob broke the silence which followed. Turning hastily,
Guy saw in the dim twilight of the sick-room what he had not before
observed. It was a girl's figure crouching at the foot of the bed,
her head buried in the clothes. He looked at her--his heart told him
who it was--but he knew not what to say.

The General also had heard that sob. It raised no pity and compassion
in him; it was simply some new stimulus to the one idea of his
distempered brain. "What, Zillah!" he said, in surprise. "You here
yet? I thought you had gone to get ready."

Still the kneeling figure did not move.

"Zillah," said the General, querulously, and with an excitement in
his feeble voice which showed how readily he might lapse into
complete delirium--"Zillah, my child, be quick. There is no time to
lose. Go and get ready for your wedding. Don't you hear me? Go and
dress yourself."

"Oh, papa!" moaned Zillah, in a voice which pierced to the inmost
heart of Guy, "will it not do as I am? Do not ask me to put on finery
at a time like this." Her voice was one of utter anguish and despair.

"A time like this?" said the General, rousing himself
somewhat--"what do you mean, child? Does not the Bible say, Like as a
bride adorneth herself--for her husband--and ever shall be--world
without end--amen--yes--white satin and pearls, my child--oh
yes--white pearls and satin--we are all ready--where are you, my
darling?" Another sob was the only reply to this incoherent speech.
Guy stood as if petrified. In his journey here he had simply tried to
muster up his own resolution, and to fortify his own heart. He had
not given one thought to this poor despairing child. Her sorrow, her
anguish, her despair, now went to his heart. Yet he knew not what to
do. How gladly he would have made his escape from this horrible
mockery--for her sake as well as for his own! But for such escape he
saw plainly there was no possibility. That delirious mind, in its
frenzy, was too intent upon its one purpose to admit of this. He
himself also felt a strange and painful sense of guilt. Was not he to
a great extent the cause of this, though the unwilling cause? Ah! he
thought, remorsefully, can wrong be right? and can any thing justify
such a desecration as this both of marriage and of death? At that
moment Chetwynde faded away, and to have saved it was as nothing.
Willingly would he have given up every thing if he could now have
said to this poor child--who thus crouched down, crushed by a woman's
sorrow before she had known a woman's years--"Farewell. You are free.
I will give you a brother's love and claim nothing in return. I will
give back all, and go forth penniless into the battle of life."

But the General again interrupted them, speaking impatiently: "What
are you waiting for? Is not Zillah getting ready?"

Guy scarcely knew what he was doing; but, obeying the instincts of
his pity, he bent down and whispered to Zillah, "My poor child, I
pity you, and sympathize with you more than words can tell. It is an
awful thing for you. But can you not rouse yourself? Perhaps it would
calm your father. He is getting too excited."

Zillah shrunk away as though he were pollution, and Guy at this
resumed his former place in sadness and in desperation, with no other
idea than to wait for the end.

"Zillah! Zillah!" cried the General, almost fiercely.

At this Zillah sprang up, and rushed out of the room. She hurried up
stairs, and found the ayah in her dressing-room with Hilda. In the
next room her white silk was laid out, her wreath and veil beside it.

"Here's my jewel come to be dressed in her wedding-dress," said the
ayah, joyously.

"Be quiet!" cried Zillah, passionately. "Don't dare to say any thing
like that to me; and you may put all that trash away, for I'm not
going to be married at all. I can't do it, and I won't. I hate him! I
hate him! I hate him! I hate him!"

These words she hissed out with the venom of a serpent. Her
attendants tried remonstrance, but in vain. Hilda pointed out to her
the handsome dress, but with no greater success. Vainly they tried to
plead, to coax, and to persuade. All this only seemed to strengthen
her determination. At last she threw herself upon the floor, like a
passionate child, in a paroxysm of rage and grief.

The unwonted self-control which for the last few days she had imposed
upon herself now told upon her in the violence of the reaction which
had set in. When once she had allowed the barriers to be broken down,
all else gave way to the onset of passion; and the presence and
remonstrances of the ayah and Hilda only made it worse. She forgot
utterly her father's condition; she showed herself now as selfish in
her passion as he had shown himself in his delirium. Nothing could be
done to stop her. The others, familiar with these outbreaks, retired
to the adjoining room and waited.

Meanwhile the others were waiting also in the room below. The doctor
was there, and sat by his patient, exerting all his art to soothe him
and curb his eagerness. The General refused some medicine which he
offered, and declared with passion that he would take nothing
whatever till the wedding was over. To have used force would have
been fatal; and so the doctor had to humor his patient. The family
solicitor was there with the marriage settlements, which had been
prepared in great haste. Guy and the clergyman sat apart in
thoughtful silence.

Half an hour passed, and Zillah did not appear. On the General's
asking for her the clergyman hazarded a remark intended to be
pleasant, about ladies on such occasions needing some time to adorn
themselves--a little out of place under the circumstances, but it
fortunately fell in with the sick man's humor, and satisfied him for
the moment.

Three-quarters of an hour passed. "Surely she must be ready now,"
said the General, who grew more excited and irritable every moment. A
messenger was thereupon dispatched for her, but she found the door
bolted, and amidst the outcry and confusion in the room could only
distinguish that Miss Pomeroy was not ready. This message she
delivered without entering into particulars.

An hour passed, and another messenger went, with the same result. It
then became impossible to soothe the General any longer. Guy also
grew impatient, for he had to leave by that evening's train; and if
the thing had to be it must be done soon. He began to hope that it
might be postponed--that Zillah might not come--and then he would
have to leave the thing unfinished. But then he thought of his
father's command, and the General's desire--of his own promise--of
the fact that it must be done--of the danger to the General if it
were not done. Between these conflicting feelings--his desire to
escape, and his desire to fulfill what he considered his
obligations--his brain grew confused, and he sat there impatient for
the end--to see what it might turn out to be.

Another quarter of an hour passed. The General's excitement grew
worse, and was deepening into frenzy. Dr. Cowell looked more and more
anxious, and at last, shrewdly suspecting the cause of the delay,
determined himself to go and take it in hand. He accordingly left his
patient, and was just crossing the room, when his progress was
arrested by the General's springing up with a kind of convulsive
start, and jumping out of bed, declaring wildly and incoherently that
something must be wrong, and that he himself would go and bring
Zillah. The doctor had to turn again to his patient. The effort was a
spasmodic one, and the General was soon put back again to bed, where
he lay groaning and panting; while the doctor, finding that he could
not leave him even for an instant, looked around for some one to send
in his place. Who could it be? Neither the lawyer nor the clergyman
seemed suitable. There was no one left but Guy, who seemed to the
doctor, from his face and manner, to be capable of dealing with any
difficulty. So he called Guy to him, and hurriedly whispered to him
the state of things.

"If the General has to wait any longer, he will die," said the
doctor. "_You'll_ have to go and bring her. You're the only person.
You _must_. Tell her that her father has already had one fit, and
that every moment destroys his last chance of life. She must either
decide to come at once, or else sacrifice him."

He then rang the bell, and ordered the servant to lead Captain
Molyneux to Miss Pomeroy. Guy was thus forced to be an actor where
his highest desire was to be passive. There was no alternative. In
that moment all his future was involved. He saw it; he knew it; but
he did not shrink. Honor bound him to this marriage, hateful as it
was. The other actor in the scene detested it as much as he did, but
there was no help for it. Could he sit passive and let the General
die? The marriage, after all, he thought, had to come off; it was
terrible to have it now; but then the last chance of the General's
life was dependent upon this marriage. What could he do?

What? A rapid survey of his whole situation decided him. He would
perform what he considered his vow. He would do his part toward
saving the General's life, though that part was so hard. He was calm,
therefore, and self-possessed, as the servant entered and led the way
to Zillah's apartments. The servant on receiving the order grinned in
spite of the solemnity of the occasion. He had a pretty clear idea of
the state of things; he was well accustomed to what was styled, in
the servants' hall, "Missy's tantrums;" and he wondered to himself
how Guy would ever manage her. He was too good a servant, however, to
let his feelings be seen, and so he led the way demurely, and
knocking at Zillah's door, announced:

"Captain Molyneux."

The door was at once opened by the ayah.

At that instant Zillah sprang to her feet and looked at him in a fury
of passion. "_You_!" she cried, with indescribable malignancy.
"_You_! _You_ here! How dare _you_ come here? Go down stairs this
instant! If it is my money you want, take it all and begone. I will
never, never, never, marry you!"

For a moment Guy was overcome. The taunt was certainly horrible. He
turned pale, but soon regained his self-possession.

"Miss Pomeroy," said he, quietly, yet earnestly, "this is not the
time for a scene. Your father is in the utmost danger. He has waited
for an hour and a quarter. He is getting worse every moment. He made
one attempt to get out of bed, and come for you himself. The doctor
ordered me to come, and that is why I am here."

"I don't believe you!" screamed Zillah. "You are trying to frighten
me."

"I have nothing to say," replied Guy, mournfully. "Your father is
rapidly getting into a state of frenzy. If it lasts much longer he
will die."

Guy's words penetrated to Zillah's inmost soul. A wild fear arose,
which in a moment chased away the fury which had possessed her. Her
face changed. She struck her hands against her brow, and uttered an
exclamation of terror.

"Tell him--tell him--I'm coming. Make haste," she moaned. "I'll be
down immediately. Oh, make haste!"

She hurried back, and Guy went down stairs again, where he waited at
the bottom with his soul in a strange tumult, and his heart on fire.
Why was it that he had been sold for all this--he and that wretched
child?

But now Zillah was all changed. Now she was as excited in her haste
to go down stairs as she had before been anxious to avoid it. She
rushed back to the bedroom where Hilda was, who, though unseen, had
heard every thing, and, foreseeing what the end might be, was now
getting things ready.

"Be quick, Hilda!" she gasped. "Papa is dying! Oh, be quick--be
quick! Let me save him!"

She literally tore off the dress that she had on, and in less than
five minutes she was dressed. She would not stop for Hilda to arrange
her wreath, and was rushing down stairs without her veil, when the
ayah ran after her with it.

"You are leaving your luck, Missy darling," said she.

"Ay--that I am," said Zillah, bitterly.

"But you will put it on, Missy," pleaded the ayah. "Sahib has talked
so much about it."

Zillah stopped. The ayah threw it over her, and enveloped her in its
soft folds.

"It was your mother's veil, Missy," she added. "Give me a kiss for
her sake before you go."

Zillah flung her arms around the old woman's neck.

"Hush, hush!" she said. "Do not make me give way again, or I can
never do it."

At the foot of the stairs Guy was waiting, and they entered the room
solemnly together--these two victims--each summoning up all that
Honor and Duty might supply to assist in what each felt to be a
sacrifice of all life and happiness. But to Zillah the sacrifice was
worse, the task was harder, and the ordeal more dreadful. For it was
her father, not Guy's, who lay there, with a face that already seemed
to have the touch of death; it was she who felt to its fullest extent
the ghastliness of this hideous mockery.

But the General, whose eyes were turned eagerly toward the door,
found in this scene nothing but joy. In his frenzy he regarded them
as blessed and happy, and felt this to be the full realization of his
highest hopes.

"Ah!" he said, with a long gasp; "here she is at last. Let us begin
at once."

So the little group formed itself around the bed, the ayah and Hilda
being present in the back-ground.

In a low voice the clergyman began the marriage service. Far more
solemn and impressive did it sound now than when heard under
circumstances of gayety and splendor; and as the words sank into
Guy's soul, he reproached himself more than ever for never having
considered the meaning of the act to which he had so thoughtlessly
pledged himself.

The General had now grown calm. He lay perfectly motionless, gazing
wistfully at his daughter's face. So quiet was he, and so fixed was
his gaze, that they thought he had sunk into some abstracted fit; but
when the clergyman, with some hesitation, asked the question,

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" the General
instantly responded, in a firm voice, "I do." Then reaching forth, he
took Zillah's hand, and instead of giving it to the clergyman, he
himself placed it within Guy's, and for a moment held both hands in
his, while he seemed to be praying for a blessing to rest on their
union.

The service proceeded. Solemnly the priest uttered the warning:
"Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."
Solemnly, too, he pronounced the benediction--"May ye so live
together in this life that in the world to come ye shall have life
everlasting."

And so, for better or worse, Guy Molyneux and Zillah Pomeroy rose
up--_man and wife_!

After the marriage ceremony was over the clergyman administered the
Holy Communion--all who were present partaking with the General; and
solemn indeed was the thought that filled the mind of each, that ere
long, perhaps, one of their number might be--not figuratively, but
literally--"with angels and archangels, and all the company of
heaven."

After this was all over the doctor gave the General a soothing
draught. He was quite calm now; he took it without objection; and it
had the effect of throwing him soon into a quiet sleep. The clergyman
and the lawyer now departed; and the doctor, motioning to Guy and
Zillah to leave the room, took his place, with an anxious
countenance, by the General's bedside. The husband and wife went into
the adjoining room, from which they could hear the deep breathing of
the sick man.


[Illustration: "The Clergyman Began The Marriage Service."]


It was an awkward moment. Guy had to depart in a short time. That
sullen stolid girl who now sat before him, black and gloomy as a
thunder-cloud, was _his wife_. He was going away, perhaps forever. He
did not know exactly how to treat her; whether with indifference as a
willful child, or compassionate attention as one deeply afflicted. On
the whole he felt deeply for her, in spite of his own forebodings of
his future; and so he followed the more generous dictates of his
heart. Her utter loneliness, and the thought that her father might
soon be taken away, touched him deeply; and this feeling was evident
in his whole manner as he spoke.

"Zillah," said he, "our regiment sails for India several days sooner
than I first expected, and it is necessary for me to leave in a short
time. You, of course, are to remain with your father, and I hope that
he may soon be restored to you. Let me assure you that this whole
scene has been, under the circumstances, most painful, for your sake,
for I have felt keenly that I was the innocent cause of great sorrow
to you."

He spoke to her calmly, and as a father would to a child, and at the
same time reached out his hand to take hers. She snatched it away
quickly.

"Captain Molyneux," said she, coldly, "I married you solely to please
my father, and because he was not in a state to have his wishes
opposed. It was a sacrifice of myself, and a bitter one. As to you, I
put no trust in you, and take no interest whatever in your plans. But
there is one thing which I wish you to tell me. What did papa mean by
saying to the doctor, that if I did not marry you I should lose
one-half of my fortune?"

Zillah's manner at once chilled all the warm feelings of pity and
generosity which Guy had begun to feel. Her question also was an
embarrassing one. He had hoped that the explanation might come later,
and from his father. It was an awkward one for him to make. But
Zillah was looking at him impatiently.

"Surely," she continued in a stern voice as she noticed his
hesitation, "that is a question which I have a right to ask."

"Of course," said Guy, hastily. "I will tell you. It was because more
than half your fortune was taken to pay off the debt on Chetwynde
Castle."

A deep, angry, crimson flush passed over Zillah's face.

"So that is the reason why I have been sold?" she cried, impetuously.
"Well, Sir, your manoeuvring has succeeded nobly. Let me congratulate
you. You have taken in a guileless old man, and a young girl."

Guy looked at her for a moment in fierce indignation. But with a
great effort he subdued it, and answered, as calmly as possible:

"You do not know either my father or myself, or you would be
convinced that such language could not apply to either of us. The
proposal originally emanated entirely from General Pomeroy."

"Ah?" said Zilla, fiercely. "But you were base enough to take
advantage of his generosity and his love for his old friend. Oh!" she
cried, bursting into tears, "that is what I feel, that he could
sacrifice me, who loved him so, for your sakes. I honestly believed
once that it was his anxiety to find me a protector."

Guy's face had grown very pale.

"And so it was," he said, in a voice which was deep and tremulous
from his strong effort at self-control. "He trusted my father, and
trusted me, and wished to protect you from unprincipled
fortune-hunters."

"_Fortune-hunters_!" cried Zillah, her face flushed, and with
accents of indescribable scorn. "Good Heavens! What are _you_ if you
are not this very thing? Oh, how I hate you! how I hate you!"

Guy looked at her, and for a moment was on the point of answering her
in the same fashion, and pouring out all his scorn and contempt. But
again he restrained himself.

"You are excited," he said, coolly. "One of these days you will find
out your mistake. You will learn, as you grow older, that the name of
Chetwynde can not be coupled with charges like these. In the mean
time allow me to advise you not to be quite so free in your language
when you are addressing honorable gentlemen; and to suggest that your
father, who loved you better than any one in the world, may possibly
have had _some_ cause for the confidence which he felt in us."

There was a coolness in Guy's tone which showed that he did not think
it worth while to be angry with her, or to resent her insults. But
Zillah did not notice this. She went on as before:

"There is one thing which I will never forgive."

"Indeed? Well, your forgiveness is so very important that I should
like to know what it is that prevents me from gaining it."

"The way in which I have been deceived!" burst forth Zillah,
fiercely, "if papa had wished to give you half of his money, or all
of it, I should not have cared a bit. I do not care for that at all.
But why did nobody tell me the truth? Why was I told that it was out
of regard to _me_ that this horror, this frightful mockery of
marriage, was forced upon me, while my heart was breaking with
anxiety about my father; when to you I was only a necessary evil,
without which you could not hope to get my father's money; and the
only good I can possibly have is the future privilege of living in a
place whose very name I loathe, with the man who has cheated me, and
whom all my life I shall hate and abhor? Now go! and I pray God I may
never see you again."

With these words, and without waiting for a reply, she left the room,
leaving Guy in a state of mind by no means enviable.

He stood staring after her. "And that thing is mine for life!" he
thought; "that she-devil! utterly destitute of sense and of reason!
Oh, Chetwynde, Chetwynde! you have cost me dear. See you again, my
fiend of a wife! I hope not. No, never while I live. Some of these
days I'll give you back your sixty thousand with interest. And you,
why you may go to the devil forever!"

Half an hour afterward Guy was seated in the dog-cart bowling to the
station as fast as two thorough-breds could take him; every moment
congratulating himself on the increasing distance which was
separating him from his bride of an hour.

The doctor watched all that night. On the following morning the
General was senseless. On the next day he died.




CHAPTER XI.


A NEW HOME.


Dearly had Zillah paid for that frenzy of her dying father; and the
consciousness that her whole life was now made over irrevocably to
another, brought to her a pang so acute that it counterbalanced the
grief which she felt for her father's death. Fierce anger and bitter
indignation nation struggled with the sorrow of bereavement, and
sometimes, in her blind rage, she even went so far as to reproach her
father's memory. On all who had taken part in that fateful ceremony
she looked with vengeful feelings. She thought, and there was reason
in the thought, that they might have satisfied his mind without
binding her. They could have humored his delirium without forfeiting
her liberty. They could have had a mock priest, who might have read a
service which would have had no authority, and imposed vows which
would not be binding. On Guy she looked with the deepest scorn, for
she believed that he was the chief offender, and that if he had been
a man of honor he might have found many ways to avoid this thing.
Possibly Guy as he drove off was thinking the same, and cursing his
dull wit for not doing something to delay the ceremony or make it
void. But to both it was now too late.

The General's death took place too soon for Zillah. Had he lived she
might have been spared long sorrows. Had it not been for this, and
his frantic haste in forcing on a marriage, her early betrothal might
have had different results. Guy would have gone to India. He would
have remained there for years, and then have come home. On his return
he might possibly have won her love, and then they could have settled
down harmoniously in the usual fashion. But now she found herself
thrust upon him, and the very thought of him was a horror. Never
could the remembrance of that hideous mockery at the bedside of one
so dear, who was passing away forever, leave her mind. All the
solemnities of death had been outraged, and all her memories of the
dying hours of her best friend were forever associated with
bitterness and shame.

For some time after her father's death she gave herself up to the
motions of her wild and ungovernable temper. Alternations of savage
fury and mute despair succeeded to one another. To one like her there
was no relief from either mood; and, in addition to this, there was
the prospect of the arrival of Lord Chetwynde. The thought of this
filled her with such a passion of anger that she began to meditate
flight. She mentioned this to Hilda, with the idea that of course
Hilda would go with her.

Hilda listened in her usual quiet way, and with a great appearance of
sympathy. She assented to it, and quite appreciated Zillah's
position. But she suggested that it might be difficult to carry out
such a plan without money.

"Money!" said Zillah, in astonishment. "Why, have I not plenty of
money? All is mine now surely."

"Very likely," said Hilda, coolly; "but how do you propose to get it?
You know the lawyer has all the papers, and every thing else under
lock and key till Lord Chetwynde comes, and the will is read;
besides, dear," she added with a soft smile, "you forget that a
married woman can not possess property. Our charming English law
gives her no rights. All that you nominally possess in reality
belongs to your husband."

At this hated word "husband," Zillah's eyes flashed. She clenched her
hands, and ground her teeth in rage.

"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.


[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

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