And now as she thought of writing to him there came to her, more bitterly than ever, the thought of her false position. She write! She could not. It was Hilda who would write. Hilda stood between her and the one she wished to soothe. In spite of her warm and sisterly affection for her friend, and her boundless trust in her, this thought now sent a thrill of vexation through her; and she bitterly lamented the chain of events by which she had been placed in such a position. It was humiliating and galling. But could she not yet escape? Might she not even now write in her own name explaining all? No. It could not be--not now, for what would be the reception of such explanations, coming as they would with news of his father's illness! Would he treat them with any consideration whatever? Would not his anxiety about his father lead him to regard them with an impatient disdain? But perhaps, on the other hand, he might feel softened and accept her explanation readily, without giving any though to the strange deceit which had been practiced for so long a time. This gave her a gleam of hope; but in her perplexity she could not decide, so she sought counsel from Hilda as usual. Had Mrs. Hart being in the possession of her usual faculties she might possibly have asked her advice also; but, as it was, Hilda was the only one to whom she could turn.
Hilda listened to her with that sweet smile, and that loving and patient consideration, which she always gave to Zillah's confidences and appeals.
"Darling," said she, after a long and thoughtful silence, "I understand fully the perplexity which you feel. In fact, this letter _ought_ to come from you, and from you only. I'm extremely sorry that I ever began this. I'm sure I did it from the _very best_ motives. Who could ever have dreamed that it would become so embarrassing? And now I don't know what to do--that is, not just now."
"Do you think he would be angry at the deceit?"
"Do you yourself think so?" asked Hilda in reply.
[Illustration: Hilda Writes To Guy Molyneux.]
"Why, that is what I am afraid of; but then--isn't it possible that he might be--softened, you know--by anxiety?"
"People don't get softened by anxiety. They get impatient, angry with the world and with Providence. But the best way to judge is to put yourself in his situation. Suppose you were in India, and a letter was written to you by your wife--or your husband, I suppose I should say--telling you that your father was extremely ill, and that he himself had been deceiving you for some years. The writing would be strange--quite unfamiliar; the story would be almost incredible; you wouldn't know what to think. You'd be deeply anxious, and yet half believe that some one was practicing a cruel jest on you. For my part, if I had an explanation to make I would wait for a time of prosperity arid happiness. Misfortune makes people so bitter."
"That is the very thing that I'm afraid of," said Zillah, despairingly. "And--oh dear, what _shall_ I do?"