The Cryptogram: A Novel

by James De Mille

"This, however, is only part of my decision. I will let you know the rest as briefly as possible. When your father came from India, and made that memorable visit to my father, which has cost us both so dear, Chetwynde was covered with mortgages to the extent of sixty thousand pounds. Your father made an unholy bargain with mine, and in order to secure a protector for you, he gave to my father the money which was needed to disencumber the estate. It was, in fact, your dowry, advanced beforehand.

"The principals in that ill-omened arrangement are both dead. I am no longer a boy, but a man; the last of my line, with no one to consider but myself. An atrocious wrong has been done, unintentionally, to me, and also to you. That wrong I intend to undo, as far as possible. I have long ago decided upon the way. I intend to give back to you this dowry money; and to do so I will break the entail, sell Chetwynde, and let it go to the hands of strangers. My ancient line ends in me. Be it so. I have borne so many bitter griefs that I can bear this with resignation. Never again shall you, Lady Chetwynde, have the power of flinging at me that taunt which you have so often flung. You shall have your money back, to the last farthing, and with interest for the whole time since its advance. In this way I can also best keep my vow to General Pomeroy; for the only mode by which I can secure your happiness is to yield the care of it into your own hands.

"For the present you will have Chetwynde Castle to live in until its sale. Every thing here seems quite adapted to make you happy. You seem to have appropriated it quite to yourself. I can not find one of those faithful old domestics with whom my boyhood was passed. You have surrounded yourself with your own servants. Until your money is paid you will be quite at liberty to live here, or at Pomeroy Court, whichever you prefer. Both are yours now, the Castle as much as Pomeroy Court, as you remarked, with your usual delicacy, in your last letter, since they both represent your own money.

"And now," said Lord Chetwynde, in conclusion, "we understand one another. The time for taunts and sneers, for you, is over. Any letters hereafter that may come to me in your handwriting will be returned unopened. The one aim of my life hereafter shall be to undo, as far as possible, the wrong done to us both by our parents. That can never be all undone; but, at any rate, you may be absolutely certain that you will get back every penny of the money which is so precious to you, with interest. As to my visit here, do not let it disturb you for one moment. I have no intention of making a scene for the benefit of your gaping servants. My business now is solely to see about my father's papers, to examine them, and take away with me those that are of immediate use. While I am here we will meet at the same table, and will be bound by the laws of ordinary courtesy. At all other times we need not be conscious of one another's existence. I trust that you will see the necessity of avoiding any open demonstrations of hatred, or even dislike. Let your feelings be confined to yourself, Lady Chetwynde; and do not make them known to the servants, if you can possibly help it."

Lord Chetwynde seemed to have ended; for he arose and sauntered up to the portrait, which he regarded for some time with fixed attention, and appeared to lose himself in his thoughts. During the remarks which he had been making Hilda had sat looking at the floor. Unable to encounter the stern gaze of the man whom she felt to be her master, she had listened in silence, with downcast eyes. There was nothing for her to say. She therefore did the very best thing that she could do under the circumstances--she said nothing. Nor did she say any thing when he had ended. She saw him absorb himself in regarding his own portrait, and apparently lose himself in his recollections of the past. Of her he seemed to have now no consciousness. She sat looking at him, as his side face was turned toward her, and his eyes fixed on the picture. The noble profile, with its clear-cut features, showed much of the expression of the face--an expression which was stern, yet sad and softened--that face which, just before, had been before her eyes frowning, wrathful, clothed with consuming terrors--a face upon which she could not look, but which now was all mournful and sorrowful. And now, as she gazed, the hard rigidity of her beautiful features relaxed, the sharp glitter of her dark eyes died out, their stony lustre gave place to a soft light, which beamed upon him with wonder, with timid awe--with something which, in any other woman, would have looked like tenderness. She had not been prepared for one like this. In her former ideas of him he had been this boy of the portrait, with his boyish enthusiasm, and his warm, innocent temperament. This idea she had relinquished, and had known that he had changed during the years into the heroic soldier and the calm judge. She had tried to familiarize herself with this new idea, and had succeeded in doing so to a certain extent. But, after all, the reality had been too much for her. She had not been prepared for one like this, nor for such an effect as the sight of him had produced. At this first interview he had overpowered her utterly, and she had sat dumb and motionless before him. All the sneering speeches which she had prepared in anticipation of the meeting were useless. She found no place for them. But there was one result to this interview which affected her still more deeply than this discovery of his moral superiority. The one great danger which she had always feared had passed away. She no longer had that dread fear of discovery which hitherto had harassed her; but in the place of this there suddenly arose another fear--a fear which seemed as terrible as the other, which darkened over her during the course of that scene till its close, and afterward--such an evil as she never before could have thought herself capable of dreading, yet one which she had brought upon herself.

What was that?

His contempt--his hate--his abhorrence--this was the thing which now seemed so terrible to her.

For in the course of that interview a sudden change had come over all her feelings. In spite of her later judgment about him, which she had expressed to Gualtier, there had been in her mind a half contempt for the man whom she had once judged of by his picture only, and whom she recollected as the weak agent in a forced marriage. That paragraph in the Indian paper had certainly caused a great change to take place in her estimate of his character; but, in spite of this, the old contempt still remained, and she had reckoned upon finding beneath the mature man, brave though he was, and even wise though he might be, much of that boy whom she had despised. But all this passed away as a dream, out of which she had a rude awakening. She awoke suddenly to the full reality, to find him a strong, stern, proud man, to whom her own strength was as weakness. While he uttered his grand maledictions against her he seemed to her like a god. He was a mighty being, to whom she looked up from the depths of her soul, half in fear, half in adoration. In her weakness she admired his strength; and in her wily and tortuous subtlety she worshiped this straightforward and upright gentleman, who scorned craft and cunning, and who had sat in stern judgment upon her, to make known to her _his will_.

For some time she sat looking at him as he stood, with her whole nature shaken by these new, these unparalleled emotions, till, finally, with a start, she came to herself, and, rising slowly, she glided out of the room.

CHAPTER XXXVII.