The Cryptogram: A Novel

by James De Mille

All the circumstances of his present position perplexed him. He knew not what to do; and, in this perplexity, his mind at length settled upon India as the shortest way of solving all difficulties. He could go back there again, and resume his old duties. Time might alleviate his grief over his father, and perhaps it might even mitigate the fervor of that fatal passion which had arisen in his heart for another who could never be his. There, at any rate, he would have sufficient occupation to take up his thoughts, and break up that constant tendency which he now had toward memories of the one whom he had lost. Amidst all his perplexity, therefore, the only thing left for him seemed to be India.

The time was approaching when he would be able to travel once more. Lausanne is the most beautiful place in the world, on the shore of the most beautiful of lakes, with the stupendous forms of the Jura Alps before it; but even so beautiful a place as this loses all its charms to the one who has been an invalid there, and the eye which has gazed upon the most sublime scenes in nature from a sick-bed loses all power of admiring their sublimity. And so Lord Chetwynde wearied of Lausanne, and the Luke of Geneva, and the Jura Alps, and, in his restlessness, he longed for other scenes which might be fresher, and not connected with such mournful associations. So he began to talk in a general way of going to Italy. This he mentioned to the doctor, who happened one day to ask him how he liked Lausanne. The question gave him an opportunity of saying that he looked upon it simply as a place where he had been ill, and that he was anxious to get off to Italy as soon as possible.

"Italy?" said the doctor.

"Yes."

"What part are you going to?"

"Oh, I don't know. Florence, I suppose--at first--and then other places. It don't much matter."

Hilda heard this in her vigilant watchfulness. It awakened fears within her that all her devotion had been in vain, and that he was planning to leave her. It seemed so. There was, therefore, no feeling of gratitude in his heart for all she had done. What she had done she now recalled in her bitterness--all the love, the devotion, the idolatry which she had lavished upon him would be as nothing. He had regained the control of his mind, and his first thought was to fly. The discovery of this indifference of his was terrible. She had trusted much to her devotion. She had thought that, in a nature like his, which was at once so pure, so high-minded, and so chivalrous, the spectacle of her noble self-sacrifice, combined with the discovery of her profound and all-absorbing love, would have awakened some response, if it were nothing stronger than mere gratitude. And why should it not be so? she thought. If she were ugly, or old, it would be different. But she was young; and, more than this, she was beautiful. True, her cheeks were not so rounded as they once were, her eyes were more hollow than they used to be, the pallor of her complexion was more intense than usual, and her lips were not so red; but what then? These were the signs and the marks which had been left upon her face by that deathless devotion which she had shown toward him. If there was any change in her, he alone was the cause, and she had offered herself up to him. That pallor, that delicacy, that weakness, and that emaciation of frame were all the visible signs and tokens of her self-sacrificing love for him. These things, instead of repelling him, ought to attract him. Moreover, in spite of all these things, even with her wasted form, she could see that she was yet beautiful. Her dark eyes beamed more darkly than before from their hollow orbs, against the pallor of her face the ebon hair shone more lustrously, as it hung in dark voluminous masses downward, and the white face itself showed features that were faultlessly beautiful. Why should he turn away from so beautiful a woman, who had so fully proved her love and her devotion? She felt that after this conspicuous example of her love he could never again bring forward against her those old charges of deceit which he had once uttered. These, at least, were dead forever. All the letters which she had written from the very first, on to that last letter of which he had spoken so bitterly--all were now amply atoned for by the devotion of the last few weeks--a devotion that shrank not from suffering, nor even from death itself. Why then did he not reciprocate? Why was it that he held himself aloof in such a manner from her caresses? Why was it that when her voice grew tremulous from the deep love of her heart she found no response, but only saw a certain embarrassment in his looks? There must be some cause for this. If he had been heart-whole, she thought, he must have yielded. There is something in the way. There is some other love. Yes, that is it, she concluded; it is what I saw before. He loves another!

At length, one day, Lord Chetwynde began to speak to her more directly about his plans. He had made up his mind to make them known to her, and so he availed himself of the first opportunity.

"I must soon take my departure, Lady Chetwynde," said he, as he plunged at once into the midst of affairs. "I have made up my mind to go to Italy next week. As I intend to return to India I shall not go back to England again. All my business affairs are in the hands of my solicitors, and they will arrange all that I wish to be done."

By this Lord Chetwynde meant that his solicitors would arrange with Hilda those money-matters of which he had once spoken. He had too much consideration for her to make any direct allusion to them now, but wished, nevertheless, that she should understand his words in this way.