"No, my dear old nurse. I am really alive, and you are alive, and I am really your boy--your Guy--though hang me if I understand all this!"
"Zillah, my sweet child, give me your hand too. You have become reconciled to him, then. I see how it is. Ah! how dear you are to one another! My God! what blessedness is this! And yet I thought that you had fled from him, and left him forever. But he found you. You are reunited once more."
She placed Zillah's hand in Lord Chetwynde's, and Lord Chetwynde held it closely, firmly, in a passionate grasp, not knowing what all this meant, yet in his vehement love willing to take blindly all that might be given to him, even though it came to him through the delirium of his old nurse. He held it tightly, though Zillah in a kind of terror tried to withdraw it. He held it, for something told him in the midst of his bewilderment that it was his.
Tears flowed from Mrs. Hart's eyes. There was a deep silence around. At last Obed Chute spoke.
"My Christian friends," said he, "it's been my lot and my privilege to attend the theatre in my youthful days, and I've often seen what they call _situations_; but of all the onparalleled situations that were ever put upon the boards, from '76 down to '59, I'll be hanged if this isn't the greatest, the grandest, and the most bewildering. I'm floored. I give up. Henceforth Obed Chute exists no longer. He is dead. Hic jacet. In memoriam. E pluribus unum. You may be Mr. Windham, and you, my child, may be Miss Lorton, or you may not. You may be somebody else. We may all be somebody else. I'm somebody else. I'll be hanged if I'm myself. To my dying day I don't expect to understand this. Don't try to explain it, I beg. If you do I shall go mad. The only thing I do understand just now is this, that our friend Mrs. Hart was very weak, and needs rest, and rest she shall accordingly have. Come," he continued, turning to her; "you will have time to-morrow to see them again. Take a little rest now. You have called me your friend several times to-day. I claim a friend's privilege. You must lie down by yourself, if it's only for half an hour. Don't refuse me. I'd do as much for you."
Obed's manner showed that same tender compassion which he had already evinced. Mrs. Hart complied with his request. She rose and took his arm.
"Tell me one thing plainly," said Obed, as Mrs. Hart stood up. "Who are these? Is not this Mr. Windham, and is not this Miss Lorton? If not, who are they? That's fair, I think. I don't want to be in the dark amidst such universal light."
"Is it possible that you don't know?" said Mrs. Hart, wonderingly. "Why should they conceal it from you? These are my dearest children--my friends--the ones dear to my heart. Oh, my friend, _you_ will understand me. This is Lord Chetwynde, _son of the Earl of Chetwynde_, and this girl is Zillah, daughter of Neville Pomeroy--Lady Chetwynde--his wife."
"God in heaven!" exclaimed Obed Chute. "Is this so, or are you mad, and are they mad?"
"I do not know what you mean," said Mrs. Hart. "I have spoken the truth. It is so."