The Cryptogram: A Novel

by James De Mille

"We talked about sparing her," said he, softly. "My darling wife, she is beyond our reach now."

Zillah looked at him with fearful inquiry.

"She has gone--she is dead!"

"Dead!" cried Zillah, in a voice of horror.

"Yes, and by her own hand."

Lord Chetwynde then told her that on reaching his rooms he was waited on by the _concierge_, who informed him that on the previous day the lady whom the _concierge_ supposed to be his wife was found dead in her bed by her maid. No one knew the cause. The absence of her husband was much wondered at. Lord Chetwynde was so much shocked that his deportment would have befitted one who was really a bereaved husband. On questioning the maid he found that she had her suspicions. She had found a vial on the table by the bed, about which she had said nothing. She knew her duty to a noble family, and held her tongue. She gave the vial to Lord Chetwynde, who recognized the presence of strychnine. The unhappy one had no doubt committed suicide. There was a letter addressed to him, which he took away. It was a long manuscript, and contained a full account of all that she had done, together with the most passionate declarations of her love. He thought it best, on the whole, not to show this to Zillah.

He knew that she had committed suicide, but he did not know, nor did any living being, the anguish that must have filled the wretched one as she nerved her heart for the act. All this he could conjecture from her letter, which told him how often she had meditated this. At last it had come. Leaving the villa in her despair, she had gone to her lodgings, passed the night in writing this manuscript, and then flung her guilty soul into the presence of her Maker.

As Lord Chetwynde had not gone into Florentine society at all, Hilda's death created but little sensation. There was no scandal connected with his name; there was no bewildering explanation of things that might have seemed incredible. All was quieted, and even hate itself was buried in the grave of the dead.

The death of Hilda gave a shock to those who had known her, even though they had suffered by her; but there was another thing which gave sadness in the midst of new-found happiness. When Mrs. Hart had left the room, after that eventful evening when she had found Lord Chetwynde and Zillah, she was taken to her bed. From that bed she was destined never to rise again. During the last few months she had suffered more than she could bear. Had she lived in quiet at Chetwynde, life might possibly have been prolonged for a few years. But the illness which she had at Chetwynde had worn her down; and she had scarce risen from her bed, and begun to totter about the house, than she fled on a wild and desperate errand. She had gone, half dying, to Florence, to search after Lord Chetwynde, so as to warn him of what she suspected. Her anxiety for him had given her a fitful and spasmodic strength, which had sustained her. The little jewelry which she possessed furnished the means for prolonging a life which she only cherished till she might find Lord Chetwynde. For weeks she had kept up her search, growing feebler every day, and every day spending more and more of her little store, struggling vehemently against that mortal weakness which she felt in all her frame, and bearing up constantly even amidst despair. At last Obed Chute had found her. She had seen "her boy"--she had found him with Zillah. The danger which she had feared seemed to her to have been averted, she knew not how; and her cup was full.

A mighty revulsion of feeling took place from the depths of despair to the heights of happiness. Her purpose was realized. There was nothing more to live for.