Chapter 33

TOO MUCH TOGETHER.

Windham had exhibited the deepest interest in all these investigations. On the day after Zillah's interview with the chief of police he called and informed them that his business in England, though important, was not pressing, and that he intended to remain in Marseilles for a few days, partly for the sake of seeing how the investigations of the police would turn out, and partly, as he said, for the sake of enjoying a little more of the society of his friend Chute. Thenceforth he spent very much of his time at Chute's hotel, and Zillah and he saw very much of one another. Perhaps it was the fact that he only was altogether of Zillah's own order; or it may have been the general charm of his manner, his noble presence, his elevated sentiments, his rich, full, ringing English voice. Whatever it may have been, however, she did not conceal the pleasure which his society afforded her. She was artless and open; her feelings expressed themselves readily, and were made manifest in her looks and gestures. Still, there was a melancholy behind all this which Windham could not but notice--a melancholy penetrating far beneath the surface talk in which they both indulged.

He, on his part, revealed to Zillah unmistakably the same profound melancholy which has already been mentioned. She tried to conjecture what it was, and thought of no other thing than the bereavement which was indicated by the sombre emblem on his hat. Between these two there was never laughter, rarely levity; but their conversation, when it turned even on trifles, was earnest and sincere. Day after day passed, and each interview grew to be more pleasant than the preceding one. Often Obed Chute joined in the conversation; but their minds were of a totally different order from his; and never did they feel this so strongly as when some hard, dry, practical, and thoroughly sensible remark broke in upon some little delicate flight of fancy in which they had been indulging.

One day Windham came to propose a ride. Zillah assented eagerly. Obed did not care to go, as he was anxious to call on the chief of police. So Zillah and Windham rode out together into the country, and took the road by the sea coast, where it winds on, commanding magnificent sea views or sublime prospects of distant mountains at almost every turning. Hitherto they had always avoided speaking of England. Each seemed instinctively to shun the mention of that name; nor did either ever seek to draw the other out on that subject. What might be the rank of either at home, or the associations or connections, neither ever ventured to inquire. Each usually spoke on any subject of a general nature which seemed to come nearest. On this occasion, however, Windham made a first attempt toward speaking about himself and his past. Something happened to suggest India. It was only with a mighty effort that Zillah kept down an impulse to rhapsodize about that glorious land, where all her childhood had been passed, and whose scenes were still impressed so vividly upon her memory. The effort at self-restraint was successful; nor did she by any word show how well known to her were those Indian scenes of which Windham went on to speak. He talked of tiger hunts; of long journeys through the hot plain or over the lofty mountain; of desperate fights with savage tribes. At length he spoke of the Indian mutiny. He had been at Delhi, and had taken part in the conflict and in the triumph. What particular part he had taken he did not say, but he seemed to have been in the thick of the fight wherever it raged. Carried away by the glorious recollections that crowded upon his memory, he rose to a higher eloquence than any which he had before attempted. The passion of the fight came back. He mentioned by name glorious companions in arms. He told of heroic exploits--dashing acts of almost superhuman valor, where human nature became ennobled and man learned the possibilities of man. The fervid excitement that burned in his soul was communicated to the fiery nature of Zillah, who was always so quick to catch the contagion of any noble emotion; his admiration for all that was elevated, and true and pure found an echo in the heart of her who was the daughter of General Pomeroy and the pupil of Lord Chetwynde. Having herself breathed all her life an atmosphere of noble sentiments, her nature exulted in the words of this high-souled, this chivalric man, who himself, fresh from a scene which had tried men's souls as they had not been tried for many an age, had shared the dangers and the triumphs of those who had fought and conquered there. No, never before had Zillah known such hours as these, where she was brought face to face with a hero whose eye, whose voice, whose manner, made her whole being thrill, and whose sentiments found an echo in her inmost soul.

And did Windham perceive this? Could he help it? Could he avoid seeing the dark olive face which flushed deep at his words--the large, liquid, luminous eyes which, beneath those deep-fringed lids, lighted up with the glorious fires of that fervid soul--the delicate frame that quivered in the strong excitement of impassioned feelings? Could he avoid seeing that this creature of feeling and of passion thrilled or calmed, grew indignant or pitiful, became stern or tearful, just as he gave the word? Could he help seeing that it was in his power to strike the keynote to which all her sensitive nature would respond?

Yet in all Zillah's excitement of feeling she never asked any questions. No matter what might be the intensity of desire that filled her, she never forgot to restrain her curiosity. Had she not heard before of this regiment and that regiment from the letters of Guy? Windham seemed to have been in many of the places mentioned in those letters. This was natural, as he belonged to the army which had taken Delhi. But in addition to this there was another wonder--there were those hill stations in which she had lived, of which Windham spoke so familiarly. Of course--she thought after due reflection--every British officer in the north of India must be familiar with places which are their common resort; but it affected her strangely at first; for hearing him speak of them was like hearing one speak of home.

Another theme of conversation was found in his eventful voyage from India. He told her about the outbreak of the flames, the alarm of the passengers, the coward mob of panic-stricken wretches, who had lost all manliness and all human feeling in their abject fear. Then he described the tall form of Obed Chute as it towered above the crowd. Obed, according to Windham's account, when he first saw him, had two men by their collars in one hand, while in the other he held his revolver. His voice with its shrill accent rang out like a trumpet peal as he threatened to blow out the brains of any man who dared to touch a boat, or to go off the quarter-deck. While he threatened he also taunted them. "_You_ Britishers!" he cried. "If you are--which I doubt--then I'm ashamed of the mother country."

Now it happened that Obed Chute had already given to Zillah a full description of his first view of Windham, on that same occasion. As he stood with his revolver, he saw Windham, he said--pale, stern, self-possessed, but active, with a line of passengers formed, who were busy passing buckets along, and he was just detailing half a dozen to relieve the sailors at the pumps. "That man," concluded Obed Chute, "had already got to work, while I was indulging in a 'spread-eagle.'"

Windham, however, said nothing of himself, so that Zillah might have supposed, for all that he said, that he himself was one of that panic-stricken stricken crowd whom Obed Chute had reviled and threatened.

Nor was this all. These rides were repeated every day. Obed Chute declared that this was the best thing for her in the world, and that she must go out as often as was possible. Zillah made no objection. So the pleasure was renewed from day to day. But Windham could speak of other things than battle, and murder, and sudden death. He was deeply read in literature. He loved poetry with passionate ardor. All English poetry was familiar to him. The early English metrical romance, Chaucer, Spenser, the Elizabethan dramatists, Waller, Marvell, and Cowley, Lovelace and Suckling, were all appreciated fully. He had admiration for the poets of the Restoration; he had no words to express the adoration which he felt for Milton; Gray and Collins he knew by heart; Thomson and Cowper he could mention with appreciation; while the great school of the Revolutionary poets rivaled all the rest in the admiration which they extorted from him. Tennyson and the Brownings were, however, most in his thoughts; and as these were equally dear to Zillah, they met on common ground. What struck Zillah most was the fact that occasional stray bits, which she had seen in magazines, and had treasured in her head, were equally known, and equally loved by this man, who would repeat them to her with his full melodious voice, giving thus a new emphasis and a new meaning to words whose meaning she thought she already felt to the full. In these was a deeper meaning, as Windham said them, than she had ever known before. He himself seemed to have felt the meaning of some of these. What else could have caused that tremulous tone which, in its deep musical vibrations, made these words ring deep within her heart? Was there not a profounder meaning in the mind of this man, whose dark eyes rested upon hers with such an unfathomable depth of tenderness and sympathy--those eyes which had in them such a magnetic power that even when her head was turned away she could _feel_ them resting upon her, and knew that he was looking at her--with what deep reverence! with what unutterable longing! with what despair! Yes, despair. For on this man's face, with all the reverence and longing which it expressed, there was never any hope, there was never any look of inquiry after sympathy; it was mute reverence--silent adoration; the look that one may cast upon a divinity, content with the offer of adoration, but never dreaming of a return.

The days flew by like lightning. Zillah passed them in a kind of dream. She only seemed awake when Windham came. When he left, all was barrenness and desolation. Time passed, but she thought nothing of Naples. Obed had explained to her the necessity of waiting at Marseilles till fresh news should come from Hilda, and had been surprised at the ease with which she had been persuaded to stay. In fact, for a time Hilda seemed to have departed out of the sphere of her thoughts, into some distant realm where those thoughts never wandered. She was content to remain here--to postpone her departure, and wait for any thing at all. Sometimes she thought of the end of all this. For Windham must one day depart. This had to end. It could not last. And what then? Then? Ah then! She would not think of it. Calamities had fallen to her lot before, and it now appeared to her that another calamity was to come--dark, indeed, and dreadful; worse, she feared, than others which she had braved in her young life.

For one thing she felt grateful. Windham never ventured beyond the limits of friendship. To this he had a right. Had he not saved her from death? But he never seemed to think of transgressing the strictest limits of conventional politeness. He never indulged at even the faintest attempt at a compliment. Had he even done this much it would have been a painful embarrassment. She would have been forced to shrink back into herself and her dreary life, and put an end to such interviews forever. But the trial did not come, and she had no cause to shrink back. So it was that the bright golden hours sped onward, bearing on the happy, happy days; and Windham lingered on, letting his English business go.

Another steamer had arrived from Naples, and yet another, but no word came from Hilda. Zillah had written to her address, explaining every thing, but no answer came. The chief of police had received an answer to his original message, stating that the authorities at Naples would do all in their power to fulfill his wishes; but since then nothing further had been communicated. His efforts to search after Gualtier and Mathilde, in France, were quite unsuccessful. He urged Obed Chute and Miss Lorton to wait still longer, until something definite might be found. Windham waited also. Whatever his English business was, he deferred it. He was anxious, he said, to see how these efforts would turn out, and he hoped to be of use himself.

Meanwhile Obed Chute had fitted up the yacht, and had obliterated every mark of the casualty with which she had met. In this the party sometimes sailed. Zillah might perhaps have objected to put her foot on board a vessel which was associated with the greatest calamity of her life; but the presence of Windham seemed to bring a counter-association which dispelled her mournful memories. She might not fear to trust herself in that vessel which had once almost been her grave, with the man who had saved her from that grave. Windham showed himself a first-rate sailor. Zillah wondered greatly how he could have added this to his other accomplishments, but did not venture to ask him. There was a great gulf between them; and to have asked any personal question, however slight, would have been an attempt to leap that gulf. She dared not ask any thing. She herself was in a false position. She was living under an assumed name, and constant watchfulness was necessary. The name "Lorton" had not yet become familiar to her ears. Often when addressed, she caught herself thinking that some one else was spoken to. But after all, as to the question of Windham's seamanship, that was a thing which was not at all wonderful, since every Englishman of any rank is supposed to own a yacht, and to know all about it.

Often Obed and his family went out with them; but often these two went out alone. Perhaps there was a conventional impropriety in this; but neither Obed nor his sister thought of it; Windham certainly was not the one to regard it; and Zillah was willing to shut her eyes to it. And so for many days they were thrown together. Cruising thus over the Mediterranean, that glory of seas--the blue, the dark, the deep--where the transparent water shows the sea depths far down, with all the wonders of the sea; where the bright atmosphere shows sharply defined the outlines of distant objects--cruising here on the Mediterranean, where France stretches out her hand to Italy; where on the horizon the purple hills arise, their tops covered with a diadem of snow; where the air breathes balm, and the tideless sea washes evermore the granite base of long mountain chains, evermore wearing away and scattering the debris along the sounding beach. Cruising over the Mediterranean--oh! what is there on earth equal to this? Here was a place, here was scenery, which might remain forever fixed in the memories of both of these, who now, day after day, under these cloudless skies, drifted along. Drifting? Yes, it was drifting. And where were they drifting to? Where? Neither of them asked. In fact, they were drifting nowhere; or, rather, they were drifting to that point where fate would interpose, and sever them, to send them onward upon their different courses. They might drift for a time; but, at last, they must separate, and then--what? Would they ever again reunite? Would they ever again meet? Who might say?

Drifting!

Well, if one drifts any where, the Mediterranean is surely the best place; or, at least, the most favorable; for there all things combine to favor, in the highest degree, that state of moral "drifting" into which people sometimes fall.

The time passed quickly. Weeks flew by. Nothing new had been discovered. No information had come from Naples. No letter had come from Hilda. While Zillah waited, Windham also waited, and thus passed six or seven weeks in Marseilles, which was rather a long time for one who was hurrying home on important business. But he was anxious, he said, to see the result of the investigations of the police. That result was, at length, made known. It was nothing; and the chief of police advised Obed Chute to go on without delay to Naples, and urge the authorities there to instant action. He seemed to think that they had neglected the business, or else attended to it in such a way that it had failed utterly. He assured Obed Chute that he would still exert all his power to track the villain Gualtier, and, if possible, bring him to justice. This, Obed believed that he would do; for the chief had come now to feel a personal as well as a professional interest in the affair, as though somehow his credit were at stake. Under these circumstances, Obed prepared to take his family and Miss Lorton to Naples, by the next steamer.

Windham said nothing. There was a pallor on the face of each of them as Obed told them his plan--telling it, too, with the air of one who is communicating the most joyful intelligence, and thinking nothing of the way in which such joyous news is received. Zillah made no observation. Involuntarily her eyes sought those of Windham. She read in his face a depth of despair which was without hope--profound--unalterable--unmovable.

That day they took their last ride. But few words passed between them. Windham was gloomy and taciturn. Zillah was silent and sad. At length, as they rode back, they came to a place on the shore a few miles away from the city. Here Windham reined in his horse, and, as Zillah stopped, he pointed out to the sea.

The sun was setting. Its rich red light fell full upon the face of Zillah, lighting it up with radiant glory as it did on that memorable morning when her beautiful face was upturned as her head lay upon his breast, and her gleaming ebon hair floated over his shoulders. He looked at her. Her eyes were not closed now, as they were then, but looked back into his, revealing in their unfathomable depths an abyss of melancholy, of sorrow, of longing, and of tenderness.

"Miss Lorton," said Windham, in a deep voice, which was shaken by an uncontrollable emotion, and whose tremulous tones thrilled through all Zillah's being, and often and often afterward recurred to her memory--"Miss Lorton, this is our last ride--our last interview. Here I will say my last farewell. To-morrow I will see you, but not alone. Oh, my friend, my friend, my sweet friend, whom I held in my arms once, as I saved you from death, we must now part forever! I go--I must go. My God! where? To a life of horror! to a living death! to a future without one ray of hope! Once it was dark enough, God knows; but now--but; now it is intolerable; for since I have seen you I tremble at the thought of encountering that which awaits me in England!"

He held out his hand as he concluded. Zillah's eyes fell. His words had been poured forth with passionate fervor. She had nothing to say. Her despair was as deep as his. She held out her hand to meet his. It was as cold as ice. He seized it with a convulsive grasp, and his frame trembled as he held it.

Suddenly, as she looked down, overcome by her own agitation, a sob struck her ears. She looked up. He seemed to be devouring her with his eyes, as they were fixed on her wildly, hungrily, yet despairingly. And from those eyes, which had so often gazed steadily and proudly in the face of death, there now fell, drop by drop, tears which seemed wrung out from his very heart. It was but for a moment. As he caught her eyes he dropped her hand, and hastily brushed his tears away. Zillah's heart throbbed fast and furiously; it seemed ready to burst. Her breath failed; she reeled in her saddle. But the paroxysm passed, and she regained her self-command.

"Let us ride home," said Windham, in a stern voice.

They rode home without speaking another word.

The next day Windham saw them on board the steamer. He stood on the wharf and watched it till it was out of sight. Then he departed in the train for the north, and for England.