LXIII. A CHANGE
Although Lord Chetwynde was always out by day, yet he had always returned to his rooms at night, and therefore it was a matter of surprise to Hilda, on this eventful night, that twelve o'clock came without any signs of his return. In her wild and ungovernable passion her whole life had now grown to be one long internal struggle, in which it was with difficulty that she kept down the stormy feelings within her. This night she had grown more nervous than usual. It was as though she had attained to the culmination of the long excitements through which she had passed. His absence filled her with a thousand fears. The longing of her heart grew intolerable as the hours passed by without any signs of his return. Weary of calling to her servant to ask if he had come back, she at last dismissed the servant to bed, and sat herself at the door of her room, listening for the sound of footsteps. In that watchful attitude she sat, dumb and motionless; but the hours passed by her as she sat there, and still he came not.
Through those hours her mind was filled with a thousand fears and fancies. Sometimes she thought that he had been assassinated. At other times she fancied that Gualtier might have broken his promise, and come back from London, full of vengeance, to track the man whom he hated. These ideas, however, at length left her, and another took possession of her, which was far more natural and probable, and which finally became a deep and immovable conviction. She thought that Lord Chetwynde had at last yielded to his aversion; and unwilling, from motives of gratitude, to have any formal farewell, he had concluded to leave her abruptly.
"Yes," she said to herself, as this thought first came to her, "that is it. He wearies of my perpetual presence. He does not wish to subject himself to my mean entreaties. He has cut the connection abruptly, and is this night on his way to Leghorn to take the steamer. He has gone to India, and left me forever. To-morrow, no doubt, I shall get a letter acquainting me with the irrevocable step, and bidding me an eternal farewell."
The more she thought of this the more intense her conviction became, until at last, from the force of her own fancies, she became as certain of this as though some one had actually told her of his departure. Then there came over her a mighty sense of desolation. What should she do now? Life seemed in that instant to have lost all its sweetness and its meaning. Again there came to her that thought which many times during the last few weeks had occurred, and now had grown familiar--the awful thought of suicide. The life she lived had already grown almost intolerable from its unfulfilled wishes, and its longings against hope; but now the last hope had departed, and life itself was nothing but a burden. Should she not lay it down?
So the night passed, and the morning came, but through all that night sleep came not. And the dawn came, and the hours of the day passed by, but she sat motionless. The servants came, but were sent away; and this woman of feeling and of passion, who once had risen superior to all feeling, now lay a prey to an agony of soul that threatened reason and life itself.
But suddenly all this was brought to an end. At about mid-day Lord Chetwynde returned. Hilda heard his footstep and his voice. A great joy darted through her, and her first impulse was to fling herself upon him, and weep tears of happiness upon his breast. But that was a thing which was denied her--a privilege which might never be hers. After the first wild impulse and the first rush of joy she restrained herself, and, locking the door of her room, she sat listening with quick and heavy breathing. She heard him speak a few careless words to the servant. She heard him go to his room, where he staid for about an hour. She watched and waited, but restrained every impulse to go out. "I have tormented him too much," she said to herself. "I have forced myself upon him; I have made myself common. A greater delicacy and a more retiring habit will be more agreeable to him. Let me not destroy my present happiness. It is joy enough that my fears are dispersed, and that he has not yet left me." So she restrained herself--though that self-restraint was the mightest task which she had ever undertaken--and sat passively listening, when every feeling prompted her to rush forth eagerly to greet him.
He went away that day, and came back by midnight. Hilda did not trouble him, and they met on the following morning.
Now, at the first glance which she stole at him, she noted in him a wonderful change. His face had lost its gloom; there was an expression of peace and blissful tranquillity which she had never observed before, and which she had never thought possible to one who had appeared to her as he always had. She sat wondering as they waited for breakfast to be served--a meal which they generally took together--and baffled herself in vain conjectures. A great change had certainly come over him. He greeted her with a bright and genial smile. He had shaken her hand with the warm pressure of a good-hearted friend. He was sprightly even with the servants. He noticed the exquisite beauty of the day. He had something to say about many little trifles. Even in his best moods, during the journey, he had never been like this. Then he had never been otherwise than reserved and self-contained; his face had never altogether lost its cloud of care. Now there was not a vestige of care to be seen; he was joyous; he was even hilarious; and seemed at peace with himself and all the world.
What had happened?
This was the question which Hilda incessantly asked herself. It needed something unusual to change so completely this strong nature, and transform the sadness which had filled it into peace and joy. What had happened? What thing, of what kind, would be necessary to effect such a change? Could it be gratified vengeance? No; the feeling was too light for that. Was it the news of some sudden fortune? She did not believe that if Lord Chetwynde heard that he had inherited millions it would give such joy as this, which would make itself manifest in all his looks and words and acts and tones. What would be needed to produce such a change in herself? Would vengeance, or riches, or honor be sufficient? No. One thing alone could do this. Were she, by any possibility, ever to gain Lord Chetwynde to herself, then she felt that she would know the same sweet peace and calm joy as that which she now read in his face. In that event she thought that she could look upon her worst enemy with a smile. But in him what could it mean? Could it be possible that he had any one whose smile would bring him such peace as this? Once before she suspected that he loved another. Could it be within the bounds of possibility that the one whom he loved lived in Florence?
This thought filled her with dismay. And yet, why not? Had he not set out from England for Italy? Had he not dragged himself out of his sick-room, almost before he could walk, to pursue his journey? Had he not broken off almost all intercourse with herself after the first week of their arrival? Had he not been occupied with some engrossing business all the time since then? What business could have at once so occupied him and so changed him, if it were not something of this kind? There was one thing which could at once account for his coolness to her and his inaccessibility to her advances, for his journey to Florence, for his occupation all the time, and now for this strange mood of happiness which had come so suddenly yet so gently over him. And that one thing, which alone, to her mind, could at once account for all these things, was Love.
The time passed, and Lord Chetwynde's new mood seemed lasting. Never had he been so considerate, so gentle, and so kind to Hilda. At any other time, or under any other circumstances, this change would have stimulated her mind to the wildest hopes; but now it prompted fears which filled her with despair. So, as the days passed, the struggle raged within her breast.
Meanwhile Lord Chetwynde was a constant visitor at the villa of Obed Chute, and a welcome guest to all. As the days passed the constant association which he had with Zillah made each better known to the other than ever before. The tenderness that existed between them was repressed in the presence of the others; but on the frequent occasions when they were left alone together it found expression by acts if not by words, by looks if not by acts. Lord Chetwynde could not forget that first look of all-absorbing and overwhelming joy with which Zillah had greeted him on his sudden appearance. A master, to a certain extent, over himself, he coerced himself so far as not to alarm Zillah by any tender words or by any acts which told too much; yet in his face and in his eyes she could read, if she chose, all his devotion. As for Zillah, the change which she had felt from the dull monotony of her past to the vivid joy of the present was so great and so powerful that its effects were too manifest to be concealed. She could not conceal the glow of health that sprang to her cheek, the light that kindled in her eye, the resonant tone that was added to her voice, and the spring that came to her step. Nor could she, in her girlish innocence, conceal altogether how completely she now rested all her hopes and all her happiness upon Lord Chetwynde; the flush of joy that arose at his arrival, the sadness that overspread her at his departure. But Obed Chute and his sister were not observant; and these things, which would have been so manifest to others, were never noticed by them. It seemed to both of them as though Zillah merely shared the pleasure which they felt in the society of this Windham, whom Obed loved and admired, and they thought that Zillah's feelings were merely of the same character as their own.
Neither Lord Chetwynde nor Zillah cared to disclose the true state of the case. Lord Chetwynde wished to see her every day, but did not wish them to know that he came every day. That might seem strange to them. In point of fact, they would have thought nothing of it, but would have welcomed him as warmly as ever; but Lord Chetwynde could not feel sure of this. And if he visited her every day, he did not wish to let the world know it. How it happened can not be told; by what mysterious process it occurred can scarcely be related; such a process is too indefinable for description; but certain it is that a mysterious understanding sprang up between him and Zillah, so that on every alternate day when he rode toward the villa he would leave his horse at a house about a quarter of a mile away, and walk to the nearest part of the park, where there was a small gate among the trees. Here he usually entered, and soon reached a small kiosk near that pond among the woods which has already been spoken of. The household was so small and so quiet, and the woods were so unfrequented and so shadowy, that there was scarcely any possibility of interruption. Even if they had been discovered there by Obed himself, Lord Chetwynde's presence of mind could have readily furnished a satisfactory story to account for it. He had already arranged that in his mind. He would have "happened to meet" Zillah on the road near the gate, and come in here with her. By this it will be seen, on the strength of this mysterious understanding, that Zillah was not averse to this clandestine meeting. In fact, she always was there. Many times they met there in the weeks which Lord Chetwynde passed in Florence, and never once did she fail to be there first to await him.
Perhaps it was because each had a secret belief that this was all temporary--a happiness, a bliss, in fact, in this part of their mortal lives, but a bliss too great to last. Perhaps it was this that gave Zillah the courage and spirit to be at the trysting-place to receive this man who adored her, and never to fail to be there first--to think that not to be there first would be almost a sin--and so to receive his deep and fervent expressions of gratitude for her kindness, which were reiterated at every meeting. At any rate, Zillah was always there on the days when Lord Chetwynde wished her to be there; and on the occasions when he visited the villa she was not there, but was seated in the drawing-room to receive him. Obed Chute thought that Lord Chetwynde came three times a week. Zillah knew that he came seven times a week.
For some time this state of things had continued. Windham was the chosen friend of Obed, and the favored guest at Obed's villa. Zillah knew that this could not last, and used to try to check her happiness, and reason it down. But as the hour of the tryst approached all attempts of this kind were forgotten, and she was there watching and waiting.
To her, one day thus waiting, Lord Chetwynde came with a sad smile on his face, and something in his eyes which threw a chill over Zillah's heart. They talked a little while, but Lord Chetwynde was melancholy and preoccupied.
"You do not look well to-day," said Zillah, wonderingly, and in tones which were full of sympathy. "I hope nothing has happened?"
Lord Chetwynde looked earnestly at her and sighed heavily.
"Miss Lorton," said he, sadly, "something has happened which has thrown the deepest gloom over me. Shall I tell you? Will you sympathize with my gloom? I will tell you. I have this day received a letter giving me my appointment to a post in India, far which I have been waiting for a long time."
"India!"
Zillah gasped this out with white lips, while her face assumed the ashen hue of despair.
"India!" she repeated, as her great eyes were fixed in agony upon him; and then she stopped, pressing her hand to her heart.
The anguish of that look was so intense that Lord Chetwynde was shaken to the soul. He caught her hand in his, scarce knowing what he did.
"Oh, Miss Lorton," he cried, "do not look so at me. I am in despair; I am heart-broken; I dare not look at the future; but the future is not immediate; I can yet wait a few weeks; and you will still come here, will you not--to see me?"
Zillah caught her hand away, and her eyes fell. Tears dropped from beneath her heavy lashes. But she said not a word.
"At any rate, tell me this," cried Lord Chetwynde, "when I am gone, Miss Lorton, you will not forget me? Tell me this."
Zillah looked at him with her large, spiritual eyes, whose fire seemed now to bum into his soul, and her lips moved:
"Never!"
That was the only word that she said.
LXIV. THE MASQUERADE
Obed Chute came home one day full of news, and particularly dilated upon the grandeur of a masquerade ball which was to take place at the Villa Rinalci. He wished to go, and to take Zillah. The idea filled all his mind, and his excitement was speedily communicated to Zillah, and to Lord Chetwynde, who happened to be there at the time. Obed had learned that it was to be conducted with the highest degree of magnificence. He had talked about it with some Americans with whom he had met in the cafe, and, as he had never seen one, he was eager to go. Lord Chetwynde expressed the same desire, and Zillah at once showed a girlish enthusiasm that was most gratifying to Obed. It was soon decided that they all should go. A long conversation followed about the dresses, and each one selected what commended itself as the most agreeable or becoming. Obed intended to dress as a Western trapper, Zillah as an Athenian maid of the classic days, while Lord Chetwynde decided upon the costume of the Cavaliers. A merry evening was spent in settling upon these details, for the costume of each one was subjected to the criticism of the others, and much laughter arose over the various suggestions that were made from time to time about the best costume.
For some days Lord Chetwynde busied himself about his costume. He had to have it made especially for the occasion, and tailors had to be seen, and measurements had to be taken. Of course this did not interfere in the smallest degree with his constant attendance upon Zillah, for every day he was punctual at the trysting-place or in the villa.
Meanwhile Hilda's intolerable anxiety had taken another and a very natural turn. She began to feel intensely curious about the object of Lord Chetwynde's daily occupations. Having once come to the conclusion that there was a woman in the case, every hour only strengthened this conviction, until at length it was as firmly fixed in her mind as the belief in her own existence. The pangs of jealousy which she suffered from this cause were as extreme as those which she had suffered before from fear, or anxiety, or suspense, both when hurrying on to save Lord Chetwynde, and when watching at his bedside. In her wild, ungovernable passion and her uncontrollable love she felt the same vehement jealousy which a betrothed mistress might feel, and the same unreasoning indignation which a true and lawful wife might have when suspecting a husband's perfidy. Such feelings filled her with an insatiable desire to learn what might be his secret, and to find out at all costs who this one might be of whose existence she now felt confident. Behind this desire there lay an implacable resolve to take vengeance in some way upon her, and the discovery of her in Hilda's mind was only synonymous with the deadly vengeance which she would wreak upon this destroyer of her peace.
It was difficult, however, to accomplish such a desire. Little or nothing could be found out from the servants, nor was there any one whom she could employ to observe her "husband's" actions. Now she began to feel the need of that deep devotion and matchless fidelity which she had once received from Gualtier. But he was far away. Could she not send for him? She thought of this often, but still delayed to do so. She felt sure that the moment she gave the command he would leave every thing and come to do her bidding. But she hesitated. Even in her unscrupulous mind there was a perception of the fitness of things, and she was slow to call to her assistance the aid of the man who so deeply loved her, when her purpose was to remove or to punish her rival in the affections of another man, or rather an obstacle in the way of securing his affections. Deprived thus of all aid, it was difficult for her to find out arty thing.
At length Lord Chetwynde became interested in the affair of the masquerade. The state of mind into which he had fallen ever since the discovery of Zillah had deprived him of that constant reticence which used to be his characteristic. He was now pleasant and genial and talkative. This change had inspired alarm in Hilda rather than joy, and she had considered this the chief reason for believing that love was the animating motive with him now. After the masquerade had been mentioned he himself spoke about it. In the fullness of his joy it slipped from him incidentally in the course of conversation, and Hilda, after wondering why he should mention such a thing, began to wonder what interest the thing might have to him. No doubt he was going. Of that she felt assured. If so, the mysterious being to whom she believed he was devoted would necessarily be there too. She believed that the expectation of being there with her had so intoxicated him that this masquerade was the chief thing in his thoughts, and therefore he had made mention of it. So she watched to find out the meaning of this.
One day a parcel came for Lord Chetwynde. The servants were out of sight, and she opened it. It was a suit of clothes in the Cavalier fashion, with every accessory necessary to make up the costume. The meaning of this was at once evident to her. He was going to this masquerade as a Cavalier. What then? This discovery at once made plain before her all that she might do. Under these circumstances it would be possible for her to follow and to track him. Perhaps her own good fortune and cleverness might enable her to discover the one to whom he was devoted. But a complete disguise was necessary for herself. She was not long in choosing such a disguise. She decided upon the costume of the Compagnia della Misericordia--one which was eminently Florentine, and, at the same time, better adapted for purposes of concealment than any other could possibly be. It consists of a black robe with a girdle, and a hood thrown over the head in such a way as to show only the eyes. It would be as suitable a disguise for a woman as for a man, and would give no possible chance of recognition. At the same time, belonging as it did to that famous Florentine society, it would be recognized by all, and while insuring a complete disguise, would excite no comment.
Lord Chetwynde left early on the morning of the fête, taking his costume with him, showing Hilda that he was evidently going in company with others. It was with great impatience that she waited the progress of the hours; and when, at length, the time came, and she was deposited at the gate of the Villa Rinalci, her agitation was excessive. Entering here, she found the grounds illuminated.
They were extensive, and filled with groves and spacious avenues and dashing fountains and beautiful sculptures. Already a large crowd had assembled, and Hilda walked among them, watching on every side for the man whom she sought. In so large a place as this, where the grounds were so extensive, it was difficult indeed to find any particular person, and two hours passed away in a vain search. But she was patient and determined, and there was but one idea in her mind. The music and the gayety of the assembled throng did not for one moment divert her, though this was the first scene of the kind that she had ever beheld, and its novelty might well have attracted her attention. The lights which flashed out so brightly through the gloom of night--the noisy crowds which thronged every where--the foaming spray that danced upward from the fountains, gleaming in the light of the lamps--the thousand scenes of mirth and revelry that arose on every side--all these had no attraction for this woman, who had come here for one purpose only, and who carried this purpose deep in her heart. The company wore every imaginable attire. Most of them were in masks, but some of them had none; while Hilda, in her mournful robe, that spoke to all of death and funereal rites, was alone in the singularity of her costume.
She wandered throughout all the grounds, and through the villa itself, in search of one thing, but that one thing she could not find. At length her weary feet refused to support her any longer in what seemed a hopeless search, and she sat down near one of the fountains in the central avenue, and gave herself up to despondent thoughts.
About half an hour passed, when suddenly two figures approached that riveted her attention. They were a man and a woman. Her heart beat fast. There was no mistake about the man. His dress was the dress which she herself had seen and examined. He wore a domino, but beneath it could be seen his whiskers, cut after the English fashion, and long and pendent. But Hilda knew that face so familiarly that there was no doubt in her mind, although she only saw the lower portion. And a woman was with him, resting on his arm. They passed by her in silence. Hilda waited till they had gone by, and then arose and followed stealthily. Now had come the time for discovery, perhaps for vengeance. In her wild impulse she had brought a dagger with her, which she had secreted in her breast. As she followed her hand played mechanically with the hilt of this dagger. It was on this that she had instinctively placed her ultimate resolve. They walked on swiftly, but neither of them turned to see whether they were followed or not. The idea of such a thing never seemed to have entered into the mind of either of them. After a time they left the avenue, and turned into a side-path; and, following its course, they went onward to the more remote parts of the grounds. Here there were but few people, and these grew fewer as they went on. At length they came to the end of this path, and turned to the right. Hilda hurried onward stealthily, and, turning, saw an arbor embowered among the trees. Near by was a light, which hung from the branch of a tree on one side. She heard low voices, and knew that they had gone into the arbor. She crept up behind it, and got close to it--so close, indeed, that they, while sitting at the back, had but a few inches between themselves and this listener. The rays of the lantern shone in, so that Hilda could see, as they sat between her and the light, the outlines of their forms. But that light was obstructed by the leaves that clung to the arbor, and in the shadow their features were invisible. Two dark figures were before her, and that was all.
"We can stay here alone for some time," said Lord Chetwynde, after a long silence. He spoke in a whisper, which, however, was perfectly audible to Hilda.
"Yes," said the other, speaking in the same whisper. "He is amusing himself in the Grand Avenue."
"And we have an hour, at least, to ourselves. We are to meet him at the Grand Fountain; He will wait for us."
There was another silence.
Hilda heard this with strange feelings. Who was this he of whom they spoke? Was he the husband of this woman? Of course. There was no other explanation. They could not be so cautious and so regardful about any other. Nor, indeed, did the thought of any other come into her mind in that hour of excitement. She thought that she could understand it all. Could she but find out this woman's name, then it would be possible to take vengeance in a better and less dangerous way than by using the dagger. She could find out this injured husband, and use him as an instrument for vengeance. And, as this thought came to her, she sheathed her dagger.
The conversation began again. As before, it was in a whisper.
"We are secluded here. No one can see us. It is as quiet as our kiosk at the villa."
"Heavens!" thought Hilda. "A trysting-place!"
A sigh escaped the other.
"You are sighing," said Lord Chetwynde. "Are you unhappy?"
"I'm only too happy; but I--I--I'm thinking of the future."
"Don't think of the future. The present is our only concern. When I think of the future, I feel as though I should go mad. The future! My God! Let me banish it from my thoughts. Help me to forget it. You alone can!"
And even in that whisper, which reached Hilda's ears, there was an impassioned and infinite tenderness which pierced her heart.
"Oh God!" she thought, "how he loves her! And I--what hope have I?"
"What blessed fortune was it," resumed Lord Chetwynde, "that led me to you here in Florence--that brought us both here to this one place, and threw us again into one another's society? When I left you at Marseilles I thought that I had lost you forever!"
The lady said nothing.
But Hilda had already learned this much--first, that both were English. The lady, even in her whisper, showed this. Again, she learned that they had met before, and had enjoyed one another's society in this way. Where? At Marseilles. Her vivid imagination at once brought before her a way in which this might have been done. She was traveling with her husband, and Lord Chetwynde had met her. Probably they had sailed in the same steamer. Possibly they had come all the way from India together. This now became her conviction.
"Have you forgotten Marseilles?" continued Lord Chetwynde. "Do you remember our last sail? do you remember our last ride?"
"Yes," sighed the lady.
"And do you remember what I said?"
"I have not forgotten."
There was a long silence.
"This can not last much longer," said Lord Chetwynde. "I must go to India."
He stopped.
The lady's head sank forward. Hilda could see this through the shadows of the foliage.
"It can not last much longer," said Lord Chetwynde, in a louder voice, and a groan escaped him as he spoke. "I must leave you; I must leave you forever!"
He paused, and folding his arms, leaned back, while Hilda saw that his frame was shaken with extraordinary excitement. At length he leaned forward again. He caught her hand and held it. The lady sat motionless, nor did she attempt to withdraw her hand. They sat in perfect silence for a long time, but the deep breathing of each, which seemed like long-drawn sighs, was audible to Hilda, as she listened there; and it told how strong was the emotion within them. But the one who listened was the prey of an emotion as mighty as theirs.
Neither of these three was conscious of time. Wrapped up in their own feelings, they were overwhelmed by a tide of passion that made them oblivious of all things else. There were the lovers, and there was the vigilant watcher; but which of these three was a prey to the strongest emotion it would be difficult to tell. On the one side was the mighty power of love; on the other the dread force of hate. Tenderness dwelt here; vengeance waited there. Close together were these three, but while Hilda heard even the very breathing of the lovers, they were unconscious of her presence, and heard not the beating of that baleful heart, which now, filled with quenchless hate, throbbed vehemently and rapidly in the fury of the hour.
Unconscious of all else, and oblivious of the outer world--and why? They loved. Enough. Each knew the love of the other, though no words had spoken it.
"Oh, my friend!" suddenly exclaimed Lord Chetwynde, in a voice which was low and deep and full of passion--a voice which was his own, and no longer a whisper--"Oh, my friend! my beloved! forgive my words; forgive my wildness, my passion; forgive my love. It is agony to me when I know that I must lose you. Soon we must part; I must go, my beloved! my own! I must go to the other end of the earth, and never, never, never more can we hope to meet again. How can I give you up? There is a gulf between us that divides you from me. How can I live without you?"
These words poured forth from him in passionate impetuosity--burning words they were, and the lady whose hand he clasped seemed to quiver and tremble in sympathy with their meaning. He clung to her hand. Every moment deprived him more and more of that self-restraint and that profound consideration for her which he had so long maintained. Never before had he so forgotten himself as to speak words like these. But now separation was near, and she was alone with him, and the hour and the opportunity were his.
"I can not give you up. My life without you is intolerable," he groaned. "God knows how I have struggled against this. You know how faithfully I have kept a guard over my words and acts. But now my longing overmasters me. My future is like hell without you. Oh, love! oh, Ella! listen to me! Can you give me up? Will you be willing to do wrong for my sake? Will you come with me?"
A deep silence followed, broken by a sob from the lady.
"You are mine! you are mine!" he cried. "Do not let me go away into desolation and despair. Come with me. We will fly to India. We will be happy there through life. We will forget all the miseries that we have known in the great joy that we will have in one another's presence. Say that you will. See! I give up every thing; I throw all considerations to the winds. I trample even on honor and duty for your sake. Come with me!"
He paused, breathless from the terrible emotion that had now overpowered him. The lady trembled. She tried to withdraw her hand, but he clung to it. She staggered to her feet, and stood trembling.
"Oh!" she faltered, "do not tempt me! I am weak. I am nothing. Do not; do not!"
"Tempt you? No, no!" cried Lord Chetwynde, feverishly. "Do not say so. I ask you only to save me from despair."
He rose to his feet as he said this, and stood by her, still holding that hand which he would not relinquish. And the one who watched them in her agony saw an anguish as intense as hers in that quivering frame which half shrank away from Lord Chetwynde, and half advanced toward him; in those hands, one of which was held in his, while the other was clasped to her heart; and in Lord Chetwynde himself, who, though he stood there before her, yet stood trembling from head to foot in the frightful agitation of the hour. All this Hilda saw, and as she saw it she learned this--that all the hopes which she had ever formed of winning this man to herself were futile and baseless and impossible. In that moment they faded away; and what was left? What? Vengeance!
Suddenly Lord Chetwynde roused himself from the struggle that raged within him. It was as though he had resolved to put an end to all these conflicts with himself. He dragged Zillah toward him. Wildly and madly he seized her. He flung his arms about her, and pressed her to his heart.
"My love! my darling!" he exclaimed, in low tones that were broken, and scarce audible in the intensity of his emotion, "you can not--you will not--you dare not refuse me!"
Zillah at first was overwhelmed by this sudden outburst. But soon, by a mighty effort, she seemed to gain control over herself. She tore herself away, and staggered back a few paces.
"Spare me!" she gasped. "Have pity! have mercy! If you love me, I implore you by your love to be merciful! I am so weak. As you hope for heaven, spare me!"
She was trembling violently, and her words were scarcely coherent. At the deep and piteous entreaty of her voice Lord Chetwynde's heart was touched. With a violent effort he seemed to regain his self-control. A moment before he had been possessed of a wild, ungovernable passion, which swept all things away. But now this was succeeded by a calm, and he stood for a time silent.
"You will forgive me," he said at last, sadly. "You are more noble than I am. You do right to refuse me. My request seems to you like madness. Yes, you are right to refuse, even though I go into despair. But listen, and you will see how it is. I love you, but can never win you, for there is a gulf between us. You may have suspected--I am married already! Between us there stands one who keeps us forever asunder; and--that--one--I--hate--worse--than--death!"
He spoke these last words slowly, and with a savage emphasis, into which all the intensity of his love had sent an indescribable bitterness.
And there was one who heard those words, in whose ears they rang like a death-knell; one crouched behind among the shrubbery, whose hands clung to the lattice of the arbor; who, though secure in her concealment, could scarcely hide the anguish which raged within her. At these words the anguish burst forth. A groan escaped her, and all her senses seemed to fail in that moment of agony.
Zillah gave a cry.
"What was that? Did you hear it?" she exclaimed, catching Lord Chetwynde's arm.
Lord Chetwynde had heard it also. "It's nothing," said he, after listening for a moment. "Perhaps it's one of the deer."
"I'm afraid," said Zillah.
"Afraid! Am not I with you?"
"Let us go," murmured Zillah. "The place is dreadful; I can scarcely breathe."
"Take off your mask," said Lord Chetwynde; and with trembling hands he assisted her to remove it. His tone and manner reassured her. She began to think that the sound was nothing after all. Lord Chetwynde himself thought but little of it. His own excitement had been so intense that every thing else was disregarded. He saw that she was alarmed, but attributed this to the excitement which she had undergone. He now did his best to soothe her, and in his newfound calm he threw away that impetuosity which had so overpowered her. At last she regained something like her former self-possession.
"We must go back," said he at length. "Wait here a few moments, and I will go up the path a short distance to see if the way is clear."
He went out, and went, as he said, a little distance up the path.
Scarcely had his footsteps died out in the distance when Zillah heard a noise directly behind her. She started. In her agitated state she was a prey to any feeling, and a terror crept over her. She hastened out with the intention of following Lord Chetwynde.
The figure, crouching low behind the arbor, had seen Lord Chetwynde's departure. Now her time had come--the time for vengeance! His bitter words had destroyed all hope, and all of that patient cunning which she might otherwise have observed. Blind with rage and passion, there was only one thought in her mind, and that was instant and immediate vengeance. She caught her dagger in her hand, and strode out upon her victim.
The light which hung from the branch of the tree shone upon the arbor. The back-ground was gloomy in the dense shadow, while the intervening space was illumined. Hilda took a few quick paces, clutching her dagger, and in a moment she reached the place. But in that instant she beheld a sight which sent through her a pang of sudden horror--so sharp, so intense, and accompanied by so dread a fear, that she seemed to turn to stone as she gazed.
It was a slender figure, clothed in white, with a white mantle gathered close about the throat, and flowing down. The face was white, and in this dim light, defined against the dark back-ground of trees, it seemed like the face of the dead. The eyes--large, lustrous, burning--were fixed on her, and seemed filled with consuming fire as they fastened themselves on her. The dark hair hung down in vast voluminous folds, and by its contrast added to the marble whiteness of that face. And that face! It was a face which was never absent from her thoughts, a face which haunted her dreams--the face of her victim--the face of Zillah!
Hilda had only one thought, and that was this, that the sea had given up its dead, and that her victim had come to confront her now; in the hour of vengeance to stand between her and another victim. It was but for an instant that she stood, yet in that instant a thousand thoughts swept through her mind. But for an instant; and then, with a loud, piercing shriek, she leaped back, and with a thrill of mortal terror plunged into the thick wood and fled afar--fled with the feeling that the avenger was following fast after her.
The shriek roused Lord Chetwynde. He rushed back. Zillah had fainted, and was lying senseless on the grass. He raised her in his arms, and held her pressed convulsively to his heart, looking with unutterable longing upon her pale face, and pressing his burning lips to her cold brow. There was a great terror in his heart, for he could not think what it might be that had happened, and he feared that some sudden alarm had done this. Bitterly he reproached himself for so agitating her. He had excited her with his despair; and she, in her agitation, had become an easy prey to any sudden fear. Something had happened, he could not tell what, but he feared that he had been to some extent the cause, by the agitation which he had excited within her. All these thoughts and fears were in his mind as he held her upraised in his arms, and looked wildly around for some means of restoring her. A fountain was playing not far away, under the trees, and the babble of running water came to his ears amidst the deep stillness. There he carried his precious burden, and dashed water in her face, and chafed her hands, and murmured all the time a thousand words of love and tenderness. To him, in his intense anxiety, the moments seemed hours, and the passage of every moment threw him into despair. But at last she revived, and finally opened her eyes to see the face of Lord Chetwynde bending over her.
"Thank God!" he murmured, as her opening eyes met his.
"Do not leave me!" moaned Zillah. "It may come again, and if it does I shall die!"
"Leave you!" said Lord Chetwynde; and then he said nothing more, but pressed her hand in silence.
After a few moments she arose, and leaning heavily on his arm she walked with him up the path toward the fountain. On the way, with many starts and shudders of sudden fear, she told him what had happened. She had heard a noise among the trees, and had hurried out, when suddenly a figure rushed up to her--an awful figure! It wore a black robe, and over its head was a cowl with two holes for the eyes. This figure waved its arms wildly, and finally gave a long, wild yell, which pierced to her heart. She fell senseless. Never while life lasts, she said, would she be able to forget that abhorrent cry.
Lord Chetwynde listened eagerly. "That dress," he said, "is the costume of a Florentine society that devotes itself to the burial of the dead. Some one has worn it here. I'm afraid we have been watched. It looks like it."
"Watched! who could think of such a thing?"
"I don't know," said Lord Chetwynde, thoughtfully. "It may have been accidental. Some masker has watched us, and has tried to frighten you. That is all. If I thought that we could have any enemy, I would say that it was his work. But that is impossible. We are unknown here. At any rate, you must not think that there has been any thing supernatural about it. It seems to me," he concluded, "that we have been mistaken for some others."
This way of accounting for it served to quiet Zillah's fears, and by the time that they reached the fountain she was more calm. Obed Chute was waiting there, and as she pleaded fatigue, he at once had the carriage ordered.
LXV. HILDA'S DECISION
Hilda fled, and continued long in that frantic flight through the thick woods. As the branches of the underbrush crackled behind her, it seemed to her that it was the noise of pursuit, and the horror of that unexpected vision was before her, for to face it again seemed to her worse than death. She was strong of soul naturally; her nerves were not such as give way beneath the pressure of imagination; she was not a woman who was in any degree liable to the ordinary weaknesses of a woman's nature; but the last few months had opened new feelings within her, and under the assault of those fierce, resistless feelings the strength of her nature had given way. Even had she possessed all her old strength, the sight of this unparalleled apparition might have overwhelmed her, but as it was, it seemed to make her insane. Already shaken to her inmost soul by long suffering and wild alternations of feeling, she had that night attained the depths of despair in those words which she had overheard. Immediately upon that there came the direful phantom, which she felt that she could not look upon and live. That face seemed to burn itself into her mind. It was before her as she fled, and a great horror thrilled through her, driving her onward blindly and wildly, until at last nature itself gave way, and she fell shrieking with terror.
Then sense left her.
How long she lay she knew not. There was no one near to bring back the lost sense. She awaked shuddering. She had never fainted thus before, and it seemed to her now as though she had died and risen again to the sadness of life. Around her were the solemn forest trees. The wind sighed through their branches. The sun was almost at the meridian. It was not midnight when she fainted. It was mid-day almost when she recovered. There was a sore pain at her heart; all her limbs seemed full of bruises; but she dragged herself to a little opening in the trees where the rays of the sun came down, and there the sun's rays warmed her once more into life. There, as she sat, she recalled the events of the night. The horror had passed, and she no longer had that awful sense of a pursuing phantom; but there remained the belief, fixed within her soul, that she had seen the form of the dead. She was not superstitious, but in this instance the sight, and the effects of that sight, had been so tremendous that she could not reason them away.
She tried to dismiss these thoughts. What was she to do? She knew not. And now as she thought there came back to her the remembrance of Lord Chetwynde's words, and the utterance of his hate. This recollection rose up above the remembrance of her terrors, and gave her something else for thought. What should she do? Should she give up her purpose and return to England? This seemed to her intolerable. Chetwynde Castle had no attractions; and even if she were now assured beyond all doubt that she should be for all the rest of her life the acknowledged mistress of Chetwynde--even if the coronet were fixed on her brow beyond the chance of removal--even if the court and the aristocracy of England were eager to receive her into their midst--yet even then she found in these things nothing which could alleviate her grief, and nothing which could afford any attraction. Her life was now penetrated with one idea, and that idea was all set upon Lord Chetwynde. If he was lost to her, then there was only one of two alternatives--death to herself, or vengeance. Could she die? Not yet. From that she turned, not in fear, but rather from a feeling that something yet remained to be done. And now, out of all her thoughts and feelings, the idea of vengeance rose up fiercely and irresistibly. It returned with something of that vehemence which had marked its presence on the previous night, when she rushed forth to satisfy it, but was so fearfully arrested. But how could she now act? She felt as though the effort after vengeance would draw her once more to confront the thing of horror which she had already met with. Could she face it again?
Amidst all these thoughts there came to her the memory of Gualtier. He was yet faithful, she believed, and ready to act for her in any way, even if it required the sacrifice of his own life. To him she could now turn. He could now do what she could not. If she had him once more to act as her right hand, she might use him as a means for observation and for vengeance. She felt now most keenly her own weakness, and longed with a weary sense of desolation for some one who might assist her, and do this work which lay before her.
At last she rose to go. The warmth of the sun had restored something of her strength. The new resolutions which she had formed had given energy to her soul. She wandered about through the wood, and at length reached a stonewall. It looked like the boundary of the villa. She followed this for some distance, expecting to reach the gate, and at length came to a place where a rock arose by the side of the wall. Going up to the top of this, she looked over the wall, and saw the public road on the other side, with Florence in the distance. She saw pretty nearly where she was, and knew that this was the nearest point to her lodgings. To go back to the chief entrance would require a long detour. It would also excite surprise. One in her peculiar costume, on going out of the grounds, might be questioned; she thought it better to avoid this. She looked up and down the road, and seeing no one coming, she stepped to the top of the wall and let herself down on the opposite side. In a few moments she was on the road, on her way back to Florence. Reaching the city, she at once went to the hotel, and arrived at her rooms without observation.
That same day she sent off an urgent letter to Gualtier, asking him to come to Florence at once.
After this excitement she kept her bed for a few days. Lord Chetwynde heard that she was ill without expressing any emotion. When at length he saw her he spoke in his usual courteous manner, and expressed his pleasure at seeing her again. But these empty words, which used to excite so much hope within her, now fell indifferently on her ears. She had made up her mind now. She knew that there was no hope. She had called to her side the minister of her vengeance. Lord Chetwynde saw her pale face and downcast eyes, but did not trouble himself to search into the cause of this new change in her. She seemed to be growing indifferent to him, he thought; but the change concerned him little. There was another in his heart, and all his thoughts were centered on that other.
After the masquerade Lord Chetwynde had hurried out to the villa, on the following day, to make inquiries about her health. He found Zillah still much shaken, and exhibiting sufficient weakness to excite his anxiety. Which of the many causes that she had for agitation and trouble might now be disturbing her he could not tell, but he sought to alleviate her troubles as much as possible. His departure for India had to be postponed, for how could he leave her in such a state? Indeed, as long as Obed Chute remained in Florence he did not see how he could leave for India at all.
LXVI. FAITHFUL STILL
When Hilda sent off her note to Gualtier she felt certain that he would come to her aid. All that had passed between them had not shaken the confidence which she felt in his willingness to assist her in a thing like this. She understood his feelings so perfectly that she saw in this purpose which she offered him something which would be more agreeable to him than any other, and all that he had ever expressed to her of his feelings strengthened this view. Even his attempts to gain the mastery over her, his coercion by which he forced from her that memorable promise, his rage and his menaces at Lausanne, were so many proofs of his love for her and his malignant hate to Lord Chetwynde. The love which she had once despised while she made use of it she now called to her aid, so as to make use of it again, not thinking of what the reward would be which he would claim, not caring what his hope might be, indifferent to whatever the future might now reveal, and intent only upon securing in the best and quickest way the accomplishment of her own vengeful desires.
This confidence which she felt in Gualtier was not unfounded, nor was her hope disappointed. In about a week after she had sent her letter she received an answer. It was dated Florence. It showed that he had arrived in the city, and informed her that he would call upon her as soon as he could do so with safety. There was no signature, but his handwriting was well known to her, and told her who the writer was.
About an hour after her receipt of the letter Gualtier himself was standing in her presence. He had not changed in appearance since she last saw him, but had the same aspect. Like all pale and cadaverous men, or men of consumptive look, there could be scarcely any change in him which would be for the worse. In Hilda, however, there was a very marked change, which was at once manifest to the searching gaze of his small, keen eyes as they rested upon her. She was not, indeed, so wretched in her appearance as on that eventful day when she had astonished him by her arrival at Lausanne. Her face was not emaciated, nor were her eyes set in dark cavernous hollows as then, nor was there on her brow the stamp of mortal weakness. What Gualtier saw in her now had reference to other things. He had seen in her nervousness and agitation before, but now he marked in her a loss of all her old self-control, a certain feverish impatience, a wild and unreasoning eagerness--all of which seemed to rise out of recklessness and desperation. Her gestures were vehement, her words careless and impassioned in tone. It was in all this that he marked the greatness of the change in her. The feverish warmth with which she greeted him was of itself totally different from her old manner, and from its being so different it seemed to him unnatural. On the whole, this change struck him painfully, and she seemed to him rather like one in a kind of delirium than one in her sober senses.
"When I last bade you good-by," said she, alluding in this very delicate way to their parting at the hotel in Lausanne, "you assured me that I would one day want your services. You were right. I was mad. I have overcome my madness. I do want you, my friend--more than ever in my life before. You are the only one who can assist me in this emergency. You gave me six months, you remember, but they are not nearly up. You understood my position better than I did."
She spoke in a series of rapid phrases, holding his hand the while, and looking at him with burning intensity of gaze--a gaze which Gualtier felt in his inmost soul, and which made his whole being thrill. Yet that clasp of his hand and that gaze and those words did not inspire him with any pleasant hope. They hardly seemed like the acts or words of Hilda, they were all so unlike herself. Far different from this was the Hilda whom he had known and loved so long. That one was ever present in his mind, and had been for years--her image was never absent. Through the years he had feasted his soul in meditations upon her grand calm, her sublime self-poise, her statuesque beauty, her superiority to all human weakness, whether of love or of remorse. Even in those collisions into which she had come with him she had risen in his estimation. At Chetwynde she had shown some weakness, but in her attitude to him he had discovered and had adored her demoniac beauty. At Lausanne she had been even grander, for then she had defied his worst menaces, and driven him utterly discomfited from her presence. Such was the Hilda of his thoughts. He found her now changed from this, her lofty calm transformed to feverish impatience, her domineering manner changed to one of obsequiousness and flattery. The qualities which had once excited his admiration appeared now to have given way to others altogether commonplace. He had parted with her thinking of her as a powerful demon, he came back to her finding her a weak woman.
But nothing in his manner showed his thoughts. Beneath all these lay his love, and the old devotion manifested itself in his reply.
"You know that always and under all circumstances, my lady, you can command my services. Only one exceptional case has ever arisen, and that you yourself can understand and excuse."
Hilda sat down, motioning him also to a seat, and for a moment remained silent, leaning her head on her hand in deep thought. Gualtier waited for her next words.
"You must not expose yourself to danger," said she at length.
"What danger?"
"He will recognize you if he sees you here."
"I know that, and have guarded against it. He is not at home now, is he?"
"No."
"I knew that very well, and waited for his departure before venturing here. I know very well that if he were to catch even the faintest glimpse of me he would recognize me, and it would be somewhat difficult for me to escape. But to-day I happened to see him go out of the Porta Livorna, and I know he is far off by this time. So, you see, I am as cautious as ever. On the whole, and as a general thing. I intend to be guided by circumstances. Perhaps a disguise may be necessary, but that depends upon many different things. I will have, first of all, to learn from you what it is that you want me to do, and then I can arrange my plan of action. But before you begin I think I ought to tell you a very remarkable incident which happened in London not long ago--and one, too, which came very near bringing my career, and yours also, my lady, to a very sudden and a very unpleasant termination."
At this Hilda gave a start.
"What do you mean?" she asked, hurriedly.
"Oh, only this, that a very nice little trap was laid for me in London, and if I had not been unusually cautious I would have fallen into it. Had that been the case all would have been up with me; though as to you, I don't see how your position would have been affected. For," he added, with deep and uncontrollable emotion, "whatever may happen to me, you must know enough of me by this time, in spite of my occasional rebellions, to be as sure of my loyalty to you as of your own existence, and to know that there could be no possibility of my revealing any thing about you; no," he added, as his clenched fist fell upon the table, and his face flushed up deeply at his rising feeling--"no, not even if it were still the fashion to employ torture; not even the rack could extort from me one syllable that could implicate you. After all that I have said, I swear that by all that is most holy!"
He did not look at Hilda as he said this, but his eyes were cast on the floor, and he seemed rather like a man who was uttering a resolution to himself than like one who was making a statement to another. But Hilda showed no emotion that corresponded with his. Any danger to Gualtier, even though she herself were implicated, had no terrors for her, and could not make her heart throb faster by one single pulsation. She had other things on her mind, which to her far outweighed any considerations of personal danger. Personal danger, indeed, instead of being dreaded, would now, in her present mood, have been almost welcomed, so as to afford some distraction from the torture of her thoughts. In the secret of her heart she more than once wished and longed for some appalling calamity--something which might have power to engage all her thoughts and all her mind. The anguish of her heart, arising out of her love for Lord Chetwynde, had grown so intolerable that any thing, even danger, even discovery, even death itself, seemed welcome now.
It was this feeling which filled her as she went on to ask Gualtier about the nature of the danger which he had escaped, wishing to know what it might be, yet indifferent to it except so far as it might prove to be a distraction to her cares.
When Gualtier last vanished from the scene he had sent the boy to his lodging-house, with the agreement that he should meet him at eight o'clock. The boy's visit and its results have already been narrated.
As for Gualtier, he was profoundly conscious all the while of the possibility that a trap might be laid for him, and that, if this were the case, the advent of his messenger would be seized upon by those who might be in pursuit of him, so as to get on his track. The very cautiousness which had caused him to seek out so carefully a proper messenger, and instruct him in the part which he was to play, kept him on the anxious look-out for the progress of events. From the time that the boy left he stationed himself at the window of his room, which commanded a view of the main entrance, and watched with the closest scrutiny every one who came into the hotel. After a time he thought that the supposed pursuers might come in by some other entrance. With this fear he retreated into his bedroom, which also looked out in front, and locked the door. He found another door here which led into an adjoining room, which was occupied. The key of the door between the bedroom and the sitting-room fitted this other door, so that he was able to open it. The occupant was not in. Through this door he designed to retreat in case of a surprise. But he still thought it most likely that any pursuers would come in by the main door of the hotel, relying upon his information to the boy that he was to be absent. So with this view he stationed himself at the bedroom window, as he had at first stationed himself at the sitting-room window, and watched the main entrance. It was a task which needed the utmost vigilance. A great crowd was thronging there and sweeping by; and among the multitudes that filled the sidewalk it was impossible to distinguish any particular forms or faces except among those who passed up the steps into the hotel. Any one who had less at stake would have wearied of such a task, self-imposed as it was; but Gualtier had too much at stake to allow of weariness, and therefore he kept all his senses wide awake, looking with his eyes at the main entrance, and with his ears listening to the footsteps that came along the hall, to discover any signs of danger to himself.
At last a cab drove up and stopped in front of the door. Gualtier, who had been watching every thing, noticed this also. A man got out. The sight of that man sent a shock to Gualtier's heart. He knew that face and that figure in spite of the changed dress. It was Black Bill.
A second look to confirm that first impression was enough. Like lightning there came to his mind the thought that Black Bill had been watching for him ever since with inexhaustible patience, had encountered the boy, perhaps with the co-operation of the landlord, and had now come to arrest him. One moment sufficed to bring to his mind the thought, and the fear which was born of the thought. Without waiting to take another glance, or to see who else might be in the cab, he hastily unlocked the doors of the bedroom, glided into the hall, passed down a back stairway, and left the hotel by a side entrance far removed from the front-door. Then darting swiftly forward he mingled with the crowd in the Strand, and was soon lost to the pursuit of any followers.
Such was Gualtier's story. To all this strange account Hilda listened attentively.
"It seems," said she at length, "as though Black Bill has been more persevering than we supposed."
"Far more so than I supposed," said Gualtier. "I thought that he would have given up his watch long ago; or that, whether he wished or not, he had been forced to do so from want of resources. But, after all, he certainly has managed to hold on in some way. I suppose he has secured the co-operation of the landlord, and has got up some business at no great distance from the place, so that on the appearance of my messenger he was sent for at once."
"Did you see the others in the cab?"
"No; Black Bill was enough for me. I suppose the boy was there with him."
"Don't you think it likely that Black Bill may have had some communication with the police?"
"I have thought over that question, and it does not seem probable. You see Black Bill is a man who has every reason to keep clear of the police, and the very information which he would give against me would be equally against himself. Such information would first of all lead to his own arrest. He would know that, and would keep clear of them altogether. Besides, he is an old offender, and beyond a doubt very well known to them. His past career has, no doubt, been marked by them; and this information which he would give would be to them merely a confession of fresh crime. Finding themselves unable to catch me, they would satisfy themselves by detaining him. Oh no; Black Bill is altogether too cunning to have any thing to do with the police."
"All that you have been saying," remarked Hilda, "is very well in its way, but unfortunately it is based on the supposition that Black Bill would tell the truth to the police. But, on the contrary, it is highly probable that he would do nothing of the kind. He has ingenuity enough, no doubt, to make up a story to suit his particular case, and to give it such a coloring as to keep himself free from every charge."
"I don't see how he could do that very well. After all, what would be the essence of his story? Simply this: that a crime had been committed, and that he, with some others, had participated in it. The other offenders would be out of reach. What then? What? Why, Black Bill, from the fact of his own acknowledgment, would be taken in charge."
"I don't see that. As I see it, there are various ways by which a man with any cunning could throw all the guilt on another. He might deny that he knew any one was on board, but only suspected it. He might swear that he and the rest were forced into the boat by you, he and they being unarmed, and you well armed. There are other suppositions also by which he would be able to present himself in the light of an innocent seaman, who, forced to witness the commission of a crime, had lost no time to communicate to the authorities the knowledge of that crime."
"There is something in what you say. But in that case it would have been necessary for him to inform the police months ago."
"Very well; and why may he not?"
"He may have; but it strikes me that he would be more inclined to work the thing up himself; for in that case, if he succeeded, the prize would be all his own."
Some further discussion followed, and then Hilda asked:
"I suppose, by the way you speak, that you saw nothing more of them?"
"No."
"You were not tracked?"
"No."
"Where did you go after leaving the hotel?"
"I left London that evening for Southampton, and then I went west to Bristol; after that to Chetwynde. I staid at Chetwynde till I got your note."
"Did you not see any thing in any of the papers which might lead to the suspicion that you were sought after, or that any thing was being done?"
"No, nothing whatever."
"If any thing is going on, then, it must be in secret."
"Yes; and then, you know, in a country like England it is impossible for the police to work so comprehensively or so efficiently as they do on the Continent--in France, for instance."
"I wonder if the French police are at work?"
"How could they be?"
"I hardly know, unless Black Bill has really informed the London police, and they have communicated to the authorities in France. Of course it all depends on him. The others can have done nothing. He alone is the man from whom any danger could possibly arise. His steady perseverance has a dangerous look, and it is difficult to tell what may come of it yet."
After some further conversation Hilda proceeded to give Gualtier a general idea of the circumstances which had taken place since they parted at Lausanne. Her account was brief and meagre, since she did not wish to say more than was absolutely necessary. From what she said Gualtier gathered this, however--that Lord Chetwynde had continued to be indifferent to Hilda, and he conjectured that his indifference had grown into something like hostility. He learned, moreover, most plainly that Hilda suspected him of an intrigue with another woman, of whom she was bitterly jealous, and it was on this rival whom she hated that she desired that vengeance for which she had summoned him. This much he heard with nothing but gratification, since he looked upon her jealousy as the beginning of hate; and the vengeance which she once more desired could hardly be thwarted a second time.
When she came to describe the affair of the masquerade, however, her tone changed, and she became much more explicit. She went into all the details of that adventure with the utmost minuteness, describing all the particulars of every scene, the dresses which were worn both by Lord Chetwynde and herself, and the general appearance of the grounds. On these she lingered long, describing little incidents in her search, as though unwilling to come to the denouement. When she reached this point of her story she became deeply agitated, and as she described the memorable events of that meeting with the fearful figure of the dead the horror that filled her soul was manifest in her looks and in her words, and communicated itself to Gualtier so strongly that an involuntary shudder passed through him.
After she had ended he was silent for a long time.
"You do not say any thing?" said she.
"I hardly know what to say on the instant," was the reply.
"But are you not yourself overawed when you think of my attempt at vengeance being foiled in so terrible a manner? What would you think if yours were to be baffled in the same way? What would you say, what would you do, if there should come to you this awful phantom? Oh, my God!" she cried, with a groan of horror, "shall I ever forget the agony of that moment when that shape stood before me, and all life seemed on the instant to die out into nothingness!"
Gualtier was silent for a long time, and profoundly thoughtful.
"What are you thinking about?" asked Hilda at last, with some impatience.
"I am thinking that this event may be accounted for on natural grounds," said he.
"No," said Hilda, warmly; "nothing in nature can account for it. When the dead come back to life, reason falters."
She shuddered as she spoke.
"Yes, my lady," said Gualtier, "but the dead do not come back to life. You have seen an apparition, I doubt not; but that is a very different thing from the actual manifestation of the dead. What you saw was but the emanation of your own brain. It was your own fancies which thus became visible, and the image which became apparent to your eye was precisely the same as those which come in delirium. A glass of brandy or so may serve to bring up before the eyes a thousand abhorrent spectres. You have been ill, you have been excited, you have been taking drugs; add to this that on that occasion you were in a state of almost frenzy, and you can at once account for the whole thing on the grounds of a stimulated imagination and weak or diseased optic nerves. I can bring forward from various treatises on the optic nerves hundreds of cases as singular as yours, and apparently as unaccountable. Indeed, if I find that this matter continues to affect you so deeply," he continued, with a faint smile, "my first duty will be to read up exclusively on the subject, and have a number of books sent here to you, so as to let you see and judge for yourself."
LXVII. A SHOCK
Gualtier made still further explanations on this point, and mentioned several special cases of apparitions and phantom illusions of which he had read. He showed how in the lives of many great men such things had taken place. The case of Brutus was one, that of Constantine another. Mohammed, he maintained, saw real apparitions of this sort, and was thus prepared, as he thought, for the prophetic office. The anchorites and saints of the Middle Ages had the same experience. Jeanne d'Arc was a most conspicuous instance. Above all these stood forth two men of a later day, the representatives of two opposite principles, of two systems which were in eternal antagonism, yet these two were alike in their intense natures, their vivid imaginations, and the force of their phantom illusions. Luther threw his ink-bottle at the head of the devil, and Loyola had many a midnight struggle with the same grim personage.
To all this Hilda listened attentively, understanding fully his theory, and fully appreciating the examples which he cited in order to illustrate that theory, whether the examples were those well-known ones which belong to general history, or special instances which had come under his own personal observation. Yet all his arguments and examples failed to have any effect upon her whatever. After all there remained fixed in her mind, and immovable, the idea that she had seen the dead, and in very deed; and that Zillah herself had risen up before her eyes to confound her at the moment of the execution of her vengeance. Such a conviction was too strong to be removed by any arguments or illustrations. That conviction, moreover, had been deepened and intensified by the horror which had followed when she had fled in mad fear, feeling herself pursued by that abhorrent shape, till she had fallen senseless. Nothing of this could be argued away. Nor did she choose to argue about it. While she listened carefully and attentively to Gualtier's words, she scarcely attempted any rejoinder, but contented herself with a quiet reiteration of her former belief.
So this was dismissed. One thing remained, however, and that was the conclusion that Lord Chetwynde was carrying on a desperate intrigue with some English married lady, though whether the husband of this lady was himself English or Italian could not be told. It was evident that Lord Chetwynde's case was not that of the conventional cicisbeo. There was too much desperation in his love. This explained the course which would be easiest to them. To track Lord Chetwynde, and find out who this woman was, should be the first thing. On learning this he was to leave the rest to Hilda. Hilda's work of vengeance would begin with a revelation of the whole case to the supposed husband, and after this they could be guided by circumstances.
With such an understanding as this Gualtier withdrew to begin his work at once. Lord Chetwynde's visits to the villa continued as before, and under the same highly romantic circumstances. Going to India seemed removed from his thoughts further and further every day. He did not feel capable of rousing himself to such an effort. As long as he had the presence and the society of "Miss Lorton," so long he would stay, and as there was no immediate prospect of Obed Chute's leaving Florence, he had dismissed all ideas of any very immediate departure on his part. As for Zillah she soon recovered her health and spirits, and ceased to think about the fearful figure in the summer-house of the fête champêtre. Lord Chetwynde also resumed that strong control over himself which he had formerly maintained, and guarded very carefully against any new outbreak like that of the Villa Rinalci. Yet though he could control his acts, he could not control his looks; and there were times in these sweet, stolen interviews of theirs when his eyes would rest on her with an expression which told more plainly than words the story of his all-absorbing love and tenderness.
But while Lord Chetwynde was thus continuing his secret visits, there was one on his track whom he little suspected. Looking upon his late valet as a vulgar villain, whom his own carelessness had allowed to get into his employ, he had let him go, and had never made any effort to follow him or punish him. As for Hilda, if he ever gave her a thought, it was one of vexation at finding her so fond of him that she would still stay with him rather than leave. "Why can't she go quietly back to Chetwynde?" he thought; and then his more generous nature interposed to quell the thought. He could not forget her devotion in saving his life; though there were times when he felt that the prolongation of that life was not a thing to be thankful for.
As for the family, every thing went on pleasantly and smoothly. Obed was always delighted to see Windham, and would have felt disappointed if he had missed coming every alternate day. Miss Chute shared her brother's appreciation of the visitor. Zillah herself showed no signs which they were able to perceive of the depth of her feelings. Filled, as she was, with one strong passion, it did not interfere with the performance of her duties; nor, if it had done so, would her friends have noticed it. She had the morning hours for the children, and the afternoon for Lord Chetwynde.
In setting about this new task Gualtier felt the need of caution. It was far more perilous than any which he had yet undertaken. Once he relied upon Lord Chetwynde's ignorance of his face, or his contemptuous indifference to his existence. On the strength of this he had been able to come to him undiscovered and to obtain employment. But now all was changed. Lord Chetwynde was keen and observant. When he had once chosen to take notice of a face he would not readily forget it; and to venture into his presence now would be to insure discovery. To guard against that was his first aim, and so he determined to adopt some sort of a disguise. Even with a disguise he saw that it would be perilous to let Lord Chetwynde see him. Hilda had told him enough to make known to him that his late master was fully conscious now of the cause of his disease, and suspected his valet only, so that the watch of the pursuer must now be maintained without his ever exposing himself to the view of this man.
After a long and careful deliberation he chose for a disguise the costume of a Tuscan peasant. Although he had once told Hilda that he never adopted any disguises but such as were suited to his character, yet on this occasion his judgment was certainly at fault, since such a disguise was not the one most appropriate to a man of his appearance and nature. His figure had none of the litheness and grace of movement which is so common among that class, and his sallow skin had nothing in common with the rich olive complexion of the Tuscan face. But it is just possible that Gualtier may have had some little personal vanity which blinded him to his shortcomings in this respect. The pallor of his face was, however, to some extent corrected by a red kerchief which he bound around his head, and the effect of this was increased by a dark wig and mustache. Trusting to this disguise, he prepared for his undertaking.
The next day after his interview with Hilda he obtained a horse, and waited at a spot near Lord Chetwynde's lodgings, wearing a voluminous cloak, one corner of which was flung over his left shoulder in the Italian fashion. A horse was brought up to the door of the hotel; Lord Chetwynde came out, mounted him, and rode off. Gualtier followed at a respectful distance, and kept up his watch for about ten miles. He was not noticed at all. At length he saw Lord Chetwynde ride into the gateway of a villa and disappear. He did not care about following any further, and was very well satisfied with having found out this much so easily.
Leaving his horse in a safe place, Gualtier then posted himself amidst a clump of trees, and kept up his watch for hours. He had to wait almost until midnight; then, at last, his patience was rewarded. It was about half past eleven when he saw Lord Chetwynde come out and pass down the road. He himself followed, but did not go back to town. He found an inn on the road, and put up here for the night.
On the following day he passed the morning in strolling along the road, and had sufficient acquaintance with Italian to inquire from the people about the villa where Lord Chetwynde had gone. He learned that it belonged to a rich Milor Inglese, whose name no one knew, but who was quite popular with the neighboring peasantry. They spoke of ladies in the villa; one old one, and another who was young and very beautiful. There were also children. All this was very gratifying to Gualtier, who, in his own mind, at once settled the relationship of all these. The old woman was the mother, he thought, or perhaps the sister of the Milor Inglese; the young lady was his wife, and they had children. He learned that the Milor Inglese was over fifty years old, and the children were ten and twelve; a circumstance which seemed to show that the younger lady must at least be thirty. He would have liked to ask more, but was afraid to be too inquisitive, for fear of exciting suspicion. On the whole, he was very well satisfied with the information which he had gained; yet there still remained far more to be done, and there was the necessity of continued watching in person. To this necessity he devoted himself with untiring and zealous patience.
For several days longer he watched thus, and learned that on alternate days Lord Chetwynde was accustomed to ride in at the chief gate, while on the other days he would leave his horse behind and walk in at a little private gate at the nearer end of the park, and some considerable distance from the main entrance. This at once excited his strongest suspicions, and his imagination suggested many different motives for so very clandestine yet so very methodical a system of visiting. Of course he thought that it had reference to a lady, and to nothing else. Then the question arose once more--what to do. It was difficult to tell; but at length his decision was made. He saw that the only way to get at the bottom of this mystery would be to enter the grounds and follow Lord Chetwynde. Such an enterprise was manifestly full of danger, but there was positively no help for it. He could not think of going back to Hilda until he had gained some definite and important information; and; all that he had thus far discovered, though very useful as far as it went, was still nothing more than preliminary. The mystery had not yet been solved. He had only arrived at the beginning of it. The thought of this necessity, which was laid upon him, determined him to make the bold resolution of running all risks, and of tracking Lord Chetwynde through the smaller gate.
So on one of those days when he supposed that Lord Chetwynde would be coming there he entered the little gate and concealed himself in the woods, in a place from which he could see any one who might enter while he himself would be free from observation.
He was right in his conjectures. In about half an hour the man whom he was expecting came along, and entering the gate, passed close beside him. Gualtier waited for a time, so as to put a respectful distance between himself and the other. Then he followed watchfully and stealthily, keeping always at the same distance behind. For a hundred yards or so the path wound on so that it was quite easy to follow without being perceived. The path was broad, smooth, well-kept, with dark trees overhanging, and thus shrouding it in gloom. At last Lord Chetwynde suddenly turned to the left into a narrow, rough pathway that scarce deserved the name, for it was little better than a track. Gualtier followed. This path wound so much, and put so many intervening obstacles between him and the other, that he was forced to hurry up so as to keep nearer. In doing so he stepped suddenly on a twig which lay across the track. It broke with a loud snap. At that moment Lord Chetwynde was but a few yards away. He turned, and just as Gualtier had poised himself so as to dart back, he caught the eyes of his enemy fixed upon him. There was no time to wait. The danger of discovery was too great. In an instant he plunged into the thick, dense underbrush, and ran for a long distance in a winding direction. At first he heard Lord Chetwynde's voice shouting to him to stop, then steps ceased, and Gualtier, discovering this, stopped to rest. The fact of the case was, that Lord Chetwynde's engagement was of too great importance to allow him to be diverted from it--to run the risk of being late at the tryst for the sake of any vagabond who might be strolling about. He had made but a short chase, and then turned back for a better purpose.
Gualtier, while he rested, soon discovered that he had not the remotest idea of his position. He was in the middle of a dense forest. The underbrush was thick. He could see nothing which might give him any clew to his whereabouts. After again assuring himself that all was quiet, he began to move, trying to do so in as straight a line as possible, and thinking that he must certainly come out somewhere.
He was quite right; for after about half an hour's rough and difficult journeying he came to a path. Whether to turn up or down, to the right or the left, was a question which required some time to decide; but at length he turned to the right, and walked onward. Along this he went for nearly a mile. It then grew wider, and finally became a broad way with thick, well-cut hedges on either side. It seemed to him that he was approaching the central part of these extensive grounds, and perhaps the house itself. This belief was confirmed soon by the appearance of a number of statues and vases which ornamented the pathway. The fear of approaching the house and of being seen made him hesitate for some time; yet his curiosity was strong, and his eagerness to investigate irrepressible. He felt that this opportunity was too good a one to lose, and so he walked on rapidly yet watchfully. At length the path made a sudden sweep, and he saw a sight before him which arrested his steps. He saw a broad avenue, into which his path led not many paces before him. And at no great distance off, toward the right, appeared the top of the villa emerging from among trees. Yet these things did not attract his attention, which centered itself wholly on a man whom he saw in the avenue.
This man was tall, broad-shouldered, with rugged features and wide, square brow. He wore a dress-coat and a broad-brimmed hat of Tuscan straw. In an instant, and with a surprise that was only equaled by his fear, Gualtier recognized the form and features of Obed Chute, which had, in one interview in New York, been very vividly impressed on his memory. Almost at the same time Obed happened to see him, so that retreat was impossible. He looked at him carelessly and then turned away; but a sudden thought seemed to strike him; he turned once more, regarded the intruder intently, and then walked straight up to him.
LXVIII. THE VISION OF THE DEAD
Gualtier stood rooted to the spot, astounded at such a discovery. His first impulse was flight. But that was impossible. The hedgeway on either side was high and thick, preventing any escape. The flight would have to be made along the open path, and in a chase he did not feel confident that he could escape. Besides, he felt more like relying on his own resources. He had a hope that his disguise might conceal him. Other thoughts also passed through his mind at that moment. How did this Obed Chute come here? Was he the Milor Inglese? How did he come into connection with Lord Chetwynde, of all others? Were they working together on some dark plot against Hilda? That seemed the most natural thing to believe.
But he had no time for thought, for even while these were passing through his mind Obed was advancing toward him, until finally he stood before him, confronting him with a dark frown. There was something in his face which showed Gualtier that he was recognized.
"You!" cried Obed; "you! I thought so, and it is so, by the Lord! I never forget a face. You scoundrel! what do you want? What are you doing here? What are you following me for? Are you on that business again? Didn't I give you warning in New York?"
There was something so menacing in his look, and in his wrathful frown, that Gualtier started back a pace, and put his hand to his breast-pocket to seize his revolver.
"No you don't!" exclaimed Obed, and quick as lightning he seized Gualtier's hand, while he held his clenched fist in his face.
"I'm up to all those tricks," he continued, "and you can't come it over me, you scoundrel! Here--off with all that trash."
And knocking off Gualtier's hat, as he held his hand in a grasp from which the unhappy prisoner could not release himself, he tore off his wig and his mustache.
Gualtier was not exactly a coward, for he had done things which required great boldness and presence of mind, and Obed himself had said this much in his criticisms upon Black Bill's story; but at the present moment there was something in the tremendous figure of Obed, and also in the fear which he had that all was discovered, which made him cower into nothingness before his antagonist. Yet he said not a word.
"And now," said Obed, grimly, "perhaps you'll have the kindness to inform me what you are doing here--you, of all men in the world--dodging about in disguise, and tracking my footsteps. What the devil do you mean by sneaking after me again? You saw me once, and that ought to have been enough. What do you want? Is it something more about General Pomeroy? And what do you mean by trying to draw a pistol on me on my own premises? Tell me the truth, you mean, sallow-faced rascal, or I'll shake the bones out of your body!"
In an ordinary case of sudden seizure Gualtier might have contrived to get out of the difficulty by his cunning and presence of mind. But this was by no means an ordinary case. This giant who thus seemed to come down upon him us suddenly as though he had dropped from the skies, and who thundered forth these fierce, imperative questions in his ear, did not allow him much space in which to collect his thoughts, or time to put them into execution. There began to come over him a terror of this man, whom he fancied to be intimately acquainted with his whole career. "Thus conscience does make cowards of us all," and Gualtier, who was generally not a coward, felt very much like one on this occasion. Morally, as well as physically, he felt himself crushed by his opponent. It was, therefore, with utter helplessness, and the loss of all his usual strength of mind and self-control, that he stammered forth his answer:
"I--I came here--to--to get some information."
"You came to get information, did you? Of course you did. Spies generally do."
"I came to see you."
"To see me, hey? Then why didn't you come like a man? What's the meaning of this disguise?"
"Because you refused information once, and I thought that if I came in another character, with a different story, I might have a better chance."
"Pooh! don't I see that you're lying? Why didn't you come up through the avenue like a man, instead of sneaking along the paths? Answer me that."
"I wasn't sneaking. I was merely taking a little stroll in your beautiful grounds."
"Wasn't sneaking?" repeated Obed; "then I'd like very much to know what sneaking is, for my own private information. If any man ever looked like a sneak, you did when I first caught your eye."
"I wasn't sneaking," reiterated Gualtier; "I was simply strolling about. I found a gate at the lower end of the park, and walked up quietly. I was anxious to see you."
"Anxious to see me?" said Obed, with a peculiar intonation.
"Yes."
"Why, then, did you look scared out of your life when you did see me? Answer me that."
"My answer is," said Gualtier, with an effort at calmness, "that I neither looked scared nor felt scared. I dare say I may have put myself on my guard, when you rushed at me."
"I didn't rush at you."
"It seemed to me so, and I fell back a step, and prepared for the shock."
"Fell back a step!" sneered Obed; "you looked around to see if you had any ghost of a chance to run for it, and saw you had none. That's about it."
"You are very much mistaken," said Gualtier.
"Young man," replied Obed, severely, "I'm never mistaken. So dry up."
"Well, since I've found you," said Gualtier, "will you allow me to ask you a question?"
"What's that?--you found me? Why, you villain! I found you. You are a cool case, too. Answer you a question? Not a bit of it. But I'll tell you what I will do. I intend to teach you a lesson that you won't forget."
"Beware," said Gualtier, understanding the other's threat--"beware how you offer violence to me."
"Oh, don't trouble yourself at all. I intend to beware. My first idea was to kick you all the way out; but you're such a poor, pale, pitiful concern that I'll be satisfied with only one parting kick. So off with you!"
At this Obed released his grasp, and keeping Gualtier before him he forced him along the avenue toward the gate.
"You needn't look round," said Obed, grimly, as he noticed a furtive glance of Gualtier's. "And you needn't try to get at your revolver. 'Tain't any manner of use, for I've got one, and can use it better than you, being an American born. You needn't try to walk faster either," he continued, "for you can't escape. I can run faster than you, my legs being longer. You don't know the grounds, either, half so well as I do, although I dare say you've been sneaking about here ever since I came. Bat let me tell you this, my friend, for your information. You can't come it over me, nohow; for I'm a free American, and I always carry a revolver. Take warning by that one fact, and bear this in mind too--that if I ever see your villainous face about here again, or if I find you prowling about after me any where, I swear I'll blow your bloody brains out as sure as my name's Obed Chute. I'll do it. I will, by the Eternal!"
With such cheerful remarks as these Obed entertained his companion, or prisoner, whichever he was, until they reached the gate. The porter opened it for them, and Gualtier made a wild bound forward. But he was not quick enough; for Obed, true to his promise, was intent on giving him that last kick of which he had spoken. He saw Gualtier's start, and he himself sprang after him with fearful force. Coming up to him, he administered to him one single blow with his foot, so tremendous that it was like the stroke of a catapult, and sent the unhappy wretch headlong to the ground.
After doing this Obed calmly went back, and thought for some time on this singular adventure. He had his own ideas as to the pertinacity of this man, and attributed it to some desire on his part to investigate the old affair of the Chetwynde elopement. What his particular personal interest might be he could not tell, nor did he care much. In fact, at this time the question of his visitor's motives hardly occupied his mind at all, so greatly were his thoughts occupied with pleasurable reminiscences of his own parting salute.
As for Gualtier, it was different; and if his thoughts were also on that parting salute, it was for some time. The blow had been a terrible one; and as he staggered to his feet he found that he could not walk without difficulty. He dragged himself along, overcome by pain and bitter mortification, cursing at every step Obed Chute and all belonging to him, and thus slowly and sullenly went down the road. But the blow of the catapult had been too severe to admit of an easy recovery. Every step was misery and pain; and so, in spite of himself, he was forced to stop. But he dared not rest in any place along the road-side; for the terror of Obed Chute was still strong upon him, and he did not know but that this monster might still take it into his head to pursue him, so as to exact a larger vengeance. So he clambered up a bank on the roadside, where some trees were, and among these he lay down, concealing himself from view.
Pain and terror and dark apprehensions of further danger affected his brain. Concealed among these trees, he lay motionless, hardly daring to breathe, and scarcely able to move. Amidst his pain there still came to him a vague wonder at the presence of Obed Chute here in such close friendship with Lord Chetwynde. How had such a friendship arisen? How was it possible that these two had ever become acquainted? Lord Chetwynde, who had passed his later life in India, could scarcely ever have heard of this man; and even if he had heard of this man, his connection with the Chetwynde family had been of such a nature that an intimate friendship like this was the last thing which might be expected. Such a friendship, unaccountable as it might be, between these two, certainly existed, for he had seen sufficient proofs of it; yet what Lord Chetwynde's aims were he could not tell. It seemed as though, by some singular freak of fortune, he had fallen in love with Obed Chute's wife, and was having clandestine meetings with her somewhere. If so, Obed Chute was the very man to whom Hilda might reveal her knowledge, with the assurance that the most ample vengeance would be exacted by him on the destroyer of his peace and the violator of his friendship.
Amidst his pain, and in spite of it, these thoughts came, and others also. He could not help wondering whether in this close association of these two they had not some one common purpose. Was it possible that they could know any thing about Hilda? This was his first thought; and nothing could show more plainly the unselfish nature of the love of this base man than that at a time like this he should think of her rather than himself. Yet so it was. His thought was, Do they suspect her? Has Lord Chetwynde some dark design against her, and are they working in unison? As far as he could see there was no possibility of any such design. Hilda's account of Lord Chetwynde's behavior toward her showed him simply a kind of tolerance of her, as though he deemed her a necessary evil, but none of that aversion which he would have shown had he felt the faintest suspicion of the truth. That truth would have been too terrific to have been borne thus by any one. No. He must believe that Hilda was really his wife, or he could not be able to treat her with that courtesy which he always showed--which, cold though it might be in her eyes, was still none the less the courtesy which a gentleman shows to a lady who is his equal. But had he suspected the truth she would have been a criminal of the basest kind, and courtesy from him to her would have been impossible. He saw plainly, therefore, that the truth with regard to Hilda could not be in any way even suspected, and that thus far she was safe. Another thing showed that there could be no connection between these two arising out of their family affairs. Certainly Lord Chetwynde, with his family pride, was not the man who could ally himself to one who was familiar with the family shame; and, moreover, Hilda had assured him, from her own knowledge, that Lord Chetwynde had never learned any thing of that shame. He had never known it at home, he could not have found it out very easily in India, and in whatever way he had become acquainted with this American, it was scarcely probable that he could have found it out from him. Obed Chute was evidently his friend; but for that very reason, and from the very nature of the case, he could not possibly be known to Lord Chetwynde as the sole living contemporary witness of his mother's dishonor. Obed Chute himself was certainly the last man in the world, as Gualtier thought, who would have been capable of volunteering such information as that. These conclusions to which he came were natural, and were based on self-evident truths. Yet still the question remained: How was it that these two men, who more than all others were connected with those affairs which most deeply affected himself and Hilda, and from whom he had the chief if not the only reason to fear danger, could now be joined in such intimate friendship? And this was a question which was unanswerable.
As Hilda's position seemed safe, he thought of his own, and wondered whether there could be danger to himself from this. Singularly enough, on that eventful day he had been seen by both Lord Chetwynde and Obed Chute. Lord Chetwynde, he believed, could not have recognized him, or he would not have given up the pursuit so readily. Obed Chute had not only recognized him, but also captured him, and not only captured him, but very severely punished him; yet the very fact that Obed Chute had suffered him to go showed how complete his ignorance must be of the true state of the case. If he had but known even a portion of the truth he would never have allowed him to go; if he and Lord Chetwynde were really allied in an enterprise such as he at first feared when he discovered that alliance, then he himself would have been detained. True, Obed Chute knew no more of him than this, that he had once made inquiries about the Chetwynde family affairs; yet, in case of any serious alliance on their part, this of itself would have been sufficient cause for his detention. Yet Obed Chute had sent him off. What did that show? This, above all, that he could not have any great purpose in connection with his friend.
Amidst all these thoughts his sufferings were extreme. He lay there fearful of pursuit, yet unable to move, distracted by pain both of body and mind. Time passed on, but his fears continued unabated. He was excited and nervous. The pain had brought on a deep physical prostration, which deprived him of his usual self-possession. Every moment he expected to see a gigantic figure in a dress-coat and a broad-brimmed hat of Tuscan straw, with stern, relentless face and gleaming eyes, striding along the road toward him, to seize him in a resistless grasp, and send him to some awful fate; or, if not that, at any rate to administer to him some tremendous blow, like that catapultian kick, which would hurl him in an instant into oblivion.
The time passed by. He lay there in pain and in fear. Excitement and suffering had disordered his brain. The constant apprehension of danger made him watchful, and his distempered imagination made him fancy that every sound was the footstep of his enemy. Watchful against this, he held his pistol in his nerveless grasp, feeling conscious at the same time how ineffectively he would use it if the need for its use should arise. The road before him wound round the hill up which he had clambered in such a way that but a small part of it was visible from where he sat. Behind him rose the wall of the park, and all around the trees grew thickly and sheltered him.
Suddenly, as he looked there with ceaseless vigilance, he became aware of a figure that was moving up the road. It was a woman's form. The figure was dressed in white, the face was white, and round that face there were gathered great masses of dark hair. To his disordered senses it seemed at that moment as if this figure glided along the ground.
Filled with a kind of horror, he raised himself up, one hand still grasping the pistol, while the other clutched a tree in front of him with a convulsive grasp, his eyes fixed on this figure. Something in its outline served to create all this new fear that had arisen, and fascinated his gaze. To his excited sensibility, now rendered morbid by the terrors of the last few hours, this figure, with its white robes, seemed like something supernatural sent across his path. It was dim twilight, and the object was a little indistinct; yet he could see it sufficiently well. There was that about it which sent an awful suspicion over him. All that Hilda had told him recurred to his mind.
And now, just as the figure was passing, and while his eyes were riveted on it, the face slowly and solemnly turned toward him.
At the sight of the face which was thus presented there passed through him a sudden pang of unendurable anguish--a spasm of terror so intolerable that it might make one die on the spot. For a moment only he saw that face. The next moment it had turned away. The figure passed on. Yet in that moment he had seen the face fully and perfectly. He had recognized it! He knew it as the face of one who now lay far down beneath the depths of the sea--of one whom he had betrayed--whom he had done to death! This was the face which now, in all the pallor of the grave, was turned toward him, and seemed to change him to stone as he gazed.
The figure passed on--the figure of Zillah--to this conscience-stricken wretch a phantom of the dead; and he, overwhelmed by this new horror, sank back into insensibility.
LXIX. THE VISION OF THE LOST
It was twilight when Gualtier sank back senseless. When he at last came to himself it was night. The moon was shining brightly, and the wind was sighing through the pines solemnly and sadly. It was some time before he could recall his scattered senses so as to understand where he was. At last he remembered, and the gloom around him gave additional force to the thrill of superstitious horror which was excited by that remembrance. He roused himself with a wild effort, and hunted in the grass for his pistol, which now was his only reliance. Finding this, he hurried down toward the road. Every limb now ached, and his brain still felt the stupefying effects of his late swoon. It was only with extreme difficulty that he could drag himself along; yet such was the horror on his mind that he despised the pain, and hurried down the road rapidly, seeking only to escape as soon as possible out from among the shadows of these dark and terrible woods, and into the open plain. His hasty, hurried steps were attended with the severest pain, yet he sped onward, and, at last, after what seemed to him an interminable time, he emerged out of the shadows of the forest into the broad, bright moonlight of the meadows which skirt the Arno. Hurrying along for a few hundred yards, he sank down at last by the roadside, completely exhausted. In about an hour he resumed his journey, and then sank exhausted once more, after traversing a few miles. It was sunrise before he readied the inn where he stopped. All that day and the next night he lay in bed. On the following day he went to Florence; and, taking the hour when he knew that Lord Chetwynde was out, he called on Hilda.
He had not been there or seen her since that visit which he had paid on his first arrival at Florence from England. He had firmly resolved not to see her until he had done something of some consequence, and by this resolution he intended that he should go to her as the triumphant discoverer of the mystery which she sought to unravel. Something had, indeed, been done, but the dark mystery lay still unrevealed; and what he had discovered was certainly important, yet not of such a kind as could excite any thing like a feeling of triumph. He went to her now because he could not help it, and went in bitterness and humiliation. That he should go at all under such circumstances only showed how complete and utter had been his discomfiture. But yet, in spite of this, there had been no cowardice of which he could accuse himself, and he had shrunk from no danger. He had dared Lord Chetwynde almost face to face. Flying from him, he had encountered one whom he might never have anticipated meeting. Last of all, he had been overpowered by the phantom of the dead. All these were sufficient causes for an interview with Hilda, if it were only for the sake of letting her know the fearful obstacles that were accumulating before her, the alliance of her worst enemies, and the reappearance of the spectre.
As Hilda entered the room and looked at him, she was startled at the change in him. The hue of his face had changed from its ordinary sallow complexion to a kind of grizzly pallor. His hands shook with nervous tremulousness, his brow was contracted through pain, his eyes had a wistful eagerness, and he seemed twenty years older.
"You do not look like a bearer of good news," said she, after shaking hands with him in silence.
Gualtier shook his head mournfully.
"Have you found out nothing?"
He sighed.
"I'm afraid I've found out too much by far."
"What do you mean?"
"I hardly know. I only know this, that my searches have shown me that the mystery is deeper than ever."
"You seem to me to be very quickly discouraged," said Hilda, in a disappointed tone.
"That which I have found out and seen," said Gualtier, solemnly, "is something which might discourage the most persevering, and appall the boldest. My lady," he added, mournfully, "there is a power at work which stands between you and the accomplishment of your purpose, and dashes us back when that purpose seems nearest to its attainment."
"I do not understand you," said Hilda, slowly, while a dark foreboding arose in her mind, and a fearful suspicion of Gualtier's meaning. "Tell me what you mean, and what you have been doing since I saw you last. You certainly must have had a very unusual experience."
It was with an evident effort that Gualtier was able to speak. His words came painfully and slowly, and in this way he told his story.
He began by narrating the steps which he had taken to secure himself from discovery by the use of a disguise, and his first tracking of Lord Chetwynde to the gates of the villa. He described the situation to her very clearly, and told her all that he had learned from the peasants. He then told her how, by long watching, he had discovered Lord Chetwynde's periodical visits, alternately made at the great and the small gate, and had resolved to find out the reason of such very singular journeys.
To all this Hilda listened with breathless interest and intense emotion, which increased, if possible, up to that time when he was noticed and pursued by Lord Chetwynde. Then followed the story of his journey through the woods and the paths till he found himself face to face with Obed Chute.
At the mention of this name she interrupted him with an exclamation of wonder and despair, followed by many questions. She herself felt all that perplexity at this discovery of his friendship with Lord Chetwynde which Gualtier had felt, and all the thoughts which then had occurred to him now came to her, to be poured forth in innumerable questions. Such questions he was, of course, unable to answer. The appearance of this man upon the scene was a circumstance which excited in Hilda's mind vague apprehensions of some unknown danger; yet his connection with Lord Chetwynde was so inexplicable that it was impossible to know what to think or to fear.
The discussion of this new turn in the progress of things took up some time. Exciting as this intelligence had been to Hilda, the conclusion of Gualtier's narrative was far more so. This was the climax, and Gualtier, who had been weak and languid in speaking about the other things, here rose into unusual excitement, enlarging upon every particular in that occurrence, and introducing all those details which his own vivid imagination had in that moment of half delirium thrown around the figure which he had seen.
"It floated before me," said he, with a shudder; "its robes were white, and hung down as though still dripping with the water of the sea. It moved noiselessly until it came opposite to me, and then turned its full face toward me. The eyes were bright and luminous, and seemed to burn into my soul. They are before me yet. Never shall I forget the horror of that moment. When the figure passed on I fell down senseless."
"In the name of God!" burst forth Hilda, whose eyes dilated with the terror of that tale, while she trembled from head to foot in fearful sympathy, "is this true? Can it be? Did you, too, see her?"
"Herself, and no other!" answered Gualtier, in a scarce audible voice.
"Once before," said Hilda, "that apparition came. It was to me. You know what the effect was. I told you. You were then very cool and philosophical. Yon found it very easy to account for it on scientific principles. You spoke of excitement, imagination, and diseased optic nerves. Now, in your own case, have you been able to account for this in the same way?"
"I have not," said Gualtier. "Such arguments to me now seem to be nothing but words--empty words, satisfactory enough, no doubt, to those who have never had this revelation of another world, but idle and meaningless to those who have seen what I have seen. Why, do I not know that she is beneath the Mediterranean, and yet did I not see her myself? You were right, though I did not understand your feelings, when you found all my theories vain. Now, since I have had your experience, I, too, find them vain. It's the old story--the old, old hackneyed saying," he continued, wearily--
"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"
A long silence followed.
"We have been warned," said Hilda at length. "The dead arise before us," she continued, solemnly, "to thwart our plans and our purposes. The dead wife of Lord Chetwynde comes back from beneath the sea to prevent our undertakings, and to protect him from us."
Gualtier said nothing. In his own soul he felt the deep truth of this remark. Both sat now for some time in silence and in solemn meditation, while a deep gloom settled down upon them.
At last Gualtier spoke.
"It would have been far better," said he, "if you had allowed me to complete that business. It was nearly done. The worst was over. You should not have interfered."
Hilda made no reply. In her own heart there were now wild desires, and already she herself had become familiar with this thought.
"It can yet be done," said Gualtier.
"But how can you do it again--after this?" said Hilda.
"You are now the one," replied Gualtier. "You have the power and the opportunity. As for me, you know that I could not become his valet again. The chance was once all my own, but you destroyed it. I dare not venture before him again. It would be ruin to both of us. He would recognize me under any disguise, and have me at once arrested. But if you know any way in which I can be of use, or in which I can have access to his presence, tell me, and I will gladly risk my life to please you."
But Hilda knew of none, and had nothing to say.
"You, and you alone, have the power now," said Gualtier; "this work must be done by you alone."
"Yes," said Hilda, after a pause. "It is true, I have the power--I have the power," she repeated, in a tone of gloomy resolve, "and the power shall be exercised, either on him, or on myself."
"On yourself!"
"Yes."
"Are you still thinking of such a thing as that?" asked Gualtier, with a shudder.
"That thought," said Hilda, calmly, "has been familiar to me before, as you very well know. It is still a familiar one, and it may be acted upon at any moment."
"Would you dare to do it?"
"Dare to do it!" repeated Hilda. "Do you ask that question of me after what I told you at Lausanne? Did I not tell you there that what I dared to administer to another, I dared also to administer to myself? You surely must remember how weak all those menaces of yours proved when you tried to coerce me again as you had done once before. You must know the reason why they were so powerless. It was because to me all life, and all the honors and pleasures of life, had grown to be nothing without that one aim after which I was seeking. Do you not understand yet?"
"My God!" was Gualtier's reply, "how you love that man!" These words burst forth involuntarily, as he looked at her in the anguish of his despair.
Hilda's eyes fastened themselves on his, and looked at him out of the depths of a despair which was deeper than his own--a despair which had now made life valueless.
"You can not--you will not," exclaimed Gualtier, passionately.
"I can," said Hilda, "and it is very possible that I will."
"You do not know what it is that you speak about."
"I am not afraid of death," said Hilda, coldly, "if that is what you mean. It can not be worse than this life of mine."
"But you do not understand what it means," said Gualtier. "I am not speaking of the mere act itself, but of its consequences. Picture to yourself Lord Chetwynde exulting over this, and seeing that hated obstacle removed which kept him from his perfect happiness. You die, and you leave him to pursue uninterrupted the joy that he has with his paramour. Can you face such a thought as that? Would not this woman rejoice at hearing of such a thing? Do you wish to add to their happiness? Are you so sublimely self-sacrificing that you will die to make Lord Chetwynde happy in his love?"
"How can he be happy in his love?" said Hilda. "She is married."
"She may not be. You only conjecture that. It may be her father whom she guards against, or her guardian. Obed Chute is no doubt the man--either her father or guardian, and Lord Chetwynde has to guard against suspicion. But what then? If you die, can he not find some other, and solace himself in her smiles, and in the wealth that will now be all his own?"
These words stung Hilda to the quick, and she sat silent and thoughtful. To die so as to get rid of trouble was one thing, but a death which should have such consequences as these was a very different thing. Singularly enough, she had never thought of this before. And now, when the thought came, it was intolerable. It produced within her a new revolution of feeling, and turned her thoughts away from that gloomy idea which had so often haunted her.
"He is the only one against whom you can work," continued Gualtier; "and you alone have the power of doing it."
Hilda said nothing. If this work must be done by her, there were many things to be considered, and these required time.
"But you will not desert me," said she, suddenly; for she fancied from Gualtier's manner that he had given up all further idea of helping her.
His face flushed.
"Is it possible that you can still find any way to employ me? This is more than I hoped for. I feared that your indignation at my failure would cause you to dismiss me as useless. If you can find any thing for me to do, I can assure you that the only happiness that I can have will be in doing that thing."
"Your failure," said Hilda, "was not your fault. You have done well, and suffered much. I am not ungrateful. You will be rewarded yet. I shall yet have something for you to do. I will send for you when the time comes."
She rose as she said this, and held out her hand to Gualtier. He took it respectfully, and with an earnest look at her, full of gratitude and devotion, he withdrew.
Hilda sat for a long time involved in deep thought. What should be her next plan of action? Many different things suggested themselves, but all seemed equally impracticable, or at least objectionable. Nor was she as yet prepared to begin with her own hands, and by herself, that part which Gualtier had suggested. Not yet were her nerves steady enough. But the hint which Gualtier had thrown out about the probable results of her own death upon Lord Chetwynde did more to reconcile her to life than any thing that could have happened short of actually gaining him for herself.
Wearied at last of fruitless plans and resultless thoughts, she went out for a walk. She dressed herself in black, and wore a heavy black crape veil which entirely concealed the features. She knew no one in Florence from whom she needed to disguise herself, but her nature was of itself secretive, and even in a thing like this she chose concealment rather than openness. Besides, she had some vague hopes that she might encounter Lord Chetwynde somewhere, perhaps with this woman, and could watch him while unobserved herself.
She walked as far as the church of Santa Croce. She walked up the steps with a vague idea of going in. As she walked up there came a woman down the steps dressed in as deep mourning as Hilda herself. She was old, she was slender, her veil was thrown back, and the white face was plainly visible to Hilda as she passed. Hilda stood rooted to the spot, though the other woman did not notice her emotion, nor could she have seen her face through the veil. She stood paralyzed, and looking after the retreating figure as it moved away.
"The dead and the lost," she murmured, as she stood there with clasped hands--"the dead and the lost all come to me! Mrs. Hart! About her face there can be no mistake. What is she doing here--in the same town with Lord Chetwynde? Am I ruined yet or not? I'm afraid I have not much time left me to run my course."
In deep despondency she retraced her steps, and went back to her room.
LXX. NEW PROJECTS
The unexpected appearance of Mrs. Hart was in many respects, and for many reasons, an awful shock to Hilda. It was a new danger, less terrible than that which had arisen from the phantom which had twice appeared, yet perhaps in reality more perilous. It filled her with apprehensions of the worst. All that night she lay awake thinking over it. How had Mrs. Hart come to Florence, and why, and what was she doing here? Such were her thoughts. Was she also in connection with Lord Chetwynde and with this Obed Chute? It seemed probable. If so, then it seemed equally probable that there was some design on foot against her. At first the thought of this inspired in her a great fear, and a desire to fly from the impending danger. For a moment she almost decided to give up her present purpose forever, collect as much money as she could, and fly to some distant place, where she might get rid of all her danger and forget all her troubles. But this thought was only momentary, for higher than her desire for comfort or peace of mind rose her thirst for vengeance. It would not satisfy her that she alone should suffer. Lord Chetwynde also should have his own share, and she would begin by unmasking him and revealing his intrigue to her supposed husband.
On the following day Gualtier called, and in a few words she told him what had taken place.
"Are you really confident that it was Mrs. Hart?" he asked, with some anxiety.
"As confident as I am of my own existence. Indeed, no mistake was possible."
Gualtier looked deeply troubled.
"It looks bad," said he; "but, after all, there are ways of accounting for it. She may have heard that Lord Chetwynde intended to go to Italy and to Florence--for it was quite possible that he mentioned it to her at the Castle--and when she went away she may have intended to come here in search of him. I dare say she went to London first, and found out from his solicitors where he had gone. There isn't the slightest probability, at any rate, that he can have met with her. If he had met with her, you would have known it yourself soon enough. She would have been here to see his wife, with the same affectionate solicitude which she showed once before--which you told me of. No. Rest assured Lord Chetwynde knows nothing of her presence here. There are others who take up all his thoughts. It seems probable, also, that she has just arrived, and there is no doubt that she is on the look-out for him. At any rate, there is one comfort. You are sure, you say, that she did not recognize you?"
"No; that was impossible; for I wore a thick veil. No one could possibly distinguish my features.
"And she can not, of course, suspect that you are here?"
"She can not have any such suspicion, unless we have been ourselves living in the dark all this time--unless she is really in league with Lord Chetwynde. And who can tell? Perhaps all this time this Chute and Mrs. Hart and Lord Chetwynde have their own designs, and are quietly weaving a net around me from which I can not escape. Who can tell? Ah! how easily I could escape--if it were not for one thing!"
"Oh, as to that, you may dismiss the idea," said Gualtier, confidently; "and as for Lord Chetwynde, you may rest assured that he does not think enough about you to take the smallest trouble one way or another."
Hilda's eyes blazed.
"He shall have cause enough to think about me yet," she cried. "I have made up my mind what I am to do next."
"What is that?"
"I intend to go myself to Obed Chute's villa."
"The villa! Yourself!"
"Yes."
"You!"
"I--myself. You can not go."
"No. But how can you go?"
"Easily enough. I have nothing to fear."
"But this man is a perfect demon. How will you be able to encounter him? He would treat you as brutally as a savage. I know him well. I have reason to. You are not the one to go there."
"Oh yes, lam," said Hilda, carelessly. "You forget what a difference there is between a visit from you and a visit from me."
"There is a difference, it is true; but I doubt whether Obed Chute is the man to see it. At any rate, you can not think of going without some pretext. And what one can you possibly have that will be at all plausible?"
"Pretext! I have the best in the world. It is hardly a pretext either. I intend to go openly, in my own proper person--as Lady Chetwynde."
"As Lady Chetwynde!" repeated Gualtier, in amazement. "What do you mean? Would it be too much to ask you what your plan may be, or what it is that you may have in view?"
"It's simple enough," said Hilda. "It is this. You will understand it readily enough, I think. You see, I have discovered by accident some mysterious writing in cipher, which by another accident I have been enabled to unravel. Now you understand that this writing makes very serious charges indeed against my father, the late General Pomeroy. He is dead; but I, as an affectionate daughter, am most anxious to understand the meaning of this fearful accusation thus made against the best of men. I have seen the name of this Obed Chute mentioned in some of the papers connected with the secret writing, and have found certain letters from him referring to the case. Having heard very unexpectedly that he is in Florence, I intend to call on him to implore him to explain to me all this mystery."
"That is admirable," said Gualtier.
"Of course it is," said Hilda; "nothing, indeed, could be better. This will give me admission to the villa. Once in there, I shall have to rely upon circumstances. Whatever those circumstances may be, I shall, at least, be confronted with Lord Chetwynde, and find out who this woman is. I hope to win the friendship and the confidence of these people. They will pity me, sympathize with me, and invite me there. If Lord Chetwynde is such a friend, they can hardly overlook his wife. The woman, whoever she may be, even if she hates me, as she must, will yet see that it is her best policy to be at least civil to me. And that will open a way to final and complete vengeance."
To this plan Gualtier listened in unfeigned admiration.
"You have solved the mystery!" said he, excitedly. "You will--you must succeed, where I have failed so miserably."
"No," said Hilda, "you have not failed. Had it not been for you I could never have had this chance. It is by your discovery of Obed Chute that you have made my present course possible. You have suffered for my cause, but your sufferings will make that cause at last triumphant."
"For such a result as that I would suffer ten thousand times more," said Gualtier, in impassioned tones.
"You will not be exposed to any further sufferings, my friend," said Hilda. "I only want your assistance now."
"It is yours already. Whatever you ask I am ready to do."
"What I ask is not much," said Hilda. "I merely want you to be near the spot, so as to be in readiness to assist me."
"On the spot! Do you mean at the villa?"
"No, not at the villa, but near it, somewhere along the road. I wish you to see who goes and comes. Go out there to-day, and watch. You need not go within a mile of the villa itself; that will be enough. You will then know when Lord Chetwynde comes. You can watch from behind some hedge, I suppose. Can you do that?"
"That?--that is but a slight thing. Most willingly will I do this, and far more, no matter what, even if I have to face a second time that phantom."
"I will go out to-morrow, or on the following day. I want you to be on the watch, and see who may go to the villa, so that when I come you may let me know. I do not want to call unless I positively know that Lord Chetwynde will be there, and the family also. They may possibly go out for a drive, or something may happen, and this is what I want you to be on the look-out for. If Lord Chetwynde is there, and that woman, there will probably be a scene," continued Hilda, gloomily; "but it will be a scene in which, from the very nature of the case, I ought to be triumphant. I've been suffering too much of late. It is now about time for a change, and it seems to me that it is now my turn to have good fortune. Indeed, I can not conceive how there can be any failure. The only possible awkwardness would be the presence of Mrs. Hart. If she should be there, then--why, then, I'm afraid all would be over. That is a risk, however, and I must run it."
"That need not be regarded," said Gualtier. "If Mrs. Hart had found Lord Chetwynde, you would have known it before this."
"That is my chief reliance."
"Have you those papers?"
"Papers?"
"Yes; the cipher and the letters."
"Oh yes. Did I not say that I had them all?"
"No. I thought that you had given them all to--to her," said Gualtier.
"So I did; but I got them back, and have kept them, I don't know why. I suppose it was from an instinct of forecast. Whatever was the reason, however, they are now of priceless value. For they enable me now to go as the daughter of one who has been charged in these papers with the commission of the most atrocious crimes. This must all be explained to me, and by this Obed Chute, who is the only living person who can do it."
"I am glad that what I have done will be useful to you," said Gualtier. "You may trust to me now to do all that man can do. I will go and watch and wait till you come."
Hilda thereupon expressed the deepest gratitude to him, and she did this in language far more earnest than any which she had ever before used to him. It may have been the consciousness that this would be the last service which he was to perform for her; it may have been an intentional recognition of his past acts of love and devotion; it may have been a tardy act of recognition of all his fidelity and constancy; but, whatever it was, her words sank deep into his soul.
"Those words," said he, "are a reward for all the past. May I not yet hope for a future reward?"
"You may, my friend. Did I not give you my promise?"
"Hilda!"
This word burst from him. It was the first time that he had so addressed her. Not even in the hour of his triumph and coercion had he ventured upon this. But now her kindness had emboldened him. He took her hand, and pressed it to his lips.
"I have a presentiment of evil," said he. "We may never meet again. But you will not forget me?"
Hilda gave a long sigh.
"If we meet again," said she, "we shall see enough of one another. If not"--and she paused for a moment--"if not, then"--and a solemn cadence came to her voice--"then you will be the one who will remember, and I shall be the one to be remembered. Farewell, my friend!"
She held out her hand.
Once more Gualtier pressed it to his lips.
Then he took his departure.
LXXI. A RACE FOR LIFE
On leaving Hilda Gualtier went out to the villa. Before his departure he furnished himself with a new disguise, different from his former one, and one, too, which he thought would be better adapted to his purposes of concealment. A gray wig, a slouched hat, and the dress of a peasant, served to give him the appearance of an aged countryman, while a staff which he held in his hand, and a stoop in his shoulders, heightened the disguise. He got a lift on a wine-cart for some miles, and at length reached a place not far away from the villa.
The villa itself, as it rose up from among surrounding trees, on a spur of the Apennines, was in sight. On either side of the valley rose the mountains. The Arno, as it wound along, approached the place on this side of the valley, and the mountains were not more than half a mile distant, though on the other the plain was several miles in width. The place which Gualtier had chosen seemed to him to be quite near enough to the villa for observation, and far enough distant for safety. The thought of a possible encounter with Obed Chute was ever present in his mind, and this time he determined to guard against all surprise, and, if an encounter should be inevitable, to use his revolver before his enemy could prevent him. His pride and his manhood both urged him to gain some satisfaction for that shame on both which he had experienced.
After watching one afternoon he obtained lodging at a humble farm-house, and when the next morning came he rose refreshed by sleep, and encouraged by the result of his meditations. He began to be hopeful about final success. The scheme which Hilda had formed seemed to be one which could not fail by any possibility. Whatever Hilda's own purposes might be, to him they meant one thing plainly, and that was a complete and irreparable breach between herself and Lord Chetwynde. To him this was the first desire of his heart, since that removed the one great obstacle that lay between him and her. If he could only see her love for Lord Chetwynde transformed to vengeance, and find them changed from their present attitude of friendship to one of open and implacable enmity, then his own hopes and prospects would be secured, as he thought. Already he saw the beginning of this. In Hilda's manner, in her tone, in her looks, he marked the fierce anger and vengeful feeling which had now taken possession of her. He had witnessed also a greater consideration for himself, arising this time not out of coercion, but from free-will. All this was in his favor. Whether she could ever fully succeed in her thirst for vengeance did not much matter. Indeed, it was better for him that the desire should not be carried out, but that she should remain unsatisfied, for then Lord Chetwynde would only become all the more hateful to her every day, and that hate would serve to give to him fresh opportunities of binding her to himself.
All these thoughts encouraged him. A hope began to rise within his heart brighter than any which he had ever dared to entertain before. He found himself now so completely identified with Hilda's dearest plans and purposes, and so much deeper an understanding between them, that it was impossible for him to refrain from encouraging his hopes to the utmost.
Now, as he sat there watching, his fears of danger grew weaker, and he felt emboldened to venture nearer, so as to fulfill to the utmost the wishes of Hilda. Her image drove out from his thoughts the frowning face of Obed Chute, and the white form of that phantom whose aspect had once crushed him into lifelessness. He thought that it was but a feeble devotion to wait in ambush at such a distance, when, by venturing nearer, he might learn much more. Hours passed, and there was no sign of any one belonging to the villa either going or coming, and at length the thought that was in his mind grew too strong to be resisted. He determined to venture nearer--how near he did not know; at any rate, he could safely venture much nearer than this. Had he not his disguise, and was he not armed? And when he met Hilda would it not be shame to him if he could only tell her that he had staid so far away, and had feared to venture nearer?
He started off. His bowed form, white face, peasant garb, and the staff which supported his unsteady steps, he thought would be surely an impenetrable disguise. True, once before the keen glance of Obed Chute had penetrated his disguise, but then the circumstances under which they met were suspicious. Now, even if he should chance to meet him, he could not be suspected. Who would suspect an aged peasant toiling along the public highway?
He gained fresh courage at every step. As he drew nearer and still nearer to the villa he began to think of venturing into the grounds once more. He thought that if he did so he could be more guarded, and steal along through the trees, beside the paths, and not on them. The thought became a stronger temptation to him every moment, and at length, as he advanced nearer, he had almost decided to venture into that little gate, which was now full in view. He sat down by the road-side and looked at it. At length he rose and walked on, having made up his mind to pass through, at any rate, and be guided by circumstances. It would be something to his credit, he thought, if he could only tell Hilda that he had been in those grounds again.
But as he advanced he heard the sound of approaching wheels. Some carriage was coming rapidly down the road toward him, and he paused for a moment, as the idea struck him that possibly the tremendous Obed Chute might be in it. He walked on very slowly, looking keenly ahead.
Soon the carriage came into view from behind a bend in the road. A thrill passed through Gualtier in spite of himself. He grasped his staff in his right hand, and plunging his left into his breast-pocket, he grasped his pistol. Nearer and nearer the carriage came, and he could easily recognize the square face, broad shoulders, and stalwart frame of Obed Chute. With him there was a lady, whose face he could not as yet recognize. And now there arose within him an intense desire to see the face of this lady. She was beyond a doubt the very one of whom Lord Chetwynde was so eager and so constant in his pursuit. Could he but see her face once it would be a great gain, for he could recognize her elsewhere, and thus do something of importance in assisting Hilda. With this determination in his mind he went on, and bowing down his head like a decrepit old man, he hobbled along, leaning on his staff, but at the same time keeping his eyes upturned and fixed on the lady.
The carriage came nearer and nearer. A strange feeling came over Gualtier--something like an anguish of fear and of wonder. At last the lady's face became plainly discernible. That face! White it was, and the whiteness was intensified by the deep blackness of the hair, while the eyes were large and lustrous, and rested full upon him in something like pity. That face! Was this another vision?
Great God!
A groan burst from him as this face thus revealed itself. What was this? What did it mean? Was this, too, a phantom? Was it a deceit and mockery of his senses? Was it an eidolon from the realms of death, or could it be an actual material object--a living being? Here was one whom he knew to be dead. How came she here? Or by what marvel could any one else so resemble her? Yet it was not a resemblance. It was herself!
His brain whirled. All thoughts of all things else faded away in that horror and in that surprise. Spell-bound he stood, while his face was upturned and his eyes were fixed on the lady.
And thus, as he stood rooted to the spot, motionless and staring, the carriage came whirling up and flashed past him. That singular figure, in the peasant garb, with rigid face, and with horror in his eyes, which stared like the eyes of a maniac, attracted the look of the lady. At first she had a vague idea that it was a beggar, but on coming closer she recognized all. As the carriage dashed by she sprang suddenly to her feet with a piercing scream. She snatched the reins convulsively and tore at them in a sort of frenzy.
"It is he! It is he! Stop!" she cried, tearing with one hand at the reins and with the other gesticulating vehemently in some uncontrollable passion. "It is he--it is Gualtier! Stop! Quick! Seize him, or it will be too late!"
That scream and those words roused Obed. He, too, had noticed the figure by the roadside, but he had only thrown a careless glance. The words of Zillah, however, thrilled through him. He pulled in the horses savagely. They were foaming and plunging.
As he did this Zillah dropped the reins, and with trembling frame, and eyes flashing with excitement, stood staring back.
"There! there!" she cried--"there, I tell you, is Gualtier, my assassin! He is disguised! I know him! It is Gualtier! He is tracking me now! Stop him! Seize him! Don't let him escape! Make haste!"
These words burst from her like a torrent, and these, with her wild gesticulations, showed the intensity of her excitement. In an instant Obed had divined the whole meaning of this. A man in disguise had already penetrated even into his grounds. This he thought was the same man, in another disguise, still haunting the place and prowling about with his sinister motive. By Zillah's words he saw that she had recognized this man Zillah's words he saw that she had recognized this man as that very Gualtier after whom he had been searching so long, and whose name had been so constantly in his mind. And now, in the same instant, he saw that the man who had once sought him in America, and who had recently ventured into his park, was the very one who had betrayed Miss Lorton--the man on whose track he had been setting the police of England, France, and Italy.
It was but for an instant that this thought filled his mind. In another instant Obed had flung down the reins and sprung into the road.
Meanwhile Gualtier had stood motionless, horror-stricken, and paralyzed. But the scream of Zillah and her frantic words had shown him beyond the possibility of a doubt that she was at any rate alive, and more than this, that she had recognized him. How she had thus come to life he could not know, nor was there time to conjecture. For now another danger was impending, and, in the person of Obed Chute, was rushing down swiftly upon him. At the sight of this new peril he hesitated not a moment, but snatched his pistol, took aim, and fired shot after shot. But in his haste and agitation a correct aim was impossible. He fired wildly. Four bullets, one after the other, whistled through the air past Obed's head, yet he still came on. The vision of that awful face rushing down upon him thus through the smoke-clouds, with vengeance gleaming from the eyes, and the resolute mouth close shut in implacable sternness, was sufficient to show Gualtier that his career was nearly run. He had a sudden feeling that all was lost. With a wild leap he bounded over the ditch by the roadside, and tore over the fields with the frantic speed of one flying from death.
But the avenger was at his heels.
To fly from vengeance and from death is a thing that brings a strong motive to exertion, but there are other things sometimes which may give an equal impulse. Gualtier was lithe, sinewy, and agile, nimble of foot too, and inspired by the consciousness of danger; but the man who pursued him was one whose mighty thews and sinews had been formed under the shadows of the Alleghanies, and trained by years of early experience to every exercise of strength. This man also was inspired by a feeling which could contribute a motive for exertion as powerful as the fear which filled the heart of Gualtier, and his own pride, his honor, and his affection for Zillah, all urged him on. He followed fast, and followed faster. Gualtier had a long start, but Obed steadily gained, until at last the fugitive could hear the footsteps of his pursuer.
Between the skirts of the hills and the Arno there was a plain about two miles in width. On the other side of the river the fields spread away again for a wider extent, interspersed with groves and vineyards. The Arno was full, and flowing rapidly. Here, then, seemed to be to the fugitive the last chance for escape--here, in that swift-flowing river. Gualtier could swim admirably. Toward this river he turned his flying steps, thinking that his pursuer might not be able to follow, and hoping for safety here. Yet all the time he expected to hear a pistol-shot, for Obed had already told him, in that memorable meeting in the park, that he earned a revolver. That he did not use it now seemed to Gualtier to show plainly that he must have left it behind. As for Obed, he neither fired a pistol-shot nor threatened to fire one. He did not even draw his revolver from his pocket. He simply ran as fast as he could after the fugitive.
That fugitive, in order to gain the river, was compelled to run obliquely, and thus he gave an additional advantage to his pursuer, who tried to head him off, and thus was able to gain on him by some additional paces. But to Gualtier that river-bank was now the place of salvation, and that was at any rate a last resort. Besides this, his pistol still was in his hand, and in it there still remained two shots, which might yet avail him at the last moment. Onward, then, he bounded with frantic exertions while these thoughts sped through his mind. But, mingled with these, there came strange floating thoughts of that figure in the carriage--that one who had met with a wondrous resurrection from the death to which he had sent her, and who was now looking on at his flight, and the pursuit of her avenger. All these various thoughts swept confusedly through his brain in the madness of that hour; for thus it is that often, when death seems to impend, the mind becomes endowed with colossal powers, and all the events of a stormy and agitated life can be crowded into one moment. Now, as Gualtier fled, and as he contrived his plan of escape by the river, there were in his mind, parallel with these thoughts, others of equal power--thoughts of that fair young girl whom he had cast adrift in a sinking ship on the wide midnight sea. Saved she had been, beyond a doubt, for there she was, with her eyes fixed on him in his agony. Avenged she would be also, unless he could escape that terrible pursuer who now every moment came faster and faster behind.
Avenged? No, not yet. Still there was a chance. The river flowed near with its full stream. The opposite shores seemed to invite him; the trees and groves and vineyards there seemed to beckon him onward. At last his feet were on the bank. One plunge, he thought, arid he would be safe. But for one instant he delayed that plunge. There were other desires in his heart than that of safety--there was the desire for vengeance. Still there was a chance left. His pistol was in his hand--it yet held two shots. In these he might find both safety and vengeance.
Suddenly he turned as he reached the bank, and instantaneously he discharged the last shots of the pistol at his pursuer. Then he plunged headlong into the river.
Another pursuer, even if he had not fallen, might have faltered at all these pistol-shots. Not so Obed. To him the revolver was a familiar thing--a toy, in fact, the sport of all his life. Often before had pistol-shots whistled about his head, and under circumstances far more dangerous than this. Obed's life had been a varied one, and he could tell many strange tales of adventures in the western parts of America--that country where civilized man has encountered, and can still encounter, those tribes which are his most formidable foes. If at that moment Obed could have bared his mighty body to plunge into the Arno, he could have exhibited a vast number of old scars from wounds which had been received in Kansas, in California, and in Mexico. But Obed had not time to bare his mighty body. As those last pistol-shots flashed before him he had not time even to wink his eyes, but rushing on with unabated vigor, he reached the river's bank, and in a moment had plunged in after Gualtier.
The fugitive heard that plunge. He heard behind him the quick strokes of a strong swimmer, and then he knew and felt that all was lost. Upon that last chance he had staked every thing, and that last chance had failed utterly. This man who had insulted him, bullied him, and overpowered him--this man who had been impervious to his shots on the road and on the river-bank--this man who had gained on him steadily in that desperate race for life which he had run--this demon of a man was now gaining on him in the water also! If his pursuer had stood on the bank and had shot him, he might have received the wound and sank to death without a murmur. But to be followed so, to be caught, to be dragged back--this was the terror and the shame. This stimulated him to fiercer exertions. Despair itself gave a kind of madness to his efforts. But terror and shame and despair itself could not snatch him from the grasp of his remorseless pursuer. Nearer and nearer that pursuer came; more and more desperate grew Gualtier's efforts. In vain. As he struck out with almost superhuman exertions he suddenly felt his foot grasped by a resistless hand. All was over. That despair which a moment before had intensified his efforts now relaxed his strength. He felt himself dragged back to the shore from which he had been flying. He was lost! He struggled no longer to escape, but only to keep his head above water, from an instinct of self-preservation. And in that anguish of fear and despair that now settled upon his soul he had a vague terror that on the moment of landing he would be annihilated.
But, instead of that, he felt himself raised to his feet, and the strong grasp relaxed its hold. He looked up at his captor, and saw him standing before him regarding him with a grim smile. "So you're the Gualtier, are you," said Obed, "of whose exploits I have heard so much? You're rather a small parcel, I should say, but you've done con-siderable mischief, somehow."
Gualtier did not know what to make of this, but thought it only a little preliminary play, after which he would be flung headlong into the river by some catapultian kick.
"See here," said Obed; "a fellow that pretends to carry a revolver ought to be ashamed of himself for firing such shots as you did. You infernal fool, you! you've gone and lost six of the best chances any man ever had, and not one of them'll ever come again. What is worse, you've gone and disgraced America in the person of her great national and original weapon--the everlasting revolver. Don't you feel like a fool? You know you do!"
At this extraordinary address Gualtier was, if possible, still more bewildered.
"You deserved to be caught," continued Obed, "for you tempted Providence. Providence gave you the most glorious chance I ever saw in all my born days. After using up your chance with the revolver you had this here boundless plain to run upon. Why, I've dodged a hundred Indians in my day with less of a chance, and all the odds against me, for they were firing at me. But you couldn't be shot down, for I didn't happen to feel inclined to use my revolver. It didn't seem fair." And saying this, Obed tenderly drew out his revolver from his breast-pocket, and exhibited it in a loving way to the astounded Gualtier. "I saw," he continued, "that it would be a most unscientific waste of lead. The very first shot you fired showed that you were utterly unacquainted with our American invention, and the next was as bad. Why, out of the whole six only one hit me. See here."
And Obed held up his left hand. The last joint of the middle finger had been shot off, and blood was still flowing.
Gualtier looked at this with fresh amazement.
"Why," said Obed, "if I'd had one-tenth part of your chances, and had been in your place, I'd have got off. With such a start I'd engage to escape from a dozen men. I'd drop six with the pistol, and dodge the other six. See here. Do you see that bit of woods?" And taking Gualtier's arm, he pointed to a clump of trees that rose like an island from the plain. "Do you see that?"
Gualtier said nothing.
"Well, I'll tell you what you'd ought to do. You'd ought to have made straight for that in a bee-line; then dodged behind it. Perhaps I'd have followed; but then you could have crossed to the other side, got out of sight, and while I was looking for you, off you'd get to the river. If I'd have gone on the opposite side you could have cut off among the mountains. A man," concluded Obed, in a tone of intense solemnity--"a man that could throw away such a chance as that has tempted Providence, and don't deserve anything. Young man, you're a gone sucker!"
Gualtier heard all this, and understood this eccentric but grim address. He felt that it was all over with him. He had one desperate thought of snatching at the revolver, which Obed still held in his hand with apparent carelessness; but he saw that such an attempt would be madness. The very instant that he had looked Obed had noticed it, and understood it.
He gave a low laugh.
"You'd better not," said he, and then motioned him toward the carriage. Gualtier walked on in silence. Obed did not deign to touch his prisoner, nor did Gualtier dare to make any effort to escape. There was no chance now, since that other chance had failed; and, besides, the sight of Obed's revolver was itself sufficient to prevent such an attempt.
"You've showed considerable sense in walking quietly along," said Obed, as they came near to the carriage. "If you'd tried to run it would have been worse for you. You'd have lost a limb, sure."
Then Obed stopped, and forced him to look at the ground which they had gone over, and showed what excellent chances he had thrown away.
On reaching the carriage Zillah was calmer, though still greatly excited. She said nothing to Gualtier, nor did the latter venture to look at her. In the flight his wig and hat had fallen off, so that now his hated face was distinctly visible.
Obed put his hand for a moment on Gualtier's shoulder.
"Is this the man?" he asked.
Zillah bowed.
On this Obed made his prisoner get on the front seat of the carriage, and drove rapidly back to the villa.
LXXII. IN PRISON
Gualtier was driven back to the villa, quite in ignorance as to his final destination. He was on the front seat, not bound at all, and there was one moment when there seemed a last chance of escape. It was at a time when Zillah had noticed Obed's wound, and began to question him about it with eager sympathy, while Obed tried to assure her that it was nothing. But Zillah would not be satisfied. She insisted on binding it up. She took her handkerchief, and, though she knew no more about such things than a child, prepared to do what she could. Obed soon saw her ignorance, and proceeded to give her directions. At last he took her handkerchief and tore it into several strips, with a laughing promise to tear his up some day for her. At this moment he was quite intent on Zillah, and she was absorbed in her work. It seemed to Gualtier that he was forgotten. The carriage, also, was ascending the hill. On each side were lofty trees overshadowing it, while beyond them lay a deep forest. All this Gualtier saw. Here was a last chance. Now or never might he escape. He watched for an instant. Obed was showing Zillah how to make the knot, when suddenly, with a quick leap, Gualtier sprang from the carriage seat out into the road. He stumbled and fell forward as his feet touched the road, but in an instant he recovered himself. The road-side was a steep bank, which ascended before him, covered with forests. Beyond this were the wild woods, with rocks and underbrush. If he could but get there he might find a refuge. Thither he fled with frantic haste. He rushed up the steep ascent, and in among the trees. For some distance the wood was open, and the trees rose on high at wide distances with no underbrush. Beyond that there was a denser growth. Through this he ran, stimulated by this new chance for life, and wishing that he had once again that revolver whose shots he had wasted.
As he leaped from the carriage Zillah had given a loud cry, and in another moment Obed had divined the cause and had sprung out in pursuit. Gualtier's start did not amount to more than a dozen paces. Obed also was armed. His chance of escape was therefore small indeed. Small as it was, however, it was enough to stimulate him, and he hurried onward, hearing at every pace the step of his pursuer. At length he reached the thicker part of the wood. He turned and doubled here like a fox. He did not know where to go, but sought to gain some slight advantage. He thought that he might find some place where for a few moments he might baffle his pursuer. This was the hope that now remained. Turning and doubling, therefore, and winding, he continued his flight; but the pursuer still maintained his pursuit, and as yet Gualtier had gained no advantage. In fact, he had lost ground gradually, and the underbrush had not delayed the progress of Obed. Gualtier felt this, but still strove to attain his purpose.
At last he saw a place where there was a steep precipice, thickly wooded up to its very margin and then descending abruptly. Toward this he fled, thinking that some place might show itself where he might descend, and where his pursuer might fear to follow. He bounded along in a winding direction, trying to conceal his purpose. At length he reached the edge of the precipice. At the point to which he had come the descent was abrupt, but ledges jutted out from the side of the cliff, and seemed to afford a chance for a descent to one who was bold enough to venture. There was no time for examination or for hesitation. Swiftly Gualtier ran on till he reached what seemed a favorable place, and then, throwing himself over, his feet caught a projecting ledge, and he reached down his hand to secure a grasp of a rock, so as to let himself down further. He looked down hurriedly so as to see the rock which he wished to grasp, when at that very instant his arm was seized, and a low, stern voice said:
"No go! up with you, you scoundrel! and thank the Lord I don't blow your brains out."
He was dragged up, flung on the ground, and his hands bound tightly behind him with Obed's handkerchief. After this he was dragged back to the carriage.
So failed his last hope.
"You couldn't have done it," said Obed. "I saw it all the time. I could have shot you fifty times, but, as I knew I was going to catch you, I didn't touch my pistol. I don't blame you for making the trial. I'd have done the same. But you see now that you have got your hands tied up by way of punishment. You can't say but that I've treated you on the square, any how."
Gualtier said nothing, but was taken back and put in the carriage once more. Zillah saw that his hands were tied, and felt more secure as to the result of this second capture.
The carriage now soon reached the villa. Here Obed handed out Zillah, and gave orders to the servants to make ready the brougham. He informed Zillah that he himself intended to take Gualtier to the city and hand him over to the authorities; and that she might make her mind easy as to his capture this time, for he would not allow even an attempt at an escape again.
During these preparations Obed stood waiting near the carriage, while Gualtier sat there with his hands bound. Gladly would he have availed himself of any other chance, however desperate, but there was none. His hands were bound, his enemy was watchful and armed. Under such circumstances there remained no hope. His last attempt had been made boldly and vigorously, but it had failed. So he gave himself up to despair.
The brougham was soon ready. Obed put Gualtier inside and got in himself after him. Then they drove away. Lord Chetwynde was expected that afternoon, and he might meet him on the road. He had made up his mind, however, not to recognize him, but to let him learn the great event from Zillah herself. After giving information to his sister as to the time at which he expected to be back he drove off; and soon the brougham with its occupants was moving swiftly onward out of the villa park, down the descending road, and on toward Florence.
Obed rode inside along with Gualtier all the way. During that drive his mind found full occupation for itself. The discovery and the capture of this man made a startling revelation of several most important yet utterly incomprehensible facts.
First, he recognized in his prisoner the man who had once visited him in New York for the purpose of gaining information about Lady Chetwynde. That information he had refused to give for certain reasons of his own, and had very unceremoniously dismissed the man that had sought it.
Secondly, this was the same man who in disguise had penetrated into his villa with all the air and manner of a spy, and who, by thus following him, showed that he must have been on his track for a long time.
Thirdly, this very man had turned out to be the long-sought Gualtier --the one who had betrayed Miss Lorton to a death from which she had only been saved by a mere accident. This was the man who had won the affections of Miss Lorton's friend, Hilda, who had induced her to share his villainy and his crime; the man who had for so long a time baffled the utmost efforts of the chief European police, yet who had at last been captured by himself.
Now about this man there were circumstances which to Obed were utterly incomprehensible.
It was conceivable that the man who had sought him in New York should track him to Florence. He might have an interest in this affair of Lady Chetwynde deep enough to inspire so pertinacious a search, so that the difficulty did not consist in this. The true difficulty lay in the fact that this man who had come to him first as the inquirer after Lady Chetwynde should now turn out to be the betrayer of Miss Lorton. And this made his present purpose the more unintelligible. What was it that had brought him across Obed's path? Was he still seeking after information about Lady Chetwynde? or, rather, was he seeking to renew his former attempt against Miss Lorton? To this latter supposition Obed felt himself drawn. It seemed to him most probable that Gualtier had somehow found out about the rescue of Zillah, and was now tracking her with the intention of consummating his work. This only could account for his twofold disguise, and his persistence in coming toward the villa after the punishment and the warning which he had once received. To think that he should run such a risk in order to prosecute his inquiry after Lady Chetwynde was absurd; but to suppose that he did it from certain designs on Miss Lorton seemed the most natural thing in the world for a villain in his position.
But behind all this there was something more; and this became to Obed the most difficult problem. It was easy to conjecture the present motive of this Gualtier--the motive which had drawn him out to the villa, to track them, to spy them, and to hover about the place; but there was another thing to which it was not so easy to give an answer. It was the startling fact of the identity between the man who had once come to him in order to investigate about Lady Chetwynde and the one who had betrayed Miss Lorton. How did it happen that the same man should have taken part in each? What should have led him to America for the purpose of questioning him about that long-forgotten tragedy, and afterward have made him the assassin which he was? It seemed as though this Gualtier was associated with the two chief tragedies of Obed's life, for this of Miss Lorton was certainly not inferior in its effect upon his feelings to that old one of Lady Chetwynde. Yet how was it that he had become thus associated with two such events as these? By what strange fatality had he and Obed thus found a common ground of interest in one another--a ground where the one was the assailant and betrayer, the other the savior and defender?
Such thoughts as these perplexed Obed, and he could not find an answer to them. An answer might certainly have been given by the man himself at his side, but Obed did not deign to question him; for, somehow, he felt that at the bottom of all this lay that strange secret which Miss Lorton had so studiously preserved. Part of it she had revealed, but only part, and that, too, in such general outlines that any discovery of the rest was impossible. Had Obed questioned Gualtier he might have discovered the truth; that is, if Gualtier would have answered his questions, which, of course, he would not have done. But Obed did not even try him. He asked nothing and said nothing during all that long drive. He saw that there was a secret, and he thought that if Miss Lorton chose to keep it he would not seek to find it out. He would rather leave it to her to reveal; and if she did not choose to reveal it, then he would not care to know it. She was the only one who could explain this away, and he thought that it would be, in some sort, an act of disloyalty to make any investigations on his own account with reference to her private affairs. Perhaps in this he might have been wrong; perhaps he might have strained too much his scruples, and yielded to a sense of honor which was too high wrought; yet, at the same time, such was his feeling, and he could not help it; and, after all, it was a noble feeling, which took its rise out of one of the purest and most chivalrous feelings of the heart.
While Obed was thus silent, thoughtful, and preoccupied, Gualtier was equally so, and at the same time there was a deep anxiety in his heart, to which the other was a stranger. To him, at that moment, situated as he was--a prisoner, under such circumstances, and in company with his watchful, grim, and relentless captor--there were many thoughts, all of which were bitter enough, and full of the darkest forebodings for the future. He, too, had made discoveries on that eventful day far darker, far more fearful, far more weighty, and far more terrible than any which Obed could have made--discoveries which filled him with horror and alarm for himself, and for another who was dearer than himself. The first of these was the great, the inexplicable fact that Zillah was really and truly alive. This at once accounted for the phantom which had appeared and stricken terror to him and to Hilda. Alive, but how? Had he not himself made assurance doubly sure? had he not with his own hands scuttled that schooner in which she was? had he not found her asleep in her cabin as he prepared to leave? had he not felt the water close up to the deck before he left the sinking yacht? had he not been in that boat on the dark midnight sea for a long time before the mutinous crew would consent to row away, so near to the vessel that any noise would have necessarily come to his ears? He had. How, then, was this? That yacht must have gone down, and she must have gone down with it--drowned in her cabin, suffocated there by the waters, without power to make one cry. So it must have been; but still here she was, alive, strong, vengeful. It could not be a case of resemblance; for this woman had penetrated his disguise, had recognized him, and at the recognition had started to her feet with wild exclamations, hounding on her companion to pursuit.
But in addition to this there was something still more strange. However she may have escaped--as she must have done--by what wonderful concurrence of circumstances had she met with Obed Chute, and entered into this close friendship with him? That man was familiar with a dark past, to which she was related in some strange way. How was it, then, that of all men in the world, this one had become her friend and protector?
But, even so, there was another mystery, so strange, so dark, so inexplicable, that the others seemed as nothing. For he had discovered in her the one whom Lord Chetwynde was seeking with such zeal, and such passion, and such unfailing constancy. How was it that Lord Chetwynde had found her, and where had he found her? and if he had found her, how had he known her? Was he not living with Hilda on terms at least of respect, and acting toward her as though he believed her to be his wife? What could be the cause that had brought him into connection with Obed Chute? Obed Chute had been the confidant of Lady Chetwynde, and knew the story of her shame. How was it that the son of such a mother could associate so habitually with the man who so well knew the history of that mother? If he were not acquainted with his mother's history himself, how could he have found out Obed Chute for his friend? and if he were acquainted with it, how could he have tolerated him as such? From either point of view the question was unanswerable, and the problem insoluble. Yet the fact remained that Lord Chetwynde was in the habit of making constant visits to the house of the man, the very man, to whom the history of Lord Chetwynde's mother was known as a story of shame, and who himself had been the chief agent in helping her, as it appeared, from the ruin to which she had flung herself.
Then, again, there arose the question as to what might be the position of Zillah. How did she happen to be living with Obed Chute? In what way was she living? How did it happen that Lord Chetwynde was carrying on a series of clandestine visits to a woman who was his own wife? Hilda's story of that passionate interview in the kiosk at the Villa Rinalci was now intelligible in one sense. It was no phantom that had terrified her, but the actual form of the living Zillah herself. Yet, making allowance for this, it became more unintelligible than ever. For what could have been the meaning of that scene? If Zillah were alive and his wife, why should Lord Chetwynde arrange so elaborately this interview in the kiosk? why should he be at once so passionate and so despairing? why should he vow his vows of eternal love, and at the same time bid her an eternal farewell? What was the meaning of his information about that "other I whom he hated worse than death," which Hilda had felt like a stroke of death? And why should Lord Chetwynde remain with his false wife, whom he hated, while his true wife, whom he loved, was so near? Why, in the name of Heaven, should he treat the one with even civility, and only visit the other by means of clandestine meetings and stolen interviews? Could such questions be answered at all? Were they not all mad together, or were he and Hilda madder than these? What could be the solution of these insoluble problems?
Such were the questions which filled Gualtier's mind as he drove along--questions which bewildered his brain, and to which he could not find an answer. At one time he tried to think that all these--Zillah. Lord Chetwynde, and Obed Chute--were in alliance; that they understood one another perfectly, and Hilda also; and that they were weaving together some deep plot which was to be her ruin. But this also seemed absurd. For, if they understood her, and knew who she was, why should they take any trouble to weave plots for her? That trouble they could spare themselves, and could arrest her at once whenever they chose. Why did Lord Chetwynde spare her if he knew all? Was it out of gratitude because she had saved him from death? Impossible; for he habitually neglected her now, and gave up all his thoughts and his time to Zillah. Was it possible that Zillah could have been saved, found out her husband, and was now inciting him to this strange course from some desire to get fresh proof against Hilda? No; that was impossible, for she must already have found out proof enough. The withdrawal of her money would of itself be enough to show Hilda's complicity; but her assumption of the rôle of Lady Chetwynde was too audacious for a true wife to bear unmoved or unconvinced.
But these things were inexplicable. He could not find even a plausible solution for such difficult problems. His excited brain reeled beneath the weight of puzzles so intricate and so complicated. He was compelled to dismiss them all from his thoughts. But though he dismissed such thoughts as these, there were others which gave occupation to his whole mind, and these at last excited his chief interest. First among these was the thought of Hilda. That very afternoon she might be coming out to carry out her plan of visiting Obed Chute, and confounding Lord Chetwynde. She would go out knowing nothing of that one whom she had doomed to death, but who was now there to confront her. She would go out, and for what? What? Could it be aught else than ruin, utter and absolute?
This was his last dark terror--all fear for himself had passed away. He feared for her, and for her alone. His love for her, and his devotion to her, which had been so often and so conspicuously tested, which had sent him on such tedious and such perilous enterprises, now, when all was over with himself, and not a ray of hope remained, made him rise above self and selfish considerations, and regard her prospects and her safety alone. The thought of her going out to the villa in utter ignorance of this new and terrific truth was intolerable. Yet what could he do? Nothing; and the fact of his own utter helplessness was maddening at such a time as this. He watched through the window, scanning all the passers-by with feverish anxiety, which was so manifest that at length Obed noticed it, and, supposing that he was meditating some new plan of escape nearer the city, sternly reprimanded him, and drew the blinds so that nothing could be seen. And thus, with close-drawn blinds and in silence, they drove toward the city; so that if Hilda had gone along the road, Gualtier could not have seen her.
At the same time Obed, in thus shutting out Gualtier from all sight of the outside world, shut out himself also. And though Lord Chetwynde may have passed on his way to the villa, yet he could not have been seen by the occupants of the brougham, nor could he have seen them.
At last they reached Florence, and Obed drove up to the prefecture of the police. There he made his statement, and Gualtier was handed over to the authorities, and put in prison on a charge of attempted murder committed in Italian waters.
Gualtier was put into a small chamber, with whitewashed walls, narrow iron-grated window, and solid oaken doors, in which there was a small round opening. There was an iron bed here and a chair. Gualtier flung himself upon the bed, and buried his head in his hands. He felt as if he had reached the verge of despair; yet,-even at that moment, it was not of himself that he thought. Far above his distress and his despair arose the power of his love, and thus turned his thoughts toward Hilda. Was she on her way out? Was she going to ruin? Or was she still at her hotel? She had not said for certain that she was going to the villa on that day; she said that she was going on that day or the next. Perhaps she had postponed it, and reserved her visit for the next. It seemed probable. If it were indeed so, then there was yet time to make an effort to save her. How could he make such an effort? How could he gain communication with her?
He rose from his bed, and watched through the opening of his door. There was a guard outside, who paced backward and forward solemnly. Gualtier's knowledge of human nature, and of Italian human nature in particular, suggested to him a way by which he might send a message. After some delay he signaled to the guard, who, after looking around cautiously, came up to his door.
"I want to send a message," said Gualtier, in the best Italian that he could muster. "It is very important. It is to a friend. I will pay well."
The guard looked interested.
"Where is your friend?" he asked.
"In the city. Can I have the message sent? I will pay two hundred piastres if I get an answer."
The guard hesitated.
"Wait," said he, after a few moments' thought; "I will see."
He went away, and was gone for about twenty minutes. When he returned he exchanged a glance of profound intelligence with Gualtier, and said:
"I think it can be done, signore."
At this Gaultier went back, and, tearing a leaf out of his pocket-book, penciled the following words:
"A miracle has happened. She has come to life again. It was no phantom, but herself that appeared to you and me. I am in prison. Do not go out to the villa. Fly and save yourself."
Folding this up, he took it to the guard.
"If you bring back an answer to this," said he, "you shall have two hundred piastres. If you don't find the person, you shall have fifty."
Gualtier then told him the name and address of Hilda, and wrote it out for his information, charging him that it must be delivered to herself, and no other. The guard said that he could not go himself, but would send his younger brother. This satisfied Gualtier, and the guard again departed.
After some time he returned, and paced up and down as before. An hour passed. Gualtier became impatient. Then two hours elapsed.
He then beckoned to the guard.
"He is gone a long time," said he.
"Perhaps he is waiting," said the guard; "if it is possible he will deliver the message."
Gualtier waited.
Three hours passed.
The guard at last came back to his door. He handed back to Gualtier the letter which he had written.
"The lady," said he, "was not at home. She had gone away. My brother waited all this time, but she did not return. Shall he go back and wait?"
"No," said Gualtier.
He gave a hundred piastres to the guard. He took his note, and tore it up. All hope faded away within him, and despair, black and dark, settled down upon his soul.
LXXIII. OBED'S NEW ADVENTURE
After leaving Gualtier in custody Obed Chnte drove away from the police station with an expression of tranquil satisfaction on his fine face; such an expression as might befit one who is conscious of having done his duty to the uttermost. He drove down the Lungh' Arno, and through the Piazza, and past the Duomo. There was no further need to keep the blinds closed, and as he drove on he looked out upon the inhabitants of Florence with a grand benignity of expression to which no language can do justice. Many things conspired to fill his breast with the serenest satisfaction and self-complacency. First, he had saved himself from being humbugged. Secondly, he had been the victor in two very respectable trials of muscle, in which he, by the sheer power of muscle, had triumphed, and in the first of which his triumph had been gained over a man armed with a revolver, and using that revolver, while he very generously scorned to use his own. Thirdly, this man was the very one whom he had sought for months, and who had eluded entirely the police of Italy, France, and England. Obed also had been merciful and magnanimous in his hour of triumph. He had been too great-hearted to avail himself of any undue advantage in the strife, or to do one single act of unnecessary cruelty when that strife was over, and the victory was won. He had not bound his victim till the new flight of that victim had compelled him; nor had he spoken even one harsh word to him. He had captured him fairly and bravely too, and in the most quiet and unostentatious manner had handed him over to the police of the country.
Of course there were some things which might have been more agreeable under the circumstances. The mystery which surrounded this man was not pleasant. It was not pleasant, after having captured him, to find himself still baffled in his endeavors to understand him or his motive; to find that this man had forced him to interweave the case of Lady Chetwynde with that of Zillah, when to his mind those two cases were as far asunder as the poles. Yet, after all, the perplexity which arose from this could not interfere with the enjoyment of his triumph. Baffled he might be, but still there was no reason why he should not enjoy the calm pleasure which arises from the consciousness of having well and fully performed a virtuous action, and of having done one's duty both to one's neighbor and one's self.
So Obed, as he drove about before going home, enjoyed the full consciousness of his own merit. He felt at peace with himself, with the world at large, and, for that matter, even with Gualtier. So long as Gualtier had baffled him and eluded his most ardent search, he had experienced the bitterest and the most vindictive feelings toward the villain who had perpetrated such foul crimes, and persisted in evading all pursuit. But now that this mysterious villain had been captured, and by himself, he felt that bitterness and vindictiveness no longer. He was satisfied that the law would administer to him the full punishment which was due to his crimes, and as far as he was concerned personally he had no feeling against him. He was simply desirous of justice.
Seated thus in his brougham he drove past Giotto's Campanile, and past those immortal gates of bronze which Ghiberti made for the Baptistery, and which Michael Angelo declared to be worthy of being the gates of Paradise. It was just at this last place, as the brougham was moving leisurely on, that his attention was arrested by a figure which was seated on the stone steps immediately outside of one of those gates. It was a woman, elderly, decrepit, and apparently poor. She was dressed in deep mourning. She was very pale, her hair was as white as snow, and her eyes looked forth with an eager, watchful, wistful expression--an expression of patient yet curious vigilance, like that of one who is waiting for some friend, or some enemy, who delays to appear. It was a memorable face--memorable, too, from its sadness, and from the eager yet almost hopeless scrutiny which it turned toward every one that passed. This was the figure that attracted Obed. He gave it one look, and that one look was enough for him.
The moment that he saw this woman an exclamation burst from him--an exclamation which was so loud that the woman heard him. She started and looked up. At that moment the brougham stopped, and Obed, tearing open the door, sprang out and hurried up the steps of the Baptistery, where the woman was sitting. She had seen him. A flush passed over her pale, ghastly face; a wild light came to her eyes. Tremblingly and with deep excitement she rose to her feet, steadying herself by grasping the bronze gateway, and looked at him with an earnest, wondering gaze.
Obed Chute came toward her quickly, yet with a certain reverential wonder in his face. The triumph and the self-complacency had all died out, and there was left nothing but a mournful surprise, with which there was also mingled a deep and inexpressible pity and sympathy.
He came nearer and nearer; still with all this on his face, while she stood awaiting him and watching him, clinging all the while to the bronze gates of Ghiberti.
"Is this possible?" said Obed, as he came near her and regarded her earnestly. "Is it possible?" he repeated, in a low, soft voice, with a deep solemnity in the tones that was far different from his usual manner. "Is this indeed you--and here too?"
He held out both his hands. His face softened; the hard lines seemed to fade away into a certain unspeakable tenderness, and in his eyes there was a look of infinite pity and compassion.
"Yes, it is I," said the woman, in a voice which sounded like a moan. "I am still alive--still living on--while so many who are better are dead and are at rest."
She placed one hand in his, while with the other she still clung to the gateway. The hand which she gave was shriveled and emaciated and cold also to Obed as he felt it while holding it in both of his.
"Years have passed," said he at length, after a long and solemn silence, during which each regarded the other most earnestly--"years have passed," he repeated--"years--since you left--since I saw you last. Are you living here?" he continued, after some hesitation. "I suppose you are with one of the religious houses?"
The woman shook her head wearily. "No," said she; "I am by myself. I am alone in the world. I am now simply 'Mrs. Hart.' I have come here on important business. It is more than important; it is a matter of life and death."
"Mrs. Hart! Is that the name that you have?" asked Obed.
"That is my name," said Mrs. Hart, wearily. "It has been my name for many years, and has done me good service."
Obed said nothing, but regarded her for a long time in silence, wondering all the while at the mysterious fate of this unhappy woman.
At last he spoke.
"Have you been here long?" he asked. "I have been here for some weeks, but I have never seen you."
"Nor have I seen you," said Mrs. Hart. "I have been here long, but I have seen no one whom I know. I am alone."
"And are you able to go alone about this business of which you speak--this business 'of life and death?' Have you any help? Is it a thing which you could commit to the police?"
"No," said Mrs. Hart. "I came here in search of--of a friend; but I have not been able to find him."
"Are you alone, then?" asked Obed, in profound sympathy, while his face and his voice still showed the deep feeling of his heart. "Have you no one at all to help you? Is this a thing which you must do by yourself? Could not another other assist you? Would it be possible for you to let me help you in this? I can do much if you will allow me--if you will again put confidence in an old friend."
Mrs. Hart looked at him earnestly, and tears started to her eyes.
"Oh, my friend," she murmured, "I believe that God has sent you to me. I see in your face and I hear in your voice that you still can feel for me. God bless you! my noble, my only friend! Yes, you can help me. There is no secret of mine which I need hide from you. I will tell you all--when I get stronger--and you shall help me. But I am very weak now," she said, wearily.
Obed looked away, and for a time said not one word. But that strong frame, which not long before had dared the shots of a desperate enemy, now trembled violently at the tears of an old woman. With a powerful effort he gulped down his emotion.
"Where are you living?" he asked, in a voice which had changed to one of strange sweetness and tenderness. "You are weak. Will you let me drive you now to your home?"
For a few moments Mrs. Hart looked at him piteously, and made no reply.
"I think it will be better for you to go home in my carriage," said Obed, gently urging her.
She still looked at him with the same piteousness.
"In what part of the city do you live?" said Obed, as he took her hand and drew it inside his arm. "Come, let me lead you to the carriage."
Mrs. Hart held back for a moment, and again looked at him.
"I have no home," she said, in a voice which had died away to a whisper.
At once the truth flashed upon Obed's mind.
"I have no home," continued Mrs. Hart. "I was turned out yesterday. Last night I slept in the Boboli Gardens. For two days I have had nothing to eat."
Obed Chute staggered back as though he hail received a violent blow. "O God!" he groaned, "has it come to this?"
He said not another word, but gently led Mrs. Hart to the brougham. He drove to a cafe first, and persuaded her to take some nourishment. Then he took her once more into the carriage, and they drove slowly out of the city.
LXXIV. BEWILDERMENT
Scarcely any thing was said on the drive out from Florence to the villa. Tears fell frequently from the eyes of the poor wanderer as she sat wrapped in deep thought. Obed sat in silence, looking out of the window upon vacancy, seeing nothing; or, rather, seeing still that face with its wan lips and ghastly outline, which had told so thrilling a story of homelessness and starvation. His thoughts were going back through the years--the long-vanished years. And as he thought there came over his rugged face an infinite pity and tenderness; from his eyes there beamed sadness and compassion unutterable. He kept silence thus, all that drive, because he could not trust himself to speak.
It was only when they reached the gateway of the villa that he opened his lips. Then, as they drove through, he turned toward her, and putting his hand on her arm, he said:
"Here is your home now--while you live."
"Oh, my friend!" murmured Mrs. Hart; and she could say no more.
On reaching the door Obed assisted Mrs. Hart out of the brougham, and they entered the hall. There were sounds of voices in the drawing-room, and on crossing the threshold of the villa a gentleman's voice arose in a cheerful and sprightly tone:
"Checkmated again! Really, Miss Lorton, after this you'll have to give me the odds of a pawn; you've beaten me seven games out of our last ten."
"I don't believe it was fair," said a lady's voice. "I firmly believe, and I've said it all along, that you let me beat you. Why, you taught me chess yourself, and how is it possible that I could catch up to my master in so short a time?"
"I don't pretend to account for it, Miss Lorton," said the gentleman's voice. "There, before you, is something better than theory. It is an indisputable fact. There is my king, with your queen immediately in front of him, and your rook in the distance guarding that strong-minded lady. And where is my queen? Why, gadding about with knights and bishops, when she ought to have been standing by the side of her unfortunate husband."
As these words came to her ears Mrs. Hart stood still, and one hand grasped Obed Chute's arm convulsively, while the other was pressed to her brow.
"What is this? Who are these? Are they here?" she asked, in a thrilling voice. "Am I dreaming? Is this some mockery, or are they both here? Is it some surprise? Tell me, my friend. Did you arrange all this?"
She looked at Obed in a bewildered manner. He thought that her mind was wandering.
"Come," said he, kindly, "you must go to your room now and rest, and then--"
But here a loud remark from the gentleman, followed by a merry answer from the lady, interrupted Obed, and Mrs. Hart prevented him from finishing his sentence; for suddenly she started away from him, and, without a word, hurried into the room from which the voices came. Obed stood for a moment quite confounded, and then, feeling assured that the poor creature's brain was turned, followed her hurriedly.
Mrs. Hart burst into the room, with a white face and eager, inquiring eyes. Roused by the noise of footsteps, Lord Chetwynde and Zillah turned. To the amazement of both they saw Mrs. Hart.
Had the form of General Pomeroy, or of Earl Chetwynde, appeared at that instant before them, they could not have been more confounded. Lord Chetwynde, however, was cool and calm. There was nothing in his secret which was very important, and there was therefore no fear of a discovery to disturb the unfeigned joy that mingled with his wonder at this sudden appearance of his old nurse, blended also with deep and sharp grief at the weary, wan, and wretched face that he saw before him. As to his assumed name and the revelation of his true one, that did not trouble him at all, for he could give his explanation very readily. But with Zillah it was different. Rightly or wrongly, she considered her secret a thing which should be guarded like her heart's blood; and now she saw suddenly before her the certainty of a full and grand disclosure--a disclosure, too, not merely in the presence of Obed Chute, but of Windham also. Yet even this fear, terrible as it would have been at other times, was successfully mastered, and her generous and loving nature turned away from selfish fears, with longing and joy and pity, to this dear old friend; and these feelings, mingling together at that sudden sight, drove away all others.
But now to these succeeded a new surprise, which was overwhelming. For just as she started, in obedience to her impulse, she saw Lord Chetwynde hurry forward. She saw Mrs. Hart's eyes fixed on him in a kind of ecstasy. She saw her totter forward, with all her face overspread with a joy that is but seldom known---known only in rare moments, when some lost one, loved and lost--some one more precious than life itself--is suddenly found. She saw Lord Chetwynde hurry forward. She saw Mrs. Hart run toward him, and with a low moan, a longing, yearning cry, fling herself upon his breast and clasp him in her arms.
She heard her words--words wonderful, thrilling, and beyond all understanding:
"Oh, my boy! Oh, my own! Oh, Guy! Oh, my little boy! Oh, my darling! My God! I thank Thee for this joy!"
Uttering such broken ejaculations Mrs. Hart burst into a passion of tears, and only Lord Chetwynde's strong arms prevented her from falling.
He upheld her. He kissed her. He murmured words of affection, deep and tender and true. With gentle urgency lie drew her to a sofa, made her sit down by his side, and placed her head against his breast, and took her emaciated hands in his. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of others in that sudden, that overwhelming feeling of compassion for his aged, his heart-broken nurse. He was unconscious even of Zillah. In that moment his whole soul and his whole heart were turned to this wan face that leaned against his breast.
He said very little. How could he say much? A few attempts at soothing her--a few loving words--these were all. And these were enough; for better than these was the love that was expressed in his strong embrace--the love that sustained her now, and changed despair into rapture.
"My dearest," he said--"dearest old nurse--nurse! mamma! Don't grieve now. Come, look up, and let me see your sweet old face."
His voice was broken with emotion. How he loved that one whom he called his "dear old nurse!"
"Look up, old woman. Look up. Let me see your face. You don't know how dear it is to me."
And Mrs. Hart raised her face, and in her face he read a love infinite, all-consuming, imperishable--a love which now, however, satiated and intoxicated itself in the look that she gave.
She said nothing more, but, clinging to him, she seemed to hold him to her weary heart as though she feared that something might take him away.
"Forgive me, my own; do not be angry, my dearest," she murmured, "with your poor old nurse. I left home long, long ago. I rose from my sick-bed to seek you. I came here, and have watched and watched for a long time. Oh, how long! But you never came."
"You! watching for me! here in Florence!" exclaimed Lord Chetwynde, in wonder. "My poor old dear! why?"
"I will tell you again--not now--I am too weak. Hold my hands fast, my own. Let me see your dear face--oh, how dear!"
And with her hands in his, and her eyes feeding her soul upon his face, she lay upon his breast.
Meanwhile Obed Chute had stood thunderstruck. To account for this amazing scene was so utterly impossible that he did not even attempt it. That was beyond the reach of human capacity. But he noted all that holy tenderness, and that unfathomable love which beamed from that wan, worn face, and he felt that this was not a scene for other eyes. He went softly over to Zillah, who had stood motionless hitherto, and taking her hand he led her solemnly out of the room.
They went into another apartment, and sat there in silence. Zillah was so filled with amazement that it overwhelmed her.
She had seen Mrs. Hart's joy. She had heard her give to Windham the name of "Guy." She had heard him call her those tender, well-known names--the fond names with which the letters of Guy Molyneux used always to be filled. What did all this mean?
God in heaven! Was this a dream, or a reality? Could there, indeed, be truth in this scene? Could this be possibly what it seemed to be? Was Windham Guy Molyneux?
The question was too bewildering. A thousand circumstances at once suggested themselves as that question arose. All the past came back before her, with the scenes and the words of that past. She remembered now Windham's saying that he was married, and that he hated his wife worse than death. What did this mean? Did this not coincide with what she knew of Guy Molyneux? And what was to be the end of all this? Her brain reeled at the thoughts that came to her as she asked herself this question.
For this Windham was hers. Windham, with his devotion, his fervid passion, his burning words, his despairing love, his incessant self-watchfulness and strong self-control. Windham, who had snatched her from a dreadful death, and given glory and bliss to that heaven in life which she had known in Marseilles and in Florence; Windham, who had found in her society his highest happiness, and had spoken to her words of frenzied adoration; Windham, who had been the partner of so many stolen interviews; Windham, who once had flung aside even his honor and duty in his mad love, and urged her to fly with him to India! And could this man be Guy Molyneux? There were amazing coincidences which she could now recall. He had come home in mourning from India. He had told her of those very scenes in India of which she had read in Guy's letters. He had said that he was bound to a fate which he abhorred, and she recalled what had been her own conjectures as to what that fate might be.
At such thoughts as these she was filled with a mixture of deep joy and deadly fear. What might the end be? what could the end be?--this was the question now. Windham loved; Guy hated. Could these two men be indeed one? If they were, then how could this love and hate be reconciled? Would Windham cease to love, or Guy give up his hate? To her, also, there was still terror in the thought of Guy; and for Windham to be resolved into that man, from whom she had fled, seemed to her as though he were about to become her enemy. Yet this did not seem possible. Such confidence had she in Windham's love that the thought of his losing it, or changing, appeared the wildest improbability. No; that, at least, could not be. Still he was her own. Not yet could she blend his image with that of Guy. In her bewilderment she clung to this as her only comfort, and hoped that, in some way, all this would be explained.
Meanwhile Obed had been sitting in a bewilderment equal to hers, and keeping a silence that was hard to maintain. At length he could restrain his feelings no longer.
"Can you tell," he asked at length--"can you imagine, Miss Lorton--have you the remotest idea of what in thunder is the meaning of all this?"
"I don't know," said Zillah; "I don't understand; I can't even imagine."
"And I'm--well," interposed Obed, with a blank look of despair, "the English language does not afford a word, not one single word, that can express the idea; so I will resort to the American, and merely remark that at this present moment I'm catawampously chawed up."
"Do you know Mrs. Hart?" said Zillah. "Of course you do."
"Mrs. Hart?" asked Obed, in momentary surprise.
"Yes--her."
"Mrs. Hart? Oh, I see. Yes, I knew her many years ago. This afternoon I found her in Florence. I brought her out here. She told me that she had come here in search of a friend; but, by the living thunder, the very last person that I should have guessed at as that friend would have been Windham. And yet he was the man--the identical individual. But did you ever see such joy," he continued, after a pause, "as there was in her face at her first sight of him? Well, when I met her she was in as deep a despair. She was crouching on the steps of the Baptistery, looking with eager eyes--hungry eyes--to find some one. And all this time it was Windham. She came here to find him, and him only. She has been here for weeks, perhaps for months, wandering about, in suffering and weakness, looking every where for Windham. She had spent all her money; she had been turned out of her lodgings; she had neither food nor shelter. For two or three days she had not eaten any thing. When I happened, by the merest accident, to find her, do you know what she was doing? She was dying of starvation, but still she was looking for Windham! And I solemnly believe that if I had not found her she would be there at this moment. Yes, she would be sitting there in misery, in want, and in starvation, still looking after Windham. And if she had died there, on that spot, I feel convinced that the last movement of her lips would have been a murmur of his name, and the last look of her dying eyes would have been for Windham. I saw all this in every look of hers, and in every word of hers that she has thus far uttered to me about her fearful experiences. I saw this; and now I beg leave to ask, in the quietest way in the world, Who is this Windham, and what is he to her?"
Here Obed ceased. He had spoken in a way that showed the deep emotion which he felt, and the sorrow and sympathy that filled his soul. As he spoke of Mrs. Hart's miseries his voice trembled. Never in his life had he met with sorrow like her sorrow. It was not this last scene in her life which gave him this feeling, but it was his knowledge of that awful past in which she had lived, and sinned, and suffered--that past whose sufferings were perpetuated still, whose lurid shadows were now projected into these later days of her life. All this he felt, and he showed it, and he sought earnestly to solve the problem which these things held out to his mind; but he could not find a solution, nor could Zillah give one. For her part, it was with unfeigned horror that she listened to Obed's recital of Mrs. Hart's sufferings and despair; yet as she listened there came to her mind the same question which had been asked by Obed, Who is this Windham? and what is he to her? Could her old devotion as the nurse of Guy account for this? Or was there some deeper cause? Had she come to save him from something? Yet from what? From danger? Yet from what danger?
And thus to each of these alike there came the same problem, yet to each there came no hope of solution.
LXXV. DESPAIR
The time seemed long indeed to Obed and to Zillah, as they sat there in silence, wondering, bewildered, yet utterly unable to fathom the deep mystery that lay before them. Half an hour elapsed; and at last some one crossed the hall and came to the door. It was Lord Chetwynde. He looked troubled and excited.
"Miss Lorton," said he, "she wants you. I don't understand what she says. It is very strange. She must be out of her senses. Come in, Mr. Chute. See if you can help me out of my bewilderment."
He offered his arm to Zillah, but she did not take it. It seemed as if she did not see it. Filled with vague fears and apprehensions, she walked into the room where Mrs. Hart was, and Lord Chetwynde and Obed Chute came after her.
Mrs. Hart was lying upon the sofa. As Zillah entered she fixed her eyes upon her.
"I have been too selfish," said she. "In my joy at finding my boy so unexpectedly and so wonderfully, I have not been able to speak one word to my sweet girl. Oh, Zillah, my child, you, I know, will forgive me. But are you not amazed to see me? Yet I am still more amazed to see you. How did you come here? How is it that I find you here--along with my noble friend--in his house? I am all overcome with wonder. I can not understand this. I do not know what to say, or where to begin to ask the questions that I wish to ask. Mr. Chute seems a kind of Providence," she added, with peculiar emphasis in the faint tones of her weak voice--"a kind of Providence, who comes to people in their last extremities, and saves them from despair! Mr. Chute," she continued, "is my savior!" She paused for a time, and looked at Obed with a certain deep meaning in her eyes. Then she turned to Zillah again. "My child," she said, "dear, sweet Zillah! you will have to tell me all about this. Why was it that you fled away from Chetwynde? And oh! how could you have the heart to give me up to strangers?"
Amazed, speechless, overcome by wonder, Zillah could not say a word. She went to Mrs. Hart, folded her in her arms, and kissed over and over again the white lips of the woman who had once been dear to her in Chetwynde Castle.
"I do not understand it," said Mrs. Hart, feebly, and with an expression of deep amazement; "I do not comprehend all this at all. Here you all are, all of you whom I love--the only ones on earth whom I love. Here is my boy, my darling, whom I came to seek! Here is my sweet Zillah, who brightened my mournful life at Chetwynde Castle with her love and tenderness. And here I see my best friend, who came to save me from death and despair, and brought me here to life and joy and hope! What is the meaning of it all? My boy can not tell me. Say, my sweet Zillah, can not you tell me? Do you not know? Do you understand? Say, whose plan is it? Is it your plan? Who has brought us all together?"
"It is God," said Zillah, solemnly. "I do not understand how you came here. Let us thank God that you have found your friends."
She spoke at random; she knew not what to say. In her own dark perplexity she was unable to say any thing else; and when she saw that Mrs. Hart was equally perplexed, and turned to her for information, she could only find an answer in those words which were prompted by her heart. So she spoke, and she could say no more.
Nor could the others. All were silent. That white face looked wistfully from one to the other, with eager eyes, as though seeking from each some explanation; but none could give her that which she sought. In the faces that surrounded her she saw nothing else but a wonder which was fully equal to her own.
Obed Chute had now a fresh cause for bewilderment. For here was Zillah claimed fondly as a dear and loved friend by Mrs. Hart. Who was she? Was her mysterious story bound up in any way with the tragical life of the other who thus claimed her? He had been sufficiently astonished at the meeting between the woman whom he had rescued and his friend Windham; but now he saw his protégé, Miss Lorton, recognized by her as her dearest friend, and called by the most loving names--with an affection, too, which was fully returned by the one whom she thus addressed. What to think or to say he knew not. Of all the mysteries of which he had ever heard none equaled this, and it seemed to become more complicated every instant. He was at once perplexed by this insoluble problem, and vexed because it was insoluble. To his calm and straightforward mind nothing was so aggravating as a puzzle which could not be explained. He abhorred all mysteries. Yet here he found one full before him which baffled his utmost powers of comprehension--one, too, in which he himself was intermixed, and in which he saw Mrs. Hart and Windham and Miss Lorton all equally involved, and what was worse, equally in the dark.
But if Obed's bewilderment was great, what can be said of that which filled the mind of Lord Chetwynde? He saw his old nurse, whom he so deeply and even so passionately loved, turning away from himself to clasp in her arms, and to greet with the fondest affection, that beautiful girl who was dearer to him than any thing else in life. Mrs. Hart knew Miss Lorton! Above all, he was struck by the name which she gave her. She called her "Zillah!" More than this, she mentioned Chetwynde! She reproached this girl for running away from Chetwynde Castle! And to all this Miss Lorton said nothing, but accepted these fond reproaches in such a way that she made it seem as though she herself must once in very deed have lived in Chetwynde Castle, and fled from it. Mrs. Hart called her "Zillah!" To whom did that strange name belong? To one, and to one alone. That one was the daughter of General Pomeroy, whom he had married, and who was now his wife. That one he hated with a hate which no feeling of duty and no bond of gratitude could either lessen or overcome. Was he not married? Had he not seen that wife of his a thousand times? Had he not associated with her at Chetwynde Castle, at Lausanne, on the road, and in Florence? What madness, what mockery was this? It would seem as though Mrs. Hart had mistaken Miss Lorton for that detested wife who stood between him and his love. But how could such a mistake be made? True, the complexion of each was dark, and the hair of each was black, and the forms and figures were not unlike; but the features were widely different; the large, soft, loving eyes of Miss Lorton were not like those gleaming, fiery orbs that he had seen in the woman whom he thought his wife; and the expression of the face in each was as unlike as possible. Could Mrs. Hart be in a delirium? She must be mad! But then the worst of it was, that if she were mad Miss Lorton must be mad also.
"Where am I?" said Mrs. Hart, rousing herself, and breaking in upon Lord Chetwynde's thoughts. "It seems to me that I have suddenly escaped from a hell, where I have been living, and have come into heaven. Where am I? How is it that I find myself among those whom I hold most dear? Oh, my old friend! my savior! my benefactor! tell me, are you really a living being?"
"Nothing shorter," replied Obed, solemnly, "to the best of my knowledge and belief, though at the present moment I feel inclined to doubt it."
"My boy, give me your hand. Do I really hold it? Am I not dreaming?"
"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."
Obed said not another word, but led her out of the room, with his strong brain in a state of bewilderment greater than ever, and surpassing any thing that he had known before.
Lord Chetwynde was left alone with Zillah, holding her hand, to which he still clung--though Zillah in her deep embarrassment tried to withdraw it--and looking at her with eagerness yet perplexity.
"Great Heaven!" he cried. "Do you understand this? Oh, my love! my own! my darling! What is the meaning of it all?"
"I don't know," stammered Zillah, in confusion. "Don't you know?"
"It's a mockery. It's her delirium," cried Lord Chetwynde, passionately. "Some tantalizing demon has put this into her wandering mind. But oh! my dearest, something must be true; at least you knew her before."
"Yes," said Zillah.
"Where?" cried Lord Chetwynde.
"At Chetwynde Castle," said Zillah, faintly.
"At Chetwynde Castle?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Heavens! Chetwynde Castle! What is this? Can it be a mockery? What does it all mean? You! you! You of all others! my own! my darling! You can never deceive me," he cried, in piercing tones. "Tell me, and tell me truly, what were you doing in Chetwynde Castle?"
"Living there," said Zillah. "I lived there for years, till the Earl died, and then I left, for certain reasons."
"Great God! What is it that you are saying?" He gasped for breath.
"Only the truth," said Zillah.
Lord Chetwynde held her hand still; his eyes seemed to devour her in the intensity of their gaze. A thousand bewildering questions were in his mind. What! Was not his wife even now in Florence? Was he not familiar with her face? What did this mean? What utter mockery was this! Yet every word of Zillah's went to corroborate the words of Mrs. Hart.
As for Zillah, she saw his embarrassment, but interpreted it falsely. "He is beginning to think," she thought, "that I am the one to whom he was married. His old hate and abhorrence are returning. He is afraid to make himself sure of it. He loves Miss Lorton, but hates the daughter of General Pomeroy. When he finds out who I am he will loathe me." Then while Lord Chetwynde stood silent in astonishment and bewilderment, not understanding how it was possible for these things to be, the thought flashed upon her mind about that last letter. He had loved another. Inez Cameron was his true love. She herself was nothing. Bitterly came this remembrance to her mind. She saw herself now cast out from his heart, and the love that had awakened would die out forever. And in that moment, as these thoughts rushed through her mind, as she recalled the words of that last letter, the scorn and insults that were heaped upon herself, and, above all, the fervent love that was expressed for another--as she brought these things back which had once been so bitter, one by one--hope departed, and despair settled over her heart.
But Lord Chetwynde clung to her hand. The thoughts of his heart were widely different from those of hers, and her despair was exceeded by his own. Who she was and what she was he could not understand; but the thought that he had a wife, and that his wife was General Pomeroy's daughter, was immovable in his mind.
"My darling!" he cried, in imploring tones, in which there was at the same time a world of love and tenderness; "my own darling! You know well that for you I would give up all my life and all my hope, and every thing that I have. For you, oh! my sweet love, I have trampled upon honor and duty, and have turned my back upon the holy memories of my father! For you I have stifled my conscience and denied my God! Oh! my own, my only love, listen and answer. In the name of God, and by all your hopes of heaven, I implore you to answer me truly this one question. Who are you? What is your name? How is it that Mrs. Hart has made this mistake?"
And as Lord Chetwynde gave utterance to this appeal there was in his voice an anguish of entreaty, as though his very life hung upon her answer. It thrilled to the inmost soul of Zillah, who herself was wrought up to an excitement which was equal to his, if not superior.
"Mrs. Hart has made no mistake," replied Zillah, in low, solemn tones; "she has spoken the truth. As you have asked, so must I answer. In the name of God, then, I tell you. Lord Chetwynde, that I am Zillah, daughter of General Pomeroy, and--your wife!"
"Oh, my God!" cried Lord Chetwynde, with a deep groan.
He dropped her hand. He staggered back, and looked at her with a face in which there was nothing else than horror.
What was then in his mind Zillah could not possibly know. She therefore interpreted that look of his from her own knowledge and suspicions only. She read in it only his own unconquerable hate, his invincible aversion to her, which now, at the mention of her true name, had revived in all its original force, and destroyed utterly the love which he had professed. All was lost! lost! lost! lost! and doubly lost! Better far never to have seen him than, having seen him and known him and loved him, to lose him thus. Such were her thoughts. Already her emotion had been overwhelming; this was the last, and it was too much. With a low moan of entreaty and of despair she wailed out the name which she loved so much. It was that word "Windham," which he had made so sweet to her.
Saying this, and with that moan of despair, she threw up her arms wildly, and sank down senseless at his feet.
LXXVI. HILDA'S LAST VENTURE
When Obed Chute came back he found Lord Chetwynde holding Zillah in his arms, pressing her to his heart, and looking wildly around with a face of agony. "Quick! quick!" he cried. "Water, for God's sake! She's fainted! She's dying! Quick!"
In a moment a dozen servants were summoned, and Zillah was plied with restoratives till she revived again. She came back to sense and to life, but hope was dead within her; and even the sight of Lord Chetwynde's face of agony, and his half-frantic words, could not lessen her despair. She implored to be carried to her room, and there she was at once taken. Lord Chetwynde's anguish was now not less than hers. With bitter self-reproach, and in terrible bewilderment, he wandered off into the west gallery, whither Obed Chute followed him, but, seeing his agitation, refrained from saying any thing. Lord Chetwynde was lost in an abyss of despair. In the midst of his agony for Zillah's sake he tried in vain to comprehend how this Miss Lorton could believe herself to be General Pomeroy's daughter and his own wife, when, as he very well knew, his own wife was at her lodgings in Florence--that wife whom he hated, but who yet had saved him from death in Switzerland, and was now living on his smiles in Italy. How could one like Miss Lorton make such a mistake? Or how could she violate all delicacy by asserting such a thing? Clearly somebody was mad. Perhaps he himself was mad. But as he felt himself to be in his sober senses, and not dreaming, he tried to think whether madness should be attributed to Mrs. Hart or Miss Lorton, on the one hand, or to his wife on the other. The problem was insoluble. Madness, he thought, must certainly be somewhere. But where? All seemed to be concerned. Mrs. Hart had recognized Miss Lorton, and Miss Lorton had returned that recognition. Somebody must be fearfully mistaken. What was to be done? In the midst of this his whole being thrilled at the recollection of those words in which Miss Lorton had claimed to be his wife. His wife! And she must herself have believed this at the time; otherwise she would have died rather than have uttered those words. But what would his real wife say to all this? That was his final thought.
Meanwhile Obed Chute said not a word. He saw Lord Chetwynde's emotion, and, with his usual delicacy of feeling, did not intrude upon him at such a time, though himself filled with undiminished wonder. The first excitement was over, certainly, yet the wonder remained none the less; and while Lord Chetwynde was pacing the long gallery restlessly and wildly, Obed sat meditative, pondering upon the possibilities of things. Yet the more he thought the less was he able to unravel these mysteries.
At last he thought that a walk outside would be better. A quiet smoke would assist meditation. His brain could always work more promptly when a pipe was in his mouth. He therefore went off to prepare this invaluable companion for the walk which he designed, and was even filling his pipe, when he was aroused by the entrance of a servant, who announced that a lady had just arrived, and wished to see him on very particular business. Saying this, the servant handed him her card. Obed looked at it, and read the following name:
"Lady Chetwynde."